The Pickwick Papers

THE PICKWICK PAPERS

By Charles Dickens

CONTENTS

THE POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF THE PICKWICK CLUB

CHAPTER I.   THE PICKWICKIANS

CHAPTER II.   THE FIRST DAY’S JOURNEY, AND THE FIRST EVENING’S ADVENTURES; WITH THEIR CONSEQUENCES

CHAPTER III.   A NEW ACQUAINTANCE—THE STROLLER’S TALE; A DISAGREEABLE INTERRUPTION, AND AN UNPLEASANT ENCOUNTER

CHAPTER IV.   A FIELD DAY AND BIVOUAC—MORE NEW FRIENDS

CHAPTER V.   A SHORT ONE—SHOWING, AMONG OTHER MATTERS

CHAPTER VI.   AN OLD-FASHIONED CARD-PARTY—THE CLERGYMAN’S VERSES

CHAPTER VII.   HOW MR. WINKLE, INSTEAD OF SHOOTING AT THE PIGEON

CHAPTER VIII.   STRONGLY ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE POSITION

CHAPTER IX.   A DISCOVERY AND A CHASE

CHAPTER X.   CLEARING UP ALL DOUBTS (IF ANY EXISTED)

CHAPTER XI.   INVOLVING ANOTHER JOURNEY, AND AN ANTIQUARIAN DISCOVERY

CHAPTER XII.   DESCRIPTIVE OF A VERY IMPORTANT PROCEEDING

CHAPTER XIII.   SOME ACCOUNT OF EATANSWILL; OF THE STATE OF PARTIES

CHAPTER XIV.   COMPRISING A BRIEF DESCRIPTION OF THE COMPANY

CHAPTER XV.   IN WHICH IS GIVEN A FAITHFUL PORTRAITURE

CHAPTER XVI.   TOO FULL OF ADVENTURE TO BE BRIEFLY DESCRIBED

CHAPTER XVII.   SHOWING THAT AN ATTACK OF RHEUMATISM

CHAPTER XVIII.   BRIEFLY ILLUSTRATIVE OF TWO POINTS

CHAPTER XIX.   A PLEASANT DAY WITH AN UNPLEASANT TERMINATION

CHAPTER XX.   SHOWING HOW DODSON AND FOGG WERE MEN OF BUSINESS

CHAPTER XXI.   IN WHICH THE OLD MAN LAUNCHES FORTH

CHAPTER XXII.   MR. PICKWICK JOURNEYS TO IPSWICH AND MEETS WITH A ROMANTIC

CHAPTER XXIII.   IN WHICH MR. SAMUEL WELLER BEGINS TO DEVOTE HIS ENERGIES

CHAPTER XXIV.   WHEREIN MR. PETER MAGNUS GROWS JEALOUS

CHAPTER XXV.   SHOWING, AMONG A VARIETY OF PLEASANT MATTERS, HOW MAJESTIC

CHAPTER XXVI.   WHICH CONTAINS A BRIEF ACCOUNT OF THE PROGRESS

CHAPTER XXVII.   SAMUEL WELLER MAKES A PILGRIMAGE TO DORKING

CHAPTER XXVIII.   A GOOD-HUMOURED CHRISTMAS CHAPTER

CHAPTER XXIX.   THE STORY OF THE GOBLINS WHO STOLE A SEXTON

CHAPTER XXX.   HOW THE PICKWICKIANS MADE AND CULTIVATED THE ACQUAINTANCE

CHAPTER XXXI.   WHICH IS ALL ABOUT THE LAW, AND SUNDRY GREAT AUTHORITIES

CHAPTER XXXII.   DESCRIBES, FAR MORE FULLY THAN THE COURT NEWSMAN EVER

CHAPTER XXXIII.   MR. WELLER THE ELDER DELIVERS SOME CRITICAL SENTIMENTS

CHAPTER XXXIV.   IS WHOLLY DEVOTED TO A FULL AND FAITHFUL REPORT

CHAPTER XXXV.   IN WHICH MR. PICKWICK THINKS HE HAD BETTER GO TO BATH

CHAPTER XXXVI.   THE CHIEF FEATURES OF WHICH WILL BE FOUND

CHAPTER XXXVII.   HONOURABLY ACCOUNTS FOR MR. WELLER’S ABSENCE

CHAPTER XXXVIII.     HOW MR. WINKLE, WHEN HE STEPPED OUT OF THE FRYING- PAN

CHAPTER XXXIX.   MR. SAMUEL WELLER, BEING INTRUSTED WITH A MISSION

CHAPTER XL.   INTRODUCES MR. PICKWICK TO A NEW AND NOT UNINTERESTING SCENE

CHAPTER XLI.   WHAT BEFELL MR. PICKWICK WHEN HE GOT INTO THE FLEET

CHAPTER XLII.   ILLUSTRATIVE, LIKE THE PRECEDING ONE, OF THE OLD PROVERB

CHAPTER XLIII.   SHOWING HOW Mr. SAMUEL WELLER GOT INTO DIFFICULTIES

CHAPTER XLIV.   TREATS OF DIVERS LITTLE MATTERS WHICH OCCURRED

CHAPTER XLV.   DESCRIPTIVE OF AN AFFECTING INTERVIEW

CHAPTER XLVI.   RECORDS A TOUCHING ACT OF DELICATE FEELING

CHAPTER XLVII.   IS CHIEFLY DEVOTED TO MATTERS OF BUSINESS

CHAPTER XLVIII.   RELATES HOW MR. PICKWICK, WITH THE ASSISTANCE OF SAMUEL

CHAPTER XLIX.   CONTAINING THE STORY OF THE BAGMAN’S UNCLE

CHAPTER L.   HOW MR. PICKWICK SPED UPON HIS MISSION

CHAPTER LI.   IN WHICH MR. PICKWICK ENCOUNTERS AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE

CHAPTER LII.   INVOLVING A SERIOUS CHANGE IN THE WELLER FAMILY

CHAPTER LIII.   COMPRISING THE FINAL EXIT OF MR. JINGLE AND JOB TROTTER

CHAPTER LIV.   CONTAINING SOME PARTICULARS RELATIVE TO THE DOUBLE KNOCK

CHAPTER LV.   MR. SOLOMON PELL, ASSISTED BY A SELECT COMMITTEE

CHAPTER LVI.   AN IMPORTANT CONFERENCE TAKES PLACE

CHAPTER LVII.   IN WHICH THE PICKWICK CLUB IS FINALLY DISSOLVED

DETAILED CONTENTS

1. The Pickwickians 2. The first Day’s Journey, and the first Evening’s Adventures; with their Consequences 3. A new Acquaintance—The Stroller’s Tale—A disagreeable Interruption, and an unpleasant Encounter 4. A Field Day and Bivouac—More new Friends—An Invitation to the Country 5. A short one—Showing, among other Matters, how Mr. Pickwick undertook to drive, and Mr. Winkle to ride, and how they both did it 6. An old-fashioned Card-party—The Clergyman’s verses—The Story of the Convict’s Return 7. How Mr. Winkle, instead of shooting at the Pigeon and killing the Crow, shot at the Crow and wounded the Pigeon; how the Dingley Dell Cricket Club played All-Muggleton, and how All- Muggleton dined at the Dingley Dell Expense; with other interesting and instructive Matters 8. Strongly illustrative of the Position, that the Course of True Love is not a Railway 9. A Discovery and a Chase 10. Clearing up all Doubts (if any existed) of the Disinterestedness of Mr. A. Jingle’s Character 11. Involving another Journey, and an Antiquarian Discovery; Recording Mr. Pickwick’s Determination to be present at an Election; and containing a Manuscript of the old Clergyman’s 12. Descriptive of a very important Proceeding on the Part of Mr. Pickwick; no less an Epoch in his Life, than in this History 13. Some Account of Eatanswill; of the State of Parties therein; and of the Election of a Member to serve in Parliament for that ancient, loyal, and patriotic Borough 14. Comprising a brief Description of the Company at the Peacock assembled; and a Tale told by a Bagman 15. In which is given a faithful Portraiture of two distinguished Persons; and an accurate Description of a public Breakfast in their House and Grounds: which public Breakfast leads to the Recognition of an old Acquaintance, and the Commencement of anothe r Chapter 16. Too full of Adventure to be briefly described 17. Showing that an Attack of Rheumatism, in some Cases, acts as a Quickener to inventive Genius 18. Briefly illustrative of two Points; first, the Power of Hysterics, and, secondly, the Force of Circumstances 19. A pleasant Day with an unpleasant Termination 20. Showing how Dodson and Fogg were Men of Business, and their Clerks Men of pleasure; and how an affecting Interview took place between Mr. Weller and his long-lost Parent; showing also what Choice Spirits assembled at the Magpie and Stump, and what a C apital Chapter the next one will be 21. In which the old Man launches forth into his favourite Theme, and relates a Story about a queer Client 22. Mr. Pickwick journeys to Ipswich and meets with a romantic Adventure with a middle-aged Lady in yellow Curl-papers 23. In which Mr. Samuel Weller begins to devote his Energies to the Return Match between himself and Mr. Trotter 24. Wherein Mr. Peter Magnus grows jealous, and the middle-aged Lady apprehensive, which brings the Pickwickians within the Grasp of the Law 25. Showing, among a Variety of pleasant Matters, how majestic and impartial Mr. Nupkins was; and how Mr. Weller returned Mr. Job Trotter’s Shuttlecock as heavily as it came- -With another Matter, which will be found in its Place 26. Which contains a brief Account of the Progress of the Action of Bardell against Pickwick 27. Samuel Weller makes a Pilgrimage to Dorking, and beholds his Mother-in-law 28. A good-humoured Christmas Chapter, containing an Account of a Wedding, and some other Sports beside: which although in their Way even as good Customs as Marriage itself, are not quite so religiously kept up, in these degenerate Times 29. The Story of the Goblins who stole a Sexton 30. How the Pickwickians made and cultivated the Acquaintance of a Couple of nice young Men belonging to one of the liberal Professions; how they disported themselves on the Ice; and how their Visit came to a Conclusion 31. Which is all about the Law, and sundry Great Authorities learned therein 32. Describes, far more fully than the Court Newsman ever did, a Bachelor’s Party, given by Mr. Bob Sawyer at his Lodgings in the Borough 33. Mr. Weller the elder delivers some Critical Sentiments respecting Literary Composition; and, assisted by his Son Samuel, pays a small Instalment of Retaliation to the Account of the Reverend Gentleman with the Red Nose 34. Is wholly devoted to a full and faithful Report of the memorable Trial of Bardell against Pickwick 35. In which Mr. Pickwick thinks he had better go to Bath; and goes accordingly 36. The chief Features of which will be found to be an authentic Version of the Legend of Prince Bladud, and a most extraordinary Calamity that befell Mr. Winkle 37. Honourably accounts for Mr. Weller’s Absence, by describing a Soiree to which he was invited and went; also relates how he was intrusted by Mr. Pickwick with a Private Mission of Delicacy and Importance 38. How Mr. Winkle, when he stepped out of the Frying-pan, walked gently and comfortably into the Fire 39. Mr. Samuel Weller, being intrusted with a Mission of Love, proceeds to execute it; with what Success will hereinafter appear 40. Introduces Mr. Pickwick to a new and not uninteresting Scene in the great Drama of Life 41. What befell Mr. Pickwick when he got into the Fleet; what Prisoners he saw there; and how he passed the Night 42. Illustrative, like the preceding one, of the old Proverb, that Adversity brings a Man acquainted with strange Bedfellows—Likewise containing Mr. Pickwick’s extraordinary and startling Announcement to Mr. Samuel Weller
2. Showing how Mr. Samuel Weller got into Difficulties 44. Treats of divers little Matters which occurred in the Fleet, and of Mr. Winkle’s mysterious Behaviour; and shows how the poor Chancery Prisoner obtained his Release at last 45. Descriptive of an affecting Interview between Mr. Samuel Weller and a Family Party. Mr. Pickwick makes a Tour of the diminutive World he inhabits, and resolves to mix with it, in Future, as little as possible 46. Records a touching Act of delicate Feeling not unmixed with Pleasantry, achieved and performed by Messrs. Dodson and Fogg 47. Is chiefly devoted to Matters of Business, and the temporal Advantage of Dodson and Fogg—Mr. Winkle reappears under extraordinary Circumstances—Mr. Pickwick’s Benevolence proves stronger than his Obstinacy 48. Relates how Mr. Pickwick, with the Assistance of Samuel Weller, essayed to soften the Heart of Mr. Benjamin Allen, and to mollify the Wrath of Mr. Robert Sawyer 49. Containing the Story of the Bagman’s Uncle 50. How Mr. Pickwick sped upon his Mission, and how he was reinforced in the Outset by a most unexpected Auxiliary 51. In which Mr. Pickwick encounters an old Acquaintance—To which fortunate Circumstance the Reader is mainly indebted for Matter of thrilling Interest herein set down, concerning two great Public Men of Might and Power 52. Involving a serious Change in the Weller Family, and the untimely Downfall of Mr. Stiggins 53. Comprising the final Exit of Mr. Jingle and Job Trotter, with a great Morning of business in Gray’s Inn Square—Concluding with a Double Knock at Mr. Perker’s Door 54. Containing some Particulars relative to the Double Knock, and other Matters: among which certain interesting Disclosures relative to Mr. Snodgrass and a Young Lady are by no Means irrelevant to this History
3. Mr. Solomon Pell, assisted by a Select Committee of Coachmen, arranges the affairs of the elder Mr. Weller 56. An important Conference takes place between Mr. Pickwick and Samuel Weller, at which his Parent assists—An old Gentleman in a snuff-coloured Suit arrives unexpectedly
4. In which the Pickwick Club is finally dissolved, and everything concluded to the Satisfaction of Everybody

THE POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF THE PICKWICK CLUB

CHAPTER I. THE PICKWICKIANS

The first ray of light which illumines the gloom, and converts into a dazzling brilliancy that obscurity in which the earlier history of the public career of the immortal Pickwick would appear to be involved, is derived from the perusal of the following entry in the Transactions of the Pickwick Club, which the editor of these papers feels the highest pleasure in laying before his readers, as a proof of the careful attention, indefatigable assiduity, and nice discrimination, with which his search among the multifarious documents confided to him has been conducted.

‘May 12, 1827. Joseph Smiggers, Esq., P.V.P.M.P.C. [Perpetual Vice- President—Member Pickwick Club], presiding. The following resolutions unanimously agreed to:—

‘That this Association has heard read, with feelings of unmingled satisfaction, and unqualified approval, the paper communicated by Samuel Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C. [General Chairman—Member Pickwick Club], entitled “Speculations on the Source of the Hampstead Ponds, with some Observations on the Theory of Tittlebats;” and that this Association does hereby return its warmest thanks to the said Samuel Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C., for the same.

‘That while this Association is deeply sensible of the advantages which must accrue to the cause of science, from the production to which they have just adverted—no less than from the unwearied researches of Samuel Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C., in Hornsey, Highgate, Brixton, and Camberwell—they cannot but entertain a lively sense of the inestimable benefits which must inevitably result from carrying the speculations of that learned man into a wider field, from extending his travels, and, consequently, enlarging his sphere of observation, to the advancement of knowledge, and the diffusion of learning.

‘That, with the view just mentioned, this Association has taken into its serious consideration a proposal, emanating from the aforesaid, Samuel Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C., and three other Pickwickians hereinafter named, for forming a new branch of United Pickwickians, under the title of The Corresponding Society of the Pickwick Club.

‘That the said proposal has received the sanction and approval of this Association.

‘That the Corresponding Society of the Pickwick Club is therefore hereby constituted; and that Samuel Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C., Tracy Tupman, Esq., M.P.C., Augustus Snodgrass, Esq., M.P.C., and Nathaniel Winkle, Esq., M.P.C., are hereby nominated and appointed members of the same; and that they be requested to forward, from time to time, authenticated accounts of their journeys and investigations, of their observations of character and manners, and of the whole of their adventures, together with all tales and papers to which local scenery or associations may give rise, to the Pickwick Club, stationed in London.

‘That this Association cordially recognises the principle of every member of the Corresponding Society defraying his own travelling expenses; and that it sees no objection whatever to the members of the said society pursuing their inquiries for any length of time they please, upon the same terms.

‘That the members of the aforesaid Corresponding Society be, and are hereby informed, that their proposal to pay the postage of their letters, and the carriage of their parcels, has been deliberated upon by this Association: that this Association considers such proposal worthy of the great minds from which it emanated, and that it hereby signifies its perfect acquiescence therein.’

A casual observer, adds the secretary, to whose notes we are indebted for the following account—a casual observer might possibly have remarked nothing extraordinary in the bald head, and circular spectacles, which were intently turned towards his (the secretary’s) face, during the reading of the above resolutions: to those who knew that the gigantic brain of Pickwick was working beneath that forehead, and that the beaming eyes of Pickwick were twinkling behind those glasses, the sight was indeed an interesting one. There sat the man who had traced to their source the mighty ponds of Hampstead, and agitated the scientific world with his Theory of Tittlebats, as calm and unmoved as the deep waters of the one on a frosty day, or as a solitary specimen of the other in the inmost recesses of an earthen jar. And how much more interesting did the spectacle become, when, starting into full life and animation, as a simultaneous call for ‘Pickwick’ burst from his followers, that illustrious man slowly mounted into the Windsor chair, on which he had been previously seated, and addressed the club himself had founded. What a study for an artist did that exciting scene present! The eloquent Pickwick, with one hand gracefully concealed behind his coat tails, and the other waving in air to assist his glowing declamation; his elevated position revealing those tights and gaiters, which, had they clothed an ordinary man, might have passed without observation, but which, when Pickwick clothed them—if we may use the expression—inspired involuntary awe and respect; surrounded by the men who had volunteered to share the perils of his travels, and who were destined to participate in the glories of his discoveries. On his right sat Mr. Tracy Tupman—the too susceptible Tupman, who to the wisdom and experience of maturer years superadded the enthusiasm and ardour of a boy in the most interesting and pardonable of human weaknesses—love. Time and feeding had expanded that once romantic form; the black silk waistcoat had become more and more developed; inch by inch had the gold watch-chain beneath it disappeared from within the range of Tupman’s vision; and gradually had the capacious chin encroached upon the borders of the white cravat: but the soul of Tupman had known no change— admiration of the fair sex was still its ruling passion. On the left of his great leader sat the poetic Snodgrass, and near him again the sporting Winkle; the former poetically enveloped in a mysterious blue cloak with a canine-skin collar, and the latter communicating additional lustre to a new green shooting-coat, plaid neckerchief, and closely- fitted drabs.

Mr. Pickwick’s oration upon this occasion, together with the debate thereon, is entered on the Transactions of the Club. Both bear a strong affinity to the discussions of other celebrated bodies; and, as it is always interesting to trace a resemblance between the proceedings of great men, we transfer the entry to these pages.

‘Mr. Pickwick observed (says the secretary) that fame was dear to the heart of every man. Poetic fame was dear to the heart of his friend Snodgrass; the fame of conquest was equally dear to his friend Tupman; and the desire of earning fame in the sports of the field, the air, and the water was uppermost in the breast of his friend Winkle. He (Mr. Pickwick) would not deny that he was influenced by human passions and human feelings (cheers)—possibly by human weaknesses (loud cries of “No”); but this he would say, that if ever the fire of self-importance broke out in his bosom, the desire to benefit the human race in preference effectually quenched it. The praise of mankind was his swing; philanthropy was his insurance office. (Vehement cheering.) He had felt some pride—he acknowledged it freely, and let his enemies make the most of it—he had felt some pride when he presented his Tittlebatian Theory to the world; it might be celebrated or it might not. (A cry of “It is,” and great cheering.) He would take the assertion of that honourable Pickwickian whose voice he had just heard—it was celebrated; but if the fame of that treatise were to extend to the farthest confines of the known world, the pride with which he should reflect on the authorship of that production would be as nothing compared with the pride with which he looked around him, on this, the proudest moment of his existence. (Cheers.) He was a humble individual. (“No, no.”) Still he could not but feel that they had selected him for a service of great honour, and of some danger. Travelling was in a troubled state, and the minds of coachmen were unsettled. Let them look abroad and contemplate the scenes which were enacting around them. Stage-coaches were upsetting in all directions, horses were bolting, boats were overturning, and boilers were bursting. (Cheers—a voice “No.”) No! (Cheers.) Let that honourable Pickwickian who cried “No” so loudly come forward and deny it, if he could. (Cheers.) Who was it that cried “No”? (Enthusiastic cheering.) Was it some vain and disappointed man—he would not say haberdasher (loud cheers)—who, jealous of the praise which had been—perhaps undeservedly—bestowed on his (Mr. Pickwick’s) researches, and smarting under the censure which had been heaped upon his own feeble attempts at rivalry, now took this vile and calumnious mode of—

‘MR. BLOTTON (of Aldgate) rose to order. Did the honourable Pickwickian allude to him? (Cries of “Order,” “Chair,” “Yes,” “No,” “Go on,” “Leave off,” etc.)

‘MR. PICKWICK would not put up to be put down by clamour. He had alluded to the honourable gentleman. (Great excitement.)

‘MR. BLOTTON would only say then, that he repelled the hon. gent.’s false and scurrilous accusation, with profound contempt. (Great cheering.) The hon. gent. was a humbug. (Immense confusion, and loud cries of “Chair,” and “Order.”)

‘Mr. A. SNODGRASS rose to order. He threw himself upon the chair. (Hear.) He wished to know whether this disgraceful contest between two members of that club should be allowed to continue. (Hear, hear.)

‘The CHAIRMAN was quite sure the hon. Pickwickian would withdraw the expression he had just made use of.

‘MR. BLOTTON, with all possible respect for the chair, was quite sure he would not.

‘The CHAIRMAN felt it his imperative duty to demand of the honourable gentleman, whether he had used the expression which had just escaped him in a common sense.

‘MR. BLOTTON had no hesitation in saying that he had not—he had used the word in its Pickwickian sense. (Hear, hear.) He was bound to acknowledge that, personally, he entertained the highest regard and esteem for the honourable gentleman; he had merely considered him a humbug in a Pickwickian point of view. (Hear, hear.)

‘MR. PICKWICK felt much gratified by the fair, candid, and full explanation of his honourable friend. He begged it to be at once understood, that his own observations had been merely intended to bear a Pickwickian construction. (Cheers.)’

Here the entry terminates, as we have no doubt the debate did also, after arriving at such a highly satisfactory and intelligible point. We have no official statement of the facts which the reader will find recorded in the next chapter, but they have been carefully collated from letters and other MS. authorities, so unquestionably genuine as to justify their narration in a connected form.

CHAPTER II. THE FIRST DAY’S JOURNEY, AND THE FIRST EVENING’S ADVENTURES; WITH THEIR CONSEQUENCES

That punctual servant of all work, the sun, had just risen, and begun to strike a light on the morning of the thirteenth of May, one thousand eight hundred and twenty-seven, when Mr. Samuel Pickwick burst like another sun from his slumbers, threw open his chamber window, and looked out upon the world beneath. Goswell Street was at his feet, Goswell Street was on his right hand—as far as the eye could reach, Goswell Street extended on his left; and the opposite side of Goswell Street was over the way. ‘Such,’ thought Mr. Pickwick, ‘are the narrow views of those philosophers who, content with examining the things that lie before them, look not to the truths which are hidden beyond. As well might I be content to gaze on Goswell Street for ever, without one effort to penetrate to the hidden countries which on every side surround it.’ And having given vent to this beautiful reflection, Mr. Pickwick proceeded to put himself into his clothes, and his clothes into his portmanteau. Great men are seldom over scrupulous in the arrangement of their attire; the operation of shaving, dressing, and coffee-imbibing was soon performed; and, in another hour, Mr. Pickwick, with his portmanteau in his hand, his telescope in his greatcoat pocket, and his note-book in his waistcoat, ready for the reception of any discoveries worthy of being noted down, had arrived at the coach-stand in St. Martin’s-le-Grand.

‘Cab!’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Here you are, sir,’ shouted a strange specimen of the human race, in a sackcloth coat, and apron of the same, who, with a brass label and number round his neck, looked as if he were catalogued in some collection of rarities. This was the waterman. ‘Here you are, sir. Now, then, fust cab!’ And the first cab having been fetched from the public- house, where he had been smoking his first pipe, Mr. Pickwick and his portmanteau were thrown into the vehicle.

‘Golden Cross,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Only a bob’s vorth, Tommy,’ cried the driver sulkily, for the information of his friend the waterman, as the cab drove off.

‘How old is that horse, my friend?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his nose with the shilling he had reserved for the fare.

‘Forty-two,’ replied the driver, eyeing him askant.

‘What!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, laying his hand upon his note-book. The driver reiterated his former statement. Mr. Pickwick looked very hard at the man’s face, but his features were immovable, so he noted down the fact forthwith.

‘And how long do you keep him out at a time?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, searching for further information.

‘Two or three veeks,’ replied the man.

‘Weeks!’ said Mr. Pickwick in astonishment, and out came the note-book again.

‘He lives at Pentonwil when he’s at home,’ observed the driver coolly, ‘but we seldom takes him home, on account of his weakness.’

‘On account of his weakness!’ reiterated the perplexed Mr. Pickwick.

‘He always falls down when he’s took out o’ the cab,’ continued the driver, ‘but when he’s in it, we bears him up werry tight, and takes him in werry short, so as he can’t werry well fall down; and we’ve got a pair o’ precious large wheels on, so ven he does move, they run after him, and he must go on—he can’t help it.’

Mr. Pickwick entered every word of this statement in his note-book, with the view of communicating it to the club, as a singular instance of the tenacity of life in horses under trying circumstances. The entry was scarcely completed when they reached the Golden Cross. Down jumped the driver, and out got Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Tupman, Mr. Snodgrass, and Mr. Winkle, who had been anxiously waiting the arrival of their illustrious leader, crowded to welcome him.

‘Here’s your fare,’ said Mr. Pickwick, holding out the shilling to the driver.

What was the learned man’s astonishment, when that unaccountable person flung the money on the pavement, and requested in figurative terms to be allowed the pleasure of fighting him (Mr. Pickwick) for the amount!

‘You are mad,’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

‘Or drunk,’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘Or both,’ said Mr. Tupman.

‘Come on!’ said the cab-driver, sparring away like clockwork. ‘Come on— all four on you.’

‘Here’s a lark!’ shouted half a dozen hackney coachmen. ‘Go to vork, Sam!—and they crowded with great glee round the party.

‘What’s the row, Sam?’ inquired one gentleman in black calico sleeves.

‘Row!’ replied the cabman, ‘what did he want my number for?’

‘I didn’t want your number,’ said the astonished Mr. Pickwick.

‘What did you take it for, then?’ inquired the cabman.

‘I didn’t take it,’ said Mr. Pickwick indignantly.

‘Would anybody believe,’ continued the cab-driver, appealing to the crowd, ‘would anybody believe as an informer’ud go about in a man’s cab, not only takin’ down his number, but ev’ry word he says into the bargain’ (a light flashed upon Mr. Pickwick—it was the note-book).

‘Did he though?’ inquired another cabman.

‘Yes, did he,’ replied the first; ‘and then arter aggerawatin’ me to assault him, gets three witnesses here to prove it. But I’ll give it him, if I’ve six months for it. Come on!’ and the cabman dashed his hat upon the ground, with a reckless disregard of his own private property, and knocked Mr. Pickwick’s spectacles off, and followed up the attack with a blow on Mr. Pickwick’s nose, and another on Mr. Pickwick’s chest, and a third in Mr. Snodgrass’s eye, and a fourth, by way of variety, in Mr. Tupman’s waistcoat, and then danced into the road, and then back again to the pavement, and finally dashed the whole temporary supply of breath out of Mr. Winkle’s body; and all in half a dozen seconds.

‘Where’s an officer?’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

‘Put ‘em under the pump,’ suggested a hot-pieman.

‘You shall smart for this,’ gasped Mr. Pickwick.

‘Informers!’ shouted the crowd.

‘Come on,’ cried the cabman, who had been sparring without cessation the whole time.

The mob hitherto had been passive spectators of the scene, but as the intelligence of the Pickwickians being informers was spread among them, they began to canvass with considerable vivacity the propriety of enforcing the heated pastry-vendor’s proposition: and there is no saying what acts of personal aggression they might have committed, had not the affray been unexpectedly terminated by the interposition of a new-comer.

‘What’s the fun?’ said a rather tall, thin, young man, in a green coat, emerging suddenly from the coach-yard.

‘Informers!’ shouted the crowd again.

‘We are not,’ roared Mr. Pickwick, in a tone which, to any dispassionate listener, carried conviction with it.

‘Ain’t you, though—ain’t you?’ said the young man, appealing to Mr. Pickwick, and making his way through the crowd by the infallible process of elbowing the countenances of its component members.

That learned man in a few hurried words explained the real state of the case.

‘Come along, then,’ said he of the green coat, lugging Mr. Pickwick after him by main force, and talking the whole way. Here, No. 924, take your fare, and take yourself off—respectable gentleman—know him well— none of your nonsense—this way, sir—where’s your friends?—all a mistake, I see—never mind—accidents will happen—best regulated families—never say die—down upon your luck—Pull him up—Put that in his pipe—like the flavour—damned rascals.’ And with a lengthened string of similar broken sentences, delivered with extraordinary volubility, the stranger led the way to the traveller’s waiting-room, whither he was closely followed by Mr. Pickwick and his disciples.

‘Here, waiter!’ shouted the stranger, ringing the bell with tremendous violence, ‘glasses round—brandy-and-water, hot and strong, and sweet, and plenty,—eye damaged, Sir? Waiter! raw beef-steak for the gentleman’s eye—nothing like raw beef-steak for a bruise, sir; cold lamp-post very good, but lamp-post inconvenient—damned odd standing in the open street half an hour, with your eye against a lamp-post—eh,— very good—ha! ha!’ And the stranger, without stopping to take breath, swallowed at a draught full half a pint of the reeking brandy-and-water, and flung himself into a chair with as much ease as if nothing uncommon had occurred.

While his three companions were busily engaged in proffering their thanks to their new acquaintance, Mr. Pickwick had leisure to examine his costume and appearance.

He was about the middle height, but the thinness of his body, and the length of his legs, gave him the appearance of being much taller. The green coat had been a smart dress garment in the days of swallow-tails, but had evidently in those times adorned a much shorter man than the stranger, for the soiled and faded sleeves scarcely reached to his wrists. It was buttoned closely up to his chin, at the imminent hazard of splitting the back; and an old stock, without a vestige of shirt collar, ornamented his neck. His scanty black trousers displayed here and there those shiny patches which bespeak long service, and were strapped very tightly over a pair of patched and mended shoes, as if to conceal the dirty white stockings, which were nevertheless distinctly visible. His long, black hair escaped in negligent waves from beneath each side of his old pinched-up hat; and glimpses of his bare wrists might be observed between the tops of his gloves and the cuffs of his coat sleeves. His face was thin and haggard; but an indescribable air of jaunty impudence and perfect self-possession pervaded the whole man.

Such was the individual on whom Mr. Pickwick gazed through his spectacles (which he had fortunately recovered), and to whom he proceeded, when his friends had exhausted themselves, to return in chosen terms his warmest thanks for his recent assistance.

‘Never mind,’ said the stranger, cutting the address very short, ‘said enough—no more; smart chap that cabman—handled his fives well; but if I’d been your friend in the green jemmy—damn me—punch his head,—‘cod I would,—pig’s whisper—pieman too,—no gammon.’

This coherent speech was interrupted by the entrance of the Rochester coachman, to announce that ‘the Commodore’ was on the point of starting.

‘Commodore!’ said the stranger, starting up, ‘my coach—place booked,— one outside—leave you to pay for the brandy-and-water,—want change for a five,—bad silver—Brummagem buttons—won’t do—no go—eh?’ and he shook his head most knowingly.

Now it so happened that Mr. Pickwick and his three companions had resolved to make Rochester their first halting-place too; and having intimated to their new-found acquaintance that they were journeying to the same city, they agreed to occupy the seat at the back of the coach, where they could all sit together.

‘Up with you,’ said the stranger, assisting Mr. Pickwick on to the roof with so much precipitation as to impair the gravity of that gentleman’s deportment very materially.

‘Any luggage, Sir?’ inquired the coachman.

‘Who—I? Brown paper parcel here, that’s all—other luggage gone by water—packing-cases, nailed up—big as houses—heavy, heavy, damned heavy,’ replied the stranger, as he forced into his pocket as much as he could of the brown paper parcel, which presented most suspicious indications of containing one shirt and a handkerchief.

‘Heads, heads—take care of your heads!’ cried the loquacious stranger, as they came out under the low archway, which in those days formed the entrance to the coach-yard. ‘Terrible place—dangerous work—other day— five children—mother—tall lady, eating sandwiches—forgot the arch— crash—knock—children look round—mother’s head off—sandwich in her hand—no mouth to put it in—head of a family off—shocking, shocking! Looking at Whitehall, sir?—fine place—little window—somebody else’s head off there, eh, sir?—he didn’t keep a sharp look-out enough either- -eh, Sir, eh?’

‘I am ruminating,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘on the strange mutability of human affairs.’

‘Ah! I see—in at the palace door one day, out at the window the next. Philosopher, Sir?’

‘An observer of human nature, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Ah, so am I. Most people are when they’ve little to do and less to get. Poet, Sir?’

‘My friend Mr. Snodgrass has a strong poetic turn,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘So have I,’ said the stranger. ‘Epic poem—ten thousand lines— revolution of July—composed it on the spot—Mars by day, Apollo by night—bang the field-piece, twang the lyre.’

‘You were present at that glorious scene, sir?’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

‘Present! think I was;* fired a musket—fired with an idea—rushed into wine shop—wrote it down—back again—whiz, bang—another idea—wine shop again—pen and ink—back again—cut and slash—noble time, Sir. Sportsman, sir?’ abruptly turning to Mr. Winkle.

• A remarkable instance of the prophetic force of Mr. Jingle’s imagination; this dialogue occurring in the year 1827, and the Revolution in 1830.

‘A little, Sir,’ replied that gentleman.

‘Fine pursuit, sir—fine pursuit.—Dogs, Sir?’

‘Not just now,’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘Ah! you should keep dogs—fine animals—sagacious creatures—dog of my own once—pointer—surprising instinct—out shooting one day—entering inclosure—whistled—dog stopped—whistled again—Ponto—no go; stock still—called him—Ponto, Ponto—wouldn’t move—dog transfixed—staring at a board—looked up, saw an inscription—“Gamekeeper has orders to shoot all dogs found in this inclosure”—wouldn’t pass it—wonderful dog—valuable dog that—very.’

‘Singular circumstance that,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Will you allow me to make a note of it?’

‘Certainly, Sir, certainly—hundred more anecdotes of the same animal.— Fine girl, Sir’ (to Mr. Tracy Tupman, who had been bestowing sundry anti-Pickwickian glances on a young lady by the roadside).

‘Very!’ said Mr. Tupman.

‘English girls not so fine as Spanish—noble creatures—jet hair—black eyes—lovely forms—sweet creatures—beautiful.’

‘You have been in Spain, sir?’ said Mr. Tracy Tupman.

‘Lived there—ages.’

‘Many conquests, sir?’ inquired Mr. Tupman.

‘Conquests! Thousands. Don Bolaro Fizzgig—grandee—only daughter—Donna Christina—splendid creature—loved me to distraction—jealous father— high-souled daughter—handsome Englishman—Donna Christina in despair— prussic acid—stomach pump in my portmanteau—operation performed—old Bolaro in ecstasies—consent to our union—join hands and floods of tears—romantic story—very.’

‘Is the lady in England now, sir?’ inquired Mr. Tupman, on whom the description of her charms had produced a powerful impression.

‘Dead, sir—dead,’ said the stranger, applying to his right eye the brief remnant of a very old cambric handkerchief. ‘Never recovered the stomach pump—undermined constitution—fell a victim.’

‘And her father?’ inquired the poetic Snodgrass.

‘Remorse and misery,’ replied the stranger. ‘Sudden disappearance—talk of the whole city—search made everywhere without success—public fountain in the great square suddenly ceased playing—weeks elapsed— still a stoppage—workmen employed to clean it—water drawn off—father- in-law discovered sticking head first in the main pipe, with a full confession in his right boot—took him out, and the fountain played away again, as well as ever.’

‘Will you allow me to note that little romance down, Sir?’ said Mr. Snodgrass, deeply affected.

‘Certainly, Sir, certainly—fifty more if you like to hear ‘em—strange life mine—rather curious history—not extraordinary, but singular.’

In this strain, with an occasional glass of ale, by way of parenthesis, when the coach changed horses, did the stranger proceed, until they reached Rochester bridge, by which time the note-books, both of Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Snodgrass, were completely filled with selections from his adventures.

‘Magnificent ruin!’ said Mr. Augustus Snodgrass, with all the poetic fervour that distinguished him, when they came in sight of the fine old castle.

‘What a study for an antiquarian!’ were the very words which fell from Mr. Pickwick’s mouth, as he applied his telescope to his eye.

‘Ah! fine place,’ said the stranger, ‘glorious pile—frowning walls— tottering arches—dark nooks—crumbling staircases—old cathedral too— earthy smell—pilgrims’ feet wore away the old steps—little Saxon doors—confessionals like money-takers’ boxes at theatres—queer customers those monks—popes, and lord treasurers, and all sorts of old fellows, with great red faces, and broken noses, turning up every day— buff jerkins too—match-locks—sarcophagus—fine place—old legends too- -strange stories: capital;’ and the stranger continued to soliloquise until they reached the Bull Inn, in the High Street, where the coach stopped.

‘Do you remain here, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Nathaniel Winkle.

‘Here—not I—but you’d better—good house—nice beds—Wright’s next house, dear—very dear—half-a-crown in the bill if you look at the waiter—charge you more if you dine at a friend’s than they would if you dined in the coffee-room—rum fellows—very.’

Mr. Winkle turned to Mr. Pickwick, and murmured a few words; a whisper passed from Mr. Pickwick to Mr. Snodgrass, from Mr. Snodgrass to Mr. Tupman, and nods of assent were exchanged. Mr. Pickwick addressed the stranger.

‘You rendered us a very important service this morning, sir,’ said he, ‘will you allow us to offer a slight mark of our gratitude by begging the favour of your company at dinner?’

‘Great pleasure—not presume to dictate, but broiled fowl and mushrooms- -capital thing! What time?’

‘Let me see,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, referring to his watch, ‘it is now nearly three. Shall we say five?’

‘Suit me excellently,’ said the stranger, ‘five precisely—till then— care of yourselves;’ and lifting the pinched-up hat a few inches from his head, and carelessly replacing it very much on one side, the stranger, with half the brown paper parcel sticking out of his pocket, walked briskly up the yard, and turned into the High Street.

‘Evidently a traveller in many countries, and a close observer of men and things,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘I should like to see his poem,’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

‘I should like to have seen that dog,’ said Mr. Winkle.

Mr. Tupman said nothing; but he thought of Donna Christina, the stomach pump, and the fountain; and his eyes filled with tears.

A private sitting-room having been engaged, bedrooms inspected, and dinner ordered, the party walked out to view the city and adjoining neighbourhood.

We do not find, from a careful perusal of Mr. Pickwick’s notes of the four towns, Stroud, Rochester, Chatham, and Brompton, that his impressions of their appearance differ in any material point from those of other travellers who have gone over the same ground. His general description is easily abridged.

‘The principal productions of these towns,’ says Mr. Pickwick, ‘appear to be soldiers, sailors, Jews, chalk, shrimps, officers, and dockyard men. The commodities chiefly exposed for sale in the public streets are marine stores, hard-bake, apples, flat-fish, and oysters. The streets present a lively and animated appearance, occasioned chiefly by the conviviality of the military. It is truly delightful to a philanthropic mind to see these gallant men staggering along under the influence of an overflow both of animal and ardent spirits; more especially when we remember that the following them about, and jesting with them, affords a cheap and innocent amusement for the boy population. Nothing,’ adds Mr. Pickwick, ‘can exceed their good-humour. It was but the day before my arrival that one of them had been most grossly insulted in the house of a publican. The barmaid had positively refused to draw him any more liquor; in return for which he had (merely in playfulness) drawn his bayonet, and wounded the girl in the shoulder. And yet this fine fellow was the very first to go down to the house next morning and express his readiness to overlook the matter, and forget what had occurred!

‘The consumption of tobacco in these towns,’ continues Mr. Pickwick, ‘must be very great, and the smell which pervades the streets must be exceedingly delicious to those who are extremely fond of smoking. A superficial traveller might object to the dirt, which is their leading characteristic; but to those who view it as an indication of traffic and commercial prosperity, it is truly gratifying.’

Punctual to five o’clock came the stranger, and shortly afterwards the dinner. He had divested himself of his brown paper parcel, but had made no alteration in his attire, and was, if possible, more loquacious than ever.

‘What’s that?’ he inquired, as the waiter removed one of the covers.

‘Soles, Sir.’

‘Soles—ah!—capital fish—all come from London-stage-coach proprietors get up political dinners—carriage of soles—dozens of baskets—cunning fellows. Glass of wine, Sir.’

‘With pleasure,’ said Mr. Pickwick; and the stranger took wine, first with him, and then with Mr. Snodgrass, and then with Mr. Tupman, and then with Mr. Winkle, and then with the whole party together, almost as rapidly as he talked.

‘Devil of a mess on the staircase, waiter,’ said the stranger. ‘Forms going up—carpenters coming down—lamps, glasses, harps. What’s going forward?’

‘Ball, Sir,’ said the waiter.

‘Assembly, eh?’

‘No, Sir, not assembly, Sir. Ball for the benefit of a charity, Sir.’

‘Many fine women in this town, do you know, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Tupman, with great interest.

‘Splendid—capital. Kent, sir—everybody knows Kent—apples, cherries, hops, and women. Glass of wine, Sir!’

‘With great pleasure,’ replied Mr. Tupman. The stranger filled, and emptied.

‘I should very much like to go,’ said Mr. Tupman, resuming the subject of the ball, ‘very much.’

‘Tickets at the bar, Sir,’ interposed the waiter; ‘half-a-guinea each, Sir.’

Mr. Tupman again expressed an earnest wish to be present at the festivity; but meeting with no response in the darkened eye of Mr. Snodgrass, or the abstracted gaze of Mr. Pickwick, he applied himself with great interest to the port wine and dessert, which had just been placed on the table. The waiter withdrew, and the party were left to enjoy the cosy couple of hours succeeding dinner.

‘Beg your pardon, sir,’ said the stranger, ‘bottle stands—pass it round—way of the sun—through the button-hole—no heeltaps,’ and he emptied his glass, which he had filled about two minutes before, and poured out another, with the air of a man who was used to it.

The wine was passed, and a fresh supply ordered. The visitor talked, the Pickwickians listened. Mr. Tupman felt every moment more disposed for the ball. Mr. Pickwick’s countenance glowed with an expression of universal philanthropy, and Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass fell fast asleep.

‘They’re beginning upstairs,’ said the stranger—‘hear the company— fiddles tuning—now the harp—there they go.’ The various sounds which found their way downstairs announced the commencement of the first quadrille.

‘How I should like to go,’ said Mr. Tupman again.

‘So should I,’ said the stranger—‘confounded luggage,—heavy smacks— nothing to go in—odd, ain’t it?’

Now general benevolence was one of the leading features of the Pickwickian theory, and no one was more remarkable for the zealous manner in which he observed so noble a principle than Mr. Tracy Tupman. The number of instances recorded on the Transactions of the Society, in which that excellent man referred objects of charity to the houses of other members for left-off garments or pecuniary relief is almost incredible.

‘I should be very happy to lend you a change of apparel for the purpose,’ said Mr. Tracy Tupman, ‘but you are rather slim, and I am—’

‘Rather fat—grown-up Bacchus—cut the leaves—dismounted from the tub, and adopted kersey, eh?—not double distilled, but double milled—ha! ha! pass the wine.’

Whether Mr. Tupman was somewhat indignant at the peremptory tone in which he was desired to pass the wine which the stranger passed so quickly away, or whether he felt very properly scandalised at an influential member of the Pickwick Club being ignominiously compared to a dismounted Bacchus, is a fact not yet completely ascertained. He passed the wine, coughed twice, and looked at the stranger for several seconds with a stern intensity; as that individual, however, appeared perfectly collected, and quite calm under his searching glance, he gradually relaxed, and reverted to the subject of the ball.

‘I was about to observe, Sir,’ he said, ‘that though my apparel would be too large, a suit of my friend Mr. Winkle’s would, perhaps, fit you better.’

The stranger took Mr. Winkle’s measure with his eye, and that feature glistened with satisfaction as he said, ‘Just the thing.’

Mr. Tupman looked round him. The wine, which had exerted its somniferous influence over Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle, had stolen upon the senses of Mr. Pickwick. That gentleman had gradually passed through the various stages which precede the lethargy produced by dinner, and its consequences. He had undergone the ordinary transitions from the height of conviviality to the depth of misery, and from the depth of misery to the height of conviviality. Like a gas-lamp in the street, with the wind in the pipe, he had exhibited for a moment an unnatural brilliancy, then sank so low as to be scarcely discernible; after a short interval, he had burst out again, to enlighten for a moment; then flickered with an uncertain, staggering sort of light, and then gone out altogether. His head was sunk upon his bosom, and perpetual snoring, with a partial choke occasionally, were the only audible indications of the great man’s presence.

The temptation to be present at the ball, and to form his first impressions of the beauty of the Kentish ladies, was strong upon Mr. Tupman. The temptation to take the stranger with him was equally great. He was wholly unacquainted with the place and its inhabitants, and the stranger seemed to possess as great a knowledge of both as if he had lived there from his infancy. Mr. Winkle was asleep, and Mr. Tupman had had sufficient experience in such matters to know that the moment he awoke he would, in the ordinary course of nature, roll heavily to bed. He was undecided. ‘Fill your glass, and pass the wine,’ said the indefatigable visitor.

Mr. Tupman did as he was requested; and the additional stimulus of the last glass settled his determination.

‘Winkle’s bedroom is inside mine,’ said Mr. Tupman; ‘I couldn’t make him understand what I wanted, if I woke him now, but I know he has a dress- suit in a carpet bag; and supposing you wore it to the ball, and took it off when we returned, I could replace it without troubling him at all about the matter.’

‘Capital,’ said the stranger, ‘famous plan—damned odd situation— fourteen coats in the packing-cases, and obliged to wear another man’s— very good notion, that—very.’

‘We must purchase our tickets,’ said Mr. Tupman.

‘Not worth while splitting a guinea,’ said the stranger, ‘toss who shall pay for both—I call; you spin—first time—woman—woman—bewitching woman,’ and down came the sovereign with the dragon (called by courtesy a woman) uppermost.

Mr. Tupman rang the bell, purchased the tickets, and ordered chamber candlesticks. In another quarter of an hour the stranger was completely arrayed in a full suit of Mr. Nathaniel Winkle’s.

‘It’s a new coat,’ said Mr. Tupman, as the stranger surveyed himself with great complacency in a cheval glass; ‘the first that’s been made with our club button,’ and he called his companions’ attention to the large gilt button which displayed a bust of Mr. Pickwick in the centre, and the letters ‘P. C.’ on either side.

‘“P. C.”’ said the stranger—‘queer set out—old fellow’s likeness, and “P. C.”—What does “P. C.” stand for—Peculiar Coat, eh?’ Mr. Tupman, with rising indignation and great importance, explained the mystic device.

‘Rather short in the waist, ain’t it?’ said the stranger, screwing himself round to catch a glimpse in the glass of the waist buttons, which were half-way up his back. ‘Like a general postman’s coat—queer coats those—made by contract—no measuring—mysterious dispensations of Providence—all the short men get long coats—all the long men short ones.’ Running on in this way, Mr. Tupman’s new companion adjusted his dress, or rather the dress of Mr. Winkle; and, accompanied by Mr. Tupman, ascended the staircase leading to the ballroom.

‘What names, sir?’ said the man at the door. Mr. Tracy Tupman was stepping forward to announce his own titles, when the stranger prevented him.

‘No names at all;’ and then he whispered Mr. Tupman, ‘names won’t do— not known—very good names in their way, but not great ones—capital names for a small party, but won’t make an impression in public assemblies—incog. the thing—gentlemen from London—distinguished foreigners—anything.’ The door was thrown open, and Mr. Tracy Tupman and the stranger entered the ballroom.

It was a long room, with crimson-covered benches, and wax candles in glass chandeliers. The musicians were securely confined in an elevated den, and quadrilles were being systematically got through by two or three sets of dancers. Two card-tables were made up in the adjoining card-room, and two pair of old ladies, and a corresponding number of stout gentlemen, were executing whist therein.

The finale concluded, the dancers promenaded the room, and Mr. Tupman and his companion stationed themselves in a corner to observe the company.

‘Charming women,’ said Mr. Tupman.

‘Wait a minute,’ said the stranger, ‘fun presently—nobs not come yet— queer place—dockyard people of upper rank don’t know dockyard people of lower rank—dockyard people of lower rank don’t know small gentry—small gentry don’t know tradespeople—commissioner don’t know anybody.’

‘Who’s that little boy with the light hair and pink eyes, in a fancy dress?’ inquired Mr. Tupman.

‘Hush, pray—pink eyes—fancy dress—little boy—nonsense—ensign 97th— Honourable Wilmot Snipe—great family—Snipes—very.’

‘Sir Thomas Clubber, Lady Clubber, and the Misses Clubber!’ shouted the man at the door in a stentorian voice. A great sensation was created throughout the room by the entrance of a tall gentleman in a blue coat and bright buttons, a large lady in blue satin, and two young ladies, on a similar scale, in fashionably-made dresses of the same hue.

‘Commissioner—head of the yard—great man—remarkably great man,’ whispered the stranger in Mr. Tupman’s ear, as the charitable committee ushered Sir Thomas Clubber and family to the top of the room. The Honourable Wilmot Snipe, and other distinguished gentlemen crowded to render homage to the Misses Clubber; and Sir Thomas Clubber stood bolt upright, and looked majestically over his black kerchief at the assembled company.

‘Mr. Smithie, Mrs. Smithie, and the Misses Smithie,’ was the next announcement.

‘What’s Mr. Smithie?’ inquired Mr. Tracy Tupman.

‘Something in the yard,’ replied the stranger. Mr. Smithie bowed deferentially to Sir Thomas Clubber; and Sir Thomas Clubber acknowledged the salute with conscious condescension. Lady Clubber took a telescopic view of Mrs. Smithie and family through her eye-glass and Mrs. Smithie stared in her turn at Mrs. Somebody-else, whose husband was not in the dockyard at all.

‘Colonel Bulder, Mrs. Colonel Bulder, and Miss Bulder,’ were the next arrivals.

‘Head of the garrison,’ said the stranger, in reply to Mr. Tupman’s inquiring look.

Miss Bulder was warmly welcomed by the Misses Clubber; the greeting between Mrs. Colonel Bulder and Lady Clubber was of the most affectionate description; Colonel Bulder and Sir Thomas Clubber exchanged snuff-boxes, and looked very much like a pair of Alexander Selkirks—‘Monarchs of all they surveyed.’

While the aristocracy of the place—the Bulders, and Clubbers, and Snipes—were thus preserving their dignity at the upper end of the room, the other classes of society were imitating their example in other parts of it. The less aristocratic officers of the 97th devoted themselves to the families of the less important functionaries from the dockyard. The solicitors’ wives, and the wine-merchant’s wife, headed another grade (the brewer’s wife visited the Bulders); and Mrs. Tomlinson, the post- office keeper, seemed by mutual consent to have been chosen the leader of the trade party.

One of the most popular personages, in his own circle, present, was a little fat man, with a ring of upright black hair round his head, and an extensive bald plain on the top of it—Doctor Slammer, surgeon to the 97th. The doctor took snuff with everybody, chatted with everybody, laughed, danced, made jokes, played whist, did everything, and was everywhere. To these pursuits, multifarious as they were, the little doctor added a more important one than any—he was indefatigable in paying the most unremitting and devoted attention to a little old widow, whose rich dress and profusion of ornament bespoke her a most desirable addition to a limited income.

Upon the doctor, and the widow, the eyes of both Mr. Tupman and his companion had been fixed for some time, when the stranger broke silence.

‘Lots of money—old girl—pompous doctor—not a bad idea—good fun,’ were the intelligible sentences which issued from his lips. Mr. Tupman looked inquisitively in his face.

‘I’ll dance with the widow,’ said the stranger.

‘Who is she?’ inquired Mr. Tupman.

‘Don’t know—never saw her in all my life—cut out the doctor—here goes.’ And the stranger forthwith crossed the room; and, leaning against a mantel-piece, commenced gazing with an air of respectful and melancholy admiration on the fat countenance of the little old lady. Mr. Tupman looked on, in mute astonishment. The stranger progressed rapidly; the little doctor danced with another lady; the widow dropped her fan; the stranger picked it up, and presented it—a smile—a bow—a curtsey— a few words of conversation. The stranger walked boldly up to, and returned with, the master of the ceremonies; a little introductory pantomime; and the stranger and Mrs. Budger took their places in a quadrille.

The surprise of Mr. Tupman at this summary proceeding, great as it was, was immeasurably exceeded by the astonishment of the doctor. The stranger was young, and the widow was flattered. The doctor’s attentions were unheeded by the widow; and the doctor’s indignation was wholly lost on his imperturbable rival. Doctor Slammer was paralysed. He, Doctor Slammer, of the 97th, to be extinguished in a moment, by a man whom nobody had ever seen before, and whom nobody knew even now! Doctor Slammer—Doctor Slammer of the 97th rejected! Impossible! It could not be! Yes, it was; there they were. What! introducing his friend! Could he believe his eyes! He looked again, and was under the painful necessity of admitting the veracity of his optics; Mrs. Budger was dancing with Mr. Tracy Tupman; there was no mistaking the fact. There was the widow before him, bouncing bodily here and there, with unwonted vigour; and Mr. Tracy Tupman hopping about, with a face expressive of the most intense solemnity, dancing (as a good many people do) as if a quadrille were not a thing to be laughed at, but a severe trial to the feelings, which it requires inflexible resolution to encounter.

Silently and patiently did the doctor bear all this, and all the handings of negus, and watching for glasses, and darting for biscuits, and coquetting, that ensued; but, a few seconds after the stranger had disappeared to lead Mrs. Budger to her carriage, he darted swiftly from the room with every particle of his hitherto-bottled-up indignation effervescing, from all parts of his countenance, in a perspiration of passion.

The stranger was returning, and Mr. Tupman was beside him. He spoke in a low tone, and laughed. The little doctor thirsted for his life. He was exulting. He had triumphed.

‘Sir!’ said the doctor, in an awful voice, producing a card, and retiring into an angle of the passage, ‘my name is Slammer, Doctor Slammer, sir—97th Regiment—Chatham Barracks—my card, Sir, my card.’ He would have added more, but his indignation choked him.

‘Ah!’ replied the stranger coolly, ‘Slammer—much obliged—polite attention—not ill now, Slammer—but when I am—knock you up.’

‘You—you’re a shuffler, sir,’ gasped the furious doctor, ‘a poltroon—a coward—a liar—a—a—will nothing induce you to give me your card, sir!’

‘Oh! I see,’ said the stranger, half aside, ‘negus too strong here— liberal landlord—very foolish—very—lemonade much better—hot rooms— elderly gentlemen—suffer for it in the morning—cruel—cruel;’ and he moved on a step or two.

‘You are stopping in this house, Sir,’ said the indignant little man; ‘you are intoxicated now, Sir; you shall hear from me in the morning, sir. I shall find you out, sir; I shall find you out.’

‘Rather you found me out than found me at home,’ replied the unmoved stranger.

Doctor Slammer looked unutterable ferocity, as he fixed his hat on his head with an indignant knock; and the stranger and Mr. Tupman ascended to the bedroom of the latter to restore the borrowed plumage to the unconscious Winkle.

That gentleman was fast asleep; the restoration was soon made. The stranger was extremely jocose; and Mr. Tracy Tupman, being quite bewildered with wine, negus, lights, and ladies, thought the whole affair was an exquisite joke. His new friend departed; and, after experiencing some slight difficulty in finding the orifice in his nightcap, originally intended for the reception of his head, and finally overturning his candlestick in his struggles to put it on, Mr. Tracy Tupman managed to get into bed by a series of complicated evolutions, and shortly afterwards sank into repose.

Seven o’clock had hardly ceased striking on the following morning, when Mr. Pickwick’s comprehensive mind was aroused from the state of unconsciousness, in which slumber had plunged it, by a loud knocking at his chamber door.

‘Who’s there?’ said Mr. Pickwick, starting up in bed.

‘Boots, sir.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Please, sir, can you tell me which gentleman of your party wears a bright blue dress-coat, with a gilt button with “P. C.” on it?’

‘It’s been given out to brush,’ thought Mr. Pickwick, ‘and the man has forgotten whom it belongs to.’

Mr. Winkle,’ he called out, ‘next room but two, on the right hand.’

‘Thank’ee, sir,’ said the Boots, and away he went.

‘What’s the matter?’ cried Mr. Tupman, as a loud knocking at his door roused him from his oblivious repose.

‘Can I speak to Mr. Winkle, sir?’ replied Boots from the outside.

‘Winkle—Winkle!’ shouted Mr. Tupman, calling into the inner room.

‘Hollo!’ replied a faint voice from within the bed-clothes.

‘You’re wanted—some one at the door;’ and, having exerted himself to articulate thus much, Mr. Tracy Tupman turned round and fell fast asleep again.

‘Wanted!’ said Mr. Winkle, hastily jumping out of bed, and putting on a few articles of clothing; ‘wanted! at this distance from town—who on earth can want me?’

‘Gentleman in the coffee-room, sir,’ replied the Boots, as Mr. Winkle opened the door and confronted him; ‘gentleman says he’ll not detain you a moment, Sir, but he can take no denial.’

‘Very odd!’ said Mr. Winkle; ‘I’ll be down directly.’

He hurriedly wrapped himself in a travelling-shawl and dressing-gown, and proceeded downstairs. An old woman and a couple of waiters were cleaning the coffee-room, and an officer in undress uniform was looking out of the window. He turned round as Mr. Winkle entered, and made a stiff inclination of the head. Having ordered the attendants to retire, and closed the door very carefully, he said, ‘Mr. Winkle, I presume?’

‘My name is Winkle, sir.’

‘You will not be surprised, sir, when I inform you that I have called here this morning on behalf of my friend, Doctor Slammer, of the 97th.’

‘Doctor Slammer!’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘Doctor Slammer. He begged me to express his opinion that your conduct of last evening was of a description which no gentleman could endure; and’ (he added) ‘which no one gentleman would pursue towards another.’

Mr. Winkle’s astonishment was too real, and too evident, to escape the observation of Doctor Slammer’s friend; he therefore proceeded—

‘My friend, Doctor Slammer, requested me to add, that he was firmly persuaded you were intoxicated during a portion of the evening, and possibly unconscious of the extent of the insult you were guilty of. He commissioned me to say, that should this be pleaded as an excuse for your behaviour, he will consent to accept a written apology, to be penned by you, from my dictation.’

‘A written apology!’ repeated Mr. Winkle, in the most emphatic tone of amazement possible.

‘Of course you know the alternative,’ replied the visitor coolly.

‘Were you intrusted with this message to me by name?’ inquired Mr. Winkle, whose intellects were hopelessly confused by this extraordinary conversation.

‘I was not present myself,’ replied the visitor, ‘and in consequence of your firm refusal to give your card to Doctor Slammer, I was desired by that gentleman to identify the wearer of a very uncommon coat—a bright blue dress-coat, with a gilt button displaying a bust, and the letters “P. C.”’

Mr. Winkle actually staggered with astonishment as he heard his own costume thus minutely described. Doctor Slammer’s friend proceeded:— ‘From the inquiries I made at the bar, just now, I was convinced that the owner of the coat in question arrived here, with three gentlemen, yesterday afternoon. I immediately sent up to the gentleman who was described as appearing the head of the party, and he at once referred me to you.’

If the principal tower of Rochester Castle had suddenly walked from its foundation, and stationed itself opposite the coffee-room window, Mr. Winkle’s surprise would have been as nothing compared with the profound astonishment with which he had heard this address. His first impression was that his coat had been stolen. ‘Will you allow me to detain you one moment?’ said he.

‘Certainly,’ replied the unwelcome visitor.

Mr. Winkle ran hastily upstairs, and with a trembling hand opened the bag. There was the coat in its usual place, but exhibiting, on a close inspection, evident tokens of having been worn on the preceding night.

‘It must be so,’ said Mr. Winkle, letting the coat fall from his hands. ‘I took too much wine after dinner, and have a very vague recollection of walking about the streets, and smoking a cigar afterwards. The fact is, I was very drunk;—I must have changed my coat—gone somewhere—and insulted somebody—I have no doubt of it; and this message is the terrible consequence.’ Saying which, Mr. Winkle retraced his steps in the direction of the coffee-room, with the gloomy and dreadful resolve of accepting the challenge of the warlike Doctor Slammer, and abiding by the worst consequences that might ensue.

To this determination Mr. Winkle was urged by a variety of considerations, the first of which was his reputation with the club. He had always been looked up to as a high authority on all matters of amusement and dexterity, whether offensive, defensive, or inoffensive; and if, on this very first occasion of being put to the test, he shrunk back from the trial, beneath his leader’s eye, his name and standing were lost for ever. Besides, he remembered to have heard it frequently surmised by the uninitiated in such matters that by an understood arrangement between the seconds, the pistols were seldom loaded with ball; and, furthermore, he reflected that if he applied to Mr. Snodgrass to act as his second, and depicted the danger in glowing terms, that gentleman might possibly communicate the intelligence to Mr. Pickwick, who would certainly lose no time in transmitting it to the local authorities, and thus prevent the killing or maiming of his follower.

Such were his thoughts when he returned to the coffee-room, and intimated his intention of accepting the doctor’s challenge.

‘Will you refer me to a friend, to arrange the time and place of meeting?’ said the officer.

‘Quite unnecessary,’ replied Mr. Winkle; ‘name them to me, and I can procure the attendance of a friend afterwards.’

‘Shall we say—sunset this evening?’ inquired the officer, in a careless tone.

‘Very good,’ replied Mr. Winkle, thinking in his heart it was very bad.

‘You know Fort Pitt?’

‘Yes; I saw it yesterday.’

‘If you will take the trouble to turn into the field which borders the trench, take the foot-path to the left when you arrive at an angle of the fortification, and keep straight on, till you see me, I will precede you to a secluded place, where the affair can be conducted without fear of interruption.’

‘Fear of interruption!’ thought Mr. Winkle.

‘Nothing more to arrange, I think,’ said the officer.

‘I am not aware of anything more,’ replied Mr. Winkle. ‘Good-morning.’

‘Good-morning;’ and the officer whistled a lively air as he strode away.

That morning’s breakfast passed heavily off. Mr. Tupman was not in a condition to rise, after the unwonted dissipation of the previous night; Mr. Snodgrass appeared to labour under a poetical depression of spirits; and even Mr. Pickwick evinced an unusual attachment to silence and soda- water. Mr. Winkle eagerly watched his opportunity: it was not long wanting. Mr. Snodgrass proposed a visit to the castle, and as Mr. Winkle was the only other member of the party disposed to walk, they went out together.

‘Snodgrass,’ said Mr. Winkle, when they had turned out of the public street.’Snodgrass, my dear fellow, can I rely upon your secrecy?’ As he said this, he most devoutly and earnestly hoped he could not.

‘You can,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass. ‘Hear me swear—’

‘No, no,’ interrupted Winkle, terrified at the idea of his companion’s unconsciously pledging himself not to give information; ‘don’t swear, don’t swear; it’s quite unnecessary.’

Mr. Snodgrass dropped the hand which he had, in the spirit of poesy, raised towards the clouds as he made the above appeal, and assumed an attitude of attention.

‘I want your assistance, my dear fellow, in an affair of honour,’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘You shall have it,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass, clasping his friend’s hand.

‘With a doctor—Doctor Slammer, of the 97th,’ said Mr. Winkle, wishing to make the matter appear as solemn as possible; ‘an affair with an officer, seconded by another officer, at sunset this evening, in a lonely field beyond Fort Pitt.’

‘I will attend you,’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

He was astonished, but by no means dismayed. It is extraordinary how cool any party but the principal can be in such cases. Mr. Winkle had forgotten this. He had judged of his friend’s feelings by his own.

‘The consequences may be dreadful,’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘I hope not,’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

‘The doctor, I believe, is a very good shot,’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘Most of these military men are,’ observed Mr. Snodgrass calmly; ‘but so are you, ain’t you?’

Mr. Winkle replied in the affirmative; and perceiving that he had not alarmed his companion sufficiently, changed his ground.

‘Snodgrass,’ he said, in a voice tremulous with emotion, ‘if I fall, you will find in a packet which I shall place in your hands a note for my— for my father.’

This attack was a failure also. Mr. Snodgrass was affected, but he undertook the delivery of the note as readily as if he had been a twopenny postman.

‘If I fall,’ said Mr. Winkle, ‘or if the doctor falls, you, my dear friend, will be tried as an accessory before the fact. Shall I involve my friend in transportation—possibly for life!’

Mr. Snodgrass winced a little at this, but his heroism was invincible. ‘In the cause of friendship,’ he fervently exclaimed, ‘I would brave all dangers.’

How Mr. Winkle cursed his companion’s devoted friendship internally, as they walked silently along, side by side, for some minutes, each immersed in his own meditations! The morning was wearing away; he grew desperate.

‘Snodgrass,’ he said, stopping suddenly, ‘do not let me be balked in this matter—do not give information to the local authorities—do not obtain the assistance of several peace officers, to take either me or Doctor Slammer, of the 97th Regiment, at present quartered in Chatham Barracks, into custody, and thus prevent this duel!—I say, do not.’

Mr. Snodgrass seized his friend’s hand warmly, as he enthusiastically replied, ‘Not for worlds!’

A thrill passed over Mr. Winkle’s frame as the conviction that he had nothing to hope from his friend’s fears, and that he was destined to become an animated target, rushed forcibly upon him.

The state of the case having been formally explained to Mr. Snodgrass, and a case of satisfactory pistols, with the satisfactory accompaniments of powder, ball, and caps, having been hired from a manufacturer in Rochester, the two friends returned to their inn; Mr. Winkle to ruminate on the approaching struggle, and Mr. Snodgrass to arrange the weapons of war, and put them into proper order for immediate use.

It was a dull and heavy evening when they again sallied forth on their awkward errand. Mr. Winkle was muffled up in a huge cloak to escape observation, and Mr. Snodgrass bore under his the instruments of destruction.

‘Have you got everything?’ said Mr. Winkle, in an agitated tone.

‘Everything,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass; ‘plenty of ammunition, in case the shots don’t take effect. There’s a quarter of a pound of powder in the case, and I have got two newspapers in my pocket for the loadings.’

These were instances of friendship for which any man might reasonably feel most grateful. The presumption is, that the gratitude of Mr. Winkle was too powerful for utterance, as he said nothing, but continued to walk on—rather slowly.

‘We are in excellent time,’ said Mr. Snodgrass, as they climbed the fence of the first field; ‘the sun is just going down.’ Mr. Winkle looked up at the declining orb and painfully thought of the probability of his ‘going down’ himself, before long.

‘There’s the officer,’ exclaimed Mr. Winkle, after a few minutes walking.

‘Where?’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

‘There—the gentleman in the blue cloak.’ Mr. Snodgrass looked in the direction indicated by the forefinger of his friend, and observed a figure, muffled up, as he had described. The officer evinced his consciousness of their presence by slightly beckoning with his hand; and the two friends followed him at a little distance, as he walked away.

The evening grew more dull every moment, and a melancholy wind sounded through the deserted fields, like a distant giant whistling for his house-dog. The sadness of the scene imparted a sombre tinge to the feelings of Mr. Winkle. He started as they passed the angle of the trench—it looked like a colossal grave.

The officer turned suddenly from the path, and after climbing a paling, and scaling a hedge, entered a secluded field. Two gentlemen were waiting in it; one was a little, fat man, with black hair; and the other—a portly personage in a braided surtout—was sitting with perfect equanimity on a camp-stool.

‘The other party, and a surgeon, I suppose,’ said Mr. Snodgrass; ‘take a drop of brandy.’ Mr. Winkle seized the wicker bottle which his friend proffered, and took a lengthened pull at the exhilarating liquid.

‘My friend, Sir, Mr. Snodgrass,’ said Mr. Winkle, as the officer approached. Doctor Slammer’s friend bowed, and produced a case similar to that which Mr. Snodgrass carried.

‘We have nothing further to say, Sir, I think,’ he coldly remarked, as he opened the case; ‘an apology has been resolutely declined.’

‘Nothing, Sir,’ said Mr. Snodgrass, who began to feel rather uncomfortable himself.

‘Will you step forward?’ said the officer.

‘Certainly,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass. The ground was measured, and preliminaries arranged.

‘You will find these better than your own,’ said the opposite second, producing his pistols. ‘You saw me load them. Do you object to use them?’

‘Certainly not,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass. The offer relieved him from considerable embarrassment, for his previous notions of loading a pistol were rather vague and undefined.

‘We may place our men, then, I think,’ observed the officer, with as much indifference as if the principals were chess-men, and the seconds players.

‘I think we may,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass; who would have assented to any proposition, because he knew nothing about the matter. The officer crossed to Doctor Slammer, and Mr. Snodgrass went up to Mr. Winkle.

‘It’s all ready,’ said he, offering the pistol. ‘Give me your cloak.’

‘You have got the packet, my dear fellow,’ said poor Winkle.

‘All right,’ said Mr. Snodgrass. ‘Be steady, and wing him.’

It occurred to Mr. Winkle that this advice was very like that which bystanders invariably give to the smallest boy in a street fight, namely, ‘Go in, and win’—an admirable thing to recommend, if you only know how to do it. He took off his cloak, however, in silence—it always took a long time to undo that cloak—and accepted the pistol. The seconds retired, the gentleman on the camp-stool did the same, and the belligerents approached each other.

Mr. Winkle was always remarkable for extreme humanity. It is conjectured that his unwillingness to hurt a fellow-creature intentionally was the cause of his shutting his eyes when he arrived at the fatal spot; and that the circumstance of his eyes being closed, prevented his observing the very extraordinary and unaccountable demeanour of Doctor Slammer. That gentleman started, stared, retreated, rubbed his eyes, stared again, and, finally, shouted, ‘Stop, stop!’

‘What’s all this?’ said Doctor Slammer, as his friend and Mr. Snodgrass came running up; ‘that’s not the man.’

‘Not the man!’ said Doctor Slammer’s second.

‘Not the man!’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

‘Not the man!’ said the gentleman with the camp-stool in his hand.

‘Certainly not,’ replied the little doctor. ‘That’s not the person who insulted me last night.’

‘Very extraordinary!’ exclaimed the officer.

‘Very,’ said the gentleman with the camp-stool. ‘The only question is, whether the gentleman, being on the ground, must not be considered, as a matter of form, to be the individual who insulted our friend, Doctor Slammer, yesterday evening, whether he is really that individual or not;’ and having delivered this suggestion, with a very sage and mysterious air, the man with the camp-stool took a large pinch of snuff, and looked profoundly round, with the air of an authority in such matters.

Now Mr. Winkle had opened his eyes, and his ears too, when he heard his adversary call out for a cessation of hostilities; and perceiving by what he had afterwards said that there was, beyond all question, some mistake in the matter, he at once foresaw the increase of reputation he should inevitably acquire by concealing the real motive of his coming out; he therefore stepped boldly forward, and said—

‘I am not the person. I know it.’

‘Then, that,’ said the man with the camp-stool, ‘is an affront to Doctor Slammer, and a sufficient reason for proceeding immediately.’

‘Pray be quiet, Payne,’ said the doctor’s second. ‘Why did you not communicate this fact to me this morning, Sir?’

‘To be sure—to be sure,’ said the man with the camp-stool indignantly.

‘I entreat you to be quiet, Payne,’ said the other. ‘May I repeat my question, Sir?’

‘Because, Sir,’ replied Mr. Winkle, who had had time to deliberate upon his answer, ‘because, Sir, you described an intoxicated and ungentlemanly person as wearing a coat which I have the honour, not only to wear but to have invented—the proposed uniform, Sir, of the Pickwick Club in London. The honour of that uniform I feel bound to maintain, and I therefore, without inquiry, accepted the challenge which you offered me.’

‘My dear Sir,’ said the good-humoured little doctor advancing with extended hand, ‘I honour your gallantry. Permit me to say, Sir, that I highly admire your conduct, and extremely regret having caused you the inconvenience of this meeting, to no purpose.’

‘I beg you won’t mention it, Sir,’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘I shall feel proud of your acquaintance, Sir,’ said the little doctor.

‘It will afford me the greatest pleasure to know you, sir,’ replied Mr. Winkle. Thereupon the doctor and Mr. Winkle shook hands, and then Mr. Winkle and Lieutenant Tappleton (the doctor’s second), and then Mr. Winkle and the man with the camp-stool, and, finally, Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass—the last-named gentleman in an excess of admiration at the noble conduct of his heroic friend.

‘I think we may adjourn,’ said Lieutenant Tappleton.

‘Certainly,’ added the doctor.

‘Unless,’ interposed the man with the camp-stool, ‘unless Mr. Winkle feels himself aggrieved by the challenge; in which case, I submit, he has a right to satisfaction.’

Mr. Winkle, with great self-denial, expressed himself quite satisfied already.

‘Or possibly,’ said the man with the camp-stool, ‘the gentleman’s second may feel himself affronted with some observations which fell from me at an early period of this meeting; if so, I shall be happy to give him satisfaction immediately.’

Mr. Snodgrass hastily professed himself very much obliged with the handsome offer of the gentleman who had spoken last, which he was only induced to decline by his entire contentment with the whole proceedings. The two seconds adjusted the cases, and the whole party left the ground in a much more lively manner than they had proceeded to it.

‘Do you remain long here?’ inquired Doctor Slammer of Mr. Winkle, as they walked on most amicably together.

‘I think we shall leave here the day after to-morrow,’ was the reply.

‘I trust I shall have the pleasure of seeing you and your friend at my rooms, and of spending a pleasant evening with you, after this awkward mistake,’ said the little doctor; ‘are you disengaged this evening?’

‘We have some friends here,’ replied Mr. Winkle, ‘and I should not like to leave them to-night. Perhaps you and your friend will join us at the Bull.’

‘With great pleasure,’ said the little doctor; ‘will ten o’clock be too late to look in for half an hour?’

‘Oh dear, no,’ said Mr. Winkle. ‘I shall be most happy to introduce you to my friends, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman.’

‘It will give me great pleasure, I am sure,’ replied Doctor Slammer, little suspecting who Mr. Tupman was.

‘You will be sure to come?’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

‘Oh, certainly.’

By this time they had reached the road. Cordial farewells were exchanged, and the party separated. Doctor Slammer and his friends repaired to the barracks, and Mr. Winkle, accompanied by Mr. Snodgrass, returned to their inn.

CHAPTER III. A NEW ACQUAINTANCE—THE STROLLER’S TALE—A DISAGREEABLE INTERRUPTION, AND AN UNPLEASANT ENCOUNTER

Mr. Pickwick had felt some apprehensions in consequence of the unusual absence of his two friends, which their mysterious behaviour during the whole morning had by no means tended to diminish. It was, therefore, with more than ordinary pleasure that he rose to greet them when they again entered; and with more than ordinary interest that he inquired what had occurred to detain them from his society. In reply to his questions on this point, Mr. Snodgrass was about to offer an historical account of the circumstances just now detailed, when he was suddenly checked by observing that there were present, not only Mr. Tupman and their stage-coach companion of the preceding day, but another stranger of equally singular appearance. It was a careworn-looking man, whose sallow face, and deeply-sunken eyes, were rendered still more striking than Nature had made them, by the straight black hair which hung in matted disorder half-way down his face. His eyes were almost unnaturally bright and piercing; his cheek-bones were high and prominent; and his jaws were so long and lank, that an observer would have supposed that he was drawing the flesh of his face in, for a moment, by some contraction of the muscles, if his half-opened mouth and immovable expression had not announced that it was his ordinary appearance. Round his neck he wore a green shawl, with the large ends straggling over his chest, and making their appearance occasionally beneath the worn button-holes of his old waistcoat. His upper garment was a long black surtout; and below it he wore wide drab trousers, and large boots, running rapidly to seed.

It was on this uncouth-looking person that Mr. Winkle’s eye rested, and it was towards him that Mr. Pickwick extended his hand when he said, ‘A friend of our friend’s here. We discovered this morning that our friend was connected with the theatre in this place, though he is not desirous to have it generally known, and this gentleman is a member of the same profession. He was about to favour us with a little anecdote connected with it, when you entered.’

‘Lots of anecdote,’ said the green-coated stranger of the day before, advancing to Mr. Winkle and speaking in a low and confidential tone. ‘Rum fellow—does the heavy business—no actor—strange man—all sorts of miseries—Dismal Jemmy, we call him on the circuit.’ Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass politely welcomed the gentleman, elegantly designated as ‘Dismal Jemmy’; and calling for brandy-and-water, in imitation of the remainder of the company, seated themselves at the table.

‘Now sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘will you oblige us by proceeding with what you were going to relate?’

The dismal individual took a dirty roll of paper from his pocket, and turning to Mr. Snodgrass, who had just taken out his note-book, said in a hollow voice, perfectly in keeping with his outward man—‘Are you the poet?’

‘I—I do a little in that way,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass, rather taken aback by the abruptness of the question.

‘Ah! poetry makes life what light and music do the stage—strip the one of the false embellishments, and the other of its illusions, and what is there real in either to live or care for?’

‘Very true, Sir,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass.

‘To be before the footlights,’ continued the dismal man, ‘is like sitting at a grand court show, and admiring the silken dresses of the gaudy throng; to be behind them is to be the people who make that finery, uncared for and unknown, and left to sink or swim, to starve or live, as fortune wills it.’

‘Certainly,’ said Mr. Snodgrass: for the sunken eye of the dismal man rested on him, and he felt it necessary to say something.

‘Go on, Jemmy,’ said the Spanish traveller, ‘like black-eyed Susan—all in the Downs—no croaking—speak out—look lively.’

‘Will you make another glass before you begin, Sir?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

The dismal man took the hint, and having mixed a glass of brandy-and- water, and slowly swallowed half of it, opened the roll of paper and proceeded, partly to read, and partly to relate, the following incident, which we find recorded on the Transactions of the Club as ‘The Stroller’s Tale.’

THE STROLLER’S TALE

‘There is nothing of the marvellous in what I am going to relate,’ said the dismal man; ‘there is nothing even uncommon in it. Want and sickness are too common in many stations of life to deserve more notice than is usually bestowed on the most ordinary vicissitudes of human nature. I have thrown these few notes together, because the subject of them was well known to me for many years. I traced his progress downwards, step by step, until at last he reached that excess of destitution from which he never rose again.

‘The man of whom I speak was a low pantomime actor; and, like many people of his class, an habitual drunkard. In his better days, before he had become enfeebled by dissipation and emaciated by disease, he had been in the receipt of a good salary, which, if he had been careful and prudent, he might have continued to receive for some years—not many; because these men either die early, or by unnaturally taxing their bodily energies, lose, prematurely, those physical powers on which alone they can depend for subsistence. His besetting sin gained so fast upon him, however, that it was found impossible to employ him in the situations in which he really was useful to the theatre. The public- house had a fascination for him which he could not resist. Neglected disease and hopeless poverty were as certain to be his portion as death itself, if he persevered in the same course; yet he did persevere, and the result may be guessed. He could obtain no engagement, and he wanted bread.

‘Everybody who is at all acquainted with theatrical matters knows what a host of shabby, poverty-stricken men hang about the stage of a large establishment—not regularly engaged actors, but ballet people, procession men, tumblers, and so forth, who are taken on during the run of a pantomime, or an Easter piece, and are then discharged, until the production of some heavy spectacle occasions a new demand for their services. To this mode of life the man was compelled to resort; and taking the chair every night, at some low theatrical house, at once put him in possession of a few more shillings weekly, and enabled him to gratify his old propensity. Even this resource shortly failed him; his irregularities were too great to admit of his earning the wretched pittance he might thus have procured, and he was actually reduced to a state bordering on starvation, only procuring a trifle occasionally by borrowing it of some old companion, or by obtaining an appearance at one or other of the commonest of the minor theatres; and when he did earn anything it was spent in the old way.

‘About this time, and when he had been existing for upwards of a year no one knew how, I had a short engagement at one of the theatres on the Surrey side of the water, and here I saw this man, whom I had lost sight of for some time; for I had been travelling in the provinces, and he had been skulking in the lanes and alleys of London. I was dressed to leave the house, and was crossing the stage on my way out, when he tapped me on the shoulder. Never shall I forget the repulsive sight that met my eye when I turned round. He was dressed for the pantomimes in all the absurdity of a clown’s costume. The spectral figures in the Dance of Death, the most frightful shapes that the ablest painter ever portrayed on canvas, never presented an appearance half so ghastly. His bloated body and shrunken legs—their deformity enhanced a hundredfold by the fantastic dress—the glassy eyes, contrasting fearfully with the thick white paint with which the face was besmeared; the grotesquely- ornamented head, trembling with paralysis, and the long skinny hands, rubbed with white chalk—all gave him a hideous and unnatural appearance, of which no description could convey an adequate idea, and which, to this day, I shudder to think of. His voice was hollow and tremulous as he took me aside, and in broken words recounted a long catalogue of sickness and privations, terminating as usual with an urgent request for the loan of a trifling sum of money. I put a few shillings in his hand, and as I turned away I heard the roar of laughter which followed his first tumble on the stage.

‘A few nights afterwards, a boy put a dirty scrap of paper in my hand, on which were scrawled a few words in pencil, intimating that the man was dangerously ill, and begging me, after the performance, to see him at his lodgings in some street—I forget the name of it now—at no great distance from the theatre. I promised to comply, as soon as I could get away; and after the curtain fell, sallied forth on my melancholy errand.

‘It was late, for I had been playing in the last piece; and, as it was a benefit night, the performances had been protracted to an unusual length. It was a dark, cold night, with a chill, damp wind, which blew the rain heavily against the windows and house-fronts. Pools of water had collected in the narrow and little-frequented streets, and as many of the thinly-scattered oil-lamps had been blown out by the violence of the wind, the walk was not only a comfortless, but most uncertain one. I had fortunately taken the right course, however, and succeeded, after a little difficulty, in finding the house to which I had been directed—a coal-shed, with one storey above it, in the back room of which lay the object of my search.

‘A wretched-looking woman, the man’s wife, met me on the stairs, and, telling me that he had just fallen into a kind of doze, led me softly in, and placed a chair for me at the bedside. The sick man was lying with his face turned towards the wall; and as he took no heed of my presence, I had leisure to observe the place in which I found myself.

‘He was lying on an old bedstead, which turned up during the day. The tattered remains of a checked curtain were drawn round the bed’s head, to exclude the wind, which, however, made its way into the comfortless room through the numerous chinks in the door, and blew it to and fro every instant. There was a low cinder fire in a rusty, unfixed grate; and an old three-cornered stained table, with some medicine bottles, a broken glass, and a few other domestic articles, was drawn out before it. A little child was sleeping on a temporary bed which had been made for it on the floor, and the woman sat on a chair by its side. There were a couple of shelves, with a few plates and cups and saucers; and a pair of stage shoes and a couple of foils hung beneath them. With the exception of little heaps of rags and bundles which had been carelessly thrown into the corners of the room, these were the only things in the apartment.

‘I had had time to note these little particulars, and to mark the heavy breathing and feverish startings of the sick man, before he was aware of my presence. In the restless attempts to procure some easy resting-place for his head, he tossed his hand out of the bed, and it fell on mine. He started up, and stared eagerly in my face.

‘“Mr. Hutley, John,” said his wife; “Mr. Hutley, that you sent for to- night, you know.”

‘“Ah!” said the invalid, passing his hand across his forehead; “Hutley— Hutley—let me see.” He seemed endeavouring to collect his thoughts for a few seconds, and then grasping me tightly by the wrist said, “Don’t leave me—don’t leave me, old fellow. She’ll murder me; I know she will.”

‘“Has he been long so?” said I, addressing his weeping wife.

‘“Since yesterday night,” she replied. “John, John, don’t you know me?”

‘“Don’t let her come near me,” said the man, with a shudder, as she stooped over him. “Drive her away; I can’t bear her near me.” He stared wildly at her, with a look of deadly apprehension, and then whispered in my ear, “I beat her, Jem; I beat her yesterday, and many times before. I have starved her and the boy too; and now I am weak and helpless, Jem, she’ll murder me for it; I know she will. If you’d seen her cry, as I have, you’d know it too. Keep her off.” He relaxed his grasp, and sank back exhausted on the pillow.

‘I knew but too well what all this meant. If I could have entertained any doubt of it, for an instant, one glance at the woman’s pale face and wasted form would have sufficiently explained the real state of the case. “You had better stand aside,” said I to the poor creature. “You can do him no good. Perhaps he will be calmer, if he does not see you.” She retired out of the man’s sight. He opened his eyes after a few seconds, and looked anxiously round.

‘“Is she gone?” he eagerly inquired.

‘“Yes—yes,” said I; “she shall not hurt you.”

‘“I’ll tell you what, Jem,” said the man, in a low voice, “she does hurt me. There’s something in her eyes wakes such a dreadful fear in my heart, that it drives me mad. All last night, her large, staring eyes and pale face were close to mine; wherever I turned, they turned; and whenever I started up from my sleep, she was at the bedside looking at me.” He drew me closer to him, as he said in a deep alarmed whisper, “Jem, she must be an evil spirit—a devil! Hush! I know she is. If she had been a woman she would have died long ago. No woman could have borne what she has.”

‘I sickened at the thought of the long course of cruelty and neglect which must have occurred to produce such an impression on such a man. I could say nothing in reply; for who could offer hope, or consolation, to the abject being before me?

‘I sat there for upwards of two hours, during which time he tossed about, murmuring exclamations of pain or impatience, restlessly throwing his arms here and there, and turning constantly from side to side. At length he fell into that state of partial unconsciousness, in which the mind wanders uneasily from scene to scene, and from place to place, without the control of reason, but still without being able to divest itself of an indescribable sense of present suffering. Finding from his incoherent wanderings that this was the case, and knowing that in all probability the fever would not grow immediately worse, I left him, promising his miserable wife that I would repeat my visit next evening, and, if necessary, sit up with the patient during the night.

‘I kept my promise. The last four-and-twenty hours had produced a frightful alteration. The eyes, though deeply sunk and heavy, shone with a lustre frightful to behold. The lips were parched, and cracked in many places; the hard, dry skin glowed with a burning heat; and there was an almost unearthly air of wild anxiety in the man’s face, indicating even more strongly the ravages of the disease. The fever was at its height.

‘I took the seat I had occupied the night before, and there I sat for hours, listening to sounds which must strike deep to the heart of the most callous among human beings—the awful ravings of a dying man. From what I had heard of the medical attendant’s opinion, I knew there was no hope for him: I was sitting by his death-bed. I saw the wasted limbs— which a few hours before had been distorted for the amusement of a boisterous gallery, writhing under the tortures of a burning fever—I heard the clown’s shrill laugh, blending with the low murmurings of the dying man.

‘It is a touching thing to hear the mind reverting to the ordinary occupations and pursuits of health, when the body lies before you weak and helpless; but when those occupations are of a character the most strongly opposed to anything we associate with grave and solemn ideas, the impression produced is infinitely more powerful. The theatre and the public-house were the chief themes of the wretched man’s wanderings. It was evening, he fancied; he had a part to play that night; it was late, and he must leave home instantly. Why did they hold him, and prevent his going?—he should lose the money—he must go. No! they would not let him. He hid his face in his burning hands, and feebly bemoaned his own weakness, and the cruelty of his persecutors. A short pause, and he shouted out a few doggerel rhymes—the last he had ever learned. He rose in bed, drew up his withered limbs, and rolled about in uncouth positions; he was acting—he was at the theatre. A minute’s silence, and he murmured the burden of some roaring song. He had reached the old house at last—how hot the room was. He had been ill, very ill, but he was well now, and happy. Fill up his glass. Who was that, that dashed it from his lips? It was the same persecutor that had followed him before. He fell back upon his pillow and moaned aloud. A short period of oblivion, and he was wandering through a tedious maze of low-arched rooms—so low, sometimes, that he must creep upon his hands and knees to make his way along; it was close and dark, and every way he turned, some obstacle impeded his progress. There were insects, too, hideous crawling things, with eyes that stared upon him, and filled the very air around, glistening horribly amidst the thick darkness of the place. The walls and ceiling were alive with reptiles—the vault expanded to an enormous size—frightful figures flitted to and fro—and the faces of men he knew, rendered hideous by gibing and mouthing, peered out from among them; they were searing him with heated irons, and binding his head with cords till the blood started; and he struggled madly for life.

‘At the close of one of these paroxysms, when I had with great difficulty held him down in his bed, he sank into what appeared to be a slumber. Overpowered with watching and exertion, I had closed my eyes for a few minutes, when I felt a violent clutch on my shoulder. I awoke instantly. He had raised himself up, so as to seat himself in bed—a dreadful change had come over his face, but consciousness had returned, for he evidently knew me. The child, who had been long since disturbed by his ravings, rose from its little bed, and ran towards its father, screaming with fright—the mother hastily caught it in her arms, lest he should injure it in the violence of his insanity; but, terrified by the alteration of his features, stood transfixed by the bedside. He grasped my shoulder convulsively, and, striking his breast with the other hand, made a desperate attempt to articulate. It was unavailing; he extended his arm towards them, and made another violent effort. There was a rattling noise in the throat—a glare of the eye—a short stifled groan- -and he fell back—dead!’

It would afford us the highest gratification to be enabled to record Mr. Pickwick’s opinion of the foregoing anecdote. We have little doubt that we should have been enabled to present it to our readers, but for a most unfortunate occurrence.

Mr. Pickwick had replaced on the table the glass which, during the last few sentences of the tale, he had retained in his hand; and had just made up his mind to speak—indeed, we have the authority of Mr. Snodgrass’s note-book for stating, that he had actually opened his mouth—when the waiter entered the room, and said—

‘Some gentlemen, Sir.’

It has been conjectured that Mr. Pickwick was on the point of delivering some remarks which would have enlightened the world, if not the Thames, when he was thus interrupted; for he gazed sternly on the waiter’s countenance, and then looked round on the company generally, as if seeking for information relative to the new-comers.

‘Oh!’ said Mr. Winkle, rising, ‘some friends of mine—show them in. Very pleasant fellows,’ added Mr. Winkle, after the waiter had retired— ‘officers of the 97th, whose acquaintance I made rather oddly this morning. You will like them very much.’

Mr. Pickwick’s equanimity was at once restored. The waiter returned, and ushered three gentlemen into the room.

‘Lieutenant Tappleton,’ said Mr. Winkle, ‘Lieutenant Tappleton, Mr. Pickwick—Doctor Payne, Mr. Pickwick—Mr. Snodgrass you have seen before, my friend Mr. Tupman, Doctor Payne—Doctor Slammer, Mr. Pickwick—Mr. Tupman, Doctor Slam—’

Here Mr. Winkle suddenly paused; for strong emotion was visible on the countenance both of Mr. Tupman and the doctor.

‘I have met this gentleman before,’ said the Doctor, with marked emphasis.

‘Indeed!’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘And—and that person, too, if I am not mistaken,’ said the doctor, bestowing a scrutinising glance on the green-coated stranger. ‘I think I gave that person a very pressing invitation last night, which he thought proper to decline.’ Saying which the doctor scowled magnanimously on the stranger, and whispered his friend Lieutenant Tappleton.

‘You don’t say so,’ said that gentleman, at the conclusion of the whisper.

‘I do, indeed,’ replied Doctor Slammer.

‘You are bound to kick him on the spot,’ murmured the owner of the camp- stool, with great importance.

‘Do be quiet, Payne,’ interposed the lieutenant. ‘Will you allow me to ask you, sir,’ he said, addressing Mr. Pickwick, who was considerably mystified by this very unpolite by-play—‘will you allow me to ask you, Sir, whether that person belongs to your party?’

‘No, Sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘he is a guest of ours.’

‘He is a member of your club, or I am mistaken?’ said the lieutenant inquiringly.

‘Certainly not,’ responded Mr. Pickwick.

‘And never wears your club-button?’ said the lieutenant.

‘No—never!’ replied the astonished Mr. Pickwick.

Lieutenant Tappleton turned round to his friend Doctor Slammer, with a scarcely perceptible shrug of the shoulder, as if implying some doubt of the accuracy of his recollection. The little doctor looked wrathful, but confounded; and Mr. Payne gazed with a ferocious aspect on the beaming countenance of the unconscious Pickwick.

‘Sir,’ said the doctor, suddenly addressing Mr. Tupman, in a tone which made that gentleman start as perceptibly as if a pin had been cunningly inserted in the calf of his leg, ‘you were at the ball here last night!’

Mr. Tupman gasped a faint affirmative, looking very hard at Mr. Pickwick all the while.

‘That person was your companion,’ said the doctor, pointing to the still unmoved stranger.

Mr. Tupman admitted the fact.

‘Now, sir,’ said the doctor to the stranger, ‘I ask you once again, in the presence of these gentlemen, whether you choose to give me your card, and to receive the treatment of a gentleman; or whether you impose upon me the necessity of personally chastising you on the spot?’

‘Stay, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I really cannot allow this matter to go any further without some explanation. Tupman, recount the circumstances.’

Mr. Tupman, thus solemnly adjured, stated the case in a few words; touched slightly on the borrowing of the coat; expatiated largely on its having been done ‘after dinner’; wound up with a little penitence on his own account; and left the stranger to clear himself as best he could.

He was apparently about to proceed to do so, when Lieutenant Tappleton, who had been eyeing him with great curiosity, said with considerable scorn, ‘Haven’t I seen you at the theatre, Sir?’

‘Certainly,’ replied the unabashed stranger.

‘He is a strolling actor!’ said the lieutenant contemptuously, turning to Doctor Slammer.—‘He acts in the piece that the officers of the 52nd get up at the Rochester Theatre to-morrow night. You cannot proceed in this affair, Slammer—impossible!’

‘Quite!’ said the dignified Payne.

‘Sorry to have placed you in this disagreeable situation,’ said Lieutenant Tappleton, addressing Mr. Pickwick; ‘allow me to suggest, that the best way of avoiding a recurrence of such scenes in future will be to be more select in the choice of your companions. Good-evening, Sir!’ and the lieutenant bounced out of the room.

‘And allow me to say, Sir,’ said the irascible Doctor Payne, ‘that if I had been Tappleton, or if I had been Slammer, I would have pulled your nose, Sir, and the nose of every man in this company. I would, sir— every man. Payne is my name, sir—Doctor Payne of the 43rd. Good- evening, Sir.’ Having concluded this speech, and uttered the last three words in a loud key, he stalked majestically after his friend, closely followed by Doctor Slammer, who said nothing, but contented himself by withering the company with a look.

Rising rage and extreme bewilderment had swelled the noble breast of Mr. Pickwick, almost to the bursting of his waistcoat, during the delivery of the above defiance. He stood transfixed to the spot, gazing on vacancy. The closing of the door recalled him to himself. He rushed forward with fury in his looks, and fire in his eye. His hand was upon the lock of the door; in another instant it would have been on the throat of Doctor Payne of the 43rd, had not Mr. Snodgrass seized his revered leader by the coat tail, and dragged him backwards.

‘Restrain him,’ cried Mr. Snodgrass; ‘Winkle, Tupman—he must not peril his distinguished life in such a cause as this.’

‘Let me go,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Hold him tight,’ shouted Mr. Snodgrass; and by the united efforts of the whole company, Mr. Pickwick was forced into an arm-chair.

‘Leave him alone,’ said the green-coated stranger; ‘brandy-and-water— jolly old gentleman—lots of pluck—swallow this—ah!—capital stuff.’ Having previously tested the virtues of a bumper, which had been mixed by the dismal man, the stranger applied the glass to Mr. Pickwick’s mouth; and the remainder of its contents rapidly disappeared.

There was a short pause; the brandy-and-water had done its work; the amiable countenance of Mr. Pickwick was fast recovering its customary expression.

‘They are not worth your notice,’ said the dismal man.

‘You are right, sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘they are not. I am ashamed to have been betrayed into this warmth of feeling. Draw your chair up to the table, Sir.’

The dismal man readily complied; a circle was again formed round the table, and harmony once more prevailed. Some lingering irritability appeared to find a resting-place in Mr. Winkle’s bosom, occasioned possibly by the temporary abstraction of his coat—though it is scarcely reasonable to suppose that so slight a circumstance can have excited even a passing feeling of anger in a Pickwickian’s breast. With this exception, their good-humour was completely restored; and the evening concluded with the conviviality with which it had begun.

CHAPTER IV. A FIELD DAY AND BIVOUAC—MORE NEW FRIENDS—AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY

Many authors entertain, not only a foolish, but a really dishonest objection to acknowledge the sources whence they derive much valuable information. We have no such feeling. We are merely endeavouring to discharge, in an upright manner, the responsible duties of our editorial functions; and whatever ambition we might have felt under other circumstances to lay claim to the authorship of these adventures, a regard for truth forbids us to do more than claim the merit of their judicious arrangement and impartial narration. The Pickwick papers are our New River Head; and we may be compared to the New River Company. The labours of others have raised for us an immense reservoir of important facts. We merely lay them on, and communicate them, in a clear and gentle stream, through the medium of these pages, to a world thirsting for Pickwickian knowledge.

Acting in this spirit, and resolutely proceeding on our determination to avow our obligations to the authorities we have consulted, we frankly say, that to the note-book of Mr. Snodgrass are we indebted for the particulars recorded in this and the succeeding chapter—particulars which, now that we have disburdened our consciences, we shall proceed to detail without further comment.

The whole population of Rochester and the adjoining towns rose from their beds at an early hour of the following morning, in a state of the utmost bustle and excitement. A grand review was to take place upon the lines. The manoeuvres of half a dozen regiments were to be inspected by the eagle eye of the commander-in-chief; temporary fortifications had been erected, the citadel was to be attacked and taken, and a mine was to be sprung.

Mr. Pickwick was, as our readers may have gathered from the slight extract we gave from his description of Chatham, an enthusiastic admirer of the army. Nothing could have been more delightful to him—nothing could have harmonised so well with the peculiar feeling of each of his companions—as this sight. Accordingly they were soon afoot, and walking in the direction of the scene of action, towards which crowds of people were already pouring from a variety of quarters.

The appearance of everything on the lines denoted that the approaching ceremony was one of the utmost grandeur and importance. There were sentries posted to keep the ground for the troops, and servants on the batteries keeping places for the ladies, and sergeants running to and fro, with vellum-covered books under their arms, and Colonel Bulder, in full military uniform, on horseback, galloping first to one place and then to another, and backing his horse among the people, and prancing, and curvetting, and shouting in a most alarming manner, and making himself very hoarse in the voice, and very red in the face, without any assignable cause or reason whatever. Officers were running backwards and forwards, first communicating with Colonel Bulder, and then ordering the sergeants, and then running away altogether; and even the very privates themselves looked from behind their glazed stocks with an air of mysterious solemnity, which sufficiently bespoke the special nature of the occasion.

Mr. Pickwick and his three companions stationed themselves in the front of the crowd, and patiently awaited the commencement of the proceedings. The throng was increasing every moment; and the efforts they were compelled to make, to retain the position they had gained, sufficiently occupied their attention during the two hours that ensued. At one time there was a sudden pressure from behind, and then Mr. Pickwick was jerked forward for several yards, with a degree of speed and elasticity highly inconsistent with the general gravity of his demeanour; at another moment there was a request to ‘keep back’ from the front, and then the butt-end of a musket was either dropped upon Mr. Pickwick’s toe, to remind him of the demand, or thrust into his chest, to insure its being complied with. Then some facetious gentlemen on the left, after pressing sideways in a body, and squeezing Mr. Snodgrass into the very last extreme of human torture, would request to know ‘vere he vos a shovin’ to’; and when Mr. Winkle had done expressing his excessive indignation at witnessing this unprovoked assault, some person behind would knock his hat over his eyes, and beg the favour of his putting his head in his pocket. These, and other practical witticisms, coupled with the unaccountable absence of Mr. Tupman (who had suddenly disappeared, and was nowhere to be found), rendered their situation upon the whole rather more uncomfortable than pleasing or desirable.

At length that low roar of many voices ran through the crowd which usually announces the arrival of whatever they have been waiting for. All eyes were turned in the direction of the sally-port. A few moments of eager expectation, and colours were seen fluttering gaily in the air, arms glistened brightly in the sun, column after column poured on to the plain. The troops halted and formed; the word of command rang through the line; there was a general clash of muskets as arms were presented; and the commander-in-chief, attended by Colonel Bulder and numerous officers, cantered to the front. The military bands struck up altogether; the horses stood upon two legs each, cantered backwards, and whisked their tails about in all directions; the dogs barked, the mob screamed, the troops recovered, and nothing was to be seen on either side, as far as the eye could reach, but a long perspective of red coats and white trousers, fixed and motionless.

Mr. Pickwick had been so fully occupied in falling about, and disentangling himself, miraculously, from between the legs of horses, that he had not enjoyed sufficient leisure to observe the scene before him, until it assumed the appearance we have just described. When he was at last enabled to stand firmly on his legs, his gratification and delight were unbounded.

‘Can anything be finer or more delightful?’ he inquired of Mr. Winkle.

‘Nothing,’ replied that gentleman, who had had a short man standing on each of his feet for the quarter of an hour immediately preceding.

‘It is indeed a noble and a brilliant sight,’ said Mr. Snodgrass, in whose bosom a blaze of poetry was rapidly bursting forth, ‘to see the gallant defenders of their country drawn up in brilliant array before its peaceful citizens; their faces beaming—not with warlike ferocity, but with civilised gentleness; their eyes flashing—not with the rude fire of rapine or revenge, but with the soft light of humanity and intelligence.’

Mr. Pickwick fully entered into the spirit of this eulogium, but he could not exactly re-echo its terms; for the soft light of intelligence burned rather feebly in the eyes of the warriors, inasmuch as the command ‘eyes front’ had been given, and all the spectator saw before him was several thousand pair of optics, staring straight forward, wholly divested of any expression whatever.

‘We are in a capital situation now,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking round him. The crowd had gradually dispersed in their immediate vicinity, and they were nearly alone.

‘Capital!’ echoed both Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle.

‘What are they doing now?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, adjusting his spectacles.

‘I—I—rather think,’ said Mr. Winkle, changing colour—‘I rather think they’re going to fire.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Mr. Pickwick hastily.

‘I—I—really think they are,’ urged Mr. Snodgrass, somewhat alarmed.

‘Impossible,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. He had hardly uttered the word, when the whole half-dozen regiments levelled their muskets as if they had but one common object, and that object the Pickwickians, and burst forth with the most awful and tremendous discharge that ever shook the earth to its centres, or an elderly gentleman off his.

It was in this trying situation, exposed to a galling fire of blank cartridges, and harassed by the operations of the military, a fresh body of whom had begun to fall in on the opposite side, that Mr. Pickwick displayed that perfect coolness and self-possession, which are the indispensable accompaniments of a great mind. He seized Mr. Winkle by the arm, and placing himself between that gentleman and Mr. Snodgrass, earnestly besought them to remember that beyond the possibility of being rendered deaf by the noise, there was no immediate danger to be apprehended from the firing.

‘But—but—suppose some of the men should happen to have ball cartridges by mistake,’ remonstrated Mr. Winkle, pallid at the supposition he was himself conjuring up. ‘I heard something whistle through the air now—so sharp; close to my ear.’

‘We had better throw ourselves on our faces, hadn’t we?’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

‘No, no—it’s over now,’ said Mr. Pickwick. His lip might quiver, and his cheek might blanch, but no expression of fear or concern escaped the lips of that immortal man.

Mr. Pickwick was right—the firing ceased; but he had scarcely time to congratulate himself on the accuracy of his opinion, when a quick movement was visible in the line; the hoarse shout of the word of command ran along it, and before either of the party could form a guess at the meaning of this new manoeuvre, the whole of the half-dozen regiments, with fixed bayonets, charged at double-quick time down upon the very spot on which Mr. Pickwick and his friends were stationed.

Man is but mortal; and there is a point beyond which human courage cannot extend. Mr. Pickwick gazed through his spectacles for an instant on the advancing mass, and then fairly turned his back and—we will not say fled; firstly, because it is an ignoble term, and, secondly, because Mr. Pickwick’s figure was by no means adapted for that mode of retreat— he trotted away, at as quick a rate as his legs would convey him; so quickly, indeed, that he did not perceive the awkwardness of his situation, to the full extent, until too late.

The opposite troops, whose falling-in had perplexed Mr. Pickwick a few seconds before, were drawn up to repel the mimic attack of the sham besiegers of the citadel; and the consequence was that Mr. Pickwick and his two companions found themselves suddenly inclosed between two lines of great length, the one advancing at a rapid pace, and the other firmly waiting the collision in hostile array.

‘Hoi!’ shouted the officers of the advancing line.

‘Get out of the way!’ cried the officers of the stationary one.

‘Where are we to go to?’ screamed the agitated Pickwickians.

‘Hoi—hoi—hoi!’ was the only reply. There was a moment of intense bewilderment, a heavy tramp of footsteps, a violent concussion, a smothered laugh; the half-dozen regiments were half a thousand yards off, and the soles of Mr. Pickwick’s boots were elevated in air.

Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle had each performed a compulsory somerset with remarkable agility, when the first object that met the eyes of the latter as he sat on the ground, staunching with a yellow silk handkerchief the stream of life which issued from his nose, was his venerated leader at some distance off, running after his own hat, which was gambolling playfully away in perspective.

There are very few moments in a man’s existence when he experiences so much ludicrous distress, or meets with so little charitable commiseration, as when he is in pursuit of his own hat. A vast deal of coolness, and a peculiar degree of judgment, are requisite in catching a hat. A man must not be precipitate, or he runs over it; he must not rush into the opposite extreme, or he loses it altogether. The best way is to keep gently up with the object of pursuit, to be wary and cautious, to watch your opportunity well, get gradually before it, then make a rapid dive, seize it by the crown, and stick it firmly on your head; smiling pleasantly all the time, as if you thought it as good a joke as anybody else.

There was a fine gentle wind, and Mr. Pickwick’s hat rolled sportively before it. The wind puffed, and Mr. Pickwick puffed, and the hat rolled over and over as merrily as a lively porpoise in a strong tide: and on it might have rolled, far beyond Mr. Pickwick’s reach, had not its course been providentially stopped, just as that gentleman was on the point of resigning it to its fate.

Mr. Pickwick, we say, was completely exhausted, and about to give up the chase, when the hat was blown with some violence against the wheel of a carriage, which was drawn up in a line with half a dozen other vehicles on the spot to which his steps had been directed. Mr. Pickwick, perceiving his advantage, darted briskly forward, secured his property, planted it on his head, and paused to take breath. He had not been stationary half a minute, when he heard his own name eagerly pronounced by a voice, which he at once recognised as Mr. Tupman’s, and, looking upwards, he beheld a sight which filled him with surprise and pleasure.

In an open barouche, the horses of which had been taken out, the better to accommodate it to the crowded place, stood a stout old gentleman, in a blue coat and bright buttons, corduroy breeches and top-boots, two young ladies in scarfs and feathers, a young gentleman apparently enamoured of one of the young ladies in scarfs and feathers, a lady of doubtful age, probably the aunt of the aforesaid, and Mr. Tupman, as easy and unconcerned as if he had belonged to the family from the first moments of his infancy. Fastened up behind the barouche was a hamper of spacious dimensions—one of those hampers which always awakens in a contemplative mind associations connected with cold fowls, tongues, and bottles of wine—and on the box sat a fat and red-faced boy, in a state of somnolency, whom no speculative observer could have regarded for an instant without setting down as the official dispenser of the contents of the before-mentioned hamper, when the proper time for their consumption should arrive.

Mr. Pickwick had bestowed a hasty glance on these interesting objects, when he was again greeted by his faithful disciple.

‘Pickwick—Pickwick,’ said Mr. Tupman; ‘come up here. Make haste.’

‘Come along, Sir. Pray, come up,’ said the stout gentleman. ‘Joe!—damn that boy, he’s gone to sleep again.—Joe, let down the steps.’ The fat boy rolled slowly off the box, let down the steps, and held the carriage door invitingly open. Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle came up at the moment.

‘Room for you all, gentlemen,’ said the stout man. ‘Two inside, and one out. Joe, make room for one of these gentlemen on the box. Now, Sir, come along;’ and the stout gentleman extended his arm, and pulled first Mr. Pickwick, and then Mr. Snodgrass, into the barouche by main force. Mr. Winkle mounted to the box, the fat boy waddled to the same perch, and fell fast asleep instantly.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ said the stout man, ‘very glad to see you. Know you very well, gentlemen, though you mayn’t remember me. I spent some ev’nin’s at your club last winter—picked up my friend Mr. Tupman here this morning, and very glad I was to see him. Well, Sir, and how are you? You do look uncommon well, to be sure.’

Mr. Pickwick acknowledged the compliment, and cordially shook hands with the stout gentleman in the top-boots.

‘Well, and how are you, sir?’ said the stout gentleman, addressing Mr. Snodgrass with paternal anxiety. ‘Charming, eh? Well, that’s right— that’s right. And how are you, sir (to Mr. Winkle)? Well, I am glad to hear you say you are well; very glad I am, to be sure. My daughters, gentlemen—my gals these are; and that’s my sister, Miss Rachael Wardle. She’s a Miss, she is; and yet she ain’t a Miss—eh, Sir, eh?’ And the stout gentleman playfully inserted his elbow between the ribs of Mr. Pickwick, and laughed very heartily.

‘Lor, brother!’ said Miss Wardle, with a deprecating smile.

‘True, true,’ said the stout gentleman; ‘no one can deny it. Gentlemen, I beg your pardon; this is my friend Mr. Trundle. And now you all know each other, let’s be comfortable and happy, and see what’s going forward; that’s what I say.’ So the stout gentleman put on his spectacles, and Mr. Pickwick pulled out his glass, and everybody stood up in the carriage, and looked over somebody else’s shoulder at the evolutions of the military.

Astounding evolutions they were, one rank firing over the heads of another rank, and then running away; and then the other rank firing over the heads of another rank, and running away in their turn; and then forming squares, with officers in the centre; and then descending the trench on one side with scaling-ladders, and ascending it on the other again by the same means; and knocking down barricades of baskets, and behaving in the most gallant manner possible. Then there was such a ramming down of the contents of enormous guns on the battery, with instruments like magnified mops; such a preparation before they were let off, and such an awful noise when they did go, that the air resounded with the screams of ladies. The young Misses Wardle were so frightened, that Mr. Trundle was actually obliged to hold one of them up in the carriage, while Mr. Snodgrass supported the other; and Mr. Wardle’s sister suffered under such a dreadful state of nervous alarm, that Mr. Tupman found it indispensably necessary to put his arm round her waist, to keep her up at all. Everybody was excited, except the fat boy, and he slept as soundly as if the roaring of cannon were his ordinary lullaby.

‘Joe, Joe!’ said the stout gentleman, when the citadel was taken, and the besiegers and besieged sat down to dinner. ‘Damn that boy, he’s gone to sleep again. Be good enough to pinch him, sir—in the leg, if you please; nothing else wakes him—thank you. Undo the hamper, Joe.’

The fat boy, who had been effectually roused by the compression of a portion of his leg between the finger and thumb of Mr. Winkle, rolled off the box once again, and proceeded to unpack the hamper with more expedition than could have been expected from his previous inactivity.

‘Now we must sit close,’ said the stout gentleman. After a great many jokes about squeezing the ladies’ sleeves, and a vast quantity of blushing at sundry jocose proposals, that the ladies should sit in the gentlemen’s laps, the whole party were stowed down in the barouche; and the stout gentleman proceeded to hand the things from the fat boy (who had mounted up behind for the purpose) into the carriage.

‘Now, Joe, knives and forks.’ The knives and forks were handed in, and the ladies and gentlemen inside, and Mr. Winkle on the box, were each furnished with those useful instruments.

‘Plates, Joe, plates.’ A similar process employed in the distribution of the crockery.

‘Now, Joe, the fowls. Damn that boy; he’s gone to sleep again. Joe! Joe!’ (Sundry taps on the head with a stick, and the fat boy, with some difficulty, roused from his lethargy.) ‘Come, hand in the eatables.’

There was something in the sound of the last word which roused the unctuous boy. He jumped up, and the leaden eyes which twinkled behind his mountainous cheeks leered horribly upon the food as he unpacked it from the basket.

‘Now make haste,’ said Mr. Wardle; for the fat boy was hanging fondly over a capon, which he seemed wholly unable to part with. The boy sighed deeply, and, bestowing an ardent gaze upon its plumpness, unwillingly consigned it to his master.

‘That’s right—look sharp. Now the tongue—now the pigeon pie. Take care of that veal and ham—mind the lobsters—take the salad out of the cloth—give me the dressing.’ Such were the hurried orders which issued from the lips of Mr. Wardle, as he handed in the different articles described, and placed dishes in everybody’s hands, and on everybody’s knees, in endless number.

‘Now ain’t this capital?’ inquired that jolly personage, when the work of destruction had commenced.

‘Capital!’ said Mr. Winkle, who was carving a fowl on the box.

‘Glass of wine?’

‘With the greatest pleasure.’

‘You’d better have a bottle to yourself up there, hadn’t you?’

‘You’re very good.’

‘Joe!’

‘Yes, Sir.’ (He wasn’t asleep this time, having just succeeded in abstracting a veal patty.)

‘Bottle of wine to the gentleman on the box. Glad to see you, Sir.’

‘Thank’ee.’ Mr. Winkle emptied his glass, and placed the bottle on the coach-box, by his side.

‘Will you permit me to have the pleasure, Sir?’ said Mr. Trundle to Mr. Winkle.

‘With great pleasure,’ replied Mr. Winkle to Mr. Trundle, and then the two gentlemen took wine, after which they took a glass of wine round, ladies and all.

‘How dear Emily is flirting with the strange gentleman,’ whispered the spinster aunt, with true spinster-aunt-like envy, to her brother, Mr. Wardle.

‘Oh! I don’t know,’ said the jolly old gentleman; ‘all very natural, I dare say—nothing unusual. Mr. Pickwick, some wine, Sir?’ Mr. Pickwick, who had been deeply investigating the interior of the pigeon-pie, readily assented.

‘Emily, my dear,’ said the spinster aunt, with a patronising air, ‘don’t talk so loud, love.’

‘Lor, aunt!’

‘Aunt and the little old gentleman want to have it all to themselves, I think,’ whispered Miss Isabella Wardle to her sister Emily. The young ladies laughed very heartily, and the old one tried to look amiable, but couldn’t manage it.

‘Young girls have such spirits,’ said Miss Wardle to Mr. Tupman, with an air of gentle commiseration, as if animal spirits were contraband, and their possession without a permit a high crime and misdemeanour.

‘Oh, they have,’ replied Mr. Tupman, not exactly making the sort of reply that was expected from him. ‘It’s quite delightful.’

‘Hem!’ said Miss Wardle, rather dubiously.

‘Will you permit me?’ said Mr. Tupman, in his blandest manner, touching the enchanting Rachael’s wrist with one hand, and gently elevating the bottle with the other. ‘Will you permit me?’

‘Oh, sir!’ Mr. Tupman looked most impressive; and Rachael expressed her fear that more guns were going off, in which case, of course, she should have required support again.

‘Do you think my dear nieces pretty?’ whispered their affectionate aunt to Mr. Tupman.

‘I should, if their aunt wasn’t here,’ replied the ready Pickwickian, with a passionate glance.

‘Oh, you naughty man—but really, if their complexions were a little better, don’t you think they would be nice-looking girls—by candlelight?’

‘Yes; I think they would,’ said Mr. Tupman, with an air of indifference.

‘Oh, you quiz—I know what you were going to say.’

‘What?’ inquired Mr. Tupman, who had not precisely made up his mind to say anything at all.

‘You were going to say that Isabel stoops—I know you were—you men are such observers. Well, so she does; it can’t be denied; and, certainly, if there is one thing more than another that makes a girl look ugly it is stooping. I often tell her that when she gets a little older she’ll be quite frightful. Well, you are a quiz!’

Mr. Tupman had no objection to earning the reputation at so cheap a rate: so he looked very knowing, and smiled mysteriously.

‘What a sarcastic smile,’ said the admiring Rachael; ‘I declare I’m quite afraid of you.’

‘Afraid of me!’

‘Oh, you can’t disguise anything from me—I know what that smile means very well.’

‘What?’ said Mr. Tupman, who had not the slightest notion himself.

‘You mean,’ said the amiable aunt, sinking her voice still lower—‘you mean, that you don’t think Isabella’s stooping is as bad as Emily’s boldness. Well, she is bold! You cannot think how wretched it makes me sometimes—I’m sure I cry about it for hours together—my dear brother is so good, and so unsuspicious, that he never sees it; if he did, I’m quite certain it would break his heart. I wish I could think it was only manner—I hope it may be—’ (Here the affectionate relative heaved a deep sigh, and shook her head despondingly).

‘I’m sure aunt’s talking about us,’ whispered Miss Emily Wardle to her sister—‘I’m quite certain of it—she looks so malicious.’

‘Is she?’ replied Isabella.—‘Hem! aunt, dear!’

‘Yes, my dear love!’

‘I’m so afraid you’ll catch cold, aunt—have a silk handkerchief to tie round your dear old head—you really should take care of yourself— consider your age!’

However well deserved this piece of retaliation might have been, it was as vindictive a one as could well have been resorted to. There is no guessing in what form of reply the aunt’s indignation would have vented itself, had not Mr. Wardle unconsciously changed the subject, by calling emphatically for Joe.

‘Damn that boy,’ said the old gentleman, ‘he’s gone to sleep again.’

‘Very extraordinary boy, that,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘does he always sleep in this way?’

‘Sleep!’ said the old gentleman, ‘he’s always asleep. Goes on errands fast asleep, and snores as he waits at table.’

‘How very odd!’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Ah! odd indeed,’ returned the old gentleman; ‘I’m proud of that boy— wouldn’t part with him on any account—he’s a natural curiosity! Here, Joe—Joe—take these things away, and open another bottle—d’ye hear?’

The fat boy rose, opened his eyes, swallowed the huge piece of pie he had been in the act of masticating when he last fell asleep, and slowly obeyed his master’s orders—gloating languidly over the remains of the feast, as he removed the plates, and deposited them in the hamper. The fresh bottle was produced, and speedily emptied: the hamper was made fast in its old place—the fat boy once more mounted the box—the spectacles and pocket-glass were again adjusted—and the evolutions of the military recommenced. There was a great fizzing and banging of guns, and starting of ladies—and then a mine was sprung, to the gratification of everybody—and when the mine had gone off, the military and the company followed its example, and went off too.

‘Now, mind,’ said the old gentleman, as he shook hands with Mr. Pickwick at the conclusion of a conversation which had been carried on at intervals, during the conclusion of the proceedings, ‘we shall see you all to-morrow.’

‘Most certainly,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘You have got the address?’

‘Manor Farm, Dingley Dell,’ said Mr. Pickwick, consulting his pocket- book.

‘That’s it,’ said the old gentleman. ‘I don’t let you off, mind, under a week; and undertake that you shall see everything worth seeing. If you’ve come down for a country life, come to me, and I’ll give you plenty of it. Joe—damn that boy, he’s gone to sleep again—Joe, help Tom put in the horses.’

The horses were put in—the driver mounted—the fat boy clambered up by his side—farewells were exchanged—and the carriage rattled off. As the Pickwickians turned round to take a last glimpse of it, the setting sun cast a rich glow on the faces of their entertainers, and fell upon the form of the fat boy. His head was sunk upon his bosom; and he slumbered again.

CHAPTER V. A SHORT ONE—SHOWING, AMONG OTHER MATTERS, HOW Mr. PICKWICK UNDERTOOK TO DRIVE, AND MR. WINKLE TO RIDE, AND HOW THEY BOTH DID IT

Bright and pleasant was the sky, balmy the air, and beautiful the appearance of every object around, as Mr. Pickwick leaned over the balustrades of Rochester Bridge, contemplating nature, and waiting for breakfast. The scene was indeed one which might well have charmed a far less reflective mind, than that to which it was presented.

On the left of the spectator lay the ruined wall, broken in many places, and in some, overhanging the narrow beach below in rude and heavy masses. Huge knots of seaweed hung upon the jagged and pointed stones, trembling in every breath of wind; and the green ivy clung mournfully round the dark and ruined battlements. Behind it rose the ancient castle, its towers roofless, and its massive walls crumbling away, but telling us proudly of its old might and strength, as when, seven hundred years ago, it rang with the clash of arms, or resounded with the noise of feasting and revelry. On either side, the banks of the Medway, covered with cornfields and pastures, with here and there a windmill, or a distant church, stretched away as far as the eye could see, presenting a rich and varied landscape, rendered more beautiful by the changing shadows which passed swiftly across it as the thin and half-formed clouds skimmed away in the light of the morning sun. The river, reflecting the clear blue of the sky, glistened and sparkled as it flowed noiselessly on; and the oars of the fishermen dipped into the water with a clear and liquid sound, as their heavy but picturesque boats glided slowly down the stream.

Mr. Pickwick was roused from the agreeable reverie into which he had been led by the objects before him, by a deep sigh, and a touch on his shoulder. He turned round: and the dismal man was at his side.

‘Contemplating the scene?’ inquired the dismal man.

‘I was,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘And congratulating yourself on being up so soon?’

Mr. Pickwick nodded assent.

‘Ah! people need to rise early, to see the sun in all his splendour, for his brightness seldom lasts the day through. The morning of day and the morning of life are but too much alike.’

‘You speak truly, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘How common the saying,’ continued the dismal man, ‘“The morning’s too fine to last.” How well might it be applied to our everyday existence. God! what would I forfeit to have the days of my childhood restored, or to be able to forget them for ever!’

‘You have seen much trouble, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick compassionately.

‘I have,’ said the dismal man hurriedly; ‘I have. More than those who see me now would believe possible.’ He paused for an instant, and then said abruptly—

‘Did it ever strike you, on such a morning as this, that drowning would be happiness and peace?’

‘God bless me, no!’ replied Mr. Pickwick, edging a little from the balustrade, as the possibility of the dismal man’s tipping him over, by way of experiment, occurred to him rather forcibly.

‘I have thought so, often,’ said the dismal man, without noticing the action. ‘The calm, cool water seems to me to murmur an invitation to repose and rest. A bound, a splash, a brief struggle; there is an eddy for an instant, it gradually subsides into a gentle ripple; the waters have closed above your head, and the world has closed upon your miseries and misfortunes for ever.’ The sunken eye of the dismal man flashed brightly as he spoke, but the momentary excitement quickly subsided; and he turned calmly away, as he said—

‘There—enough of that. I wish to see you on another subject. You invited me to read that paper, the night before last, and listened attentively while I did so.’

‘I did,’ replied Mr. Pickwick; ‘and I certainly thought—’

‘I asked for no opinion,’ said the dismal man, interrupting him, ‘and I want none. You are travelling for amusement and instruction. Suppose I forward you a curious manuscript—observe, not curious because wild or improbable, but curious as a leaf from the romance of real life—would you communicate it to the club, of which you have spoken so frequently?’

‘Certainly,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘if you wished it; and it would be entered on their transactions.’

‘You shall have it,’ replied the dismal man. ‘Your address;’ and, Mr. Pickwick having communicated their probable route, the dismal man carefully noted it down in a greasy pocket-book, and, resisting Mr. Pickwick’s pressing invitation to breakfast, left that gentleman at his inn, and walked slowly away.

Mr. Pickwick found that his three companions had risen, and were waiting his arrival to commence breakfast, which was ready laid in tempting display. They sat down to the meal; and broiled ham, eggs, tea, coffee and sundries, began to disappear with a rapidity which at once bore testimony to the excellence of the fare, and the appetites of its consumers.

‘Now, about Manor Farm,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘How shall we go?’

‘We had better consult the waiter, perhaps,’ said Mr. Tupman; and the waiter was summoned accordingly.

‘Dingley Dell, gentlemen—fifteen miles, gentlemen—cross road—post- chaise, sir?’

‘Post-chaise won’t hold more than two,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘True, sir—beg your pardon, sir.—Very nice four-wheel chaise, sir— seat for two behind—one in front for the gentleman that drives—oh! beg your pardon, sir—that’ll only hold three.’

‘What’s to be done?’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

‘Perhaps one of the gentlemen would like to ride, sir?’ suggested the waiter, looking towards Mr. Winkle; ‘very good saddle-horses, sir—any of Mr. Wardle’s men coming to Rochester, bring ‘em back, Sir.’

‘The very thing,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Winkle, will you go on horseback?’

Now Mr. Winkle did entertain considerable misgivings in the very lowest recesses of his own heart, relative to his equestrian skill; but, as he would not have them even suspected, on any account, he at once replied with great hardihood, ‘Certainly. I should enjoy it of all things.’

Mr. Winkle had rushed upon his fate; there was no resource.

‘Let them be at the door by eleven,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Very well, sir,’ replied the waiter.

The waiter retired; the breakfast concluded; and the travellers ascended to their respective bedrooms, to prepare a change of clothing, to take with them on their approaching expedition.

Mr. Pickwick had made his preliminary arrangements, and was looking over the coffee-room blinds at the passengers in the street, when the waiter entered, and announced that the chaise was ready—an announcement which the vehicle itself confirmed, by forthwith appearing before the coffee- room blinds aforesaid.

It was a curious little green box on four wheels, with a low place like a wine-bin for two behind, and an elevated perch for one in front, drawn by an immense brown horse, displaying great symmetry of bone. An hostler stood near, holding by the bridle another immense horse—apparently a near relative of the animal in the chaise—ready saddled for Mr. Winkle.

‘Bless my soul!’ said Mr. Pickwick, as they stood upon the pavement while the coats were being put in. ‘Bless my soul! who’s to drive? I never thought of that.’

‘Oh! you, of course,’ said Mr. Tupman.

‘Of course,’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

‘I!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

‘Not the slightest fear, Sir,’ interposed the hostler. ‘Warrant him quiet, Sir; a hinfant in arms might drive him.’

‘He don’t shy, does he?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Shy, sir?-he wouldn’t shy if he was to meet a vagin-load of monkeys with their tails burned off.’

The last recommendation was indisputable. Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass got into the bin; Mr. Pickwick ascended to his perch, and deposited his feet on a floor-clothed shelf, erected beneath it for that purpose.

‘Now, shiny Villiam,’ said the hostler to the deputy hostler, ‘give the gen’lm’n the ribbons.’

Shiny Villiam’—so called, probably, from his sleek hair and oily countenance—placed the reins in Mr. Pickwick’s left hand; and the upper hostler thrust a whip into his right.

‘Wo-o!’ cried Mr. Pickwick, as the tall quadruped evinced a decided inclination to back into the coffee-room window.

‘Wo-o!’ echoed Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass, from the bin.

‘Only his playfulness, gen’lm’n,’ said the head hostler encouragingly; ‘jist kitch hold on him, Villiam.’ The deputy restrained the animal’s impetuosity, and the principal ran to assist Mr. Winkle in mounting.

‘T’other side, sir, if you please.’

‘Blowed if the gen’lm’n worn’t a-gettin’ up on the wrong side,’ whispered a grinning post-boy to the inexpressibly gratified waiter.

Mr. Winkle, thus instructed, climbed into his saddle, with about as much difficulty as he would have experienced in getting up the side of a first-rate man-of-war.

‘All right?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, with an inward presentiment that it was all wrong.

‘All right,’ replied Mr. Winkle faintly.

‘Let ‘em go,’ cried the hostler.—‘Hold him in, sir;’ and away went the chaise, and the saddle-horse, with Mr. Pickwick on the box of the one, and Mr. Winkle on the back of the other, to the delight and gratification of the whole inn-yard.

‘What makes him go sideways?’ said Mr. Snodgrass in the bin, to Mr. Winkle in the saddle.

‘I can’t imagine,’ replied Mr. Winkle. His horse was drifting up the street in the most mysterious manner—side first, with his head towards one side of the way, and his tail towards the other.

Mr. Pickwick had no leisure to observe either this or any other particular, the whole of his faculties being concentrated in the management of the animal attached to the chaise, who displayed various peculiarities, highly interesting to a bystander, but by no means equally amusing to any one seated behind him. Besides constantly jerking his head up, in a very unpleasant and uncomfortable manner, and tugging at the reins to an extent which rendered it a matter of great difficulty for Mr. Pickwick to hold them, he had a singular propensity for darting suddenly every now and then to the side of the road, then stopping short, and then rushing forward for some minutes, at a speed which it was wholly impossible to control.

‘What can he mean by this?’ said Mr. Snodgrass, when the horse had executed this manoeuvre for the twentieth time.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Mr. Tupman; ‘it looks very like shying, don’t it?’ Mr. Snodgrass was about to reply, when he was interrupted by a shout from Mr. Pickwick.

‘Woo!’ said that gentleman; ‘I have dropped my whip.’

‘Winkle,’ said Mr. Snodgrass, as the equestrian came trotting up on the tall horse, with his hat over his ears, and shaking all over, as if he would shake to pieces, with the violence of the exercise, ‘pick up the whip, there’s a good fellow.’ Mr. Winkle pulled at the bridle of the tall horse till he was black in the face; and having at length succeeded in stopping him, dismounted, handed the whip to Mr. Pickwick, and grasping the reins, prepared to remount.

Now whether the tall horse, in the natural playfulness of his disposition, was desirous of having a little innocent recreation with Mr. Winkle, or whether it occurred to him that he could perform the journey as much to his own satisfaction without a rider as with one, are points upon which, of course, we can arrive at no definite and distinct conclusion. By whatever motives the animal was actuated, certain it is that Mr. Winkle had no sooner touched the reins, than he slipped them over his head, and darted backwards to their full length.

‘Poor fellow,’ said Mr. Winkle soothingly—‘poor fellow—good old horse.’ The ‘poor fellow’ was proof against flattery; the more Mr. Winkle tried to get nearer him, the more he sidled away; and, notwithstanding all kinds of coaxing and wheedling, there were Mr. Winkle and the horse going round and round each other for ten minutes, at the end of which time each was at precisely the same distance from the other as when they first commenced—an unsatisfactory sort of thing under any circumstances, but particularly so in a lonely road, where no assistance can be procured.

‘What am I to do?’ shouted Mr. Winkle, after the dodging had been prolonged for a considerable time. ‘What am I to do? I can’t get on him.’

‘You had better lead him till we come to a turnpike,’ replied Mr. Pickwick from the chaise.

‘But he won’t come!’ roared Mr. Winkle. ‘Do come and hold him.’

Mr. Pickwick was the very personation of kindness and humanity: he threw the reins on the horse’s back, and having descended from his seat, carefully drew the chaise into the hedge, lest anything should come along the road, and stepped back to the assistance of his distressed companion, leaving Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass in the vehicle.

The horse no sooner beheld Mr. Pickwick advancing towards him with the chaise whip in his hand, than he exchanged the rotary motion in which he had previously indulged, for a retrograde movement of so very determined a character, that it at once drew Mr. Winkle, who was still at the end of the bridle, at a rather quicker rate than fast walking, in the direction from which they had just come. Mr. Pickwick ran to his assistance, but the faster Mr. Pickwick ran forward, the faster the horse ran backward. There was a great scraping of feet, and kicking up of the dust; and at last Mr. Winkle, his arms being nearly pulled out of their sockets, fairly let go his hold. The horse paused, stared, shook his head, turned round, and quietly trotted home to Rochester, leaving Mr. Winkle and Mr. Pickwick gazing on each other with countenances of blank dismay. A rattling noise at a little distance attracted their attention. They looked up.

‘Bless my soul!’ exclaimed the agonised Mr. Pickwick; ‘there’s the other horse running away!’

It was but too true. The animal was startled by the noise, and the reins were on his back. The results may be guessed. He tore off with the four- wheeled chaise behind him, and Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass in the four- wheeled chaise. The heat was a short one. Mr. Tupman threw himself into the hedge, Mr. Snodgrass followed his example, the horse dashed the four—wheeled chaise against a wooden bridge, separated the wheels from the body, and the bin from the perch; and finally stood stock still to gaze upon the ruin he had made.

The first care of the two unspilt friends was to extricate their unfortunate companions from their bed of quickset—a process which gave them the unspeakable satisfaction of discovering that they had sustained no injury, beyond sundry rents in their garments, and various lacerations from the brambles. The next thing to be done was to unharness the horse. This complicated process having been effected, the party walked slowly forward, leading the horse among them, and abandoning the chaise to its fate.

An hour’s walk brought the travellers to a little road-side public- house, with two elm-trees, a horse trough, and a signpost, in front; one or two deformed hay-ricks behind, a kitchen garden at the side, and rotten sheds and mouldering outhouses jumbled in strange confusion all about it. A red-headed man was working in the garden; and to him Mr. Pickwick called lustily, ‘Hollo there!’

The red-headed man raised his body, shaded his eyes with his hand, and stared, long and coolly, at Mr. Pickwick and his companions.

‘Hollo there!’ repeated Mr. Pickwick.

‘Hollo!’ was the red-headed man’s reply.

‘How far is it to Dingley Dell?’

‘Better er seven mile.’

‘Is it a good road?’

‘No, ‘tain’t.’ Having uttered this brief reply, and apparently satisfied himself with another scrutiny, the red-headed man resumed his work. ‘We want to put this horse up here,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘I suppose we can, can’t we?’

Want to put that ere horse up, do ee?’ repeated the red-headed man, leaning on his spade.

‘Of course,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, who had by this time advanced, horse in hand, to the garden rails.

‘Missus’—roared the man with the red head, emerging from the garden, and looking very hard at the horse—‘missus!’

A tall, bony woman—straight all the way down—in a coarse, blue pelisse, with the waist an inch or two below her arm-pits, responded to the call.

‘Can we put this horse up here, my good woman?’ said Mr. Tupman, advancing, and speaking in his most seductive tones. The woman looked very hard at the whole party; and the red-headed man whispered something in her ear.

‘No,’ replied the woman, after a little consideration, ‘I’m afeerd on it.’

‘Afraid!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, ‘what’s the woman afraid of?’

‘It got us in trouble last time,’ said the woman, turning into the house; ‘I woan’t have nothin’ to say to ‘un.’

‘Most extraordinary thing I have ever met with in my life,’ said the astonished Mr. Pickwick.

‘I—I—really believe,’ whispered Mr. Winkle, as his friends gathered round him, ‘that they think we have come by this horse in some dishonest manner.’

‘What!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, in a storm of indignation. Mr. Winkle modestly repeated his suggestion.

‘Hollo, you fellow,’ said the angry Mr. Pickwick, ‘do you think we stole the horse?’

‘I’m sure ye did,’ replied the red-headed man, with a grin which agitated his countenance from one auricular organ to the other. Saying which he turned into the house and banged the door after him.

‘It’s like a dream,’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, ‘a hideous dream. The idea of a man’s walking about all day with a dreadful horse that he can’t get rid of!’ The depressed Pickwickians turned moodily away, with the tall quadruped, for which they all felt the most unmitigated disgust, following slowly at their heels.

It was late in the afternoon when the four friends and their four-footed companion turned into the lane leading to Manor Farm; and even when they were so near their place of destination, the pleasure they would otherwise have experienced was materially damped as they reflected on the singularity of their appearance, and the absurdity of their situation. Torn clothes, lacerated faces, dusty shoes, exhausted looks, and, above all, the horse. Oh, how Mr. Pickwick cursed that horse: he had eyed the noble animal from time to time with looks expressive of hatred and revenge; more than once he had calculated the probable amount of the expense he would incur by cutting his throat; and now the temptation to destroy him, or to cast him loose upon the world, rushed upon his mind with tenfold force. He was roused from a meditation on these dire imaginings by the sudden appearance of two figures at a turn of the lane. It was Mr. Wardle, and his faithful attendant, the fat boy.

‘Why, where have you been?’ said the hospitable old gentleman; ‘I’ve been waiting for you all day. Well, you do look tired. What! Scratches! Not hurt, I hope—eh? Well, I am glad to hear that—very. So you’ve been spilt, eh? Never mind. Common accident in these parts. Joe—he’s asleep again!—Joe, take that horse from the gentlemen, and lead it into the stable.’

The fat boy sauntered heavily behind them with the animal; and the old gentleman, condoling with his guests in homely phrase on so much of the day’s adventures as they thought proper to communicate, led the way to the kitchen.

‘We’ll have you put to rights here,’ said the old gentleman, ‘and then I’ll introduce you to the people in the parlour. Emma, bring out the cherry brandy; now, Jane, a needle and thread here; towels and water, Mary. Come, girls, bustle about.’

Three or four buxom girls speedily dispersed in search of the different articles in requisition, while a couple of large-headed, circular- visaged males rose from their seats in the chimney-corner (for although it was a May evening their attachment to the wood fire appeared as cordial as if it were Christmas), and dived into some obscure recesses, from which they speedily produced a bottle of blacking, and some half- dozen brushes.

‘Bustle!’ said the old gentleman again, but the admonition was quite unnecessary, for one of the girls poured out the cherry brandy, and another brought in the towels, and one of the men suddenly seizing Mr. Pickwick by the leg, at imminent hazard of throwing him off his balance, brushed away at his boot till his corns were red-hot; while the other shampooed Mr. Winkle with a heavy clothes-brush, indulging, during the operation, in that hissing sound which hostlers are wont to produce when engaged in rubbing down a horse.

Mr. Snodgrass, having concluded his ablutions, took a survey of the room, while standing with his back to the fire, sipping his cherry brandy with heartfelt satisfaction. He describes it as a large apartment, with a red brick floor and a capacious chimney; the ceiling garnished with hams, sides of bacon, and ropes of onions. The walls were decorated with several hunting-whips, two or three bridles, a saddle, and an old rusty blunderbuss, with an inscription below it, intimating that it was ‘Loaded’—as it had been, on the same authority, for half a century at least. An old eight-day clock, of solemn and sedate demeanour, ticked gravely in one corner; and a silver watch, of equal antiquity, dangled from one of the many hooks which ornamented the dresser.

‘Ready?’ said the old gentleman inquiringly, when his guests had been washed, mended, brushed, and brandied.

‘Quite,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Come along, then;’ and the party having traversed several dark passages, and being joined by Mr. Tupman, who had lingered behind to snatch a kiss from Emma, for which he had been duly rewarded with sundry pushings and scratchings, arrived at the parlour door.

‘Welcome,’ said their hospitable host, throwing it open and stepping forward to announce them, ‘welcome, gentlemen, to Manor Farm.’

CHAPTER VI. AN OLD-FASHIONED CARD-PARTY—THE CLERGYMAN’S VERSES—THE STORY OF THE CONVICT’S RETURN

Several guests who were assembled in the old parlour rose to greet Mr. Pickwick and his friends upon their entrance; and during the performance of the ceremony of introduction, with all due formalities, Mr. Pickwick had leisure to observe the appearance, and speculate upon the characters and pursuits, of the persons by whom he was surrounded—a habit in which he, in common with many other great men, delighted to indulge.

A very old lady, in a lofty cap and faded silk gown—no less a personage than Mr. Wardle’s mother—occupied the post of honour on the right-hand corner of the chimney-piece; and various certificates of her having been brought up in the way she should go when young, and of her not having departed from it when old, ornamented the walls, in the form of samplers of ancient date, worsted landscapes of equal antiquity, and crimson silk tea-kettle holders of a more modern period. The aunt, the two young ladies, and Mr. Wardle, each vying with the other in paying zealous and unremitting attentions to the old lady, crowded round her easy-chair, one holding her ear-trumpet, another an orange, and a third a smelling- bottle, while a fourth was busily engaged in patting and punching the pillows which were arranged for her support. On the opposite side sat a bald-headed old gentleman, with a good-humoured, benevolent face—the clergyman of Dingley Dell; and next him sat his wife, a stout, blooming old lady, who looked as if she were well skilled, not only in the art and mystery of manufacturing home-made cordials greatly to other people’s satisfaction, but of tasting them occasionally very much to her own. A little hard-headed, Ripstone pippin-faced man, was conversing with a fat old gentleman in one corner; and two or three more old gentlemen, and two or three more old ladies, sat bolt upright and motionless on their chairs, staring very hard at Mr. Pickwick and his fellow-voyagers.

‘Mr. Pickwick, mother,’ said Mr. Wardle, at the very top of his voice.

‘Ah!’ said the old lady, shaking her head; ‘I can’t hear you.’

‘Mr. Pickwick, grandma!’ screamed both the young ladies together.

‘Ah!’ exclaimed the old lady. ‘Well, it don’t much matter. He don’t care for an old ‘ooman like me, I dare say.’

‘I assure you, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick, grasping the old lady’s hand, and speaking so loud that the exertion imparted a crimson hue to his benevolent countenance—‘I assure you, ma’am, that nothing delights me more than to see a lady of your time of life heading so fine a family, and looking so young and well.’

‘Ah!’ said the old lady, after a short pause: ‘it’s all very fine, I dare say; but I can’t hear him.’

‘Grandma’s rather put out now,’ said Miss Isabella Wardle, in a low tone; ‘but she’ll talk to you presently.’

Mr. Pickwick nodded his readiness to humour the infirmities of age, and entered into a general conversation with the other members of the circle.

‘Delightful situation this,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Delightful!’ echoed Messrs. Snodgrass, Tupman, and Winkle.

‘Well, I think it is,’ said Mr. Wardle.

‘There ain’t a better spot o’ ground in all Kent, sir,’ said the hard- headed man with the pippin—face; ‘there ain’t indeed, sir—I’m sure there ain’t, Sir.’ The hard-headed man looked triumphantly round, as if he had been very much contradicted by somebody, but had got the better of him at last.

‘There ain’t a better spot o’ ground in all Kent,’ said the hard-headed man again, after a pause.

‘’Cept Mullins’s Meadows,’ observed the fat man solemnly.

‘Mullins’s Meadows!’ ejaculated the other, with profound contempt.

‘Ah, Mullins’s Meadows,’ repeated the fat man.

‘Reg’lar good land that,’ interposed another fat man.

‘And so it is, sure-ly,’ said a third fat man.

‘Everybody knows that,’ said the corpulent host.

The hard-headed man looked dubiously round, but finding himself in a minority, assumed a compassionate air and said no more.

‘What are they talking about?’ inquired the old lady of one of her granddaughters, in a very audible voice; for, like many deaf people, she never seemed to calculate on the possibility of other persons hearing what she said herself.

‘About the land, grandma.’

‘What about the land?—Nothing the matter, is there?’

‘No, no. Mr. Miller was saying our land was better than Mullins’s Meadows.’

‘How should he know anything about it?’ inquired the old lady indignantly. ‘Miller’s a conceited coxcomb, and you may tell him I said so.’ Saying which, the old lady, quite unconscious that she had spoken above a whisper, drew herself up, and looked carving-knives at the hard- headed delinquent.

‘Come, come,’ said the bustling host, with a natural anxiety to change the conversation, ‘what say you to a rubber, Mr. Pickwick?’

‘I should like it of all things,’ replied that gentleman; ‘but pray don’t make up one on my account.’

‘Oh, I assure you, mother’s very fond of a rubber,’ said Mr. Wardle; ‘ain’t you, mother?’

The old lady, who was much less deaf on this subject than on any other, replied in the affirmative.

‘Joe, Joe!’ said the gentleman; ‘Joe—damn that—oh, here he is; put out the card-tables.’

The lethargic youth contrived without any additional rousing to set out two card-tables; the one for Pope Joan, and the other for whist. The whist-players were Mr. Pickwick and the old lady, Mr. Miller and the fat gentleman. The round game comprised the rest of the company.

The rubber was conducted with all that gravity of deportment and sedateness of demeanour which befit the pursuit entitled ‘whist’—a solemn observance, to which, as it appears to us, the title of ‘game’ has been very irreverently and ignominiously applied. The round-game table, on the other hand, was so boisterously merry as materially to interrupt the contemplations of Mr. Miller, who, not being quite so much absorbed as he ought to have been, contrived to commit various high crimes and misdemeanours, which excited the wrath of the fat gentleman to a very great extent, and called forth the good-humour of the old lady in a proportionate degree.

‘There!’ said the criminal Miller triumphantly, as he took up the odd trick at the conclusion of a hand; ‘that could not have been played better, I flatter myself; impossible to have made another trick!’

‘Miller ought to have trumped the diamond, oughtn’t he, Sir?’ said the old lady.

Mr. Pickwick nodded assent.

‘Ought I, though?’ said the unfortunate, with a doubtful appeal to his partner.

‘You ought, Sir,’ said the fat gentleman, in an awful voice.

‘Very sorry,’ said the crestfallen Miller.

‘Much use that,’ growled the fat gentleman.

‘Two by honours—makes us eight,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Another hand. ‘Can you one?’ inquired the old lady.

‘I can,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘Double, single, and the rub.’

‘Never was such luck,’ said Mr. Miller.

‘Never was such cards,’ said the fat gentleman.

A solemn silence; Mr. Pickwick humorous, the old lady serious, the fat gentleman captious, and Mr. Miller timorous.

‘Another double,’ said the old lady, triumphantly making a memorandum of the circumstance, by placing one sixpence and a battered halfpenny under the candlestick.

‘A double, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Quite aware of the fact, Sir,’ replied the fat gentleman sharply.

Another game, with a similar result, was followed by a revoke from the unlucky Miller; on which the fat gentleman burst into a state of high personal excitement which lasted until the conclusion of the game, when he retired into a corner, and remained perfectly mute for one hour and twenty-seven minutes; at the end of which time he emerged from his retirement, and offered Mr. Pickwick a pinch of snuff with the air of a man who had made up his mind to a Christian forgiveness of injuries sustained. The old lady’s hearing decidedly improved and the unlucky Miller felt as much out of his element as a dolphin in a sentry-box.

Meanwhile the round game proceeded right merrily. Isabella Wardle and Mr. Trundle ‘went partners,’ and Emily Wardle and Mr. Snodgrass did the same; and even Mr. Tupman and the spinster aunt established a joint- stock company of fish and flattery. Old Mr. Wardle was in the very height of his jollity; and he was so funny in his management of the board, and the old ladies were so sharp after their winnings, that the whole table was in a perpetual roar of merriment and laughter. There was one old lady who always had about half a dozen cards to pay for, at which everybody laughed, regularly every round; and when the old lady looked cross at having to pay, they laughed louder than ever; on which the old lady’s face gradually brightened up, till at last she laughed louder than any of them, Then, when the spinster aunt got ‘matrimony,’ the young ladies laughed afresh, and the Spinster aunt seemed disposed to be pettish; till, feeling Mr. Tupman squeezing her hand under the table, she brightened up too, and looked rather knowing, as if matrimony in reality were not quite so far off as some people thought for; whereupon everybody laughed again, and especially old Mr. Wardle, who enjoyed a joke as much as the youngest. As to Mr. Snodgrass, he did nothing but whisper poetical sentiments into his partner’s ear, which made one old gentleman facetiously sly, about partnerships at cards and partnerships for life, and caused the aforesaid old gentleman to make some remarks thereupon, accompanied with divers winks and chuckles, which made the company very merry and the old gentleman’s wife especially so. And Mr. Winkle came out with jokes which are very well known in town, but are not all known in the country; and as everybody laughed at them very heartily, and said they were very capital, Mr. Winkle was in a state of great honour and glory. And the benevolent clergyman looked pleasantly on; for the happy faces which surrounded the table made the good old man feel happy too; and though the merriment was rather boisterous, still it came from the heart and not from the lips; and this is the right sort of merriment, after all.

The evening glided swiftly away, in these cheerful recreations; and when the substantial though homely supper had been despatched, and the little party formed a social circle round the fire, Mr. Pickwick thought he had never felt so happy in his life, and at no time so much disposed to enjoy, and make the most of, the passing moment.

‘Now this,’ said the hospitable host, who was sitting in great state next the old lady’s arm-chair, with her hand fast clasped in his—‘this is just what I like—the happiest moments of my life have been passed at this old fireside; and I am so attached to it, that I keep up a blazing fire here every evening, until it actually grows too hot to bear it. Why, my poor old mother, here, used to sit before this fireplace upon that little stool when she was a girl; didn’t you, mother?’

The tear which starts unbidden to the eye when the recollection of old times and the happiness of many years ago is suddenly recalled, stole down the old lady’s face as she shook her head with a melancholy smile.

‘You must excuse my talking about this old place, Mr. Pickwick,’ resumed the host, after a short pause, ‘for I love it dearly, and know no other- -the old houses and fields seem like living friends to me; and so does our little church with the ivy, about which, by the bye, our excellent friend there made a song when he first came amongst us. Mr. Snodgrass, have you anything in your glass?’

‘Plenty, thank you,’ replied that gentleman, whose poetic curiosity had been greatly excited by the last observation of his entertainer. ‘I beg your pardon, but you were talking about the song of the Ivy.’

‘You must ask our friend opposite about that,’ said the host knowingly, indicating the clergyman by a nod of his head.

‘May I say that I should like to hear you repeat it, sir?’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

‘Why, really,’ replied the clergyman, ‘it’s a very slight affair; and the only excuse I have for having ever perpetrated it is, that I was a young man at the time. Such as it is, however, you shall hear it, if you wish.’

A murmur of curiosity was of course the reply; and the old gentleman proceeded to recite, with the aid of sundry promptings from his wife, the lines in question. ‘I call them,’ said he,

THE IVY GREEN

Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green, That creepeth o’er ruins old! Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim; And the mouldering dust that years have made, Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a staunch old heart has he. How closely he twineth, how tight he clings To his friend the huge Oak Tree! And slily he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, As he joyously hugs and crawleth round The rich mould of dead men’s graves. Creeping where grim death has been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Whole ages have fled and their works decayed, And nations have scattered been; But the stout old Ivy shall never fade, From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely days, Shall fatten upon the past; For the stateliest building man can raise, Is the Ivy’s food at last. Creeping on where time has been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

While the old gentleman repeated these lines a second time, to enable Mr. Snodgrass to note them down, Mr. Pickwick perused the lineaments of his face with an expression of great interest. The old gentleman having concluded his dictation, and Mr. Snodgrass having returned his note-book to his pocket, Mr. Pickwick said—

‘Excuse me, sir, for making the remark on so short an acquaintance; but a gentleman like yourself cannot fail, I should think, to have observed many scenes and incidents worth recording, in the course of your experience as a minister of the Gospel.’

‘I have witnessed some certainly,’ replied the old gentleman, ‘but the incidents and characters have been of a homely and ordinary nature, my sphere of action being so very limited.’

‘You did make some notes, I think, about John Edmunds, did you not?’ inquired Mr. Wardle, who appeared very desirous to draw his friend out, for the edification of his new visitors.

The old gentleman slightly nodded his head in token of assent, and was proceeding to change the subject, when Mr. Pickwick said—

‘I beg your pardon, sir, but pray, if I may venture to inquire, who was John Edmunds?’

‘The very thing I was about to ask,’ said Mr. Snodgrass eagerly.

‘You are fairly in for it,’ said the jolly host. ‘You must satisfy the curiosity of these gentlemen, sooner or later; so you had better take advantage of this favourable opportunity, and do so at once.’

The old gentleman smiled good-humouredly as he drew his chair forward— the remainder of the party drew their chairs closer together, especially Mr. Tupman and the spinster aunt, who were possibly rather hard of hearing; and the old lady’s ear-trumpet having been duly adjusted, and Mr. Miller (who had fallen asleep during the recital of the verses) roused from his slumbers by an admonitory pinch, administered beneath the table by his ex-partner the solemn fat man, the old gentleman, without further preface, commenced the following tale, to which we have taken the liberty of prefixing the title of

THE CONVICT’S RETURN

‘When I first settled in this village,’ said the old gentleman, ‘which is now just five-and-twenty years ago, the most notorious person among my parishioners was a man of the name of Edmunds, who leased a small farm near this spot. He was a morose, savage-hearted, bad man; idle and dissolute in his habits; cruel and ferocious in his disposition. Beyond the few lazy and reckless vagabonds with whom he sauntered away his time in the fields, or sotted in the ale-house, he had not a single friend or acquaintance; no one cared to speak to the man whom many feared, and every one detested—and Edmunds was shunned by all.

‘This man had a wife and one son, who, when I first came here, was about twelve years old. Of the acuteness of that woman’s sufferings, of the gentle and enduring manner in which she bore them, of the agony of solicitude with which she reared that boy, no one can form an adequate conception. Heaven forgive me the supposition, if it be an uncharitable one, but I do firmly and in my soul believe, that the man systematically tried for many years to break her heart; but she bore it all for her child’s sake, and, however strange it may seem to many, for his father’s too; for brute as he was, and cruelly as he had treated her, she had loved him once; and the recollection of what he had been to her, awakened feelings of forbearance and meekness under suffering in her bosom, to which all God’s creatures, but women, are strangers.

‘They were poor—they could not be otherwise when the man pursued such courses; but the woman’s unceasing and unwearied exertions, early and late, morning, noon, and night, kept them above actual want. These exertions were but ill repaid. People who passed the spot in the evening—sometimes at a late hour of the night—reported that they had heard the moans and sobs of a woman in distress, and the sound of blows; and more than once, when it was past midnight, the boy knocked softly at the door of a neighbour’s house, whither he had been sent, to escape the drunken fury of his unnatural father.

‘During the whole of this time, and when the poor creature often bore about her marks of ill-usage and violence which she could not wholly conceal, she was a constant attendant at our little church. Regularly every Sunday, morning and afternoon, she occupied the same seat with the boy at her side; and though they were both poorly dressed—much more so than many of their neighbours who were in a lower station—they were always neat and clean. Every one had a friendly nod and a kind word for “poor Mrs. Edmunds”; and sometimes, when she stopped to exchange a few words with a neighbour at the conclusion of the service in the little row of elm-trees which leads to the church porch, or lingered behind to gaze with a mother’s pride and fondness upon her healthy boy, as he sported before her with some little companions, her careworn face would lighten up with an expression of heartfelt gratitude; and she would look, if not cheerful and happy, at least tranquil and contented.

‘Five or six years passed away; the boy had become a robust and well- grown youth. The time that had strengthened the child’s slight frame and knit his weak limbs into the strength of manhood had bowed his mother’s form, and enfeebled her steps; but the arm that should have supported her was no longer locked in hers; the face that should have cheered her, no more looked upon her own. She occupied her old seat, but there was a vacant one beside her. The Bible was kept as carefully as ever, the places were found and folded down as they used to be: but there was no one to read it with her; and the tears fell thick and fast upon the book, and blotted the words from her eyes. Neighbours were as kind as they were wont to be of old, but she shunned their greetings with averted head. There was no lingering among the old elm-trees now—no cheering anticipations of happiness yet in store. The desolate woman drew her bonnet closer over her face, and walked hurriedly away.

‘Shall I tell you that the young man, who, looking back to the earliest of his childhood’s days to which memory and consciousness extended, and carrying his recollection down to that moment, could remember nothing which was not in some way connected with a long series of voluntary privations suffered by his mother for his sake, with ill-usage, and insult, and violence, and all endured for him—shall I tell you, that he, with a reckless disregard for her breaking heart, and a sullen, wilful forgetfulness of all she had done and borne for him, had linked himself with depraved and abandoned men, and was madly pursuing a headlong career, which must bring death to him, and shame to her? Alas for human nature! You have anticipated it long since.

‘The measure of the unhappy woman’s misery and misfortune was about to be completed. Numerous offences had been committed in the neighbourhood; the perpetrators remained undiscovered, and their boldness increased. A robbery of a daring and aggravated nature occasioned a vigilance of pursuit, and a strictness of search, they had not calculated on. Young Edmunds was suspected, with three companions. He was apprehended— committed—tried—condemned—to die.

‘The wild and piercing shriek from a woman’s voice, which resounded through the court when the solemn sentence was pronounced, rings in my ears at this moment. That cry struck a terror to the culprit’s heart, which trial, condemnation—the approach of death itself, had failed to awaken. The lips which had been compressed in dogged sullenness throughout, quivered and parted involuntarily; the face turned ashy pale as the cold perspiration broke forth from every pore; the sturdy limbs of the felon trembled, and he staggered in the dock.

‘In the first transports of her mental anguish, the suffering mother threw herself on her knees at my feet, and fervently sought the Almighty Being who had hitherto supported her in all her troubles to release her from a world of woe and misery, and to spare the life of her only child. A burst of grief, and a violent struggle, such as I hope I may never have to witness again, succeeded. I knew that her heart was breaking from that hour; but I never once heard complaint or murmur escape her lips.

‘It was a piteous spectacle to see that woman in the prison-yard from day to day, eagerly and fervently attempting, by affection and entreaty, to soften the hard heart of her obdurate son. It was in vain. He remained moody, obstinate, and unmoved. Not even the unlooked-for commutation of his sentence to transportation for fourteen years, softened for an instant the sullen hardihood of his demeanour.

‘But the spirit of resignation and endurance that had so long upheld her, was unable to contend against bodily weakness and infirmity. She fell sick. She dragged her tottering limbs from the bed to visit her son once more, but her strength failed her, and she sank powerless on the ground.

‘And now the boasted coldness and indifference of the young man were tested indeed; and the retribution that fell heavily upon him nearly drove him mad. A day passed away and his mother was not there; another flew by, and she came not near him; a third evening arrived, and yet he had not seen her—, and in four-and-twenty hours he was to be separated from her, perhaps for ever. Oh! how the long-forgotten thoughts of former days rushed upon his mind, as he almost ran up and down the narrow yard—as if intelligence would arrive the sooner for his hurrying—and how bitterly a sense of his helplessness and desolation rushed upon him, when he heard the truth! His mother, the only parent he had ever known, lay ill—it might be, dying—within one mile of the ground he stood on; were he free and unfettered, a few minutes would place him by her side. He rushed to the gate, and grasping the iron rails with the energy of desperation, shook it till it rang again, and threw himself against the thick wall as if to force a passage through the stone; but the strong building mocked his feeble efforts, and he beat his hands together and wept like a child.

‘I bore the mother’s forgiveness and blessing to her son in prison; and I carried the solemn assurance of repentance, and his fervent supplication for pardon, to her sick-bed. I heard, with pity and compassion, the repentant man devise a thousand little plans for her comfort and support when he returned; but I knew that many months before he could reach his place of destination, his mother would be no longer of this world.

‘He was removed by night. A few weeks afterwards the poor woman’s soul took its flight, I confidently hope, and solemnly believe, to a place of eternal happiness and rest. I performed the burial service over her remains. She lies in our little churchyard. There is no stone at her grave’s head. Her sorrows were known to man; her virtues to God.

‘It had been arranged previously to the convict’s departure, that he should write to his mother as soon as he could obtain permission, and that the letter should be addressed to me. The father had positively refused to see his son from the moment of his apprehension; and it was a matter of indifference to him whether he lived or died. Many years passed over without any intelligence of him; and when more than half his term of transportation had expired, and I had received no letter, I concluded him to be dead, as, indeed, I almost hoped he might be.

‘Edmunds, however, had been sent a considerable distance up the country on his arrival at the settlement; and to this circumstance, perhaps, may be attributed the fact, that though several letters were despatched, none of them ever reached my hands. He remained in the same place during the whole fourteen years. At the expiration of the term, steadily adhering to his old resolution and the pledge he gave his mother, he made his way back to England amidst innumerable difficulties, and returned, on foot, to his native place.

‘On a fine Sunday evening, in the month of August, John Edmunds set foot in the village he had left with shame and disgrace seventeen years before. His nearest way lay through the churchyard. The man’s heart swelled as he crossed the stile. The tall old elms, through whose branches the declining sun cast here and there a rich ray of light upon the shady part, awakened the associations of his earliest days. He pictured himself as he was then, clinging to his mother’s hand, and walking peacefully to church. He remembered how he used to look up into her pale face; and how her eyes would sometimes fill with tears as she gazed upon his features—tears which fell hot upon his forehead as she stooped to kiss him, and made him weep too, although he little knew then what bitter tears hers were. He thought how often he had run merrily down that path with some childish playfellow, looking back, ever and again, to catch his mother’s smile, or hear her gentle voice; and then a veil seemed lifted from his memory, and words of kindness unrequited, and warnings despised, and promises broken, thronged upon his recollection till his heart failed him, and he could bear it no longer.

‘He entered the church. The evening service was concluded and the congregation had dispersed, but it was not yet closed. His steps echoed through the low building with a hollow sound, and he almost feared to be alone, it was so still and quiet. He looked round him. Nothing was changed. The place seemed smaller than it used to be; but there were the old monuments on which he had gazed with childish awe a thousand times; the little pulpit with its faded cushion; the Communion table before which he had so often repeated the Commandments he had reverenced as a child, and forgotten as a man. He approached the old seat; it looked cold and desolate. The cushion had been removed, and the Bible was not there. Perhaps his mother now occupied a poorer seat, or possibly she had grown infirm and could not reach the church alone. He dared not think of what he feared. A cold feeling crept over him, and he trembled violently as he turned away. ‘An old man entered the porch just as he reached it. Edmunds started back, for he knew him well; many a time he had watched him digging graves in the churchyard. What would he say to the returned convict?

‘The old man raised his eyes to the stranger’s face, bade him “good- evening,” and walked slowly on. He had forgotten him.

‘He walked down the hill, and through the village. The weather was warm, and the people were sitting at their doors, or strolling in their little gardens as he passed, enjoying the serenity of the evening, and their rest from labour. Many a look was turned towards him, and many a doubtful glance he cast on either side to see whether any knew and shunned him. There were strange faces in almost every house; in some he recognised the burly form of some old schoolfellow—a boy when he last saw him—surrounded by a troop of merry children; in others he saw, seated in an easy-chair at a cottage door, a feeble and infirm old man, whom he only remembered as a hale and hearty labourer; but they had all forgotten him, and he passed on unknown.

‘The last soft light of the setting sun had fallen on the earth, casting a rich glow on the yellow corn sheaves, and lengthening the shadows of the orchard trees, as he stood before the old house—the home of his infancy—to which his heart had yearned with an intensity of affection not to be described, through long and weary years of captivity and sorrow. The paling was low, though he well remembered the time that it had seemed a high wall to him; and he looked over into the old garden. There were more seeds and gayer flowers than there used to be, but there were the old trees still—the very tree under which he had lain a thousand times when tired of playing in the sun, and felt the soft, mild sleep of happy boyhood steal gently upon him. There were voices within the house. He listened, but they fell strangely upon his ear; he knew them not. They were merry too; and he well knew that his poor old mother could not be cheerful, and he away. The door opened, and a group of little children bounded out, shouting and romping. The father, with a little boy in his arms, appeared at the door, and they crowded round him, clapping their tiny hands, and dragging him out, to join their joyous sports. The convict thought on the many times he had shrunk from his father’s sight in that very place. He remembered how often he had buried his trembling head beneath the bedclothes, and heard the harsh word, and the hard stripe, and his mother’s wailing; and though the man sobbed aloud with agony of mind as he left the spot, his fist was clenched, and his teeth were set, in a fierce and deadly passion.

‘And such was the return to which he had looked through the weary perspective of many years, and for which he had undergone so much suffering! No face of welcome, no look of forgiveness, no house to receive, no hand to help him—and this too in the old village. What was his loneliness in the wild, thick woods, where man was never seen, to this!

‘He felt that in the distant land of his bondage and infamy, he had thought of his native place as it was when he left it; and not as it would be when he returned. The sad reality struck coldly at his heart, and his spirit sank within him. He had not courage to make inquiries, or to present himself to the only person who was likely to receive him with kindness and compassion. He walked slowly on; and shunning the roadside like a guilty man, turned into a meadow he well remembered; and covering his face with his hands, threw himself upon the grass.

‘He had not observed that a man was lying on the bank beside him; his garments rustled as he turned round to steal a look at the new-comer; and Edmunds raised his head.

‘The man had moved into a sitting posture. His body was much bent, and his face was wrinkled and yellow. His dress denoted him an inmate of the workhouse: he had the appearance of being very old, but it looked more the effect of dissipation or disease, than the length of years. He was staring hard at the stranger, and though his eyes were lustreless and heavy at first, they appeared to glow with an unnatural and alarmed expression after they had been fixed upon him for a short time, until they seemed to be starting from their sockets. Edmunds gradually raised himself to his knees, and looked more and more earnestly on the old man’s face. They gazed upon each other in silence.

‘The old man was ghastly pale. He shuddered and tottered to his feet. Edmunds sprang to his. He stepped back a pace or two. Edmunds advanced.

‘“Let me hear you speak,” said the convict, in a thick, broken voice.

‘“Stand off!” cried the old man, with a dreadful oath. The convict drew closer to him.

‘“Stand off!” shrieked the old man. Furious with terror, he raised his stick, and struck Edmunds a heavy blow across the face.

‘“Father—devil!” murmured the convict between his set teeth. He rushed wildly forward, and clenched the old man by the throat—but he was his father; and his arm fell powerless by his side.

‘The old man uttered a loud yell which rang through the lonely fields like the howl of an evil spirit. His face turned black, the gore rushed from his mouth and nose, and dyed the grass a deep, dark red, as he staggered and fell. He had ruptured a blood-vessel, and he was a dead man before his son could raise him.

‘In that corner of the churchyard,’ said the old gentleman, after a silence of a few moments, ‘in that corner of the churchyard of which I have before spoken, there lies buried a man who was in my employment for three years after this event, and who was truly contrite, penitent, and humbled, if ever man was. No one save myself knew in that man’s lifetime who he was, or whence he came—it was John Edmunds, the returned convict.’

CHAPTER VII. HOW MR. WINKLE, INSTEAD OF SHOOTING AT THE PIGEON AND KILLING THE CROW, SHOT AT THE CROW AND WOUNDED THE PIGEON; HOW THE DINGLEY DELL CRICKET CLUB PLAYED ALL-MUGGLETON, AND HOW ALL-MUGGLETON DINED AT THE DINGLEY DELL EXPENSE; WITH OTHER INTERESTING AND INSTRUCTIVE MATTERS

The fatiguing adventures of the day or the somniferous influence of the clergyman’s tale operated so strongly on the drowsy tendencies of Mr. Pickwick, that in less than five minutes after he had been shown to his comfortable bedroom he fell into a sound and dreamless sleep, from which he was only awakened by the morning sun darting his bright beams reproachfully into the apartment. Mr. Pickwick was no sluggard, and he sprang like an ardent warrior from his tent-bedstead.

‘Pleasant, pleasant country,’ sighed the enthusiastic gentleman, as he opened his lattice window. ‘Who could live to gaze from day to day on bricks and slates who had once felt the influence of a scene like this? Who could continue to exist where there are no cows but the cows on the chimney-pots; nothing redolent of Pan but pan-tiles; no crop but stone crop? Who could bear to drag out a life in such a spot? Who, I ask, could endure it?’ and, having cross-examined solitude after the most approved precedents, at considerable length, Mr. Pickwick thrust his head out of the lattice and looked around him.

The rich, sweet smell of the hay-ricks rose to his chamber window; the hundred perfumes of the little flower-garden beneath scented the air around; the deep-green meadows shone in the morning dew that glistened on every leaf as it trembled in the gentle air; and the birds sang as if every sparkling drop were to them a fountain of inspiration. Mr. Pickwick fell into an enchanting and delicious reverie.

‘Hollo!’ was the sound that roused him.

He looked to the right, but he saw nobody; his eyes wandered to the left, and pierced the prospect; he stared into the sky, but he wasn’t wanted there; and then he did what a common mind would have done at once—looked into the garden, and there saw Mr. Wardle.

‘How are you?’ said the good-humoured individual, out of breath with his own anticipations of pleasure.’Beautiful morning, ain’t it? Glad to see you up so early. Make haste down, and come out. I’ll wait for you here.’

Mr. Pickwick needed no second invitation. Ten minutes sufficed for the completion of his toilet, and at the expiration of that time he was by the old gentleman’s side.

‘Hollo!’ said Mr. Pickwick in his turn, seeing that his companion was armed with a gun, and that another lay ready on the grass; ‘what’s going forward?’

‘Why, your friend and I,’ replied the host, ‘are going out rook-shooting before breakfast. He’s a very good shot, ain’t he?’

‘I’ve heard him say he’s a capital one,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘but I never saw him aim at anything.’

‘Well,’ said the host, ‘I wish he’d come. Joe—Joe!’

The fat boy, who under the exciting influence of the morning did not appear to be more than three parts and a fraction asleep, emerged from the house.

‘Go up, and call the gentleman, and tell him he’ll find me and Mr. Pickwick in the rookery. Show the gentleman the way there; d’ye hear?’

The boy departed to execute his commission; and the host, carrying both guns like a second Robinson Crusoe, led the way from the garden.

‘This is the place,’ said the old gentleman, pausing after a few minutes walking, in an avenue of trees. The information was unnecessary; for the incessant cawing of the unconscious rooks sufficiently indicated their whereabouts.

The old gentleman laid one gun on the ground, and loaded the other.

‘Here they are,’ said Mr. Pickwick; and, as he spoke, the forms of Mr. Tupman, Mr. Snodgrass, and Mr. Winkle appeared in the distance. The fat boy, not being quite certain which gentleman he was directed to call, had with peculiar sagacity, and to prevent the possibility of any mistake, called them all.

‘Come along,’ shouted the old gentleman, addressing Mr. Winkle; ‘a keen hand like you ought to have been up long ago, even to such poor work as this.’

Mr. Winkle responded with a forced smile, and took up the spare gun with an expression of countenance which a metaphysical rook, impressed with a foreboding of his approaching death by violence, may be supposed to assume. It might have been keenness, but it looked remarkably like misery.

The old gentleman nodded; and two ragged boys who had been marshalled to the spot under the direction of the infant Lambert, forthwith commenced climbing up two of the trees.

‘What are these lads for?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick abruptly. He was rather alarmed; for he was not quite certain but that the distress of the agricultural interest, about which he had often heard a great deal, might have compelled the small boys attached to the soil to earn a precarious and hazardous subsistence by making marks of themselves for inexperienced sportsmen.

‘Only to start the game,’ replied Mr. Wardle, laughing.

‘To what?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Why, in plain English, to frighten the rooks.’

‘Oh, is that all?’

‘You are satisfied?’

‘Quite.’

‘Very well. Shall I begin?’

‘If you please,’ said Mr. Winkle, glad of any respite.

‘Stand aside, then. Now for it.’

The boy shouted, and shook a branch with a nest on it. Half a dozen young rooks in violent conversation, flew out to ask what the matter was. The old gentleman fired by way of reply. Down fell one bird, and off flew the others.

‘Take him up, Joe,’ said the old gentleman.

There was a smile upon the youth’s face as he advanced. Indistinct visions of rook-pie floated through his imagination. He laughed as he retired with the bird—it was a plump one.

‘Now, Mr. Winkle,’ said the host, reloading his own gun. ‘Fire away.’

Mr. Winkle advanced, and levelled his gun. Mr. Pickwick and his friends cowered involuntarily to escape damage from the heavy fall of rooks, which they felt quite certain would be occasioned by the devastating barrel of their friend. There was a solemn pause—a shout—a flapping of wings—a faint click.

‘Hollo!’ said the old gentleman.

‘Won’t it go?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Missed fire,’ said Mr. Winkle, who was very pale—probably from disappointment.

‘Odd,’ said the old gentleman, taking the gun. ‘Never knew one of them miss fire before. Why, I don’t see anything of the cap.’

Bless my soul!’ said Mr. Winkle, ‘I declare I forgot the cap!’

The slight omission was rectified. Mr. Pickwick crouched again. Mr. Winkle stepped forward with an air of determination and resolution; and Mr. Tupman looked out from behind a tree. The boy shouted; four birds flew out. Mr. Winkle fired. There was a scream as of an individual—not a rook—in corporal anguish. Mr. Tupman had saved the lives of innumerable unoffending birds by receiving a portion of the charge in his left arm.

To describe the confusion that ensued would be impossible. To tell how Mr. Pickwick in the first transports of emotion called Mr. Winkle ‘Wretch!’ how Mr. Tupman lay prostrate on the ground; and how Mr. Winkle knelt horror-stricken beside him; how Mr. Tupman called distractedly upon some feminine Christian name, and then opened first one eye, and then the other, and then fell back and shut them both—all this would be as difficult to describe in detail, as it would be to depict the gradual recovering of the unfortunate individual, the binding up of his arm with pocket-handkerchiefs, and the conveying him back by slow degrees supported by the arms of his anxious friends.

They drew near the house. The ladies were at the garden gate, waiting for their arrival and their breakfast. The spinster aunt appeared; she smiled, and beckoned them to walk quicker. ‘Twas evident she knew not of the disaster. Poor thing! there are times when ignorance is bliss indeed.

They approached nearer.

‘Why, what is the matter with the little old gentleman?’ said Isabella Wardle. The spinster aunt heeded not the remark; she thought it applied to Mr. Pickwick. In her eyes Tracy Tupman was a youth; she viewed his years through a diminishing glass.

‘Don’t be frightened,’ called out the old host, fearful of alarming his daughters. The little party had crowded so completely round Mr. Tupman, that they could not yet clearly discern the nature of the accident.

‘Don’t be frightened,’ said the host.

‘What’s the matter?’ screamed the ladies.

‘Mr. Tupman has met with a little accident; that’s all.’

The spinster aunt uttered a piercing scream, burst into an hysteric laugh, and fell backwards in the arms of her nieces.

‘Throw some cold water over her,’ said the old gentleman.

‘No, no,’ murmured the spinster aunt; ‘I am better now. Bella, Emily—a surgeon! Is he wounded?—Is he dead?—Is he—Ha, ha, ha!’ Here the spinster aunt burst into fit number two, of hysteric laughter interspersed with screams.

‘Calm yourself,’ said Mr. Tupman, affected almost to tears by this expression of sympathy with his sufferings. ‘Dear, dear madam, calm yourself.’

‘It is his voice!’ exclaimed the spinster aunt; and strong symptoms of fit number three developed themselves forthwith.

‘Do not agitate yourself, I entreat you, dearest madam,’ said Mr. Tupman soothingly. ‘I am very little hurt, I assure you.’

‘Then you are not dead!’ ejaculated the hysterical lady. ‘Oh, say you are not dead!’

‘Don’t be a fool, Rachael,’ interposed Mr. Wardle, rather more roughly than was consistent with the poetic nature of the scene. ‘What the devil’s the use of his saying he isn’t dead?’

‘No, no, I am not,’ said Mr. Tupman. ‘I require no assistance but yours. Let me lean on your arm.’ He added, in a whisper, ‘Oh, Miss Rachael!’ The agitated female advanced, and offered her arm. They turned into the breakfast parlour. Mr. Tracy Tupman gently pressed her hand to his lips, and sank upon the sofa.

‘Are you faint?’ inquired the anxious Rachael.

‘No,’ said Mr. Tupman. ‘It is nothing. I shall be better presently.’ He closed his eyes.

‘He sleeps,’ murmured the spinster aunt. (His organs of vision had been closed nearly twenty seconds.) ‘Dear—dear—Mr. Tupman!’

Mr. Tupman jumped up—‘Oh, say those words again!’ he exclaimed.

The lady started. ‘Surely you did not hear them!’ she said bashfully.

‘Oh, yes, I did!’ replied Mr. Tupman; ‘repeat them. If you would have me recover, repeat them.’

Hush!’ said the lady. ‘My brother.’ Mr. Tracy Tupman resumed his former position; and Mr. Wardle, accompanied by a surgeon, entered the room.

The arm was examined, the wound dressed, and pronounced to be a very slight one; and the minds of the company having been thus satisfied, they proceeded to satisfy their appetites with countenances to which an expression of cheerfulness was again restored. Mr. Pickwick alone was silent and reserved. Doubt and distrust were exhibited in his countenance. His confidence in Mr. Winkle had been shaken—greatly shaken—by the proceedings of the morning.

‘Are you a cricketer?’ inquired Mr. Wardle of the marksman.

At any other time, Mr. Winkle would have replied in the affirmative. He felt the delicacy of his situation, and modestly replied, ‘No.’

‘Are you, sir?’ inquired Mr. Snodgrass.

‘I was once upon a time,’ replied the host; ‘but I have given it up now. I subscribe to the club here, but I don’t play.’

‘The grand match is played to-day, I believe,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘It is,’ replied the host. ‘Of course you would like to see it.’

‘I, sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘am delighted to view any sports which may be safely indulged in, and in which the impotent effects of unskilful people do not endanger human life.’ Mr. Pickwick paused, and looked steadily on Mr. Winkle, who quailed beneath his leader’s searching glance. The great man withdrew his eyes after a few minutes, and added: ‘Shall we be justified in leaving our wounded friend to the care of the ladies?’

‘You cannot leave me in better hands,’ said Mr. Tupman.

‘Quite impossible,’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

It was therefore settled that Mr. Tupman should be left at home in charge of the females; and that the remainder of the guests, under the guidance of Mr. Wardle, should proceed to the spot where was to be held that trial of skill, which had roused all Muggleton from its torpor, and inoculated Dingley Dell with a fever of excitement.

As their walk, which was not above two miles long, lay through shady lanes and sequestered footpaths, and as their conversation turned upon the delightful scenery by which they were on every side surrounded, Mr. Pickwick was almost inclined to regret the expedition they had used, when he found himself in the main street of the town of Muggleton.

Everybody whose genius has a topographical bent knows perfectly well that Muggleton is a corporate town, with a mayor, burgesses, and freemen; and anybody who has consulted the addresses of the mayor to the freemen, or the freemen to the mayor, or both to the corporation, or all three to Parliament, will learn from thence what they ought to have known before, that Muggleton is an ancient and loyal borough, mingling a zealous advocacy of Christian principles with a devoted attachment to commercial rights; in demonstration whereof, the mayor, corporation, and other inhabitants, have presented at divers times, no fewer than one thousand four hundred and twenty petitions against the continuance of negro slavery abroad, and an equal number against any interference with the factory system at home; sixty-eight in favour of the sale of livings in the Church, and eighty-six for abolishing Sunday trading in the street.

Mr. Pickwick stood in the principal street of this illustrious town, and gazed with an air of curiosity, not unmixed with interest, on the objects around him. There was an open square for the market-place; and in the centre of it, a large inn with a sign-post in front, displaying an object very common in art, but rarely met with in nature—to wit, a blue lion, with three bow legs in the air, balancing himself on the extreme point of the centre claw of his fourth foot. There were, within sight, an auctioneer’s and fire-agency office, a corn-factor’s, a linen- draper’s, a saddler’s, a distiller’s, a grocer’s, and a shoe-shop—the last-mentioned warehouse being also appropriated to the diffusion of hats, bonnets, wearing apparel, cotton umbrellas, and useful knowledge. There was a red brick house with a small paved courtyard in front, which anybody might have known belonged to the attorney; and there was, moreover, another red brick house with Venetian blinds, and a large brass door-plate with a very legible announcement that it belonged to the surgeon. A few boys were making their way to the cricket-field; and two or three shopkeepers who were standing at their doors looked as if they should like to be making their way to the same spot, as indeed to all appearance they might have done, without losing any great amount of custom thereby. Mr. Pickwick having paused to make these observations, to be noted down at a more convenient period, hastened to rejoin his friends, who had turned out of the main street, and were already within sight of the field of battle.

The wickets were pitched, and so were a couple of marquees for the rest and refreshment of the contending parties. The game had not yet commenced. Two or three Dingley Dellers, and All-Muggletonians, were amusing themselves with a majestic air by throwing the ball carelessly from hand to hand; and several other gentlemen dressed like them, in straw hats, flannel jackets, and white trousers—a costume in which they looked very much like amateur stone-masons—were sprinkled about the tents, towards one of which Mr. Wardle conducted the party.

Several dozen of ‘How-are-you’s?’ hailed the old gentleman’s arrival; and a general raising of the straw hats, and bending forward of the flannel jackets, followed his introduction of his guests as gentlemen from London, who were extremely anxious to witness the proceedings of the day, with which, he had no doubt, they would be greatly delighted.

‘You had better step into the marquee, I think, Sir,’ said one very stout gentleman, whose body and legs looked like half a gigantic roll of flannel, elevated on a couple of inflated pillow-cases.

‘You’ll find it much pleasanter, Sir,’ urged another stout gentleman, who strongly resembled the other half of the roll of flannel aforesaid.

‘You’re very good,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘This way,’ said the first speaker; ‘they notch in here—it’s the best place in the whole field;’ and the cricketer, panting on before, preceded them to the tent.

‘Capital game—smart sport—fine exercise—very,’ were the words which fell upon Mr. Pickwick’s ear as he entered the tent; and the first object that met his eyes was his green-coated friend of the Rochester coach, holding forth, to the no small delight and edification of a select circle of the chosen of All-Muggleton. His dress was slightly improved, and he wore boots; but there was no mistaking him.

The stranger recognised his friends immediately; and, darting forward and seizing Mr. Pickwick by the hand, dragged him to a seat with his usual impetuosity, talking all the while as if the whole of the arrangements were under his especial patronage and direction.

‘This way—this way—capital fun—lots of beer—hogsheads; rounds of beef—bullocks; mustard—cart-loads; glorious day—down with you—make yourself at home—glad to see you—very.’

Mr. Pickwick sat down as he was bid, and Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass also complied with the directions of their mysterious friend. Mr. Wardle looked on in silent wonder.

‘Mr. Wardle—a friend of mine,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Friend of yours!—My dear sir, how are you?—Friend of my friend’s— give me your hand, sir’—and the stranger grasped Mr. Wardle’s hand with all the fervour of a close intimacy of many years, and then stepped back a pace or two as if to take a full survey of his face and figure, and then shook hands with him again, if possible, more warmly than before.

‘Well; and how came you here?’ said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile in which benevolence struggled with surprise.

‘Come,’ replied the stranger—‘stopping at Crown—Crown at Muggleton— met a party—flannel jackets—white trousers—anchovy sandwiches— devilled kidney—splendid fellows—glorious.’

Mr. Pickwick was sufficiently versed in the stranger’s system of stenography to infer from this rapid and disjointed communication that he had, somehow or other, contracted an acquaintance with the All- Muggletons, which he had converted, by a process peculiar to himself, into that extent of good-fellowship on which a general invitation may be easily founded. His curiosity was therefore satisfied, and putting on his spectacles he prepared himself to watch the play which was just commencing.

All-Muggleton had the first innings; and the interest became intense when Mr. Dumkins and Mr. Podder, two of the most renowned members of that most distinguished club, walked, bat in hand, to their respective wickets. Mr. Luffey, the highest ornament of Dingley Dell, was pitched to bowl against the redoubtable Dumkins, and Mr. Struggles was selected to do the same kind office for the hitherto unconquered Podder. Several players were stationed, to ‘look out,’ in different parts of the field, and each fixed himself into the proper attitude by placing one hand on each knee, and stooping very much as if he were ‘making a back’ for some beginner at leap-frog. All the regular players do this sort of thing;— indeed it is generally supposed that it is quite impossible to look out properly in any other position.

The umpires were stationed behind the wickets; the scorers were prepared to notch the runs; a breathless silence ensued. Mr. Luffey retired a few paces behind the wicket of the passive Podder, and applied the ball to his right eye for several seconds. Dumkins confidently awaited its coming with his eyes fixed on the motions of Luffey.

‘Play!’ suddenly cried the bowler. The ball flew from his hand straight and swift towards the centre stump of the wicket. The wary Dumkins was on the alert: it fell upon the tip of the bat, and bounded far away over the heads of the scouts, who had just stooped low enough to let it fly over them.

‘Run—run—another.—Now, then throw her up—up with her—stop there— another—no—yes—no—throw her up, throw her up!’—Such were the shouts which followed the stroke; and at the conclusion of which All-Muggleton had scored two. Nor was Podder behindhand in earning laurels wherewith to garnish himself and Muggleton. He blocked the doubtful balls, missed the bad ones, took the good ones, and sent them flying to all parts of the field. The scouts were hot and tired; the bowlers were changed and bowled till their arms ached; but Dumkins and Podder remained unconquered. Did an elderly gentleman essay to stop the progress of the ball, it rolled between his legs or slipped between his fingers. Did a slim gentleman try to catch it, it struck him on the nose, and bounded pleasantly off with redoubled violence, while the slim gentleman’s eyes filled with water, and his form writhed with anguish. Was it thrown straight up to the wicket, Dumkins had reached it before the ball. In short, when Dumkins was caught out, and Podder stumped out, All- Muggleton had notched some fifty-four, while the score of the Dingley Dellers was as blank as their faces. The advantage was too great to be recovered. In vain did the eager Luffey, and the enthusiastic Struggles, do all that skill and experience could suggest, to regain the ground Dingley Dell had lost in the contest—it was of no avail; and in an early period of the winning game Dingley Dell gave in, and allowed the superior prowess of All-Muggleton.

The stranger, meanwhile, had been eating, drinking, and talking, without cessation. At every good stroke he expressed his satisfaction and approval of the player in a most condescending and patronising manner, which could not fail to have been highly gratifying to the party concerned; while at every bad attempt at a catch, and every failure to stop the ball, he launched his personal displeasure at the head of the devoted individual in such denunciations as—‘Ah, ah!—stupid’—‘Now, butter-fingers’—‘Muff’—‘Humbug’—and so forth—ejaculations which seemed to establish him in the opinion of all around, as a most excellent and undeniable judge of the whole art and mystery of the noble game of cricket.

‘Capital game—well played—some strokes admirable,’ said the stranger, as both sides crowded into the tent, at the conclusion of the game.

‘You have played it, sir?’ inquired Mr. Wardle, who had been much amused by his loquacity.

‘Played it! Think I have—thousands of times—not here—West Indies— exciting thing—hot work—very.’ ‘It must be rather a warm pursuit in such a climate,’ observed Mr. Pickwick.

‘Warm!—red hot—scorching—glowing. Played a match once—single wicket- -friend the colonel—Sir Thomas Blazo—who should get the greatest number of runs.—Won the toss—first innings—seven o’clock A.M.—six natives to look out—went in; kept in—heat intense—natives all fainted—taken away—fresh half-dozen ordered—fainted also—Blazo bowling—supported by two natives—couldn’t bowl me out—fainted too— cleared away the colonel—wouldn’t give in—faithful attendant—Quanko Samba—last man left—sun so hot, bat in blisters, ball scorched brown— five hundred and seventy runs—rather exhausted—Quanko mustered up last remaining strength—bowled me out—had a bath, and went out to dinner.’

‘And what became of what’s-his-name, Sir?’ inquired an old gentleman.

‘Blazo?’

‘No—the other gentleman.’

Quanko Samba?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Poor Quanko—never recovered it—bowled on, on my account—bowled off, on his own—died, sir.’ Here the stranger buried his countenance in a brown jug, but whether to hide his emotion or imbibe its contents, we cannot distinctly affirm. We only know that he paused suddenly, drew a long and deep breath, and looked anxiously on, as two of the principal members of the Dingley Dell club approached Mr. Pickwick, and said—

‘We are about to partake of a plain dinner at the Blue Lion, Sir; we hope you and your friends will join us.’

Of course,’ said Mr. Wardle, ‘among our friends we include Mr.—;’ and he looked towards the stranger.

‘Jingle,’ said that versatile gentleman, taking the hint at once. ‘Jingle—Alfred Jingle, Esq., of No Hall, Nowhere.’

‘I shall be very happy, I am sure,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘So shall I,’ said Mr. Alfred Jingle, drawing one arm through Mr. Pickwick’s, and another through Mr. Wardle’s, as he whispered confidentially in the ear of the former gentleman:—

‘Devilish good dinner—cold, but capital—peeped into the room this morning—fowls and pies, and all that sort of thing—pleasant fellows these—well behaved, too—very.’

There being no further preliminaries to arrange, the company straggled into the town in little knots of twos and threes; and within a quarter of an hour were all seated in the great room of the Blue Lion Inn, Muggleton—Mr. Dumkins acting as chairman, and Mr. Luffey officiating as vice.

There was a vast deal of talking and rattling of knives and forks, and plates; a great running about of three ponderous-headed waiters, and a rapid disappearance of the substantial viands on the table; to each and every of which item of confusion, the facetious Mr. Jingle lent the aid of half-a-dozen ordinary men at least. When everybody had eaten as much as possible, the cloth was removed, bottles, glasses, and dessert were placed on the table; and the waiters withdrew to ‘clear away,’ or in other words, to appropriate to their own private use and emolument whatever remnants of the eatables and drinkables they could contrive to lay their hands on.

Amidst the general hum of mirth and conversation that ensued, there was a little man with a puffy Say-nothing-to-me,-or-I’ll-contradict-you sort of countenance, who remained very quiet; occasionally looking round him when the conversation slackened, as if he contemplated putting in something very weighty; and now and then bursting into a short cough of inexpressible grandeur. At length, during a moment of comparative silence, the little man called out in a very loud, solemn voice,—

‘Mr. Luffey!’

Everybody was hushed into a profound stillness as the individual addressed, replied—

‘Sir!’

‘I wish to address a few words to you, Sir, if you will entreat the gentlemen to fill their glasses.’

Mr. Jingle uttered a patronising ‘Hear, hear,’ which was responded to by the remainder of the company; and the glasses having been filled, the vice-president assumed an air of wisdom in a state of profound attention; and said—

‘Mr. Staple.’

‘Sir,’ said the little man, rising, ‘I wish to address what I have to say to you and not to our worthy chairman, because our worthy chairman is in some measure—I may say in a great degree—the subject of what I have to say, or I may say to—to—’

‘State,’ suggested Mr. Jingle.

‘Yes, to state,’ said the little man, ‘I thank my honourable friend, if he will allow me to call him so (four hears and one certainly from Mr. Jingle), for the suggestion. Sir, I am a Deller—a Dingley Deller (cheers). I cannot lay claim to the honour of forming an item in the population of Muggleton; nor, Sir, I will frankly admit, do I covet that honour: and I will tell you why, Sir (hear); to Muggleton I will readily concede all these honours and distinctions to which it can fairly lay claim—they are too numerous and too well known to require aid or recapitulation from me. But, sir, while we remember that Muggleton has given birth to a Dumkins and a Podder, let us never forget that Dingley Dell can boast a Luffey and a Struggles. (Vociferous cheering.) Let me not be considered as wishing to detract from the merits of the former gentlemen. Sir, I envy them the luxury of their own feelings on this occasion. (Cheers.) Every gentleman who hears me, is probably acquainted with the reply made by an individual, who—to use an ordinary figure of speech—“hung out” in a tub, to the emperor Alexander:—“if I were not Diogenes,” said he, “I would be Alexander.” I can well imagine these gentlemen to say, “If I were not Dumkins I would be Luffey; if I were not Podder I would be Struggles.” (Enthusiasm.) But, gentlemen of Muggleton, is it in cricket alone that your fellow-townsmen stand pre- eminent? Have you never heard of Dumkins and determination? Have you never been taught to associate Podder with property? (Great applause.) Have you never, when struggling for your rights, your liberties, and your privileges, been reduced, if only for an instant, to misgiving and despair? And when you have been thus depressed, has not the name of Dumkins laid afresh within your breast the fire which had just gone out; and has not a word from that man lighted it again as brightly as if it had never expired? (Great cheering.) Gentlemen, I beg to surround with a rich halo of enthusiastic cheering the united names of “Dumkins and Podder.”’

Here the little man ceased, and here the company commenced a raising of voices, and thumping of tables, which lasted with little intermission during the remainder of the evening. Other toasts were drunk. Mr. Luffey and Mr. Struggles, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Jingle, were, each in his turn, the subject of unqualified eulogium; and each in due course returned thanks for the honour.

Enthusiastic as we are in the noble cause to which we have devoted ourselves, we should have felt a sensation of pride which we cannot express, and a consciousness of having done something to merit immortality of which we are now deprived, could we have laid the faintest outline on these addresses before our ardent readers. Mr. Snodgrass, as usual, took a great mass of notes, which would no doubt have afforded most useful and valuable information, had not the burning eloquence of the words or the feverish influence of the wine made that gentleman’s hand so extremely unsteady, as to render his writing nearly unintelligible, and his style wholly so. By dint of patient investigation, we have been enabled to trace some characters bearing a faint resemblance to the names of the speakers; and we can only discern an entry of a song (supposed to have been sung by Mr. Jingle), in which the words ‘bowl’ ‘sparkling’ ‘ruby’ ‘bright’ and ‘wine’ are frequently repeated at short intervals. We fancy, too, that we can discern at the very end of the notes, some indistinct reference to ‘broiled bones’; and then the words ‘cold’ ‘without’ occur: but as any hypothesis we could found upon them must necessarily rest upon mere conjecture, we are not disposed to indulge in any of the speculations to which they may give rise.

We will therefore return to Mr. Tupman; merely adding that within some few minutes before twelve o’clock that night, the convocation of worthies of Dingley Dell and Muggleton were heard to sing, with great feeling and emphasis, the beautiful and pathetic national air of

‘We won’t go home till morning, We won’t go home till morning, We won’t go home till morning, Till daylight doth appear.’

CHAPTER VIII. STRONGLY ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE POSITION, THAT THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE IS NOT A RAILWAY

The quiet seclusion of Dingley Dell, the presence of so many of the gentler sex, and the solicitude and anxiety they evinced in his behalf, were all favourable to the growth and development of those softer feelings which nature had implanted deep in the bosom of Mr. Tracy Tupman, and which now appeared destined to centre in one lovely object. The young ladies were pretty, their manners winning, their dispositions unexceptionable; but there was a dignity in the air, a touch-me-not- ishness in the walk, a majesty in the eye, of the spinster aunt, to which, at their time of life, they could lay no claim, which distinguished her from any female on whom Mr. Tupman had ever gazed. That there was something kindred in their nature, something congenial in their souls, something mysteriously sympathetic in their bosoms, was evident. Her name was the first that rose to Mr. Tupman’s lips as he lay wounded on the grass; and her hysteric laughter was the first sound that fell upon his ear when he was supported to the house. But had her agitation arisen from an amiable and feminine sensibility which would have been equally irrepressible in any case; or had it been called forth by a more ardent and passionate feeling, which he, of all men living, could alone awaken? These were the doubts which racked his brain as he lay extended on the sofa; these were the doubts which he determined should be at once and for ever resolved.

It was evening. Isabella and Emily had strolled out with Mr. Trundle; the deaf old lady had fallen asleep in her chair; the snoring of the fat boy, penetrated in a low and monotonous sound from the distant kitchen; the buxom servants were lounging at the side door, enjoying the pleasantness of the hour, and the delights of a flirtation, on first principles, with certain unwieldy animals attached to the farm; and there sat the interesting pair, uncared for by all, caring for none, and dreaming only of themselves; there they sat, in short, like a pair of carefully-folded kid gloves—bound up in each other.

‘I have forgotten my flowers,’ said the spinster aunt.

‘Water them now,’ said Mr. Tupman, in accents of persuasion.

‘You will take cold in the evening air,’ urged the spinster aunt affectionately.

‘No, no,’ said Mr. Tupman, rising; ‘it will do me good. Let me accompany you.’

The lady paused to adjust the sling in which the left arm of the youth was placed, and taking his right arm led him to the garden.

There was a bower at the farther end, with honeysuckle, jessamine, and creeping plants—one of those sweet retreats which humane men erect for the accommodation of spiders.

The spinster aunt took up a large watering-pot which lay in one corner, and was about to leave the arbour. Mr. Tupman detained her, and drew her to a seat beside him.

‘Miss Wardle!’ said he.

The spinster aunt trembled, till some pebbles which had accidentally found their way into the large watering-pot shook like an infant’s rattle.

‘Miss Wardle,’ said Mr. Tupman, ‘you are an angel.’

‘Mr. Tupman!’ exclaimed Rachael, blushing as red as the watering-pot itself.

‘Nay,’ said the eloquent Pickwickian—‘I know it but too well.’

‘All women are angels, they say,’ murmured the lady playfully.

‘Then what can you be; or to what, without presumption, can I compare you?’ replied Mr. Tupman. ‘Where was the woman ever seen who resembled you? Where else could I hope to find so rare a combination of excellence and beauty? Where else could I seek to—Oh!’ Here Mr. Tupman paused, and pressed the hand which clasped the handle of the happy watering-pot.

The lady turned aside her head. ‘Men are such deceivers,’ she softly whispered.

‘They are, they are,’ ejaculated Mr. Tupman; ‘but not all men. There lives at least one being who can never change—one being who would be content to devote his whole existence to your happiness—who lives but in your eyes—who breathes but in your smiles—who bears the heavy burden of life itself only for you.’

‘Could such an individual be found—’ said the lady.

‘But he can be found,’ said the ardent Mr. Tupman, interposing. ‘He is found. He is here, Miss Wardle.’ And ere the lady was aware of his intention, Mr. Tupman had sunk upon his knees at her feet.

‘Mr. Tupman, rise,’ said Rachael.

‘Never!’ was the valorous reply. ‘Oh, Rachael!’ He seized her passive hand, and the watering-pot fell to the ground as he pressed it to his lips.—‘Oh, Rachael! say you love me.’

‘Mr. Tupman,’ said the spinster aunt, with averted head, ‘I can hardly speak the words; but—but—you are not wholly indifferent to me.’

Mr. Tupman no sooner heard this avowal, than he proceeded to do what his enthusiastic emotions prompted, and what, for aught we know (for we are but little acquainted with such matters), people so circumstanced always do. He jumped up, and, throwing his arm round the neck of the spinster aunt, imprinted upon her lips numerous kisses, which after a due show of struggling and resistance, she received so passively, that there is no telling how many more Mr. Tupman might have bestowed, if the lady had not given a very unaffected start, and exclaimed in an affrighted tone—

‘Mr. Tupman, we are observed!—we are discovered!’

Mr. Tupman looked round. There was the fat boy, perfectly motionless, with his large circular eyes staring into the arbour, but without the slightest expression on his face that the most expert physiognomist could have referred to astonishment, curiosity, or any other known passion that agitates the human breast. Mr. Tupman gazed on the fat boy, and the fat boy stared at him; and the longer Mr. Tupman observed the utter vacancy of the fat boy’s countenance, the more convinced he became that he either did not know, or did not understand, anything that had been going forward. Under this impression, he said with great firmness—

‘What do you want here, Sir?’

‘Supper’s ready, sir,’ was the prompt reply.

‘Have you just come here, sir?’ inquired Mr. Tupman, with a piercing look.

‘Just,’ replied the fat boy.

Mr. Tupman looked at him very hard again; but there was not a wink in his eye, or a curve in his face.

Mr. Tupman took the arm of the spinster aunt, and walked towards the house; the fat boy followed behind.

‘He knows nothing of what has happened,’ he whispered.

‘Nothing,’ said the spinster aunt.

There was a sound behind them, as of an imperfectly suppressed chuckle. Mr. Tupman turned sharply round. No; it could not have been the fat boy; there was not a gleam of mirth, or anything but feeding in his whole visage.

‘He must have been fast asleep,’ whispered Mr. Tupman.

‘I have not the least doubt of it,’ replied the spinster aunt.

They both laughed heartily.

Mr. Tupman was wrong. The fat boy, for once, had not been fast asleep. He was awake—wide awake—to what had been going forward.

The supper passed off without any attempt at a general conversation. The old lady had gone to bed; Isabella Wardle devoted herself exclusively to Mr. Trundle; the spinster’s attentions were reserved for Mr. Tupman; and Emily’s thoughts appeared to be engrossed by some distant object— possibly they were with the absent Snodgrass.

Eleven—twelve—one o’clock had struck, and the gentlemen had not arrived. Consternation sat on every face. Could they have been waylaid and robbed? Should they send men and lanterns in every direction by which they could be supposed likely to have travelled home? or should they—Hark! there they were. What could have made them so late? A strange voice, too! To whom could it belong? They rushed into the kitchen, whither the truants had repaired, and at once obtained rather more than a glimmering of the real state of the case.

Mr. Pickwick, with his hands in his pockets and his hat cocked completely over his left eye, was leaning against the dresser, shaking his head from side to side, and producing a constant succession of the blandest and most benevolent smiles without being moved thereunto by any discernible cause or pretence whatsoever; old Mr. Wardle, with a highly- inflamed countenance, was grasping the hand of a strange gentleman muttering protestations of eternal friendship; Mr. Winkle, supporting himself by the eight-day clock, was feebly invoking destruction upon the head of any member of the family who should suggest the propriety of his retiring for the night; and Mr. Snodgrass had sunk into a chair, with an expression of the most abject and hopeless misery that the human mind can imagine, portrayed in every lineament of his expressive face.

‘Is anything the matter?’ inquired the three ladies.

‘Nothing the matter,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘We—we’re—all right.—I say, Wardle, we’re all right, ain’t we?’

‘I should think so,’ replied the jolly host.—‘My dears, here’s my friend Mr. Jingle—Mr. Pickwick’s friend, Mr. Jingle, come ‘pon—little visit.’

‘Is anything the matter with Mr. Snodgrass, Sir?’ inquired Emily, with great anxiety.

‘Nothing the matter, ma’am,’ replied the stranger. ‘Cricket dinner— glorious party—capital songs—old port—claret—good—very good—wine, ma’am—wine.’

‘It wasn’t the wine,’ murmured Mr. Snodgrass, in a broken voice. ‘It was the salmon.’ (Somehow or other, it never is the wine, in these cases.)

‘Hadn’t they better go to bed, ma’am?’ inquired Emma. ‘Two of the boys will carry the gentlemen upstairs.’

‘I won’t go to bed,’ said Mr. Winkle firmly.

‘No living boy shall carry me,’ said Mr. Pickwick stoutly; and he went on smiling as before.

‘Hurrah!’ gasped Mr. Winkle faintly.

‘Hurrah!’ echoed Mr. Pickwick, taking off his hat and dashing it on the floor, and insanely casting his spectacles into the middle of the kitchen. At this humorous feat he laughed outright.

‘Let’s—have—‘nother—bottle,’ cried Mr. Winkle, commencing in a very loud key, and ending in a very faint one. His head dropped upon his breast; and, muttering his invincible determination not to go to his bed, and a sanguinary regret that he had not ‘done for old Tupman’ in the morning, he fell fast asleep; in which condition he was borne to his apartment by two young giants under the personal superintendence of the fat boy, to whose protecting care Mr. Snodgrass shortly afterwards confided his own person, Mr. Pickwick accepted the proffered arm of Mr. Tupman and quietly disappeared, smiling more than ever; and Mr. Wardle, after taking as affectionate a leave of the whole family as if he were ordered for immediate execution, consigned to Mr. Trundle the honour of conveying him upstairs, and retired, with a very futile attempt to look impressively solemn and dignified.

‘What a shocking scene!’ said the spinster aunt.

‘Dis-gusting!’ ejaculated both the young ladies.

‘Dreadful—dreadful!’ said Jingle, looking very grave: he was about a bottle and a half ahead of any of his companions. ‘Horrid spectacle— very!’

‘What a nice man!’ whispered the spinster aunt to Mr. Tupman.

‘Good-looking, too!’ whispered Emily Wardle.

‘Oh, decidedly,’ observed the spinster aunt.

Mr. Tupman thought of the widow at Rochester, and his mind was troubled. The succeeding half-hour’s conversation was not of a nature to calm his perturbed spirit. The new visitor was very talkative, and the number of his anecdotes was only to be exceeded by the extent of his politeness. Mr. Tupman felt that as Jingle’s popularity increased, he (Tupman) retired further into the shade. His laughter was forced—his merriment feigned; and when at last he laid his aching temples between the sheets, he thought, with horrid delight, on the satisfaction it would afford him to have Jingle’s head at that moment between the feather bed and the mattress.

The indefatigable stranger rose betimes next morning, and, although his companions remained in bed overpowered with the dissipation of the previous night, exerted himself most successfully to promote the hilarity of the breakfast-table. So successful were his efforts, that even the deaf old lady insisted on having one or two of his best jokes retailed through the trumpet; and even she condescended to observe to the spinster aunt, that ‘He’ (meaning Jingle) ‘was an impudent young fellow:’ a sentiment in which all her relations then and there present thoroughly coincided.

It was the old lady’s habit on the fine summer mornings to repair to the arbour in which Mr. Tupman had already signalised himself, in form and manner following: first, the fat boy fetched from a peg behind the old lady’s bedroom door, a close black satin bonnet, a warm cotton shawl, and a thick stick with a capacious handle; and the old lady, having put on the bonnet and shawl at her leisure, would lean one hand on the stick and the other on the fat boy’s shoulder, and walk leisurely to the arbour, where the fat boy would leave her to enjoy the fresh air for the space of half an hour; at the expiration of which time he would return and reconduct her to the house.

The old lady was very precise and very particular; and as this ceremony had been observed for three successive summers without the slightest deviation from the accustomed form, she was not a little surprised on this particular morning to see the fat boy, instead of leaving the arbour, walk a few paces out of it, look carefully round him in every direction, and return towards her with great stealth and an air of the most profound mystery.

The old lady was timorous—most old ladies are—and her first impression was that the bloated lad was about to do her some grievous bodily harm with the view of possessing himself of her loose coin. She would have cried for assistance, but age and infirmity had long ago deprived her of the power of screaming; she, therefore, watched his motions with feelings of intense horror which were in no degree diminished by his coming close up to her, and shouting in her ear in an agitated, and as it seemed to her, a threatening tone—

‘Missus!’

Now it so happened that Mr. Jingle was walking in the garden close to the arbour at that moment. He too heard the shouts of ‘Missus,’ and stopped to hear more. There were three reasons for his doing so. In the first place, he was idle and curious; secondly, he was by no means scrupulous; thirdly, and lastly, he was concealed from view by some flowering shrubs. So there he stood, and there he listened.

‘Missus!’ shouted the fat boy.

‘Well, Joe,’ said the trembling old lady. ‘I’m sure I have been a good mistress to you, Joe. You have invariably been treated very kindly. You have never had too much to do; and you have always had enough to eat.’

This last was an appeal to the fat boy’s most sensitive feelings. He seemed touched, as he replied emphatically—

‘I knows I has.’

‘Then what can you want to do now?’ said the old lady, gaining courage.

‘I wants to make your flesh creep,’ replied the boy.

This sounded like a very bloodthirsty mode of showing one’s gratitude; and as the old lady did not precisely understand the process by which such a result was to be attained, all her former horrors returned.

‘What do you think I see in this very arbour last night?’ inquired the boy.

‘Bless us! What?’ exclaimed the old lady, alarmed at the solemn manner of the corpulent youth.

‘The strange gentleman—him as had his arm hurt—a-kissin’ and huggin’— ‘

‘Who, Joe? None of the servants, I hope.’

Worser than that,’ roared the fat boy, in the old lady’s ear.

‘Not one of my grandda’aters?’

‘Worser than that.’

‘Worse than that, Joe!’ said the old lady, who had thought this the extreme limit of human atrocity. ‘Who was it, Joe? I insist upon knowing.’

The fat boy looked cautiously round, and having concluded his survey, shouted in the old lady’s ear—

‘Miss Rachael.’

‘What!’ said the old lady, in a shrill tone. ‘Speak louder.’

‘Miss Rachael,’ roared the fat boy.

‘My da’ater!’

The train of nods which the fat boy gave by way of assent, communicated a blanc-mange like motion to his fat cheeks.

‘And she suffered him!’ exclaimed the old lady. A grin stole over the fat boy’s features as he said—

‘I see her a-kissin’ of him agin.’

If Mr. Jingle, from his place of concealment, could have beheld the expression which the old lady’s face assumed at this communication, the probability is that a sudden burst of laughter would have betrayed his close vicinity to the summer-house. He listened attentively. Fragments of angry sentences such as, ‘Without my permission!’—‘At her time of life’—‘Miserable old ‘ooman like me’—‘Might have waited till I was dead,’ and so forth, reached his ears; and then he heard the heels of the fat boy’s boots crunching the gravel, as he retired and left the old lady alone.

It was a remarkable coincidence perhaps, but it was nevertheless a fact, that Mr. Jingle within five minutes of his arrival at Manor Farm on the preceding night, had inwardly resolved to lay siege to the heart of the spinster aunt, without delay. He had observation enough to see, that his off-hand manner was by no means disagreeable to the fair object of his attack; and he had more than a strong suspicion that she possessed that most desirable of all requisites, a small independence. The imperative necessity of ousting his rival by some means or other, flashed quickly upon him, and he immediately resolved to adopt certain proceedings tending to that end and object, without a moment’s delay. Fielding tells us that man is fire, and woman tow, and the Prince of Darkness sets a light to ‘em. Mr. Jingle knew that young men, to spinster aunts, are as lighted gas to gunpowder, and he determined to essay the effect of an explosion without loss of time.

Full of reflections upon this important decision, he crept from his place of concealment, and, under cover of the shrubs before mentioned, approached the house. Fortune seemed determined to favour his design. Mr. Tupman and the rest of the gentlemen left the garden by the side gate just as he obtained a view of it; and the young ladies, he knew, had walked out alone, soon after breakfast. The coast was clear.

The breakfast-parlour door was partially open. He peeped in. The spinster aunt was knitting. He coughed; she looked up and smiled. Hesitation formed no part of Mr. Alfred Jingle’s character. He laid his finger on his lips mysteriously, walked in, and closed the door.

‘Miss Wardle,’ said Mr. Jingle, with affected earnestness, ‘forgive intrusion—short acquaintance—no time for ceremony—all discovered.’

‘Sir!’ said the spinster aunt, rather astonished by the unexpected apparition and somewhat doubtful of Mr. Jingle’s sanity.

‘Hush!’ said Mr. Jingle, in a stage-whisper—‘Large boy—dumpling face— round eyes—rascal!’ Here he shook his head expressively, and the spinster aunt trembled with agitation.

‘I presume you allude to Joseph, Sir?’ said the lady, making an effort to appear composed.

‘Yes, ma’am—damn that Joe!—treacherous dog, Joe—told the old lady— old lady furious—wild—raving—arbour—Tupman—kissing and hugging—all that sort of thing—eh, ma’am—eh?’

‘Mr. Jingle,’ said the spinster aunt, ‘if you come here, Sir, to insult me—’

‘Not at all—by no means,’ replied the unabashed Mr. Jingle—‘overheard the tale—came to warn you of your danger—tender my services—prevent the hubbub. Never mind—think it an insult—leave the room’—and he turned, as if to carry the threat into execution.

‘What shall I do!’ said the poor spinster, bursting into tears. ‘My brother will be furious.’

‘Of course he will,’ said Mr. Jingle pausing—‘outrageous.’

Oh, Mr. Jingle, what can I say!’ exclaimed the spinster aunt, in another flood of despair.

‘Say he dreamt it,’ replied Mr. Jingle coolly.

A ray of comfort darted across the mind of the spinster aunt at this suggestion. Mr. Jingle perceived it, and followed up his advantage.

‘Pooh, pooh!—nothing more easy—blackguard boy—lovely woman—fat boy horsewhipped—you believed—end of the matter—all comfortable.’

Whether the probability of escaping from the consequences of this ill- timed discovery was delightful to the spinster’s feelings, or whether the hearing herself described as a ‘lovely woman’ softened the asperity of her grief, we know not. She blushed slightly, and cast a grateful look on Mr. Jingle.

That insinuating gentleman sighed deeply, fixed his eyes on the spinster aunt’s face for a couple of minutes, started melodramatically, and suddenly withdrew them.

‘You seem unhappy, Mr. Jingle,’ said the lady, in a plaintive voice. ‘May I show my gratitude for your kind interference, by inquiring into the cause, with a view, if possible, to its removal?’

‘Ha!’ exclaimed Mr. Jingle, with another start—‘removal! remove my unhappiness, and your love bestowed upon a man who is insensible to the blessing—who even now contemplates a design upon the affections of the niece of the creature who—but no; he is my friend; I will not expose his vices. Miss Wardle—farewell!’ At the conclusion of this address, the most consecutive he was ever known to utter, Mr. Jingle applied to his eyes the remnant of a handkerchief before noticed, and turned towards the door.

‘Stay, Mr. Jingle!’ said the spinster aunt emphatically. ‘You have made an allusion to Mr. Tupman—explain it.’

‘Never!’ exclaimed Jingle, with a professional (i.e., theatrical) air. ‘Never!’ and, by way of showing that he had no desire to be questioned further, he drew a chair close to that of the spinster aunt and sat down.

‘Mr. Jingle,’ said the aunt, ‘I entreat—I implore you, if there is any dreadful mystery connected with Mr. Tupman, reveal it.’

‘Can I,’ said Mr. Jingle, fixing his eyes on the aunt’s face—‘can I see—lovely creature—sacrificed at the shrine—heartless avarice!’ He appeared to be struggling with various conflicting emotions for a few seconds, and then said in a low voice— ‘Tupman only wants your money.’

‘The wretch!’ exclaimed the spinster, with energetic indignation. (Mr. Jingle’s doubts were resolved. She had money.)

‘More than that,’ said Jingle—‘loves another.’

‘Another!’ ejaculated the spinster. ‘Who?’

Short girl—black eyes—niece Emily.’

There was a pause.

Now, if there was one individual in the whole world, of whom the spinster aunt entertained a mortal and deep-rooted jealousy, it was this identical niece. The colour rushed over her face and neck, and she tossed her head in silence with an air of ineffable contempt. At last, biting her thin lips, and bridling up, she said—

‘It can’t be. I won’t believe it.’

‘Watch ‘em,’ said Jingle.

‘I will,’ said the aunt.

‘Watch his looks.’

‘I will.’

‘His whispers.’

‘I will.’

‘He’ll sit next her at table.’

‘Let him.’

‘He’ll flatter her.’

‘Let him.’

‘He’ll pay her every possible attention.’

‘Let him.’

‘And he’ll cut you.’

‘Cut me!’ screamed the spinster aunt. ‘he cut me; will he!’ and she trembled with rage and disappointment.

‘You will convince yourself?’ said Jingle.

‘I will.’

‘You’ll show your spirit?’

‘I will.’

You’ll not have him afterwards?’

‘Never.’

‘You’ll take somebody else?’

Yes.’

‘You shall.’

Mr. Jingle fell on his knees, remained thereupon for five minutes thereafter; and rose the accepted lover of the spinster aunt— conditionally upon Mr. Tupman’s perjury being made clear and manifest.

The burden of proof lay with Mr. Alfred Jingle; and he produced his evidence that very day at dinner. The spinster aunt could hardly believe her eyes. Mr. Tracy Tupman was established at Emily’s side, ogling, whispering, and smiling, in opposition to Mr. Snodgrass. Not a word, not a look, not a glance, did he bestow upon his heart’s pride of the evening before.

‘Damn that boy!’ thought old Mr. Wardle to himself.—He had heard the story from his mother. ‘Damn that boy! He must have been asleep. It’s all imagination.’

‘Traitor!’ thought the spinster aunt. ‘Dear Mr. Jingle was not deceiving me. Ugh! how I hate the wretch!’

The following conversation may serve to explain to our readers this apparently unaccountable alteration of deportment on the part of Mr. Tracy Tupman.

The time was evening; the scene the garden. There were two figures walking in a side path; one was rather short and stout; the other tall and slim. They were Mr. Tupman and Mr. Jingle. The stout figure commenced the dialogue.

‘How did I do it?’ he inquired.

‘Splendid—capital—couldn’t act better myself—you must repeat the part to-morrow—every evening till further notice.’

‘Does Rachael still wish it?’

‘Of course—she don’t like it—but must be done—avert suspicion—afraid of her brother—says there’s no help for it—only a few days more—when old folks blinded—crown your happiness.’

‘Any message?’

‘Love—best love—kindest regards—unalterable affection. Can I say anything for you?’

‘My dear fellow,’ replied the unsuspicious Mr. Tupman, fervently grasping his ‘friend’s’ hand—‘carry my best love—say how hard I find it to dissemble—say anything that’s kind: but add how sensible I am of the necessity of the suggestion she made to me, through you, this morning. Say I applaud her wisdom and admire her discretion.’

I will. Anything more?’

‘Nothing, only add how ardently I long for the time when I may call her mine, and all dissimulation may be unnecessary.’

‘Certainly, certainly. Anything more?’

‘Oh, my friend!’ said poor Mr. Tupman, again grasping the hand of his companion, ‘receive my warmest thanks for your disinterested kindness; and forgive me if I have ever, even in thought, done you the injustice of supposing that you could stand in my way. My dear friend, can I ever repay you?’

‘Don’t talk of it,’ replied Mr. Jingle. He stopped short, as if suddenly recollecting something, and said—‘By the bye—can’t spare ten pounds, can you?—very particular purpose—pay you in three days.’

‘I dare say I can,’ replied Mr. Tupman, in the fulness of his heart. ‘Three days, you say?’

‘Only three days—all over then—no more difficulties.’ Mr. Tupman counted the money into his companion’s hand, and he dropped it piece by piece into his pocket, as they walked towards the house.

‘Be careful,’ said Mr. Jingle—‘not a look.’

‘Not a wink,’ said Mr. Tupman.

‘Not a syllable.’

‘Not a whisper.’

‘All your attentions to the niece—rather rude, than otherwise, to the aunt—only way of deceiving the old ones.’

‘I’ll take care,’ said Mr. Tupman aloud.

‘And I’ll take care,’ said Mr. Jingle internally; and they entered the house.

The scene of that afternoon was repeated that evening, and on the three afternoons and evenings next ensuing. On the fourth, the host was in high spirits, for he had satisfied himself that there was no ground for the charge against Mr. Tupman. So was Mr. Tupman, for Mr. Jingle had told him that his affair would soon be brought to a crisis. So was Mr. Pickwick, for he was seldom otherwise. So was not Mr. Snodgrass, for he had grown jealous of Mr. Tupman. So was the old lady, for she had been winning at whist. So were Mr. Jingle and Miss Wardle, for reasons of sufficient importance in this eventful history to be narrated in another chapter.

CHAPTER IX. A DISCOVERY AND A CHASE

The supper was ready laid, the chairs were drawn round the table, bottles, jugs, and glasses were arranged upon the sideboard, and everything betokened the approach of the most convivial period in the whole four-and-twenty hours.

‘Where’s Rachael?’ said Mr. Wardle.

‘Ay, and Jingle?’ added Mr. Pickwick.

‘Dear me,’ said the host, ‘I wonder I haven’t missed him before. Why, I don’t think I’ve heard his voice for two hours at least. Emily, my dear, ring the bell.’

The bell was rung, and the fat boy appeared.

‘Where’s Miss Rachael?’ He couldn’t say.

‘Where’s Mr. Jingle, then?’ He didn’t know. Everybody looked surprised. It was late—past eleven o’clock. Mr. Tupman laughed in his sleeve. They were loitering somewhere, talking about him. Ha, ha! capital notion that—funny.

‘Never mind,’ said Wardle, after a short pause. ‘They’ll turn up presently, I dare say. I never wait supper for anybody.’

‘Excellent rule, that,’ said Mr. Pickwick—‘admirable.’

‘Pray, sit down,’ said the host.

‘Certainly’ said Mr. Pickwick; and down they sat.

There was a gigantic round of cold beef on the table, and Mr. Pickwick was supplied with a plentiful portion of it. He had raised his fork to his lips, and was on the very point of opening his mouth for the reception of a piece of beef, when the hum of many voices suddenly arose in the kitchen. He paused, and laid down his fork. Mr. Wardle paused too, and insensibly released his hold of the carving-knife, which remained inserted in the beef. He looked at Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Pickwick looked at him.

Heavy footsteps were heard in the passage; the parlour door was suddenly burst open; and the man who had cleaned Mr. Pickwick’s boots on his first arrival, rushed into the room, followed by the fat boy and all the domestics.

‘What the devil’s the meaning of this?’ exclaimed the host.

‘The kitchen chimney ain’t a-fire, is it, Emma?’ inquired the old lady.

‘Lor, grandma! No,’ screamed both the young ladies.

‘What’s the matter?’ roared the master of the house.

The man gasped for breath, and faintly ejaculated—

‘They ha’ gone, mas’r!—gone right clean off, Sir!’ (At this juncture Mr. Tupman was observed to lay down his knife and fork, and to turn very pale.)

‘Who’s gone?’ said Mr. Wardle fiercely.

‘Mus’r Jingle and Miss Rachael, in a po’-chay, from Blue Lion, Muggleton. I was there; but I couldn’t stop ‘em; so I run off to tell ‘ee.’

‘I paid his expenses!’ said Mr. Tupman, jumping up frantically. ‘He’s got ten pounds of mine!—stop him!—he’s swindled me!—I won’t bear it!- -I’ll have justice, Pickwick!—I won’t stand it!’ and with sundry incoherent exclamations of the like nature, the unhappy gentleman spun round and round the apartment, in a transport of frenzy.

‘Lord preserve us!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, eyeing the extraordinary gestures of his friend with terrified surprise. ‘He’s gone mad! What shall we do?’

Do!’ said the stout old host, who regarded only the last words of the sentence. ‘Put the horse in the gig! I’ll get a chaise at the Lion, and follow ‘em instantly. Where?’—he exclaimed, as the man ran out to execute the commission—‘where’s that villain, Joe?’

‘Here I am! but I hain’t a willin,’ replied a voice. It was the fat boy’s.

‘Let me get at him, Pickwick,’ cried Wardle, as he rushed at the ill- starred youth. ‘He was bribed by that scoundrel, Jingle, to put me on a wrong scent, by telling a cock-and-bull story of my sister and your friend Tupman!’ (Here Mr. Tupman sank into a chair.) ‘Let me get at him!’

‘Don’t let him!’ screamed all the women, above whose exclamations the blubbering of the fat boy was distinctly audible.

‘I won’t be held!’ cried the old man. ‘Mr. Winkle, take your hands off. Mr. Pickwick, let me go, sir!’

It was a beautiful sight, in that moment of turmoil and confusion, to behold the placid and philosophical expression of Mr. Pickwick’s face, albeit somewhat flushed with exertion, as he stood with his arms firmly clasped round the extensive waist of their corpulent host, thus restraining the impetuosity of his passion, while the fat boy was scratched, and pulled, and pushed from the room by all the females congregated therein. He had no sooner released his hold, than the man entered to announce that the gig was ready.

‘Don’t let him go alone!’ screamed the females. ‘He’ll kill somebody!’

‘I’ll go with him,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘You’re a good fellow, Pickwick,’ said the host, grasping his hand. ‘Emma, give Mr. Pickwick a shawl to tie round his neck—make haste. Look after your grandmother, girls; she has fainted away. Now then, are you ready?’

Mr. Pickwick’s mouth and chin having been hastily enveloped in a large shawl, his hat having been put on his head, and his greatcoat thrown over his arm, he replied in the affirmative.

They jumped into the gig. ‘Give her her head, Tom,’ cried the host; and away they went, down the narrow lanes; jolting in and out of the cart- ruts, and bumping up against the hedges on either side, as if they would go to pieces every moment.

‘How much are they ahead?’ shouted Wardle, as they drove up to the door of the Blue Lion, round which a little crowd had collected, late as it was.

‘Not above three-quarters of an hour,’ was everybody’s reply.

‘Chaise-and-four directly!—out with ‘em! Put up the gig afterwards.’

‘Now, boys!’ cried the landlord—‘chaise-and-four out—make haste—look alive there!’

Away ran the hostlers and the boys. The lanterns glimmered, as the men ran to and fro; the horses’ hoofs clattered on the uneven paving of the yard; the chaise rumbled as it was drawn out of the coach-house; and all was noise and bustle.

‘Now then!—is that chaise coming out to-night?’ cried Wardle.

‘Coming down the yard now, Sir,’ replied the hostler.

Out came the chaise—in went the horses—on sprang the boys—in got the travellers.

‘Mind—the seven-mile stage in less than half an hour!’ shouted Wardle.

‘Off with you!’

The boys applied whip and spur, the waiters shouted, the hostlers cheered, and away they went, fast and furiously.

‘Pretty situation,’ thought Mr. Pickwick, when he had had a moment’s time for reflection. ‘Pretty situation for the general chairman of the Pickwick Club. Damp chaise—strange horses—fifteen miles an hour—and twelve o’clock at night!’

For the first three or four miles, not a word was spoken by either of the gentlemen, each being too much immersed in his own reflections to address any observations to his companion. When they had gone over that much ground, however, and the horses getting thoroughly warmed began to do their work in really good style, Mr. Pickwick became too much exhilarated with the rapidity of the motion, to remain any longer perfectly mute.

‘We’re sure to catch them, I think,’ said he.

‘Hope so,’ replied his companion.

‘Fine night,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking up at the moon, which was shining brightly.

‘So much the worse,’ returned Wardle; ‘for they’ll have had all the advantage of the moonlight to get the start of us, and we shall lose it. It will have gone down in another hour.’

‘It will be rather unpleasant going at this rate in the dark, won’t it?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘I dare say it will,’ replied his friend dryly.

Mr. Pickwick’s temporary excitement began to sober down a little, as he reflected upon the inconveniences and dangers of the expedition in which he had so thoughtlessly embarked. He was roused by a loud shouting of the post-boy on the leader.

‘Yo-yo-yo-yo-yoe!’ went the first boy.

‘Yo-yo-yo-yoe!’ went the second.

‘Yo-yo-yo-yoe!’ chimed in old Wardle himself, most lustily, with his head and half his body out of the coach window.

‘Yo-yo-yo-yoe!’ shouted Mr. Pickwick, taking up the burden of the cry, though he had not the slightest notion of its meaning or object. And amidst the yo-yoing of the whole four, the chaise stopped.

‘What’s the matter?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘There’s a gate here,’ replied old Wardle. ‘We shall hear something of the fugitives.’

After a lapse of five minutes, consumed in incessant knocking and shouting, an old man in his shirt and trousers emerged from the turnpike-house, and opened the gate.

‘How long is it since a post-chaise went through here?’ inquired Mr. Wardle.

‘How long?’

‘Ah!’

‘Why, I don’t rightly know. It worn’t a long time ago, nor it worn’t a short time ago—just between the two, perhaps.’

‘Has any chaise been by at all?’

‘Oh, yes, there’s been a chay by.’

‘How long ago, my friend,’ interposed Mr. Pickwick; ‘an hour?’

‘Ah, I dare say it might be,’ replied the man.

‘Or two hours?’ inquired the post—boy on the wheeler.

‘Well, I shouldn’t wonder if it was,’ returned the old man doubtfully.

‘Drive on, boys,’ cried the testy old gentleman; ‘don’t waste any more time with that old idiot!’

‘Idiot!’ exclaimed the old man with a grin, as he stood in the middle of the road with the gate half-closed, watching the chaise which rapidly diminished in the increasing distance. ‘No—not much o’ that either; you’ve lost ten minutes here, and gone away as wise as you came, arter all. If every man on the line as has a guinea give him, earns it half as well, you won’t catch t’other chay this side Mich’lmas, old short-and- fat.’ And with another prolonged grin, the old man closed the gate, re- entered his house, and bolted the door after him.

Meanwhile the chaise proceeded, without any slackening of pace, towards the conclusion of the stage. The moon, as Wardle had foretold, was rapidly on the wane; large tiers of dark, heavy clouds, which had been gradually overspreading the sky for some time past, now formed one black mass overhead; and large drops of rain which pattered every now and then against the windows of the chaise, seemed to warn the travellers of the rapid approach of a stormy night. The wind, too, which was directly against them, swept in furious gusts down the narrow road, and howled dismally through the trees which skirted the pathway. Mr. Pickwick drew his coat closer about him, coiled himself more snugly up into the corner of the chaise, and fell into a sound sleep, from which he was only awakened by the stopping of the vehicle, the sound of the hostler’s bell, and a loud cry of ‘Horses on directly!’

But here another delay occurred. The boys were sleeping with such mysterious soundness, that it took five minutes a-piece to wake them. The hostler had somehow or other mislaid the key of the stable, and even when that was found, two sleepy helpers put the wrong harness on the wrong horses, and the whole process of harnessing had to be gone through afresh. Had Mr. Pickwick been alone, these multiplied obstacles would have completely put an end to the pursuit at once, but old Wardle was not to be so easily daunted; and he laid about him with such hearty good-will, cuffing this man, and pushing that; strapping a buckle here, and taking in a link there, that the chaise was ready in a much shorter time than could reasonably have been expected, under so many difficulties.

They resumed their journey; and certainly the prospect before them was by no means encouraging. The stage was fifteen miles long, the night was dark, the wind high, and the rain pouring in torrents. It was impossible to make any great way against such obstacles united; it was hard upon one o’clock already; and nearly two hours were consumed in getting to the end of the stage. Here, however, an object presented itself, which rekindled their hopes, and reanimated their drooping spirits.

‘When did this chaise come in?’ cried old Wardle, leaping out of his own vehicle, and pointing to one covered with wet mud, which was standing in the yard.

‘Not a quarter of an hour ago, sir,’ replied the hostler, to whom the question was addressed.

‘Lady and gentleman?’ inquired Wardle, almost breathless with impatience.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Tall gentleman—dress-coat—long legs—thin body?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Elderly lady—thin face—rather skinny—eh?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘By heavens, it’s the couple, Pickwick,’ exclaimed the old gentleman.

‘Would have been here before,’ said the hostler, ‘but they broke a trace.’

‘’Tis them!’ said Wardle, ‘it is, by Jove! Chaise-and-four instantly! We shall catch them yet before they reach the next stage. A guinea a-piece, boys-be alive there—bustle about—there’s good fellows.’

And with such admonitions as these, the old gentleman ran up and down the yard, and bustled to and fro, in a state of excitement which communicated itself to Mr. Pickwick also; and under the influence of which, that gentleman got himself into complicated entanglements with harness, and mixed up with horses and wheels of chaises, in the most surprising manner, firmly believing that by so doing he was materially forwarding the preparations for their resuming their journey.

‘Jump in—jump in!’ cried old Wardle, climbing into the chaise, pulling up the steps, and slamming the door after him. ‘Come along! Make haste!’ And before Mr. Pickwick knew precisely what he was about, he felt himself forced in at the other door, by one pull from the old gentleman and one push from the hostler; and off they were again.

‘Ah! we are moving now,’ said the old gentleman exultingly. They were indeed, as was sufficiently testified to Mr. Pickwick, by his constant collision either with the hard wood-work of the chaise, or the body of his companion.

‘Hold up!’ said the stout old Mr. Wardle, as Mr. Pickwick dived head foremost into his capacious waistcoat.

‘I never did feel such a jolting in my life,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Never mind,’ replied his companion, ‘it will soon be over. Steady, steady.’

Mr. Pickwick planted himself into his own corner, as firmly as he could; and on whirled the chaise faster than ever.

They had travelled in this way about three miles, when Mr. Wardle, who had been looking out of the Window for two or three minutes, suddenly drew in his face, covered with splashes, and exclaimed in breathless eagerness—

‘Here they are!’

Mr. Pickwick thrust his head out of his window. Yes: there was a chaise- and-four, a short distance before them, dashing along at full gallop.

‘Go on, go on,’ almost shrieked the old gentleman. ‘Two guineas a-piece, boys—don’t let ‘em gain on us—keep it up—keep it up.’

The horses in the first chaise started on at their utmost speed; and those in Mr. Wardle’s galloped furiously behind them.

‘I see his head,’ exclaimed the choleric old man; ‘damme, I see his head.’

‘So do I’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘that’s he.’

Mr. Pickwick was not mistaken. The countenance of Mr. Jingle, completely coated with mud thrown up by the wheels, was plainly discernible at the window of his chaise; and the motion of his arm, which was waving violently towards the postillions, denoted that he was encouraging them to increased exertion.

The interest was intense. Fields, trees, and hedges, seemed to rush past them with the velocity of a whirlwind, so rapid was the pace at which they tore along. They were close by the side of the first chaise. Jingle’s voice could be plainly heard, even above the din of the wheels, urging on the boys. Old Mr. Wardle foamed with rage and excitement. He roared out scoundrels and villains by the dozen, clenched his fist and shook it expressively at the object of his indignation; but Mr. Jingle only answered with a contemptuous smile, and replied to his menaces by a shout of triumph, as his horses, answering the increased application of whip and spur, broke into a faster gallop, and left the pursuers behind.

Mr. Pickwick had just drawn in his head, and Mr. Wardle, exhausted with shouting, had done the same, when a tremendous jolt threw them forward against the front of the vehicle. There was a sudden bump—a loud crash- -away rolled a wheel, and over went the chaise.

After a very few seconds of bewilderment and confusion, in which nothing but the plunging of horses, and breaking of glass could be made out, Mr. Pickwick felt himself violently pulled out from among the ruins of the chaise; and as soon as he had gained his feet, extricated his head from the skirts of his greatcoat, which materially impeded the usefulness of his spectacles, the full disaster of the case met his view.

Old Mr. Wardle without a hat, and his clothes torn in several places, stood by his side, and the fragments of the chaise lay scattered at their feet. The post-boys, who had succeeded in cutting the traces, were standing, disfigured with mud and disordered by hard riding, by the horses’ heads. About a hundred yards in advance was the other chaise, which had pulled up on hearing the crash. The postillions, each with a broad grin convulsing his countenance, were viewing the adverse party from their saddles, and Mr. Jingle was contemplating the wreck from the coach window, with evident satisfaction. The day was just breaking, and the whole scene was rendered perfectly visible by the grey light of the morning.

‘Hollo!’ shouted the shameless Jingle, ‘anybody damaged?—elderly gentlemen—no light weights—dangerous work—very.’

‘You’re a rascal,’ roared Wardle.

‘Ha! ha!’ replied Jingle; and then he added, with a knowing wink, and a jerk of the thumb towards the interior of the chaise—‘I say—she’s very well—desires her compliments—begs you won’t trouble yourself—love to Tuppy—won’t you get up behind?—drive on, boys.’

The postillions resumed their proper attitudes, and away rattled the chaise, Mr. Jingle fluttering in derision a white handkerchief from the coach window.

Nothing in the whole adventure, not even the upset, had disturbed the calm and equable current of Mr. Pickwick’s temper. The villainy, however, which could first borrow money of his faithful follower, and then abbreviate his name to ‘Tuppy,’ was more than he could patiently bear. He drew his breath hard, and coloured up to the very tips of his spectacles, as he said, slowly and emphatically—

‘If ever I meet that man again, I’ll—’

‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted Wardle, ‘that’s all very well; but while we stand talking here, they’ll get their licence, and be married in London.’

Mr. Pickwick paused, bottled up his vengeance, and corked it down. ‘How far is it to the next stage?’ inquired Mr. Wardle, of one of the boys.

‘Six mile, ain’t it, Tom?’

‘Rayther better.’

‘Rayther better nor six mile, Sir.’

‘Can’t be helped,’ said Wardle, ‘we must walk it, Pickwick.’

‘No help for it,’ replied that truly great man.

So sending forward one of the boys on horseback, to procure a fresh chaise and horses, and leaving the other behind to take care of the broken one, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Wardle set manfully forward on the walk, first tying their shawls round their necks, and slouching down their hats to escape as much as possible from the deluge of rain, which after a slight cessation had again begun to pour heavily down.

CHAPTER X. CLEARING UP ALL DOUBTS (IF ANY EXISTED) OF THE DISINTERESTEDNESS OF MR. A. JINGLE’S CHARACTER

There are in London several old inns, once the headquarters of celebrated coaches in the days when coaches performed their journeys in a graver and more solemn manner than they do in these times; but which have now degenerated into little more than the abiding and booking- places of country wagons. The reader would look in vain for any of these ancient hostelries, among the Golden Crosses and Bull and Mouths, which rear their stately fronts in the improved streets of London. If he would light upon any of these old places, he must direct his steps to the obscurer quarters of the town, and there in some secluded nooks he will find several, still standing with a kind of gloomy sturdiness, amidst the modern innovations which surround them.

In the Borough especially, there still remain some half-dozen old inns, which have preserved their external features unchanged, and which have escaped alike the rage for public improvement and the encroachments of private speculation. Great, rambling queer old places they are, with galleries, and passages, and staircases, wide enough and antiquated enough to furnish materials for a hundred ghost stories, supposing we should ever be reduced to the lamentable necessity of inventing any, and that the world should exist long enough to exhaust the innumerable veracious legends connected with old London Bridge, and its adjacent neighbourhood on the Surrey side.

It was in the yard of one of these inns—of no less celebrated a one than the White Hart—that a man was busily employed in brushing the dirt off a pair of boots, early on the morning succeeding the events narrated in the last chapter. He was habited in a coarse, striped waistcoat, with black calico sleeves, and blue glass buttons; drab breeches and leggings. A bright red handkerchief was wound in a very loose and unstudied style round his neck, and an old white hat was carelessly thrown on one side of his head. There were two rows of boots before him, one cleaned and the other dirty, and at every addition he made to the clean row, he paused from his work, and contemplated its results with evident satisfaction.

The yard presented none of that bustle and activity which are the usual characteristics of a large coach inn. Three or four lumbering wagons, each with a pile of goods beneath its ample canopy, about the height of the second-floor window of an ordinary house, were stowed away beneath a lofty roof which extended over one end of the yard; and another, which was probably to commence its journey that morning, was drawn out into the open space. A double tier of bedroom galleries, with old clumsy balustrades, ran round two sides of the straggling area, and a double row of bells to correspond, sheltered from the weather by a little sloping roof, hung over the door leading to the bar and coffee-room. Two or three gigs and chaise-carts were wheeled up under different little sheds and pent-houses; and the occasional heavy tread of a cart-horse, or rattling of a chain at the farther end of the yard, announced to anybody who cared about the matter, that the stable lay in that direction. When we add that a few boys in smock-frocks were lying asleep on heavy packages, wool-packs, and other articles that were scattered about on heaps of straw, we have described as fully as need be the general appearance of the yard of the White Hart Inn, High Street, Borough, on the particular morning in question.

A loud ringing of one of the bells was followed by the appearance of a smart chambermaid in the upper sleeping gallery, who, after tapping at one of the doors, and receiving a request from within, called over the balustrades—

‘Sam!’

‘Hollo,’ replied the man with the white hat.

‘Number twenty-two wants his boots.’

‘Ask number twenty-two, vether he’ll have ‘em now, or vait till he gets ‘em,’ was the reply.

‘Come, don’t be a fool, Sam,’ said the girl coaxingly, ‘the gentleman wants his boots directly.’

‘Well, you are a nice young ‘ooman for a musical party, you are,’ said the boot-cleaner. ‘Look at these here boots—eleven pair o’ boots; and one shoe as belongs to number six, with the wooden leg. The eleven boots is to be called at half-past eight and the shoe at nine. Who’s number twenty-two, that’s to put all the others out? No, no; reg’lar rotation, as Jack Ketch said, ven he tied the men up. Sorry to keep you a-waitin’, Sir, but I’ll attend to you directly.’

Saying which, the man in the white hat set to work upon a top-boot with increased assiduity.

There was another loud ring; and the bustling old landlady of the White Hart made her appearance in the opposite gallery.

‘Sam,’ cried the landlady, ‘where’s that lazy, idle—why, Sam—oh, there you are; why don’t you answer?’

‘Vouldn’t be gen-teel to answer, till you’d done talking,’ replied Sam gruffly.

‘Here, clean these shoes for number seventeen directly, and take ‘em to private sitting-room, number five, first floor.’

The landlady flung a pair of lady’s shoes into the yard, and bustled away.

‘Number five,’ said Sam, as he picked up the shoes, and taking a piece of chalk from his pocket, made a memorandum of their destination on the soles—‘Lady’s shoes and private sittin’-room! I suppose she didn’t come in the vagin.’

‘She came in early this morning,’ cried the girl, who was still leaning over the railing of the gallery, ‘with a gentleman in a hackney-coach, and it’s him as wants his boots, and you’d better do ‘em, that’s all about it.’

‘Vy didn’t you say so before,’ said Sam, with great indignation, singling out the boots in question from the heap before him. ‘For all I know’d he was one o’ the regular threepennies. Private room! and a lady too! If he’s anything of a gen’l’m’n, he’s vurth a shillin’ a day, let alone the arrands.’

Stimulated by this inspiring reflection, Mr. Samuel brushed away with such hearty good-will, that in a few minutes the boots and shoes, with a polish which would have struck envy to the soul of the amiable Mr. Warren (for they used Day & Martin at the White Hart), had arrived at the door of number five.

‘Come in,’ said a man’s voice, in reply to Sam’s rap at the door. Sam made his best bow, and stepped into the presence of a lady and gentleman seated at breakfast. Having officiously deposited the gentleman’s boots right and left at his feet, and the lady’s shoes right and left at hers, he backed towards the door.

‘Boots,’ said the gentleman.

‘Sir,’ said Sam, closing the door, and keeping his hand on the knob of the lock.

‘Do you know—what’s a-name—Doctors’ Commons?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Where is it?’

‘Paul’s Churchyard, Sir; low archway on the carriage side, bookseller’s at one corner, hotel on the other, and two porters in the middle as touts for licences.’

‘Touts for licences!’ said the gentleman.

‘Touts for licences,’ replied Sam. ‘Two coves in vhite aprons—touches their hats ven you walk in—“Licence, Sir, licence?” Queer sort, them, and their mas’rs, too, sir—Old Bailey Proctors—and no mistake.’

‘What do they do?’ inquired the gentleman.

‘Do! You, Sir! That ain’t the worst on it, neither. They puts things into old gen’l’m’n’s heads as they never dreamed of. My father, Sir, wos a coachman. A widower he wos, and fat enough for anything—uncommon fat, to be sure. His missus dies, and leaves him four hundred pound. Down he goes to the Commons, to see the lawyer and draw the blunt—very smart— top boots on—nosegay in his button-hole—broad-brimmed tile—green shawl—quite the gen’l’m’n. Goes through the archvay, thinking how he should inwest the money—up comes the touter, touches his hat—“Licence, Sir, licence?”—“What’s that?” says my father.—“Licence, Sir,” says he.—“What licence?” says my father.—“Marriage licence,” says the touter.—“Dash my veskit,” says my father, “I never thought o’ that.”— “I think you wants one, Sir,” says the touter. My father pulls up, and thinks a bit—“No,” says he, “damme, I’m too old, b’sides, I’m a many sizes too large,” says he.—“Not a bit on it, Sir,” says the touter.— “Think not?” says my father.—“I’m sure not,” says he; “we married a gen’l’m’n twice your size, last Monday.”—“Did you, though?” said my father.—“To be sure, we did,” says the touter, “you’re a babby to him— this way, sir—this way!”—and sure enough my father walks arter him, like a tame monkey behind a horgan, into a little back office, vere a teller sat among dirty papers, and tin boxes, making believe he was busy. “Pray take a seat, vile I makes out the affidavit, Sir,” says the lawyer.—“Thank’ee, Sir,” says my father, and down he sat, and stared with all his eyes, and his mouth vide open, at the names on the boxes. “What’s your name, Sir,” says the lawyer.—“Tony Weller,” says my father.—“Parish?” says the lawyer. “Belle Savage,” says my father; for he stopped there wen he drove up, and he know’d nothing about parishes, he didn’t.—“And what’s the lady’s name?” says the lawyer. My father was struck all of a heap. “Blessed if I know,” says he.—“Not know!” says the lawyer.—“No more nor you do,” says my father; “can’t I put that in arterwards?”—“Impossible!” says the lawyer.—“Wery well,” says my father, after he’d thought a moment, “put down Mrs. Clarke.”—“What Clarke?” says the lawyer, dipping his pen in the ink.—“Susan Clarke, Markis o’ Granby, Dorking,” says my father; “she’ll have me, if I ask. I des-say—I never said nothing to her, but she’ll have me, I know.” The licence was made out, and she did have him, and what’s more she’s got him now; and I never had any of the four hundred pound, worse luck. Beg your pardon, sir,’ said Sam, when he had concluded, ‘but wen I gets on this here grievance, I runs on like a new barrow with the wheel greased.’ Having said which, and having paused for an instant to see whether he was wanted for anything more, Sam left the room.

‘Half-past nine—just the time—off at once;’ said the gentleman, whom we need hardly introduce as Mr. Jingle.

‘Time—for what?’ said the spinster aunt coquettishly.

‘Licence, dearest of angels—give notice at the church—call you mine, to-morrow’—said Mr. Jingle, and he squeezed the spinster aunt’s hand.

‘The licence!’ said Rachael, blushing.

‘The licence,’ repeated Mr. Jingle—

‘In hurry, post-haste for a licence, In hurry, ding dong I come back.’

‘How you run on,’ said Rachael.

‘Run on—nothing to the hours, days, weeks, months, years, when we’re united—run on—they’ll fly on—bolt—mizzle—steam-engine—thousand- horse power—nothing to it.’

‘Can’t—can’t we be married before to-morrow morning?’ inquired Rachael.

‘Impossible—can’t be—notice at the church—leave the licence to-day— ceremony come off to-morrow.’

I am so terrified, lest my brother should discover us!’ said Rachael.

‘Discover—nonsense—too much shaken by the break-down—besides—extreme caution—gave up the post-chaise—walked on—took a hackney-coach—came to the Borough—last place in the world that he’d look in—ha! ha!— capital notion that—very.’

‘Don’t be long,’ said the spinster affectionately, as Mr. Jingle stuck the pinched-up hat on his head.

‘Long away from you?—Cruel charmer,’ and Mr. Jingle skipped playfully up to the spinster aunt, imprinted a chaste kiss upon her lips, and danced out of the room.

‘Dear man!’ said the spinster, as the door closed after him.

‘Rum old girl,’ said Mr. Jingle, as he walked down the passage.

It is painful to reflect upon the perfidy of our species; and we will not, therefore, pursue the thread of Mr. Jingle’s meditations, as he wended his way to Doctors’ Commons. It will be sufficient for our purpose to relate, that escaping the snares of the dragons in white aprons, who guard the entrance to that enchanted region, he reached the vicar-general’s office in safety and having procured a highly flattering address on parchment, from the Archbishop of Canterbury, to his ‘trusty and well-beloved Alfred Jingle and Rachael Wardle, greeting,’ he carefully deposited the mystic document in his pocket, and retraced his steps in triumph to the Borough.

He was yet on his way to the White Hart, when two plump gentleman and one thin one entered the yard, and looked round in search of some authorised person of whom they could make a few inquiries. Mr. Samuel Weller happened to be at that moment engaged in burnishing a pair of painted tops, the personal property of a farmer who was refreshing himself with a slight lunch of two or three pounds of cold beef and a pot or two of porter, after the fatigues of the Borough market; and to him the thin gentleman straightway advanced.

‘My friend,’ said the thin gentleman.

‘You’re one o’ the adwice gratis order,’ thought Sam, ‘or you wouldn’t be so wery fond o’ me all at once.’ But he only said—‘Well, Sir.’

‘My friend,’ said the thin gentleman, with a conciliatory hem—‘have you got many people stopping here now? Pretty busy. Eh?’

Sam stole a look at the inquirer. He was a little high-dried man, with a dark squeezed-up face, and small, restless, black eyes, that kept winking and twinkling on each side of his little inquisitive nose, as if they were playing a perpetual game of peep-bo with that feature. He was dressed all in black, with boots as shiny as his eyes, a low white neckcloth, and a clean shirt with a frill to it. A gold watch-chain, and seals, depended from his fob. He carried his black kid gloves in his hands, and not ON them; and as he spoke, thrust his wrists beneath his coat tails, with the air of a man who was in the habit of propounding some regular posers.

‘Pretty busy, eh?’ said the little man.

‘Oh, wery well, Sir,’ replied Sam, ‘we shan’t be bankrupts, and we shan’t make our fort’ns. We eats our biled mutton without capers, and don’t care for horse-radish ven ve can get beef.’

‘Ah,’ said the little man, ‘you’re a wag, ain’t you?’

‘My eldest brother was troubled with that complaint,’ said Sam; ‘it may be catching—I used to sleep with him.’

‘This is a curious old house of yours,’ said the little man, looking round him.

‘If you’d sent word you was a-coming, we’d ha’ had it repaired;’ replied the imperturbable Sam.

The little man seemed rather baffled by these several repulses, and a short consultation took place between him and the two plump gentlemen. At its conclusion, the little man took a pinch of snuff from an oblong silver box, and was apparently on the point of renewing the conversation, when one of the plump gentlemen, who in addition to a benevolent countenance, possessed a pair of spectacles, and a pair of black gaiters, interfered—

‘The fact of the matter is,’ said the benevolent gentleman, ‘that my friend here (pointing to the other plump gentleman) will give you half a guinea, if you’ll answer one or two—’

‘Now, my dear sir—my dear Sir,’ said the little man, ‘pray, allow me— my dear Sir, the very first principle to be observed in these cases, is this: if you place the matter in the hands of a professional man, you must in no way interfere in the progress of the business; you must repose implicit confidence in him. Really, Mr.—’ He turned to the other plump gentleman, and said, ‘I forget your friend’s name.’

‘Pickwick,’ said Mr. Wardle, for it was no other than that jolly personage.

‘Ah, Pickwick—really Mr. Pickwick, my dear Sir, excuse me—I shall be happy to receive any private suggestions of yours, as AMICUS CURIAE, but you must see the impropriety of your interfering with my conduct in this case, with such an AD CAPTANDUM argument as the offer of half a guinea. Really, my dear Sir, really;’ and the little man took an argumentative pinch of snuff, and looked very profound.

‘My only wish, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘was to bring this very unpleasant matter to as speedy a close as possible.’

‘Quite right—quite right,’ said the little man.

‘With which view,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, ‘I made use of the argument which my experience of men has taught me is the most likely to succeed in any case.’

‘Ay, ay,’ said the little man, ‘very good, very good, indeed; but you should have suggested it to me. My dear sir, I’m quite certain you cannot be ignorant of the extent of confidence which must be placed in professional men. If any authority can be necessary on such a point, my dear sir, let me refer you to the well-known case in Barnwell and—’

‘Never mind George Barnwell,’ interrupted Sam, who had remained a wondering listener during this short colloquy; ‘everybody knows what sort of a case his was, tho’ it’s always been my opinion, mind you, that the young ‘ooman deserved scragging a precious sight more than he did. Hows’ever, that’s neither here nor there. You want me to accept of half a guinea. Wery well, I’m agreeable: I can’t say no fairer than that, can I, sir?’ (Mr. Pickwick smiled.) Then the next question is, what the devil do you want with me, as the man said, wen he see the ghost?’

‘We want to know—’ said Mr. Wardle.

‘Now, my dear sir—my dear sir,’ interposed the busy little man.

Mr. Wardle shrugged his shoulders, and was silent.

‘We want to know,’ said the little man solemnly; ‘and we ask the question of you, in order that we may not awaken apprehensions inside— we want to know who you’ve got in this house at present?’

‘Who there is in the house!’ said Sam, in whose mind the inmates were always represented by that particular article of their costume, which came under his immediate superintendence. ‘There’s a vooden leg in number six; there’s a pair of Hessians in thirteen; there’s two pair of halves in the commercial; there’s these here painted tops in the snuggery inside the bar; and five more tops in the coffee-room.’

‘Nothing more?’ said the little man.

‘Stop a bit,’ replied Sam, suddenly recollecting himself. ‘Yes; there’s a pair of Vellingtons a good deal worn, and a pair o’ lady’s shoes, in number five.’

‘What sort of shoes?’ hastily inquired Wardle, who, together with Mr. Pickwick, had been lost in bewilderment at the singular catalogue of visitors.

‘Country make,’ replied Sam.

‘Any maker’s name?’

‘Brown.’

‘Where of?’

‘Muggleton.

‘It is them,’ exclaimed Wardle. ‘By heavens, we’ve found them.’

‘Hush!’ said Sam. ‘The Vellingtons has gone to Doctors’ Commons.’

‘No,’ said the little man.

‘Yes, for a licence.’

‘We’re in time,’ exclaimed Wardle. ‘Show us the room; not a moment is to be lost.’

‘Pray, my dear sir—pray,’ said the little man; ‘caution, caution.’ He drew from his pocket a red silk purse, and looked very hard at Sam as he drew out a sovereign.

Sam grinned expressively.

‘Show us into the room at once, without announcing us,’ said the little man, ‘and it’s yours.’

Sam threw the painted tops into a corner, and led the way through a dark passage, and up a wide staircase. He paused at the end of a second passage, and held out his hand.

‘Here it is,’ whispered the attorney, as he deposited the money on the hand of their guide.

The man stepped forward for a few paces, followed by the two friends and their legal adviser. He stopped at a door.

‘Is this the room?’ murmured the little gentleman.

Sam nodded assent.

Old Wardle opened the door; and the whole three walked into the room just as Mr. Jingle, who had that moment returned, had produced the licence to the spinster aunt.

The spinster uttered a loud shriek, and throwing herself into a chair, covered her face with her hands. Mr. Jingle crumpled up the licence, and thrust it into his coat pocket. The unwelcome visitors advanced into the middle of the room.

‘You—you are a nice rascal, arn’t you?’ exclaimed Wardle, breathless with passion.

‘My dear Sir, my dear sir,’ said the little man, laying his hat on the table, ‘pray, consider—pray. Defamation of character: action for damages. Calm yourself, my dear sir, pray—’

‘How dare you drag my sister from my house?’ said the old man.

Ay—ay—very good,’ said the little gentleman, ‘you may ask that. How dare you, sir?—eh, sir?’

‘Who the devil are you?’ inquired Mr. Jingle, in so fierce a tone, that the little gentleman involuntarily fell back a step or two.

‘Who is he, you scoundrel,’ interposed Wardle. ‘He’s my lawyer, Mr. Perker, of Gray’s Inn. Perker, I’ll have this fellow prosecuted— indicted—I’ll—I’ll—I’ll ruin him. And you,’ continued Mr. Wardle, turning abruptly round to his sister—‘you, Rachael, at a time of life when you ought to know better, what do you mean by running away with a vagabond, disgracing your family, and making yourself miserable? Get on your bonnet and come back. Call a hackney-coach there, directly, and bring this lady’s bill, d’ye hear—d’ye hear?’

Cert’nly, Sir,’ replied Sam, who had answered Wardle’s violent ringing of the bell with a degree of celerity which must have appeared marvellous to anybody who didn’t know that his eye had been applied to the outside of the keyhole during the whole interview.

‘Get on your bonnet,’ repeated Wardle.

‘Do nothing of the kind,’ said Jingle. ‘Leave the room, Sir—no business here—lady’s free to act as she pleases—more than one-and-twenty.’

‘More than one-and-twenty!’ ejaculated Wardle contemptuously. ‘More than one-and-forty!’

‘I ain’t,’ said the spinster aunt, her indignation getting the better of her determination to faint.

‘You are,’ replied Wardle; ‘you’re fifty if you’re an hour.’

Here the spinster aunt uttered a loud shriek, and became senseless.

‘A glass of water,’ said the humane Mr. Pickwick, summoning the landlady.

‘A glass of water!’ said the passionate Wardle. ‘Bring a bucket, and throw it all over her; it’ll do her good, and she richly deserves it.’

‘Ugh, you brute!’ ejaculated the kind-hearted landlady. ‘Poor dear.’ And with sundry ejaculations of ‘Come now, there’s a dear—drink a little of this—it’ll do you good—don’t give way so—there’s a love,’ etc. etc., the landlady, assisted by a chambermaid, proceeded to vinegar the forehead, beat the hands, titillate the nose, and unlace the stays of the spinster aunt, and to administer such other restoratives as are usually applied by compassionate females to ladies who are endeavouring to ferment themselves into hysterics.

‘Coach is ready, Sir,’ said Sam, appearing at the door.

‘Come along,’ cried Wardle. ‘I’ll carry her downstairs.’

At this proposition, the hysterics came on with redoubled violence.

The landlady was about to enter a very violent protest against this proceeding, and had already given vent to an indignant inquiry whether Mr. Wardle considered himself a lord of the creation, when Mr. Jingle interposed—

‘Boots,’ said he, ‘get me an officer.’

‘Stay, stay,’ said little Mr. Perker. ‘Consider, Sir, consider.’

‘I’ll not consider,’ replied Jingle. ‘She’s her own mistress—see who dares to take her away—unless she wishes it.’

‘I won’t be taken away,’ murmured the spinster aunt. ‘I don’t wish it.’ (Here there was a frightful relapse.)

‘My dear Sir,’ said the little man, in a low tone, taking Mr. Wardle and Mr. Pickwick apart—‘my dear Sir, we’re in a very awkward situation. It’s a distressing case—very; I never knew one more so; but really, my dear sir, really we have no power to control this lady’s actions. I warned you before we came, my dear sir, that there was nothing to look to but a compromise.’

There was a short pause.

‘What kind of compromise would you recommend?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Why, my dear Sir, our friend’s in an unpleasant position—very much so. We must be content to suffer some pecuniary loss.’

‘I’ll suffer any, rather than submit to this disgrace, and let her, fool as she is, be made miserable for life,’ said Wardle.

‘I rather think it can be done,’ said the bustling little man. ‘Mr. Jingle, will you step with us into the next room for a moment?’

Mr. Jingle assented, and the quartette walked into an empty apartment.

‘Now, sir,’ said the little man, as he carefully closed the door, ‘is there no way of accommodating this matter—step this way, sir, for a moment—into this window, Sir, where we can be alone—there, sir, there, pray sit down, sir. Now, my dear Sir, between you and I, we know very well, my dear Sir, that you have run off with this lady for the sake of her money. Don’t frown, Sir, don’t frown; I say, between you and I, we know it. We are both men of the world, and WE know very well that our friends here, are not—eh?’

Mr. Jingle’s face gradually relaxed; and something distantly resembling a wink quivered for an instant in his left eye.

‘Very good, very good,’ said the little man, observing the impression he had made. ‘Now, the fact is, that beyond a few hundreds, the lady has little or nothing till the death of her mother—fine old lady, my dear Sir.’

‘Old,’ said Mr. Jingle briefly but emphatically.

‘Why, yes,’ said the attorney, with a slight cough. ‘You are right, my dear Sir, she is rather old. She comes of an old family though, my dear Sir; old in every sense of the word. The founder of that family came into Kent when Julius Caesar invaded Britain;—only one member of it, since, who hasn’t lived to eighty-five, and he was beheaded by one of the Henrys. The old lady is not seventy-three now, my dear Sir.’ The little man paused, and took a pinch of snuff.

‘Well,’ cried Mr. Jingle.

‘Well, my dear sir—you don’t take snuff!—ah! so much the better— expensive habit—well, my dear Sir, you’re a fine young man, man of the world—able to push your fortune, if you had capital, eh?’

‘Well,’ said Mr. Jingle again.

‘Do you comprehend me?’

‘Not quite.’

‘Don’t you think—now, my dear Sir, I put it to you don’t you think— that fifty pounds and liberty would be better than Miss Wardle and expectation?’

‘Won’t do—not half enough!’ said Mr. Jingle, rising.

‘Nay, nay, my dear Sir,’ remonstrated the little attorney, seizing him by the button. ‘Good round sum—a man like you could treble it in no time—great deal to be done with fifty pounds, my dear Sir.’

‘More to be done with a hundred and fifty,’ replied Mr. Jingle coolly.

‘Well, my dear Sir, we won’t waste time in splitting straws,’ resumed the little man, ‘say—say—seventy.’

Won’t do,’ said Mr. Jingle.

‘Don’t go away, my dear sir—pray don’t hurry,’ said the little man. ‘Eighty; come: I’ll write you a cheque at once.’

‘Won’t do,’ said Mr. Jingle.

‘Well, my dear Sir, well,’ said the little man, still detaining him; ‘just tell me what will do.’

‘Expensive affair,’ said Mr. Jingle. ‘Money out of pocket—posting, nine pounds; licence, three—that’s twelve—compensation, a hundred—hundred and twelve—breach of honour—and loss of the lady—’

‘Yes, my dear Sir, yes,’ said the little man, with a knowing look, ‘never mind the last two items. That’s a hundred and twelve—say a hundred—come.’

‘And twenty,’ said Mr. Jingle.

‘Come, come, I’ll write you a cheque,’ said the little man; and down he sat at the table for that purpose.

‘I’ll make it payable the day after to-morrow,’ said the little man, with a look towards Mr. Wardle; ‘and we can get the lady away, meanwhile.’ Mr. Wardle sullenly nodded assent.

‘A hundred,’ said the little man.

‘And twenty,’ said Mr. Jingle.

‘My dear Sir,’ remonstrated the little man.

‘Give it him,’ interposed Mr. Wardle, ‘and let him go.’

The cheque was written by the little gentleman, and pocketed by Mr. Jingle.

‘Now, leave this house instantly!’ said Wardle, starting up.

‘My dear Sir,’ urged the little man.

‘And mind,’ said Mr. Wardle, ‘that nothing should have induced me to make this compromise—not even a regard for my family—if I had not known that the moment you got any money in that pocket of yours, you’d go to the devil faster, if possible, than you would without it—’

‘My dear sir,’ urged the little man again.

‘Be quiet, Perker,’ resumed Wardle. ‘Leave the room, Sir.’

‘Off directly,’ said the unabashed Jingle. ‘Bye bye, Pickwick.’

If any dispassionate spectator could have beheld the countenance of the illustrious man, whose name forms the leading feature of the title of this work, during the latter part of this conversation, he would have been almost induced to wonder that the indignant fire which flashed from his eyes did not melt the glasses of his spectacles—so majestic was his wrath. His nostrils dilated, and his fists clenched involuntarily, as he heard himself addressed by the villain. But he restrained himself again- -he did not pulverise him.

‘Here,’ continued the hardened traitor, tossing the licence at Mr. Pickwick’s feet; ‘get the name altered—take home the lady—do for Tuppy.’

Mr. Pickwick was a philosopher, but philosophers are only men in armour, after all. The shaft had reached him, penetrated through his philosophical harness, to his very heart. In the frenzy of his rage, he hurled the inkstand madly forward, and followed it up himself. But Mr. Jingle had disappeared, and he found himself caught in the arms of Sam.

‘Hollo,’ said that eccentric functionary, ‘furniter’s cheap where you come from, Sir. Self-acting ink, that ‘ere; it’s wrote your mark upon the wall, old gen’l’m’n. Hold still, Sir; wot’s the use o’ runnin’ arter a man as has made his lucky, and got to t’other end of the Borough by this time?’

Mr. Pickwick’s mind, like those of all truly great men, was open to conviction. He was a quick and powerful reasoner; and a moment’s reflection sufficed to remind him of the impotency of his rage. It subsided as quickly as it had been roused. He panted for breath, and looked benignantly round upon his friends.

Shall we tell the lamentations that ensued when Miss Wardle found herself deserted by the faithless Jingle? Shall we extract Mr. Pickwick’s masterly description of that heartrending scene? His note- book, blotted with the tears of sympathising humanity, lies open before us; one word, and it is in the printer’s hands. But, no! we will be resolute! We will not wring the public bosom, with the delineation of such suffering!

Slowly and sadly did the two friends and the deserted lady return next day in the Muggleton heavy coach. Dimly and darkly had the sombre shadows of a summer’s night fallen upon all around, when they again reached Dingley Dell, and stood within the entrance to Manor Farm.

CHAPTER XI. INVOLVING ANOTHER JOURNEY, AND AN ANTIQUARIAN DISCOVERY; RECORDING MR. PICKWICK’S DETERMINATION TO BE PRESENT AT AN ELECTION; AND CONTAINING A MANUSCRIPT OF THE OLD CLERGYMAN’S

A night of quiet and repose in the profound silence of Dingley Dell, and an hour’s breathing of its fresh and fragrant air on the ensuing morning, completely recovered Mr. Pickwick from the effects of his late fatigue of body and anxiety of mind. That illustrious man had been separated from his friends and followers for two whole days; and it was with a degree of pleasure and delight, which no common imagination can adequately conceive, that he stepped forward to greet Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass, as he encountered those gentlemen on his return from his early walk. The pleasure was mutual; for who could ever gaze on Mr. Pickwick’s beaming face without experiencing the sensation? But still a cloud seemed to hang over his companions which that great man could not but be sensible of, and was wholly at a loss to account for. There was a mysterious air about them both, as unusual as it was alarming.

‘And how,’ said Mr. Pickwick, when he had grasped his followers by the hand, and exchanged warm salutations of welcome—‘how is Tupman?’

Mr. Winkle, to whom the question was more peculiarly addressed, made no reply. He turned away his head, and appeared absorbed in melancholy reflection.

‘Snodgrass,’ said Mr. Pickwick earnestly, ‘how is our friend—he is not ill?’

‘No,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass; and a tear trembled on his sentimental eyelid, like a rain-drop on a window-frame—‘no; he is not ill.’

Mr. Pickwick stopped, and gazed on each of his friends in turn.

‘Winkle—Snodgrass,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘what does this mean? Where is our friend? What has happened? Speak—I conjure, I entreat—nay, I command you, speak.’

There was a solemnity—a dignity—in Mr. Pickwick’s manner, not to be withstood.

‘He is gone,’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

‘Gone!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. ‘Gone!’

‘Gone,’ repeated Mr. Snodgrass.

‘Where!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick.

‘We can only guess, from that communication,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass, taking a letter from his pocket, and placing it in his friend’s hand. ‘Yesterday morning, when a letter was received from Mr. Wardle, stating that you would be home with his sister at night, the melancholy which had hung over our friend during the whole of the previous day, was observed to increase. He shortly afterwards disappeared: he was missing during the whole day, and in the evening this letter was brought by the hostler from the Crown, at Muggleton. It had been left in his charge in the morning, with a strict injunction that it should not be delivered until night.’

Mr. Pickwick opened the epistle. It was in his friend’s hand-writing, and these were its contents:—

‘MY DEAR PICKWICK,—You, my dear friend, are placed far beyond the reach of many mortal frailties and weaknesses which ordinary people cannot overcome. You do not know what it is, at one blow, to be deserted by a lovely and fascinating creature, and to fall a victim to the artifices of a villain, who had the grin of cunning beneath the mask of friendship. I hope you never may.

‘Any letter addressed to me at the Leather Bottle, Cobham, Kent, will be forwarded—supposing I still exist. I hasten from the sight of that world, which has become odious to me. Should I hasten from it altogether, pity—forgive me. Life, my dear Pickwick, has become insupportable to me. The spirit which burns within us, is a porter’s knot, on which to rest the heavy load of worldly cares and troubles; and when that spirit fails us, the burden is too heavy to be borne. We sink beneath it. You may tell Rachael—Ah, that name!—

‘TRACY TUPMAN.’

‘We must leave this place directly,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as he refolded the note. ‘It would not have been decent for us to remain here, under any circumstances, after what has happened; and now we are bound to follow in search of our friend.’ And so saying, he led the way to the house.

His intention was rapidly communicated. The entreaties to remain were pressing, but Mr. Pickwick was inflexible. Business, he said, required his immediate attendance.

The old clergyman was present.

‘You are not really going?’ said he, taking Mr. Pickwick aside.

Mr. Pickwick reiterated his former determination.

‘Then here,’ said the old gentleman, ‘is a little manuscript, which I had hoped to have the pleasure of reading to you myself. I found it on the death of a friend of mine—a medical man, engaged in our county lunatic asylum—among a variety of papers, which I had the option of destroying or preserving, as I thought proper. I can hardly believe that the manuscript is genuine, though it certainly is not in my friend’s hand. However, whether it be the genuine production of a maniac, or founded upon the ravings of some unhappy being (which I think more probable), read it, and judge for yourself.’

Mr. Pickwick received the manuscript, and parted from the benevolent old gentleman with many expressions of good-will and esteem.

It was a more difficult task to take leave of the inmates of Manor Farm, from whom they had received so much hospitality and kindness. Mr. Pickwick kissed the young ladies—we were going to say, as if they were his own daughters, only, as he might possibly have infused a little more warmth into the salutation, the comparison would not be quite appropriate—hugged the old lady with filial cordiality; and patted the rosy cheeks of the female servants in a most patriarchal manner, as he slipped into the hands of each some more substantial expression of his approval. The exchange of cordialities with their fine old host and Mr. Trundle was even more hearty and prolonged; and it was not until Mr. Snodgrass had been several times called for, and at last emerged from a dark passage followed soon after by Emily (whose bright eyes looked unusually dim), that the three friends were enabled to tear themselves from their friendly entertainers. Many a backward look they gave at the farm, as they walked slowly away; and many a kiss did Mr. Snodgrass waft in the air, in acknowledgment of something very like a lady’s handkerchief, which was waved from one of the upper windows, until a turn of the lane hid the old house from their sight.

At Muggleton they procured a conveyance to Rochester. By the time they reached the last-named place, the violence of their grief had sufficiently abated to admit of their making a very excellent early dinner; and having procured the necessary information relative to the road, the three friends set forward again in the afternoon to walk to Cobham.

A delightful walk it was; for it was a pleasant afternoon in June, and their way lay through a deep and shady wood, cooled by the light wind which gently rustled the thick foliage, and enlivened by the songs of the birds that perched upon the boughs. The ivy and the moss crept in thick clusters over the old trees, and the soft green turf overspread the ground like a silken mat. They emerged upon an open park, with an ancient hall, displaying the quaint and picturesque architecture of Elizabeth’s time. Long vistas of stately oaks and elm trees appeared on every side; large herds of deer were cropping the fresh grass; and occasionally a startled hare scoured along the ground, with the speed of the shadows thrown by the light clouds which swept across a sunny landscape like a passing breath of summer.

‘If this,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking about him—‘if this were the place to which all who are troubled with our friend’s complaint came, I fancy their old attachment to this world would very soon return.’

‘I think so too,’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘And really,’ added Mr. Pickwick, after half an hour’s walking had brought them to the village, ‘really, for a misanthrope’s choice, this is one of the prettiest and most desirable places of residence I ever met with.’

In this opinion also, both Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass expressed their concurrence; and having been directed to the Leather Bottle, a clean and commodious village ale-house, the three travellers entered, and at once inquired for a gentleman of the name of Tupman.

‘Show the gentlemen into the parlour, Tom,’ said the landlady.

A stout country lad opened a door at the end of the passage, and the three friends entered a long, low-roofed room, furnished with a large number of high-backed leather-cushioned chairs, of fantastic shapes, and embellished with a great variety of old portraits and roughly-coloured prints of some antiquity. At the upper end of the room was a table, with a white cloth upon it, well covered with a roast fowl, bacon, ale, and et ceteras; and at the table sat Mr. Tupman, looking as unlike a man who had taken his leave of the world, as possible.

On the entrance of his friends, that gentleman laid down his knife and fork, and with a mournful air advanced to meet them.

‘I did not expect to see you here,’ he said, as he grasped Mr. Pickwick’s hand. ‘It’s very kind.’

‘Ah!’ said Mr. Pickwick, sitting down, and wiping from his forehead the perspiration which the walk had engendered. ‘Finish your dinner, and walk out with me. I wish to speak to you alone.’

Mr. Tupman did as he was desired; and Mr. Pickwick having refreshed himself with a copious draught of ale, waited his friend’s leisure. The dinner was quickly despatched, and they walked out together.

For half an hour, their forms might have been seen pacing the churchyard to and fro, while Mr. Pickwick was engaged in combating his companion’s resolution. Any repetition of his arguments would be useless; for what language could convey to them that energy and force which their great originator’s manner communicated? Whether Mr. Tupman was already tired of retirement, or whether he was wholly unable to resist the eloquent appeal which was made to him, matters not, he did _not _ resist it at last.

‘It mattered little to him,’ he said, ‘where he dragged out the miserable remainder of his days; and since his friend laid so much stress upon his humble companionship, he was willing to share his adventures.’

Mr. Pickwick smiled; they shook hands, and walked back to rejoin their companions.

It was at this moment that Mr. Pickwick made that immortal discovery, which has been the pride and boast of his friends, and the envy of every antiquarian in this or any other country. They had passed the door of their inn, and walked a little way down the village, before they recollected the precise spot in which it stood. As they turned back, Mr. Pickwick’s eye fell upon a small broken stone, partially buried in the ground, in front of a cottage door. He paused.

‘This is very strange,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘What is strange?’ inquired Mr. Tupman, staring eagerly at every object near him, but the right one. ‘God bless me, what’s the matter?’

This last was an ejaculation of irrepressible astonishment, occasioned by seeing Mr. Pickwick, in his enthusiasm for discovery, fall on his knees before the little stone, and commence wiping the dust off it with his pocket-handkerchief.

‘There is an inscription here,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Is it possible?’ said Mr. Tupman.

‘I can discern,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, rubbing away with all his might, and gazing intently through his spectacles—‘I can discern a cross, and a 13, and then a T. This is important,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, starting up. ‘This is some very old inscription, existing perhaps long before the ancient alms-houses in this place. It must not be lost.’

He tapped at the cottage door. A labouring man opened it.

‘Do you know how this stone came here, my friend?’ inquired the benevolent Mr. Pickwick.

‘No, I doan’t, Sir,’ replied the man civilly. ‘It was here long afore I was born, or any on us.’

Mr. Pickwick glanced triumphantly at his companion.

‘You—you—are not particularly attached to it, I dare say,’ said Mr. Pickwick, trembling with anxiety. ‘You wouldn’t mind selling it, now?’

‘Ah! but who’d buy it?’ inquired the man, with an expression of face which he probably meant to be very cunning.

‘I’ll give you ten shillings for it, at once,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘if you would take it up for me.’

The astonishment of the village may be easily imagined, when (the little stone having been raised with one wrench of a spade) Mr. Pickwick, by dint of great personal exertion, bore it with his own hands to the inn, and after having carefully washed it, deposited it on the table.

The exultation and joy of the Pickwickians knew no bounds, when their patience and assiduity, their washing and scraping, were crowned with success. The stone was uneven and broken, and the letters were straggling and irregular, but the following fragment of an inscription was clearly to be deciphered:—

cross] B I L S T U M P S H I S. M. ARK

Mr. Pickwick’s eyes sparkled with delight, as he sat and gloated over the treasure he had discovered. He had attained one of the greatest objects of his ambition. In a county known to abound in the remains of the early ages; in a village in which there still existed some memorials of the olden time, he—he, the chairman of the Pickwick Club—had discovered a strange and curious inscription of unquestionable antiquity, which had wholly escaped the observation of the many learned men who had preceded him. He could hardly trust the evidence of his senses.

‘This—this,’ said he, ‘determines me. We return to town to-morrow.’

‘To-morrow!’ exclaimed his admiring followers.

‘To-morrow,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘This treasure must be at once deposited where it can be thoroughly investigated and properly understood. I have another reason for this step. In a few days, an election is to take place for the borough of Eatanswill, at which Mr. Perker, a gentleman whom I lately met, is the agent of one of the candidates. We will behold, and minutely examine, a scene so interesting to every Englishman.’

‘We will,’ was the animated cry of three voices.

Mr. Pickwick looked round him. The attachment and fervour of his followers lighted up a glow of enthusiasm within him. He was their leader, and he felt it.

‘Let us celebrate this happy meeting with a convivial glass,’ said he. This proposition, like the other, was received with unanimous applause. Having himself deposited the important stone in a small deal box, purchased from the landlady for the purpose, he placed himself in an arm-chair, at the head of the table; and the evening was devoted to festivity and conversation.

It was past eleven o’clock—a late hour for the little village of Cobham—when Mr. Pickwick retired to the bedroom which had been prepared for his reception. He threw open the lattice window, and setting his light upon the table, fell into a train of meditation on the hurried events of the two preceding days.

The hour and the place were both favourable to contemplation; Mr. Pickwick was roused by the church clock striking twelve. The first stroke of the hour sounded solemnly in his ear, but when the bell ceased the stillness seemed insupportable—he almost felt as if he had lost a companion. He was nervous and excited; and hastily undressing himself and placing his light in the chimney, got into bed.

Every one has experienced that disagreeable state of mind, in which a sensation of bodily weariness in vain contends against an inability to sleep. It was Mr. Pickwick’s condition at this moment: he tossed first on one side and then on the other; and perseveringly closed his eyes as if to coax himself to slumber. It was of no use. Whether it was the unwonted exertion he had undergone, or the heat, or the brandy-and- water, or the strange bed—whatever it was, his thoughts kept reverting very uncomfortably to the grim pictures downstairs, and the old stories to which they had given rise in the course of the evening. After half an hour’s tumbling about, he came to the unsatisfactory conclusion, that it was of no use trying to sleep; so he got up and partially dressed himself. Anything, he thought, was better than lying there fancying all kinds of horrors. He looked out of the window—it was very dark. He walked about the room—it was very lonely.

He had taken a few turns from the door to the window, and from the window to the door, when the clergyman’s manuscript for the first time entered his head. It was a good thought. If it failed to interest him, it might send him to sleep. He took it from his coat pocket, and drawing a small table towards his bedside, trimmed the light, put on his spectacles, and composed himself to read. It was a strange handwriting, and the paper was much soiled and blotted. The title gave him a sudden start, too; and he could not avoid casting a wistful glance round the room. Reflecting on the absurdity of giving way to such feelings, however, he trimmed the light again, and read as follows:—

A MADMAN’S MANUSCRIPT

‘Yes!—a madman’s! How that word would have struck to my heart, many years ago! How it would have roused the terror that used to come upon me sometimes, sending the blood hissing and tingling through my veins, till the cold dew of fear stood in large drops upon my skin, and my knees knocked together with fright! I like it now though. It’s a fine name. Show me the monarch whose angry frown was ever feared like the glare of a madman’s eye—whose cord and axe were ever half so sure as a madman’s gripe. Ho! ho! It’s a grand thing to be mad! to be peeped at like a wild lion through the iron bars—to gnash one’s teeth and howl, through the long still night, to the merry ring of a heavy chain and to roll and twine among the straw, transported with such brave music. Hurrah for the madhouse! Oh, it’s a rare place!

‘I remember days when I was afraid of being mad; when I used to start from my sleep, and fall upon my knees, and pray to be spared from the curse of my race; when I rushed from the sight of merriment or happiness, to hide myself in some lonely place, and spend the weary hours in watching the progress of the fever that was to consume my brain. I knew that madness was mixed up with my very blood, and the marrow of my bones! that one generation had passed away without the pestilence appearing among them, and that I was the first in whom it would revive. I knew it must be so: that so it always had been, and so it ever would be: and when I cowered in some obscure corner of a crowded room, and saw men whisper, and point, and turn their eyes towards me, I knew they were telling each other of the doomed madman; and I slunk away again to mope in solitude.

‘I did this for years; long, long years they were. The nights here are long sometimes—very long; but they are nothing to the restless nights, and dreadful dreams I had at that time. It makes me cold to remember them. Large dusky forms with sly and jeering faces crouched in the corners of the room, and bent over my bed at night, tempting me to madness. They told me in low whispers, that the floor of the old house in which my father died, was stained with his own blood, shed by his own hand in raging madness. I drove my fingers into my ears, but they screamed into my head till the room rang with it, that in one generation before him the madness slumbered, but that his grandfather had lived for years with his hands fettered to the ground, to prevent his tearing himself to pieces. I knew they told the truth—I knew it well. I had found it out years before, though they had tried to keep it from me. Ha! ha! I was too cunning for them, madman as they thought me.

‘At last it came upon me, and I wondered how I could ever have feared it. I could go into the world now, and laugh and shout with the best among them. I knew I was mad, but they did not even suspect it. How I used to hug myself with delight, when I thought of the fine trick I was playing them after their old pointing and leering, when I was not mad, but only dreading that I might one day become so! And how I used to laugh for joy, when I was alone, and thought how well I kept my secret, and how quickly my kind friends would have fallen from me, if they had known the truth. I could have screamed with ecstasy when I dined alone with some fine roaring fellow, to think how pale he would have turned, and how fast he would have run, if he had known that the dear friend who sat close to him, sharpening a bright, glittering knife, was a madman with all the power, and half the will, to plunge it in his heart. Oh, it was a merry life!

‘Riches became mine, wealth poured in upon me, and I rioted in pleasures enhanced a thousandfold to me by the consciousness of my well-kept secret. I inherited an estate. The law—the eagle-eyed law itself—had been deceived, and had handed over disputed thousands to a madman’s hands. Where was the wit of the sharp-sighted men of sound mind? Where the dexterity of the lawyers, eager to discover a flaw? The madman’s cunning had overreached them all.

‘I had money. How I was courted! I spent it profusely. How I was praised! How those three proud, overbearing brothers humbled themselves before me! The old, white-headed father, too—such deference—such respect—such devoted friendship—he worshipped me! The old man had a daughter, and the young men a sister; and all the five were poor. I was rich; and when I married the girl, I saw a smile of triumph play upon the faces of her needy relatives, as they thought of their well-planned scheme, and their fine prize. It was for me to smile. To smile! To laugh outright, and tear my hair, and roll upon the ground with shrieks of merriment. They little thought they had married her to a madman.

‘Stay. If they had known it, would they have saved her? A sister’s happiness against her husband’s gold. The lightest feather I blow into the air, against the gay chain that ornaments my body!

‘In one thing I was deceived with all my cunning. If I had not been mad- -for though we madmen are sharp-witted enough, we get bewildered sometimes—I should have known that the girl would rather have been placed, stiff and cold in a dull leaden coffin, than borne an envied bride to my rich, glittering house. I should have known that her heart was with the dark-eyed boy whose name I once heard her breathe in her troubled sleep; and that she had been sacrificed to me, to relieve the poverty of the old, white-headed man and the haughty brothers.

‘I don’t remember forms or faces now, but I know the girl was beautiful. I know she was; for in the bright moonlight nights, when I start up from my sleep, and all is quiet about me, I see, standing still and motionless in one corner of this cell, a slight and wasted figure with long black hair, which, streaming down her back, stirs with no earthly wind, and eyes that fix their gaze on me, and never wink or close. Hush! the blood chills at my heart as I write it down—that form is her’s; the face is very pale, and the eyes are glassy bright; but I know them well. That figure never moves; it never frowns and mouths as others do, that fill this place sometimes; but it is much more dreadful to me, even than the spirits that tempted me many years ago—it comes fresh from the grave; and is so very death-like.

‘For nearly a year I saw that face grow paler; for nearly a year I saw the tears steal down the mournful cheeks, and never knew the cause. I found it out at last though. They could not keep it from me long. She had never liked me; I had never thought she did: she despised my wealth, and hated the splendour in which she lived; but I had not expected that. She loved another. This I had never thought of. Strange feelings came over me, and thoughts, forced upon me by some secret power, whirled round and round my brain. I did not hate her, though I hated the boy she still wept for. I pitied—yes, I pitied—the wretched life to which her cold and selfish relations had doomed her. I knew that she could not live long; but the thought that before her death she might give birth to some ill-fated being, destined to hand down madness to its offspring, determined me. I resolved to kill her.

‘For many weeks I thought of poison, and then of drowning, and then of fire. A fine sight, the grand house in flames, and the madman’s wife smouldering away to cinders. Think of the jest of a large reward, too, and of some sane man swinging in the wind for a deed he never did, and all through a madman’s cunning! I thought often of this, but I gave it up at last. Oh! the pleasure of stropping the razor day after day, feeling the sharp edge, and thinking of the gash one stroke of its thin, bright edge would make!

‘At last the old spirits who had been with me so often before whispered in my ear that the time was come, and thrust the open razor into my hand. I grasped it firmly, rose softly from the bed, and leaned over my sleeping wife. Her face was buried in her hands. I withdrew them softly, and they fell listlessly on her bosom. She had been weeping; for the traces of the tears were still wet upon her cheek. Her face was calm and placid; and even as I looked upon it, a tranquil smile lighted up her pale features. I laid my hand softly on her shoulder. She started—it was only a passing dream. I leaned forward again. She screamed, and woke.

‘One motion of my hand, and she would never again have uttered cry or sound. But I was startled, and drew back. Her eyes were fixed on mine. I knew not how it was, but they cowed and frightened me; and I quailed beneath them. She rose from the bed, still gazing fixedly and steadily on me. I trembled; the razor was in my hand, but I could not move. She made towards the door. As she neared it, she turned, and withdrew her eyes from my face. The spell was broken. I bounded forward, and clutched her by the arm. Uttering shriek upon shriek, she sank upon the ground.

‘Now I could have killed her without a struggle; but the house was alarmed. I heard the tread of footsteps on the stairs. I replaced the razor in its usual drawer, unfastened the door, and called loudly for assistance.

‘They came, and raised her, and placed her on the bed. She lay bereft of animation for hours; and when life, look, and speech returned, her senses had deserted her, and she raved wildly and furiously.

‘Doctors were called in—great men who rolled up to my door in easy carriages, with fine horses and gaudy servants. They were at her bedside for weeks. They had a great meeting and consulted together in low and solemn voices in another room. One, the cleverest and most celebrated among them, took me aside, and bidding me prepare for the worst, told me—me, the madman!—that my wife was mad. He stood close beside me at an open window, his eyes looking in my face, and his hand laid upon my arm. With one effort, I could have hurled him into the street beneath. It would have been rare sport to have done it; but my secret was at stake, and I let him go. A few days after, they told me I must place her under some restraint: I must provide a keeper for her. I! I went into the open fields where none could hear me, and laughed till the air resounded with my shouts!

‘She died next day. The white-headed old man followed her to the grave, and the proud brothers dropped a tear over the insensible corpse of her whose sufferings they had regarded in her lifetime with muscles of iron. All this was food for my secret mirth, and I laughed behind the white handkerchief which I held up to my face, as we rode home, till the tears came into my eyes.

‘But though I had carried my object and killed her, I was restless and disturbed, and I felt that before long my secret must be known. I could not hide the wild mirth and joy which boiled within me, and made me when I was alone, at home, jump up and beat my hands together, and dance round and round, and roar aloud. When I went out, and saw the busy crowds hurrying about the streets; or to the theatre, and heard the sound of music, and beheld the people dancing, I felt such glee, that I could have rushed among them, and torn them to pieces limb from limb, and howled in transport. But I ground my teeth, and struck my feet upon the floor, and drove my sharp nails into my hands. I kept it down; and no one knew I was a madman yet.

‘I remember—though it’s one of the last things I can remember: for now I mix up realities with my dreams, and having so much to do, and being always hurried here, have no time to separate the two, from some strange confusion in which they get involved—I remember how I let it out at last. Ha! ha! I think I see their frightened looks now, and feel the ease with which I flung them from me, and dashed my clenched fist into their white faces, and then flew like the wind, and left them screaming and shouting far behind. The strength of a giant comes upon me when I think of it. There—see how this iron bar bends beneath my furious wrench. I could snap it like a twig, only there are long galleries here with many doors—I don’t think I could find my way along them; and even if I could, I know there are iron gates below which they keep locked and barred. They know what a clever madman I have been, and they are proud to have me here, to show.

‘Let me see: yes, I had been out. It was late at night when I reached home, and found the proudest of the three proud brothers waiting to see me—urgent business he said: I recollect it well. I hated that man with all a madman’s hate. Many and many a time had my fingers longed to tear him. They told me he was there. I ran swiftly upstairs. He had a word to say to me. I dismissed the servants. It was late, and we were alone together—for the first time.

‘I kept my eyes carefully from him at first, for I knew what he little thought—and I gloried in the knowledge—that the light of madness gleamed from them like fire. We sat in silence for a few minutes. He spoke at last. My recent dissipation, and strange remarks, made so soon after his sister’s death, were an insult to her memory. Coupling together many circumstances which had at first escaped his observation, he thought I had not treated her well. He wished to know whether he was right in inferring that I meant to cast a reproach upon her memory, and a disrespect upon her family. It was due to the uniform he wore, to demand this explanation.

‘This man had a commission in the army—a commission, purchased with my money, and his sister’s misery! This was the man who had been foremost in the plot to ensnare me, and grasp my wealth. This was the man who had been the main instrument in forcing his sister to wed me; well knowing that her heart was given to that puling boy. Due to his uniform! The livery of his degradation! I turned my eyes upon him—I could not help it—but I spoke not a word.

‘I saw the sudden change that came upon him beneath my gaze. He was a bold man, but the colour faded from his face, and he drew back his chair. I dragged mine nearer to him; and I laughed—I was very merry then—I saw him shudder. I felt the madness rising within me. He was afraid of me.

‘“You were very fond of your sister when she was alive,” I said.— “Very.”

‘He looked uneasily round him, and I saw his hand grasp the back of his chair; but he said nothing.

‘“You villain,” said I, “I found you out: I discovered your hellish plots against me; I know her heart was fixed on some one else before you compelled her to marry me. I know it—I know it.”

‘He jumped suddenly from his chair, brandished it aloft, and bid me stand back—for I took care to be getting closer to him all the time I spoke.

‘I screamed rather than talked, for I felt tumultuous passions eddying through my veins, and the old spirits whispering and taunting me to tear his heart out.

‘“Damn you,” said I, starting up, and rushing upon him; “I killed her. I am a madman. Down with you. Blood, blood! I will have it!”

‘I turned aside with one blow the chair he hurled at me in his terror, and closed with him; and with a heavy crash we rolled upon the floor together.

‘It was a fine struggle that; for he was a tall, strong man, fighting for his life; and I, a powerful madman, thirsting to destroy him. I knew no strength could equal mine, and I was right. Right again, though a madman! His struggles grew fainter. I knelt upon his chest, and clasped his brawny throat firmly with both hands. His face grew purple; his eyes were starting from his head, and with protruded tongue, he seemed to mock me. I squeezed the tighter.

‘The door was suddenly burst open with a loud noise, and a crowd of people rushed forward, crying aloud to each other to secure the madman.

‘My secret was out; and my only struggle now was for liberty and freedom. I gained my feet before a hand was on me, threw myself among my assailants, and cleared my way with my strong arm, as if I bore a hatchet in my hand, and hewed them down before me. I gained the door, dropped over the banisters, and in an instant was in the street.

‘Straight and swift I ran, and no one dared to stop me. I heard the noise of the feet behind, and redoubled my speed. It grew fainter and fainter in the distance, and at length died away altogether; but on I bounded, through marsh and rivulet, over fence and wall, with a wild shout which was taken up by the strange beings that flocked around me on every side, and swelled the sound, till it pierced the air. I was borne upon the arms of demons who swept along upon the wind, and bore down bank and hedge before them, and spun me round and round with a rustle and a speed that made my head swim, until at last they threw me from them with a violent shock, and I fell heavily upon the earth. When I woke I found myself here—here in this gray cell, where the sunlight seldom comes, and the moon steals in, in rays which only serve to show the dark shadows about me, and that silent figure in its old corner. When I lie awake, I can sometimes hear strange shrieks and cries from distant parts of this large place. What they are, I know not; but they neither come from that pale form, nor does it regard them. For from the first shades of dusk till the earliest light of morning, it still stands motionless in the same place, listening to the music of my iron chain, and watching my gambols on my straw bed.’

At the end of the manuscript was written, in another hand, this note:—

[The unhappy man whose ravings are recorded above, was a melancholy instance of the baneful results of energies misdirected in early life, and excesses prolonged until their consequences could never be repaired. The thoughtless riot, dissipation, and debauchery of his younger days produced fever and delirium. The first effects of the latter was the strange delusion, founded upon a well-known medical theory, strongly contended for by some, and as strongly contested by others, that an hereditary madness existed in his family. This produced a settled gloom, which in time developed a morbid insanity, and finally terminated in raving madness. There is every reason to believe that the events he detailed, though distorted in the description by his diseased imagination, really happened. It is only matter of wonder to those who were acquainted with the vices of his early career, that his passions, when no longer controlled by reason, did not lead him to the commission of still more frightful deeds.]

Mr. Pickwick’s candle was just expiring in the socket, as he concluded the perusal of the old clergyman’s manuscript; and when the light went suddenly out, without any previous flicker by way of warning, it communicated a very considerable start to his excited frame. Hastily throwing off such articles of clothing as he had put on when he rose from his uneasy bed, and casting a fearful glance around, he once more scrambled hastily between the sheets, and soon fell fast asleep.

The sun was shining brilliantly into his chamber, when he awoke, and the morning was far advanced. The gloom which had oppressed him on the previous night had disappeared with the dark shadows which shrouded the landscape, and his thoughts and feelings were as light and gay as the morning itself. After a hearty breakfast, the four gentlemen sallied forth to walk to Gravesend, followed by a man bearing the stone in its deal box. They reached the town about one o’clock (their luggage they had directed to be forwarded to the city, from Rochester), and being fortunate enough to secure places on the outside of a coach, arrived in London in sound health and spirits, on that same afternoon.

The next three or four days were occupied with the preparations which were necessary for their journey to the borough of Eatanswill. As any references to that most important undertaking demands a separate chapter, we may devote the few lines which remain at the close of this, to narrate, with great brevity, the history of the antiquarian discovery.

It appears from the Transactions of the Club, then, that Mr. Pickwick lectured upon the discovery at a General Club Meeting, convened on the night succeeding their return, and entered into a variety of ingenious and erudite speculations on the meaning of the inscription. It also appears that a skilful artist executed a faithful delineation of the curiosity, which was engraven on stone, and presented to the Royal Antiquarian Society, and other learned bodies: that heart-burnings and jealousies without number were created by rival controversies which were penned upon the subject; and that Mr. Pickwick himself wrote a pamphlet, containing ninety-six pages of very small print, and twenty-seven different readings of the inscription: that three old gentlemen cut off their eldest sons with a shilling a-piece for presuming to doubt the antiquity of the fragment; and that one enthusiastic individual cut himself off prematurely, in despair at being unable to fathom its meaning: that Mr. Pickwick was elected an honorary member of seventeen native and foreign societies, for making the discovery: that none of the seventeen could make anything of it; but that all the seventeen agreed it was very extraordinary.

Mr. Blotton, indeed—and the name will be doomed to the undying contempt of those who cultivate the mysterious and the sublime—Mr. Blotton, we say, with the doubt and cavilling peculiar to vulgar minds, presumed to state a view of the case, as degrading as ridiculous. Mr. Blotton, with a mean desire to tarnish the lustre of the immortal name of Pickwick, actually undertook a journey to Cobham in person, and on his return, sarcastically observed in an oration at the club, that he had seen the man from whom the stone was purchased; that the man presumed the stone to be ancient, but solemnly denied the antiquity of the inscription— inasmuch as he represented it to have been rudely carved by himself in an idle mood, and to display letters intended to bear neither more or less than the simple construction of—‘BILL STUMPS, HIS MARK’; and that Mr. Stumps, being little in the habit of original composition, and more accustomed to be guided by the sound of words than by the strict rules of orthography, had omitted the concluding ‘L’ of his Christian name.

The Pickwick Club (as might have been expected from so enlightened an institution) received this statement with the contempt it deserved, expelled the presumptuous and ill-conditioned Blotton from the society, and voted Mr. Pickwick a pair of gold spectacles, in token of their confidence and approbation: in return for which, Mr. Pickwick caused a portrait of himself to be painted, and hung up in the club room.

Mr. Blotton was ejected but not conquered. He also wrote a pamphlet, addressed to the seventeen learned societies, native and foreign, containing a repetition of the statement he had already made, and rather more than half intimating his opinion that the seventeen learned societies were so many ‘humbugs.’ Hereupon, the virtuous indignation of the seventeen learned societies being roused, several fresh pamphlets appeared; the foreign learned societies corresponded with the native learned societies; the native learned societies translated the pamphlets of the foreign learned societies into English; the foreign learned societies translated the pamphlets of the native learned societies into all sorts of languages; and thus commenced that celebrated scientific discussion so well known to all men, as the Pickwick controversy.

But this base attempt to injure Mr. Pickwick recoiled upon the head of its calumnious author. The seventeen learned societies unanimously voted the presumptuous Blotton an ignorant meddler, and forthwith set to work upon more treatises than ever. And to this day the stone remains, an illegible monument of Mr. Pickwick’s greatness, and a lasting trophy to the littleness of his enemies.

CHAPTER XII. DESCRIPTIVE OF A VERY IMPORTANT PROCEEDING ON THE PART OF MR. PICKWICK; NO LESS AN EPOCH IN HIS LIFE, THAN IN THIS HISTORY

Mr. Pickwick’s apartments in Goswell Street, although on a limited scale, were not only of a very neat and comfortable description, but peculiarly adapted for the residence of a man of his genius and observation. His sitting-room was the first-floor front, his bedroom the second-floor front; and thus, whether he were sitting at his desk in his parlour, or standing before the dressing-glass in his dormitory, he had an equal opportunity of contemplating human nature in all the numerous phases it exhibits, in that not more populous than popular thoroughfare. His landlady, Mrs. Bardell—the relict and sole executrix of a deceased custom-house officer—was a comely woman of bustling manners and agreeable appearance, with a natural genius for cooking, improved by study and long practice, into an exquisite talent. There were no children, no servants, no fowls. The only other inmates of the house were a large man and a small boy; the first a lodger, the second a production of Mrs. Bardell’s. The large man was always home precisely at ten o’clock at night, at which hour he regularly condensed himself into the limits of a dwarfish French bedstead in the back parlour; and the infantine sports and gymnastic exercises of Master Bardell were exclusively confined to the neighbouring pavements and gutters. Cleanliness and quiet reigned throughout the house; and in it Mr. Pickwick’s will was law.

To any one acquainted with these points of the domestic economy of the establishment, and conversant with the admirable regulation of Mr. Pickwick’s mind, his appearance and behaviour on the morning previous to that which had been fixed upon for the journey to Eatanswill would have been most mysterious and unaccountable. He paced the room to and fro with hurried steps, popped his head out of the window at intervals of about three minutes each, constantly referred to his watch, and exhibited many other manifestations of impatience very unusual with him. It was evident that something of great importance was in contemplation, but what that something was, not even Mrs. Bardell had been enabled to discover.

‘Mrs. Bardell,’ said Mr. Pickwick, at last, as that amiable female approached the termination of a prolonged dusting of the apartment.

‘Sir,’ said Mrs. Bardell.

‘Your little boy is a very long time gone.’

‘Why it’s a good long way to the Borough, sir,’ remonstrated Mrs. Bardell.

‘Ah,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘very true; so it is.’ Mr. Pickwick relapsed into silence, and Mrs. Bardell resumed her dusting.

‘Mrs. Bardell,’ said Mr. Pickwick, at the expiration of a few minutes.

‘Sir,’ said Mrs. Bardell again.

‘Do you think it a much greater expense to keep two people, than to keep one?’

‘La, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Mrs. Bardell, colouring up to the very border of her cap, as she fancied she observed a species of matrimonial twinkle in the eyes of her lodger; ‘La, Mr. Pickwick, what a question!’

‘Well, but do you?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘That depends,’ said Mrs. Bardell, approaching the duster very near to Mr. Pickwick’s elbow which was planted on the table. ‘That depends a good deal upon the person, you know, Mr. Pickwick; and whether it’s a saving and careful person, sir.’

‘That’s very true,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘but the person I have in my eye (here he looked very hard at Mrs. Bardell) I think possesses these qualities; and has, moreover, a considerable knowledge of the world, and a great deal of sharpness, Mrs. Bardell, which may be of material use to me.’

‘La, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Mrs. Bardell, the crimson rising to her cap- border again.

‘I do,’ said Mr. Pickwick, growing energetic, as was his wont in speaking of a subject which interested him—‘I do, indeed; and to tell you the truth, Mrs. Bardell, I have made up my mind.’

‘Dear me, sir,’ exclaimed Mrs. Bardell.

‘You’ll think it very strange now,’ said the amiable Mr. Pickwick, with a good-humoured glance at his companion, ‘that I never consulted you about this matter, and never even mentioned it, till I sent your little boy out this morning—eh?’

Mrs. Bardell could only reply by a look. She had long worshipped Mr. Pickwick at a distance, but here she was, all at once, raised to a pinnacle to which her wildest and most extravagant hopes had never dared to aspire. Mr. Pickwick was going to propose—a deliberate plan, too— sent her little boy to the Borough, to get him out of the way—how thoughtful—how considerate!

‘Well,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘what do you think?’

‘Oh, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Mrs. Bardell, trembling with agitation, ‘you’re very kind, sir.’

‘It’ll save you a good deal of trouble, won’t it?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Oh, I never thought anything of the trouble, sir,’ replied Mrs. Bardell; ‘and, of course, I should take more trouble to please you then, than ever; but it is so kind of you, Mr. Pickwick, to have so much consideration for my loneliness.’

‘Ah, to be sure,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘I never thought of that. When I am in town, you’ll always have somebody to sit with you. To be sure, so you will.’

‘I am sure I ought to be a very happy woman,’ said Mrs. Bardell.

‘And your little boy—’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Bless his heart!’ interposed Mrs. Bardell, with a maternal sob.

‘He, too, will have a companion,’ resumed Mr. Pickwick, ‘a lively one, who’ll teach him, I’ll be bound, more tricks in a week than he would ever learn in a year.’ And Mr. Pickwick smiled placidly.

‘Oh, you dear—’ said Mrs. Bardell.

Mr. Pickwick started.

‘Oh, you kind, good, playful dear,’ said Mrs. Bardell; and without more ado, she rose from her chair, and flung her arms round Mr. Pickwick’s neck, with a cataract of tears and a chorus of sobs.

‘Bless my soul,’ cried the astonished Mr. Pickwick; ‘Mrs. Bardell, my good woman—dear me, what a situation—pray consider.—Mrs. Bardell, don’t—if anybody should come—’

‘Oh, let them come,’ exclaimed Mrs. Bardell frantically; ‘I’ll never leave you—dear, kind, good soul;’ and, with these words, Mrs. Bardell clung the tighter.

‘Mercy upon me,’ said Mr. Pickwick, struggling violently, ‘I hear somebody coming up the stairs. Don’t, don’t, there’s a good creature, don’t.’ But entreaty and remonstrance were alike unavailing; for Mrs. Bardell had fainted in Mr. Pickwick’s arms; and before he could gain time to deposit her on a chair, Master Bardell entered the room, ushering in Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass.

Mr. Pickwick was struck motionless and speechless. He stood with his lovely burden in his arms, gazing vacantly on the countenances of his friends, without the slightest attempt at recognition or explanation. They, in their turn, stared at him; and Master Bardell, in his turn, stared at everybody.

The astonishment of the Pickwickians was so absorbing, and the perplexity of Mr. Pickwick was so extreme, that they might have remained in exactly the same relative situations until the suspended animation of the lady was restored, had it not been for a most beautiful and touching expression of filial affection on the part of her youthful son. Clad in a tight suit of corduroy, spangled with brass buttons of a very considerable size, he at first stood at the door astounded and uncertain; but by degrees, the impression that his mother must have suffered some personal damage pervaded his partially developed mind, and considering Mr. Pickwick as the aggressor, he set up an appalling and semi-earthly kind of howling, and butting forward with his head, commenced assailing that immortal gentleman about the back and legs, with such blows and pinches as the strength of his arm, and the violence of his excitement, allowed.

‘Take this little villain away,’ said the agonised Mr. Pickwick, ‘he’s mad.’

‘What is the matter?’ said the three tongue-tied Pickwickians.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Mr. Pickwick pettishly. ‘Take away the boy.’ (Here Mr. Winkle carried the interesting boy, screaming and struggling, to the farther end of the apartment.) ‘Now help me, lead this woman downstairs.’

‘Oh, I am better now,’ said Mrs. Bardell faintly.

‘Let me lead you downstairs,’ said the ever-gallant Mr. Tupman.

‘Thank you, sir—thank you;’ exclaimed Mrs. Bardell hysterically. And downstairs she was led accordingly, accompanied by her affectionate son.

‘I cannot conceive,’ said Mr. Pickwick when his friend returned—‘I cannot conceive what has been the matter with that woman. I had merely announced to her my intention of keeping a man-servant, when she fell into the extraordinary paroxysm in which you found her. Very extraordinary thing.’

‘Very,’ said his three friends.

‘Placed me in such an extremely awkward situation,’ continued Mr. Pickwick.

‘Very,’ was the reply of his followers, as they coughed slightly, and looked dubiously at each other.

This behaviour was not lost upon Mr. Pickwick. He remarked their incredulity. They evidently suspected him.

‘There is a man in the passage now,’ said Mr. Tupman.

‘It’s the man I spoke to you about,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘I sent for him to the Borough this morning. Have the goodness to call him up, Snodgrass.’

Mr. Snodgrass did as he was desired; and Mr. Samuel Weller forthwith presented himself.

‘Oh—you remember me, I suppose?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘I should think so,’ replied Sam, with a patronising wink. ‘Queer start that ‘ere, but he was one too many for you, warn’t he? Up to snuff and a pinch or two over—eh?’

‘Never mind that matter now,’ said Mr. Pickwick hastily; ‘I want to speak to you about something else. Sit down.’

‘Thank’ee, sir,’ said Sam. And down he sat without further bidding, having previously deposited his old white hat on the landing outside the door. ‘’Tain’t a wery good ‘un to look at,’ said Sam, ‘but it’s an astonishin’ ‘un to wear; and afore the brim went, it was a wery handsome tile. Hows’ever it’s lighter without it, that’s one thing, and every hole lets in some air, that’s another—wentilation gossamer I calls it.’ On the delivery of this sentiment, Mr. Weller smiled agreeably upon the assembled Pickwickians.

‘Now with regard to the matter on which I, with the concurrence of these gentlemen, sent for you,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘That’s the pint, sir,’ interposed Sam; ‘out vith it, as the father said to his child, when he swallowed a farden.’

‘We want to know, in the first place,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘whether you have any reason to be discontented with your present situation.’

‘Afore I answers that ‘ere question, gen’l’m’n,’ replied Mr. Weller, ‘I should like to know, in the first place, whether you’re a-goin’ to purwide me with a better?’

A sunbeam of placid benevolence played on Mr. Pickwick’s features as he said, ‘I have half made up my mind to engage you myself.’

‘Have you, though?’ said Sam.

Mr. Pickwick nodded in the affirmative.

‘Wages?’ inquired Sam.

‘Twelve pounds a year,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Clothes?’

‘Two suits.’

‘Work?’

‘To attend upon me; and travel about with me and these gentlemen here.’

‘Take the bill down,’ said Sam emphatically. ‘I’m let to a single gentleman, and the terms is agreed upon.’

‘You accept the situation?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Cert’nly,’ replied Sam. ‘If the clothes fits me half as well as the place, they’ll do.’

‘You can get a character of course?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Ask the landlady o’ the White Hart about that, Sir,’ replied Sam.

‘Can you come this evening?’

‘I’ll get into the clothes this minute, if they’re here,’ said Sam, with great alacrity.

‘Call at eight this evening,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘and if the inquiries are satisfactory, they shall be provided.’

With the single exception of one amiable indiscretion, in which an assistant housemaid had equally participated, the history of Mr. Weller’s conduct was so very blameless, that Mr. Pickwick felt fully justified in closing the engagement that very evening. With the promptness and energy which characterised not only the public proceedings, but all the private actions of this extraordinary man, he at once led his new attendant to one of those convenient emporiums where gentlemen’s new and second-hand clothes are provided, and the troublesome and inconvenient formality of measurement dispensed with; and before night had closed in, Mr. Weller was furnished with a grey coat with the P. C. button, a black hat with a cockade to it, a pink striped waistcoat, light breeches and gaiters, and a variety of other necessaries, too numerous to recapitulate.

‘Well,’ said that suddenly-transformed individual, as he took his seat on the outside of the Eatanswill coach next morning; ‘I wonder whether I’m meant to be a footman, or a groom, or a gamekeeper, or a seedsman. I looks like a sort of compo of every one on ‘em. Never mind; there’s a change of air, plenty to see, and little to do; and all this suits my complaint uncommon; so long life to the Pickvicks, says I!’

CHAPTER XIII. SOME ACCOUNT OF EATANSWILL; OF THE STATE OF PARTIES THEREIN; AND OF THE ELECTION OF A MEMBER TO SERVE IN PARLIAMENT FOR THAT ANCIENT, LOYAL, AND PATRIOTIC BOROUGH

We will frankly acknowledge that, up to the period of our being first immersed in the voluminous papers of the Pickwick Club, we had never heard of Eatanswill; we will with equal candour admit that we have in vain searched for proof of the actual existence of such a place at the present day. Knowing the deep reliance to be placed on every note and statement of Mr. Pickwick’s, and not presuming to set up our recollection against the recorded declarations of that great man, we have consulted every authority, bearing upon the subject, to which we could possibly refer. We have traced every name in schedules A and B, without meeting with that of Eatanswill; we have minutely examined every corner of the pocket county maps issued for the benefit of society by our distinguished publishers, and the same result has attended our investigation. We are therefore led to believe that Mr. Pickwick, with that anxious desire to abstain from giving offence to any, and with those delicate feelings for which all who knew him well know he was so eminently remarkable, purposely substituted a fictitious designation, for the real name of the place in which his observations were made. We are confirmed in this belief by a little circumstance, apparently slight and trivial in itself, but when considered in this point of view, not undeserving of notice. In Mr. Pickwick’s note-book, we can just trace an entry of the fact, that the places of himself and followers were booked by the Norwich coach; but this entry was afterwards lined through, as if for the purpose of concealing even the direction in which the borough is situated. We will not, therefore, hazard a guess upon the subject, but will at once proceed with this history, content with the materials which its characters have provided for us.

It appears, then, that the Eatanswill people, like the people of many other small towns, considered themselves of the utmost and most mighty importance, and that every man in Eatanswill, conscious of the weight that attached to his example, felt himself bound to unite, heart and soul, with one of the two great parties that divided the town—the Blues and the Buffs. Now the Blues lost no opportunity of opposing the Buffs, and the Buffs lost no opportunity of opposing the Blues; and the consequence was, that whenever the Buffs and Blues met together at public meeting, town-hall, fair, or market, disputes and high words arose between them. With these dissensions it is almost superfluous to say that everything in Eatanswill was made a party question. If the Buffs proposed to new skylight the market-place, the Blues got up public meetings, and denounced the proceeding; if the Blues proposed the erection of an additional pump in the High Street, the Buffs rose as one man and stood aghast at the enormity. There were Blue shops and Buff shops, Blue inns and Buff inns—there was a Blue aisle and a Buff aisle in the very church itself.

Of course it was essentially and indispensably necessary that each of these powerful parties should have its chosen organ and representative: and, accordingly, there were two newspapers in the town—the Eatanswill Gazette and the Eatanswill Independent; the former advocating Blue principles, and the latter conducted on grounds decidedly Buff. Fine newspapers they were. Such leading articles, and such spirited attacks!- -’Our worthless contemporary, the Gazette’—‘That disgraceful and dastardly journal, the Independent’—‘That false and scurrilous print, the Independent’—‘That vile and slanderous calumniator, the Gazette;’ these, and other spirit-stirring denunciations, were strewn plentifully over the columns of each, in every number, and excited feelings of the most intense delight and indignation in the bosoms of the townspeople.

Mr. Pickwick, with his usual foresight and sagacity, had chosen a peculiarly desirable moment for his visit to the borough. Never was such a contest known. The Honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall, was the Blue candidate; and Horatio Fizkin, Esq., of Fizkin Lodge, near Eatanswill, had been prevailed upon by his friends to stand forward on the Buff interest. The Gazette warned the electors of Eatanswill that the eyes not only of England, but of the whole civilised world, were upon them; and the Independent imperatively demanded to know, whether the constituency of Eatanswill were the grand fellows they had always taken them for, or base and servile tools, undeserving alike of the name of Englishmen and the blessings of freedom. Never had such a commotion agitated the town before.

It was late in the evening when Mr. Pickwick and his companions, assisted by Sam, dismounted from the roof of the Eatanswill coach. Large blue silk flags were flying from the windows of the Town Arms Inn, and bills were posted in every sash, intimating, in gigantic letters, that the Honourable Samuel Slumkey’s committee sat there daily. A crowd of idlers were assembled in the road, looking at a hoarse man in the balcony, who was apparently talking himself very red in the face in Mr. Slumkey’s behalf; but the force and point of whose arguments were somewhat impaired by the perpetual beating of four large drums which Mr. Fizkin’s committee had stationed at the street corner. There was a busy little man beside him, though, who took off his hat at intervals and motioned to the people to cheer, which they regularly did, most enthusiastically; and as the red-faced gentleman went on talking till he was redder in the face than ever, it seemed to answer his purpose quite as well as if anybody had heard him.

The Pickwickians had no sooner dismounted than they were surrounded by a branch mob of the honest and independent, who forthwith set up three deafening cheers, which being responded to by the main body (for it’s not at all necessary for a crowd to know what they are cheering about), swelled into a tremendous roar of triumph, which stopped even the red- faced man in the balcony.

‘Hurrah!’ shouted the mob, in conclusion.

‘One cheer more,’ screamed the little fugleman in the balcony, and out shouted the mob again, as if lungs were cast-iron, with steel works.

‘Slumkey for ever!’ roared the honest and independent.

‘Slumkey for ever!’ echoed Mr. Pickwick, taking off his hat.

‘No Fizkin!’ roared the crowd.

‘Certainly not!’ shouted Mr. Pickwick. ‘Hurrah!’ And then there was another roaring, like that of a whole menagerie when the elephant has rung the bell for the cold meat.

‘Who is Slumkey?’ whispered Mr. Tupman.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, in the same tone. ‘Hush. Don’t ask any questions. It’s always best on these occasions to do what the mob do.’

‘But suppose there are two mobs?’ suggested Mr. Snodgrass.

‘Shout with the largest,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

Volumes could not have said more.

They entered the house, the crowd opening right and left to let them pass, and cheering vociferously. The first object of consideration was to secure quarters for the night.

‘Can we have beds here?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, summoning the waiter.

‘Don’t know, Sir,’ replied the man; ‘afraid we’re full, sir—I’ll inquire, Sir.’ Away he went for that purpose, and presently returned, to ask whether the gentleman were ‘Blue.’

As neither Mr. Pickwick nor his companions took any vital interest in the cause of either candidate, the question was rather a difficult one to answer. In this dilemma Mr. Pickwick bethought himself of his new friend, Mr. Perker.

‘Do you know a gentleman of the name of Perker?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Certainly, Sir; Honourable Mr. Samuel Slumkey’s agent.’

‘He is Blue, I think?’

‘Oh, yes, Sir.’

‘Then we are Blue,’ said Mr. Pickwick; but observing that the man looked rather doubtful at this accommodating announcement, he gave him his card, and desired him to present it to Mr. Perker forthwith, if he should happen to be in the house. The waiter retired; and reappearing almost immediately with a request that Mr. Pickwick would follow him, led the way to a large room on the first floor, where, seated at a long table covered with books and papers, was Mr. Perker.

‘Ah—ah, my dear Sir,’ said the little man, advancing to meet him; ‘very happy to see you, my dear Sir, very. Pray sit down. So you have carried your intention into effect. You have come down here to see an election— eh?’

Mr. Pickwick replied in the affirmative.

‘Spirited contest, my dear sir,’ said the little man.

‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ said Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his hands. ‘I like to see sturdy patriotism, on whatever side it is called forth—and so it’s a spirited contest?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said the little man, ‘very much so indeed. We have opened all the public-houses in the place, and left our adversary nothing but the beer-shops—masterly stroke of policy that, my dear Sir, eh?’ The little man smiled complacently, and took a large pinch of snuff.

‘And what are the probabilities as to the result of the contest?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Why, doubtful, my dear Sir; rather doubtful as yet,’ replied the little man. ‘Fizkin’s people have got three-and-thirty voters in the lock-up coach-house at the White Hart.’

‘In the coach-house!’ said Mr. Pickwick, considerably astonished by this second stroke of policy.

‘They keep ‘em locked up there till they want ‘em,’ resumed the little man. ‘The effect of that is, you see, to prevent our getting at them; and even if we could, it would be of no use, for they keep them very drunk on purpose. Smart fellow Fizkin’s agent—very smart fellow indeed.’

Mr. Pickwick stared, but said nothing.

‘We are pretty confident, though,’ said Mr. Perker, sinking his voice almost to a whisper. ‘We had a little tea-party here, last night—five- and-forty women, my dear sir—and gave every one of ‘em a green parasol when she went away.’

‘A parasol!’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Fact, my dear Sir, fact. Five-and-forty green parasols, at seven and sixpence a-piece. All women like finery—extraordinary the effect of those parasols. Secured all their husbands, and half their brothers— beats stockings, and flannel, and all that sort of thing hollow. My idea, my dear Sir, entirely. Hail, rain, or sunshine, you can’t walk half a dozen yards up the street, without encountering half a dozen green parasols.’

Here the little man indulged in a convulsion of mirth, which was only checked by the entrance of a third party.

This was a tall, thin man, with a sandy-coloured head inclined to baldness, and a face in which solemn importance was blended with a look of unfathomable profundity. He was dressed in a long brown surtout, with a black cloth waistcoat, and drab trousers. A double eyeglass dangled at his waistcoat; and on his head he wore a very low-crowned hat with a broad brim. The new-comer was introduced to Mr. Pickwick as Mr. Pott, the editor of the Eatanswill Gazette. After a few preliminary remarks, Mr. Pott turned round to Mr. Pickwick, and said with solemnity—

‘This contest excites great interest in the metropolis, sir?’

‘I believe it does,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘To which I have reason to know,’ said Pott, looking towards Mr. Perker for corroboration—‘to which I have reason to know that my article of last Saturday in some degree contributed.’

‘Not the least doubt of it,’ said the little man.

‘The press is a mighty engine, sir,’ said Pott.

Mr. Pickwick yielded his fullest assent to the proposition.

‘But I trust, sir,’ said Pott, ‘that I have never abused the enormous power I wield. I trust, sir, that I have never pointed the noble instrument which is placed in my hands, against the sacred bosom of private life, or the tender breast of individual reputation; I trust, sir, that I have devoted my energies to—to endeavours—humble they may be, humble I know they are—to instil those principles of—which—are—’

Here the editor of the Eatanswill Gazette, appearing to ramble, Mr. Pickwick came to his relief, and said—

‘Certainly.’

‘And what, Sir,’ said Pott—‘what, Sir, let me ask you as an impartial man, is the state of the public mind in London, with reference to my contest with the Independent?’

‘Greatly excited, no doubt,’ interposed Mr. Perker, with a look of slyness which was very likely accidental.

‘The contest,’ said Pott, ‘shall be prolonged so long as I have health and strength, and that portion of talent with which I am gifted. From that contest, Sir, although it may unsettle men’s minds and excite their feelings, and render them incapable for the discharge of the everyday duties of ordinary life; from that contest, sir, I will never shrink, till I have set my heel upon the Eatanswill Independent. I wish the people of London, and the people of this country to know, sir, that they may rely upon me—that I will not desert them, that I am resolved to stand by them, Sir, to the last.’

Your conduct is most noble, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick; and he grasped the hand of the magnanimous Pott.

‘You are, sir, I perceive, a man of sense and talent,’ said Mr. Pott, almost breathless with the vehemence of his patriotic declaration. ‘I am most happy, sir, to make the acquaintance of such a man.’

‘And I,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘feel deeply honoured by this expression of your opinion. Allow me, sir, to introduce you to my fellow-travellers, the other corresponding members of the club I am proud to have founded.’

‘I shall be delighted,’ said Mr. Pott.

Mr. Pickwick withdrew, and returning with his friends, presented them in due form to the editor of the Eatanswill Gazette.

‘Now, my dear Pott,’ said little Mr. Perker, ‘the question is, what are we to do with our friends here?’

‘We can stop in this house, I suppose,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Not a spare bed in the house, my dear sir—not a single bed.’

‘Extremely awkward,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Very,’ said his fellow-voyagers.

‘I have an idea upon this subject,’ said Mr. Pott, ‘which I think may be very successfully adopted. They have two beds at the Peacock, and I can boldly say, on behalf of Mrs. Pott, that she will be delighted to accommodate Mr. Pickwick and any one of his friends, if the other two gentlemen and their servant do not object to shifting, as they best can, at the Peacock.’

After repeated pressings on the part of Mr. Pott, and repeated protestations on that of Mr. Pickwick that he could not think of incommoding or troubling his amiable wife, it was decided that it was the only feasible arrangement that could be made. So it _was _made; and after dinner together at the Town Arms, the friends separated, Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass repairing to the Peacock, and Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Winkle proceeding to the mansion of Mr. Pott; it having been previously arranged that they should all reassemble at the Town Arms in the morning, and accompany the Honourable Samuel Slumkey’s procession to the place of nomination.

Mr. Pott’s domestic circle was limited to himself and his wife. All men whom mighty genius has raised to a proud eminence in the world, have usually some little weakness which appears the more conspicuous from the contrast it presents to their general character. If Mr. Pott had a weakness, it was, perhaps, that he was rather too submissive to the somewhat contemptuous control and sway of his wife. We do not feel justified in laying any particular stress upon the fact, because on the present occasion all Mrs. Pott’s most winning ways were brought into requisition to receive the two gentlemen.

‘My dear,’ said Mr. Pott, ‘Mr. Pickwick—Mr. Pickwick of London.’

Mrs. Pott received Mr. Pickwick’s paternal grasp of the hand with enchanting sweetness; and Mr. Winkle, who had not been announced at all, sidled and bowed, unnoticed, in an obscure corner.

‘P. my dear’—said Mrs. Pott.

‘My life,’ said Mr. Pott.

‘Pray introduce the other gentleman.’

‘I beg a thousand pardons,’ said Mr. Pott. ‘Permit me, Mrs. Pott, Mr.—’

‘Winkle,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Winkle,’ echoed Mr. Pott; and the ceremony of introduction was complete.

‘We owe you many apologies, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘for disturbing your domestic arrangements at so short a notice.’

‘I beg you won’t mention it, sir,’ replied the feminine Pott, with vivacity. ‘It is a high treat to me, I assure you, to see any new faces; living as I do, from day to day, and week to week, in this dull place, and seeing nobody.’

‘Nobody, my dear!’ exclaimed Mr. Pott archly.

‘Nobody but you,’ retorted Mrs. Pott, with asperity.

‘You see, Mr. Pickwick,’ said the host in explanation of his wife’s lament, ‘that we are in some measure cut off from many enjoyments and pleasures of which we might otherwise partake. My public station, as editor of the Eatanswill Gazette, the position which that paper holds in the country, my constant immersion in the vortex of politics—’

‘P. my dear—’ interposed Mrs. Pott.

‘My life—’ said the editor.

‘I wish, my dear, you would endeavour to find some topic of conversation in which these gentlemen might take some rational interest.’

‘But, my love,’ said Mr. Pott, with great humility, ‘Mr. Pickwick does take an interest in it.’

‘It’s well for him if he can,’ said Mrs. Pott emphatically; ‘I am wearied out of my life with your politics, and quarrels with the Independent, and nonsense. I am quite astonished, P., at your making such an exhibition of your absurdity.’

‘But, my dear—’ said Mr. Pott.

‘Oh, nonsense, don’t talk to me,’ said Mrs. Pott. ‘Do you play ecarte, Sir?’

‘I shall be very happy to learn under your tuition,’ replied Mr. Winkle.

‘Well, then, draw that little table into this window, and let me get out of hearing of those prosy politics.’

‘Jane,’ said Mr. Pott, to the servant who brought in candles, ‘go down into the office, and bring me up the file of the Gazette for eighteen hundred and twenty-six. I’ll read you,’ added the editor, turning to Mr. Pickwick—‘I’ll just read you a few of the leaders I wrote at that time upon the Buff job of appointing a new tollman to the turnpike here; I rather think they’ll amuse you.’

‘I should like to hear them very much indeed,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

Up came the file, and down sat the editor, with Mr. Pickwick at his side.

We have in vain pored over the leaves of Mr. Pickwick’s note-book, in the hope of meeting with a general summary of these beautiful compositions. We have every reason to believe that he was perfectly enraptured with the vigour and freshness of the style; indeed Mr. Winkle has recorded the fact that his eyes were closed, as if with excess of pleasure, during the whole time of their perusal.

The announcement of supper put a stop both to the game of ecarte, and the recapitulation of the beauties of the Eatanswill Gazette. Mrs. Pott was in the highest spirits and the most agreeable humour. Mr. Winkle had already made considerable progress in her good opinion, and she did not hesitate to inform him, confidentially, that Mr. Pickwick was ‘a delightful old dear.’ These terms convey a familiarity of expression, in which few of those who were intimately acquainted with that colossal-minded man, would have presumed to indulge. We have preserved them, nevertheless, as affording at once a touching and a convincing proof of the estimation in which he was held by every class of society, and the ease with which he made his way to their hearts and feelings.

It was a late hour of the night—long after Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass had fallen asleep in the inmost recesses of the Peacock—when the two friends retired to rest. Slumber soon fell upon the senses of Mr. Winkle, but his feelings had been excited, and his admiration roused; and for many hours after sleep had rendered him insensible to earthly objects, the face and figure of the agreeable Mrs. Pott presented themselves again and again to his wandering imagination.

The noise and bustle which ushered in the morning were sufficient to dispel from the mind of the most romantic visionary in existence, any associations but those which were immediately connected with the rapidly-approaching election. The beating of drums, the blowing of horns and trumpets, the shouting of men, and tramping of horses, echoed and re-echoed through the streets from the earliest dawn of day; and an occasional fight between the light skirmishers of either party at once enlivened the preparations, and agreeably diversified their character.

‘Well, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as his valet appeared at his bedroom door, just as he was concluding his toilet; ‘all alive to-day, I suppose?’

‘Reg’lar game, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘our people’s a-collecting down at the Town Arms, and they’re a-hollering themselves hoarse already.’

‘Ah,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘do they seem devoted to their party, Sam?’

‘Never see such dewotion in my life, Sir.’

‘Energetic, eh?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Uncommon,’ replied Sam; ‘I never see men eat and drink so much afore. I wonder they ain’t afeer’d o’ bustin’.’

‘That’s the mistaken kindness of the gentry here,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Wery likely,’ replied Sam briefly.

‘Fine, fresh, hearty fellows they seem,’ said Mr. Pickwick, glancing from the window.

‘Wery fresh,’ replied Sam; ‘me and the two waiters at the Peacock has been a-pumpin’ over the independent woters as supped there last night.’

‘Pumping over independent voters!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes,’ said his attendant, ‘every man slept vere he fell down; we dragged ‘em out, one by one, this mornin’, and put ‘em under the pump, and they’re in reg’lar fine order now. Shillin’ a head the committee paid for that ‘ere job.’

‘Can such things be!’ exclaimed the astonished Mr. Pickwick.

‘Lord bless your heart, sir,’ said Sam, ‘why where was you half baptised?—that’s nothin’, that ain’t.’

‘Nothing?’said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Nothin’ at all, Sir,’ replied his attendant. ‘The night afore the last day o’ the last election here, the opposite party bribed the barmaid at the Town Arms, to hocus the brandy-and-water of fourteen unpolled electors as was a-stoppin’ in the house.’

‘What do you mean by “hocussing” brandy-and-water?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Puttin’ laud’num in it,’ replied Sam. ‘Blessed if she didn’t send ‘em all to sleep till twelve hours arter the election was over. They took one man up to the booth, in a truck, fast asleep, by way of experiment, but it was no go—they wouldn’t poll him; so they brought him back, and put him to bed again.’

Strange practices, these,’ said Mr. Pickwick; half speaking to himself and half addressing Sam.

‘Not half so strange as a miraculous circumstance as happened to my own father, at an election time, in this wery place, Sir,’ replied Sam.

‘What was that?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Why, he drove a coach down here once,’ said Sam; ‘’lection time came on, and he was engaged by vun party to bring down woters from London. Night afore he was going to drive up, committee on t’ other side sends for him quietly, and away he goes vith the messenger, who shows him in;- -large room—lots of gen’l’m’n—heaps of papers, pens and ink, and all that ‘ere. “Ah, Mr. Weller,” says the gen’l’m’n in the chair, “glad to see you, sir; how are you?”—“Wery well, thank ‘ee, Sir,” says my father; “I hope you’re pretty middlin,” says he.—“Pretty well, thank’ee, Sir,” says the gen’l’m’n; “sit down, Mr. Weller—pray sit down, sir.” So my father sits down, and he and the gen’l’m’n looks wery hard at each other. “You don’t remember me?” said the gen’l’m’n.—“Can’t say I do,” says my father.—“Oh, I know you,” says the gen’l’m’n: “know’d you when you was a boy,” says he.—“Well, I don’t remember you,” says my father.—“That’s wery odd,” says the gen’l’m’n.”—“Wery,” says my father.—“You must have a bad mem’ry, Mr. Weller,” says the gen’l’m’n.—“Well, it is a wery bad ‘un,” says my father.—“I thought so,” says the gen’l’m’n. So then they pours him out a glass of wine, and gammons him about his driving, and gets him into a reg’lar good humour, and at last shoves a twenty-pound note into his hand. “It’s a wery bad road between this and London,” says the gen’l’m’n.—“Here and there it is a heavy road,” says my father.—” ‘Specially near the canal, I think,” says the gen’l’m’n.—“Nasty bit that ‘ere,” says my father.— “Well, Mr. Weller,” says the gen’l’m’n, “you’re a wery good whip, and can do what you like with your horses, we know. We’re all wery fond o’ you, Mr. Weller, so in case you should have an accident when you’re bringing these here woters down, and should tip ‘em over into the canal vithout hurtin’ of ‘em, this is for yourself,” says he.—“Gen’l’m’n, you’re wery kind,” says my father, “and I’ll drink your health in another glass of wine,” says he; vich he did, and then buttons up the money, and bows himself out. You wouldn’t believe, sir,’ continued Sam, with a look of inexpressible impudence at his master, ‘that on the wery day as he came down with them woters, his coach _was _upset on that ‘ere wery spot, and ev’ry man on ‘em was turned into the canal.’

‘And got out again?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick hastily.

‘Why,’ replied Sam very slowly, ‘I rather think one old gen’l’m’n was missin’; I know his hat was found, but I ain’t quite certain whether his head was in it or not. But what I look at is the hex-traordinary and wonderful coincidence, that arter what that gen’l’m’n said, my father’s coach should be upset in that wery place, and on that wery day!’

‘It is, no doubt, a very extraordinary circumstance indeed,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘But brush my hat, Sam, for I hear Mr. Winkle calling me to breakfast.’

With these words Mr. Pickwick descended to the parlour, where he found breakfast laid, and the family already assembled. The meal was hastily despatched; each of the gentlemen’s hats was decorated with an enormous blue favour, made up by the fair hands of Mrs. Pott herself; and as Mr. Winkle had undertaken to escort that lady to a house-top, in the immediate vicinity of the hustings, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Pott repaired alone to the Town Arms, from the back window of which, one of Mr. Slumkey’s committee was addressing six small boys and one girl, whom he dignified, at every second sentence, with the imposing title of ‘Men of Eatanswill,’ whereat the six small boys aforesaid cheered prodigiously.

The stable-yard exhibited unequivocal symptoms of the glory and strength of the Eatanswill Blues. There was a regular army of blue flags, some with one handle, and some with two, exhibiting appropriate devices, in golden characters four feet high, and stout in proportion. There was a grand band of trumpets, bassoons, and drums, marshalled four abreast, and earning their money, if ever men did, especially the drum-beaters, who were very muscular. There were bodies of constables with blue staves, twenty committee-men with blue scarfs, and a mob of voters with blue cockades. There were electors on horseback and electors afoot. There was an open carriage-and-four, for the Honourable Samuel Slumkey; and there were four carriage-and-pair, for his friends and supporters; and the flags were rustling, and the band was playing, and the constables were swearing, and the twenty committee-men were squabbling, and the mob were shouting, and the horses were backing, and the post- boys perspiring; and everybody, and everything, then and there assembled, was for the special use, behoof, honour, and renown, of the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall, one of the candidates for the representation of the borough of Eatanswill, in the Commons House of Parliament of the United Kingdom.

Loud and long were the cheers, and mighty was the rustling of one of the blue flags, with ‘Liberty of the Press’ inscribed thereon, when the sandy head of Mr. Pott was discerned in one of the windows, by the mob beneath; and tremendous was the enthusiasm when the Honourable Samuel Slumkey himself, in top-boots, and a blue neckerchief, advanced and seized the hand of the said Pott, and melodramatically testified by gestures to the crowd, his ineffaceable obligations to the Eatanswill Gazette.

‘Is everything ready?’ said the Honourable Samuel Slumkey to Mr. Perker.

‘Everything, my dear Sir,’ was the little man’s reply.

‘Nothing has been omitted, I hope?’ said the Honourable Samuel Slumkey.

‘Nothing has been left undone, my dear sir—nothing whatever. There are twenty washed men at the street door for you to shake hands with; and six children in arms that you’re to pat on the head, and inquire the age of; be particular about the children, my dear sir—it has always a great effect, that sort of thing.’

‘I’ll take care,’ said the Honourable Samuel Slumkey.

‘And, perhaps, my dear Sir,’ said the cautious little man, ‘perhaps if you could—I don’t mean to say it’s indispensable—but if you could manage to kiss one of ‘em, it would produce a very great impression on the crowd.’

‘Wouldn’t it have as good an effect if the proposer or seconder did that?’ said the Honourable Samuel Slumkey.

‘Why, I am afraid it wouldn’t,’ replied the agent; ‘if it were done by yourself, my dear Sir, I think it would make you very popular.’

‘Very well,’ said the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, with a resigned air, ‘then it must be done. That’s all.’

‘Arrange the procession,’ cried the twenty committee-men.

Amidst the cheers of the assembled throng, the band, and the constables, and the committee-men, and the voters, and the horsemen, and the carriages, took their places—each of the two-horse vehicles being closely packed with as many gentlemen as could manage to stand upright in it; and that assigned to Mr. Perker, containing Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Tupman, Mr. Snodgrass, and about half a dozen of the committee besides.

There was a moment of awful suspense as the procession waited for the Honourable Samuel Slumkey to step into his carriage. Suddenly the crowd set up a great cheering.

‘He has come out,’ said little Mr. Perker, greatly excited; the more so as their position did not enable them to see what was going forward.

Another cheer, much louder.

‘He has shaken hands with the men,’ cried the little agent.

Another cheer, far more vehement.

‘He has patted the babies on the head,’ said Mr. Perker, trembling with anxiety.

A roar of applause that rent the air.

‘He has kissed one of ‘em!’ exclaimed the delighted little man.

A second roar.

‘He has kissed another,’ gasped the excited manager.

A third roar.

‘He’s kissing ‘em all!’ screamed the enthusiastic little gentleman, and hailed by the deafening shouts of the multitude, the procession moved on.

How or by what means it became mixed up with the other procession, and how it was ever extricated from the confusion consequent thereupon, is more than we can undertake to describe, inasmuch as Mr. Pickwick’s hat was knocked over his eyes, nose, and mouth, by one poke of a Buff flag- staff, very early in the proceedings. He describes himself as being surrounded on every side, when he could catch a glimpse of the scene, by angry and ferocious countenances, by a vast cloud of dust, and by a dense crowd of combatants. He represents himself as being forced from the carriage by some unseen power, and being personally engaged in a pugilistic encounter; but with whom, or how, or why, he is wholly unable to state. He then felt himself forced up some wooden steps by the persons from behind; and on removing his hat, found himself surrounded by his friends, in the very front of the left hand side of the hustings. The right was reserved for the Buff party, and the centre for the mayor and his officers; one of whom—the fat crier of Eatanswill—was ringing an enormous bell, by way of commanding silence, while Mr. Horatio Fizkin, and the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, with their hands upon their hearts, were bowing with the utmost affability to the troubled sea of heads that inundated the open space in front; and from whence arose a storm of groans, and shouts, and yells, and hootings, that would have done honour to an earthquake.

‘There’s Winkle,’ said Mr. Tupman, pulling his friend by the sleeve.

‘Where!’ said Mr. Pickwick, putting on his spectacles, which he had fortunately kept in his pocket hitherto.

‘There,’ said Mr. Tupman, ‘on the top of that house.’ And there, sure enough, in the leaden gutter of a tiled roof, were Mr. Winkle and Mrs. Pott, comfortably seated in a couple of chairs, waving their handkerchiefs in token of recognition—a compliment which Mr. Pickwick returned by kissing his hand to the lady.

The proceedings had not yet commenced; and as an inactive crowd is generally disposed to be jocose, this very innocent action was sufficient to awaken their facetiousness.

‘Oh, you wicked old rascal,’ cried one voice, ‘looking arter the girls, are you?’

‘Oh, you wenerable sinner,’ cried another.

‘Putting on his spectacles to look at a married ‘ooman!’ said a third.

‘I see him a-winkin’ at her, with his wicked old eye,’ shouted a fourth.

‘Look arter your wife, Pott,’ bellowed a fifth—and then there was a roar of laughter.

As these taunts were accompanied with invidious comparisons between Mr. Pickwick and an aged ram, and several witticisms of the like nature; and as they moreover rather tended to convey reflections upon the honour of an innocent lady, Mr. Pickwick’s indignation was excessive; but as silence was proclaimed at the moment, he contented himself by scorching the mob with a look of pity for their misguided minds, at which they laughed more boisterously than ever.

‘Silence!’ roared the mayor’s attendants.

‘Whiffin, proclaim silence,’ said the mayor, with an air of pomp befitting his lofty station. In obedience to this command the crier performed another concerto on the bell, whereupon a gentleman in the crowd called out ‘Muffins’; which occasioned another laugh.

‘Gentlemen,’ said the mayor, at as loud a pitch as he could possibly force his voice to—‘gentlemen. Brother electors of the borough of Eatanswill. We are met here to-day for the purpose of choosing a representative in the room of our late—’

Here the mayor was interrupted by a voice in the crowd.

‘Suc-cess to the mayor!’ cried the voice, ‘and may he never desert the nail and sarspan business, as he got his money by.’

This allusion to the professional pursuits of the orator was received with a storm of delight, which, with a bell-accompaniment, rendered the remainder of his speech inaudible, with the exception of the concluding sentence, in which he thanked the meeting for the patient attention with which they heard him throughout—an expression of gratitude which elicited another burst of mirth, of about a quarter of an hour’s duration.

Next, a tall, thin gentleman, in a very stiff white neckerchief, after being repeatedly desired by the crowd to ‘send a boy home, to ask whether he hadn’t left his voice under the pillow,’ begged to nominate a fit and proper person to represent them in Parliament. And when he said it was Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, near Eatanswill, the Fizkinites applauded, and the Slumkeyites groaned, so long, and so loudly, that both he and the seconder might have sung comic songs in lieu of speaking, without anybody’s being a bit the wiser.

The friends of Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, having had their innings, a little choleric, pink-faced man stood forward to propose another fit and proper person to represent the electors of Eatanswill in Parliament; and very swimmingly the pink-faced gentleman would have got on, if he had not been rather too choleric to entertain a sufficient perception of the fun of the crowd. But after a very few sentences of figurative eloquence, the pink-faced gentleman got from denouncing those who interrupted him in the mob, to exchanging defiances with the gentlemen on the hustings; whereupon arose an uproar which reduced him to the necessity of expressing his feelings by serious pantomime, which he did, and then left the stage to his seconder, who delivered a written speech of half an hour’s length, and wouldn’t be stopped, because he had sent it all to the Eatanswill Gazette, and the Eatanswill Gazette had already printed it, every word.

Then Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, near Eatanswill, presented himself for the purpose of addressing the electors; which he no sooner did, than the band employed by the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, commenced performing with a power to which their strength in the morning was a trifle; in return for which, the Buff crowd belaboured the heads and shoulders of the Blue crowd; on which the Blue crowd endeavoured to dispossess themselves of their very unpleasant neighbours the Buff crowd; and a scene of struggling, and pushing, and fighting, succeeded, to which we can no more do justice than the mayor could, although he issued imperative orders to twelve constables to seize the ringleaders, who might amount in number to two hundred and fifty, or thereabouts. At all these encounters, Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, and his friends, waxed fierce and furious; until at last Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, begged to ask his opponent, the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall, whether that band played by his consent; which question the Honourable Samuel Slumkey declining to answer, Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, shook his fist in the countenance of the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall; upon which the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, his blood being up, defied Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, to mortal combat. At this violation of all known rules and precedents of order, the mayor commanded another fantasia on the bell, and declared that he would bring before himself, both Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, and the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall, and bind them over to keep the peace. Upon this terrific denunciation, the supporters of the two candidates interfered, and after the friends of each party had quarrelled in pairs, for three-quarters of an hour, Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, touched his hat to the Honourable Samuel Slumkey; the Honourable Samuel Slumkey touched his to Horatio Fizkin, Esquire; the band was stopped; the crowd were partially quieted; and Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, was permitted to proceed.

The speeches of the two candidates, though differing in every other respect, afforded a beautiful tribute to the merit and high worth of the electors of Eatanswill. Both expressed their opinion that a more independent, a more enlightened, a more public-spirited, a more noble- minded, a more disinterested set of men than those who had promised to vote for him, never existed on earth; each darkly hinted his suspicions that the electors in the opposite interest had certain swinish and besotted infirmities which rendered them unfit for the exercise of the important duties they were called upon to discharge. Fizkin expressed his readiness to do anything he was wanted: Slumkey, his determination to do nothing that was asked of him. Both said that the trade, the manufactures, the commerce, the prosperity of Eatanswill, would ever be dearer to their hearts than any earthly object; and each had it in his power to state, with the utmost confidence, that he was the man who would eventually be returned.

There was a show of hands; the mayor decided in favour of the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall. Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, demanded a poll, and a poll was fixed accordingly. Then a vote of thanks was moved to the mayor for his able conduct in the chair; and the mayor, devoutly wishing that he had had a chair to display his able conduct in (for he had been standing during the whole proceedings), returned thanks. The processions reformed, the carriages rolled slowly through the crowd, and its members screeched and shouted after them as their feelings or caprice dictated.

During the whole time of the polling, the town was in a perpetual fever of excitement. Everything was conducted on the most liberal and delightful scale. Excisable articles were remarkably cheap at all the public-houses; and spring vans paraded the streets for the accommodation of voters who were seized with any temporary dizziness in the head—an epidemic which prevailed among the electors, during the contest, to a most alarming extent, and under the influence of which they might frequently be seen lying on the pavements in a state of utter insensibility. A small body of electors remained unpolled on the very last day. They were calculating and reflecting persons, who had not yet been convinced by the arguments of either party, although they had frequent conferences with each. One hour before the close of the poll, Mr. Perker solicited the honour of a private interview with these intelligent, these noble, these patriotic men. It was granted. His arguments were brief but satisfactory. They went in a body to the poll; and when they returned, the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall, was returned also.

CHAPTER XIV. COMPRISING A BRIEF DESCRIPTION OF THE COMPANY AT THE PEACOCK ASSEMBLED; AND A TALE TOLD BY A BAGMAN

It is pleasant to turn from contemplating the strife and turmoil of political existence, to the peaceful repose of private life. Although in reality no great partisan of either side, Mr. Pickwick was sufficiently fired with Mr. Pott’s enthusiasm, to apply his whole time and attention to the proceedings, of which the last chapter affords a description compiled from his own memoranda. Nor while he was thus occupied was Mr. Winkle idle, his whole time being devoted to pleasant walks and short country excursions with Mrs. Pott, who never failed, when such an opportunity presented itself, to seek some relief from the tedious monotony she so constantly complained of. The two gentlemen being thus completely domesticated in the editor’s house, Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass were in a great measure cast upon their own resources. Taking but little interest in public affairs, they beguiled their time chiefly with such amusements as the Peacock afforded, which were limited to a bagatelle-board in the first floor, and a sequestered skittle-ground in the back yard. In the science and nicety of both these recreations, which are far more abstruse than ordinary men suppose, they were gradually initiated by Mr. Weller, who possessed a perfect knowledge of such pastimes. Thus, notwithstanding that they were in a great measure deprived of the comfort and advantage of Mr. Pickwick’s society, they were still enabled to beguile the time, and to prevent its hanging heavily on their hands.

It was in the evening, however, that the Peacock presented attractions which enabled the two friends to resist even the invitations of the gifted, though prosy, Pott. It was in the evening that the ‘commercial room’ was filled with a social circle, whose characters and manners it was the delight of Mr. Tupman to observe; whose sayings and doings it was the habit of Mr. Snodgrass to note down.

Most people know what sort of places commercial rooms usually are. That of the Peacock differed in no material respect from the generality of such apartments; that is to say, it was a large, bare-looking room, the furniture of which had no doubt been better when it was newer, with a spacious table in the centre, and a variety of smaller dittos in the corners; an extensive assortment of variously shaped chairs, and an old Turkey carpet, bearing about the same relative proportion to the size of the room, as a lady’s pocket-handkerchief might to the floor of a watch- box. The walls were garnished with one or two large maps; and several weather-beaten rough greatcoats, with complicated capes, dangled from a long row of pegs in one corner. The mantel-shelf was ornamented with a wooden inkstand, containing one stump of a pen and half a wafer; a road- book and directory; a county history minus the cover; and the mortal remains of a trout in a glass coffin. The atmosphere was redolent of tobacco-smoke, the fumes of which had communicated a rather dingy hue to the whole room, and more especially to the dusty red curtains which shaded the windows. On the sideboard a variety of miscellaneous articles were huddled together, the most conspicuous of which were some very cloudy fish-sauce cruets, a couple of driving-boxes, two or three whips, and as many travelling shawls, a tray of knives and forks, and the mustard.

Here it was that Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass were seated on the evening after the conclusion of the election, with several other temporary inmates of the house, smoking and drinking.

‘Well, gents,’ said a stout, hale personage of about forty, with only one eye—a very bright black eye, which twinkled with a roguish expression of fun and good-humour, ‘our noble selves, gents. I always propose that toast to the company, and drink Mary to myself. Eh, Mary!’

‘Get along with you, you wretch,’ said the hand-maiden, obviously not ill-pleased with the compliment, however.

‘Don’t go away, Mary,’ said the black-eyed man.

‘Let me alone, imperence,’ said the young lady.

‘Never mind,’ said the one-eyed man, calling after the girl as she left the room. ‘I’ll step out by and by, Mary. Keep your spirits up, dear.’ Here he went through the not very difficult process of winking upon the company with his solitary eye, to the enthusiastic delight of an elderly personage with a dirty face and a clay pipe.

‘Rum creeters is women,’ said the dirty-faced man, after a pause.

‘Ah! no mistake about that,’ said a very red-faced man, behind a cigar.

After this little bit of philosophy there was another pause.

‘There’s rummer things than women in this world though, mind you,’ said the man with the black eye, slowly filling a large Dutch pipe, with a most capacious bowl.

‘Are you married?’ inquired the dirty-faced man.

‘Can’t say I am.’

‘I thought not.’ Here the dirty-faced man fell into ecstasies of mirth at his own retort, in which he was joined by a man of bland voice and placid countenance, who always made it a point to agree with everybody.

‘Women, after all, gentlemen,’ said the enthusiastic Mr. Snodgrass, ‘are the great props and comforts of our existence.’

‘So they are,’ said the placid gentleman.

‘When they’re in a good humour,’ interposed the dirty-faced man.

‘And that’s very true,’ said the placid one.

‘I repudiate that qualification,’ said Mr. Snodgrass, whose thoughts were fast reverting to Emily Wardle. ‘I repudiate it with disdain—with indignation. Show me the man who says anything against women, as women, and I boldly declare he is not a man.’ And Mr. Snodgrass took his cigar from his mouth, and struck the table violently with his clenched fist.

‘That’s good sound argument,’ said the placid man.

‘Containing a position which I deny,’ interrupted he of the dirty countenance.

‘And there’s certainly a very great deal of truth in what you observe too, Sir,’ said the placid gentleman.

‘Your health, Sir,’ said the bagman with the lonely eye, bestowing an approving nod on Mr. Snodgrass.

Mr. Snodgrass acknowledged the compliment.

‘I always like to hear a good argument,’ continued the bagman, ‘a sharp one, like this: it’s very improving; but this little argument about women brought to my mind a story I have heard an old uncle of mine tell, the recollection of which, just now, made me say there were rummer things than women to be met with, sometimes.’

‘I should like to hear that same story,’ said the red-faced man with the cigar.

‘Should you?’ was the only reply of the bagman, who continued to smoke with great vehemence.

‘So should I,’ said Mr. Tupman, speaking for the first time. He was always anxious to increase his stock of experience.

‘Should you? Well then, I’ll tell it. No, I won’t. I know you won’t believe it,’ said the man with the roguish eye, making that organ look more roguish than ever. ‘If you say it’s true, of course I shall,’ said Mr. Tupman.

‘Well, upon that understanding I’ll tell you,’ replied the traveller. ‘Did you ever hear of the great commercial house of Bilson & Slum? But it doesn’t matter though, whether you did or not, because they retired from business long since. It’s eighty years ago, since the circumstance happened to a traveller for that house, but he was a particular friend of my uncle’s; and my uncle told the story to me. It’s a queer name; but he used to call it

THE BAGMAN’S STORY

and he used to tell it, something in this way.

‘One winter’s evening, about five o’clock, just as it began to grow dusk, a man in a gig might have been seen urging his tired horse along the road which leads across Marlborough Downs, in the direction of Bristol. I say he might have been seen, and I have no doubt he would have been, if anybody but a blind man had happened to pass that way; but the weather was so bad, and the night so cold and wet, that nothing was out but the water, and so the traveller jogged along in the middle of the road, lonesome and dreary enough. If any bagman of that day could have caught sight of the little neck-or-nothing sort of gig, with a clay-coloured body and red wheels, and the vixenish, ill tempered, fast- going bay mare, that looked like a cross between a butcher’s horse and a twopenny post-office pony, he would have known at once, that this traveller could have been no other than Tom Smart, of the great house of Bilson and Slum, Cateaton Street, City. However, as there was no bagman to look on, nobody knew anything at all about the matter; and so Tom Smart and his clay-coloured gig with the red wheels, and the vixenish mare with the fast pace, went on together, keeping the secret among them, and nobody was a bit the wiser.

‘There are many pleasanter places even in this dreary world, than Marlborough Downs when it blows hard; and if you throw in beside, a gloomy winter’s evening, a miry and sloppy road, and a pelting fall of heavy rain, and try the effect, by way of experiment, in your own proper person, you will experience the full force of this observation.

‘The wind blew—not up the road or down it, though that’s bad enough, but sheer across it, sending the rain slanting down like the lines they used to rule in the copy-books at school, to make the boys slope well. For a moment it would die away, and the traveller would begin to delude himself into the belief that, exhausted with its previous fury, it had quietly laid itself down to rest, when, whoo! he could hear it growling and whistling in the distance, and on it would come rushing over the hill-tops, and sweeping along the plain, gathering sound and strength as it drew nearer, until it dashed with a heavy gust against horse and man, driving the sharp rain into their ears, and its cold damp breath into their very bones; and past them it would scour, far, far away, with a stunning roar, as if in ridicule of their weakness, and triumphant in the consciousness of its own strength and power.

‘The bay mare splashed away, through the mud and water, with drooping ears; now and then tossing her head as if to express her disgust at this very ungentlemanly behaviour of the elements, but keeping a good pace notwithstanding, until a gust of wind, more furious than any that had yet assailed them, caused her to stop suddenly and plant her four feet firmly against the ground, to prevent her being blown over. It’s a special mercy that she did this, for if she _had _been blown over, the vixenish mare was so light, and the gig was so light, and Tom Smart such a light weight into the bargain, that they must infallibly have all gone rolling over and over together, until they reached the confines of earth, or until the wind fell; and in either case the probability is, that neither the vixenish mare, nor the clay-coloured gig with the red wheels, nor Tom Smart, would ever have been fit for service again.

‘“Well, damn my straps and whiskers,” says Tom Smart (Tom sometimes had an unpleasant knack of swearing)—“damn my straps and whiskers,” says Tom, “if this ain’t pleasant, blow me!”

‘You’ll very likely ask me why, as Tom Smart had been pretty well blown already, he expressed this wish to be submitted to the same process again. I can’t say—all I know is, that Tom Smart said so—or at least he always told my uncle he said so, and it’s just the same thing.

“‘Blow me,” says Tom Smart; and the mare neighed as if she were precisely of the same opinion.

“‘Cheer up, old girl,” said Tom, patting the bay mare on the neck with the end of his whip. “It won’t do pushing on, such a night as this; the first house we come to we’ll put up at, so the faster you go the sooner it’s over. Soho, old girl—gently—gently.”

‘Whether the vixenish mare was sufficiently well acquainted with the tones of Tom’s voice to comprehend his meaning, or whether she found it colder standing still than moving on, of course I can’t say. But I can say that Tom had no sooner finished speaking, than she pricked up her ears, and started forward at a speed which made the clay-coloured gig rattle until you would have supposed every one of the red spokes were going to fly out on the turf of Marlborough Downs; and even Tom, whip as he was, couldn’t stop or check her pace, until she drew up of her own accord, before a roadside inn on the right-hand side of the way, about half a quarter of a mile from the end of the Downs.

‘Tom cast a hasty glance at the upper part of the house as he threw the reins to the hostler, and stuck the whip in the box. It was a strange old place, built of a kind of shingle, inlaid, as it were, with cross- beams, with gabled-topped windows projecting completely over the pathway, and a low door with a dark porch, and a couple of steep steps leading down into the house, instead of the modern fashion of half a dozen shallow ones leading up to it. It was a comfortable-looking place though, for there was a strong, cheerful light in the bar window, which shed a bright ray across the road, and even lighted up the hedge on the other side; and there was a red flickering light in the opposite window, one moment but faintly discernible, and the next gleaming strongly through the drawn curtains, which intimated that a rousing fire was blazing within. Marking these little evidences with the eye of an experienced traveller, Tom dismounted with as much agility as his half- frozen limbs would permit, and entered the house.

‘In less than five minutes’ time, Tom was ensconced in the room opposite the bar—the very room where he had imagined the fire blazing—before a substantial, matter-of-fact, roaring fire, composed of something short of a bushel of coals, and wood enough to make half a dozen decent gooseberry bushes, piled half-way up the chimney, and roaring and crackling with a sound that of itself would have warmed the heart of any reasonable man. This was comfortable, but this was not all; for a smartly-dressed girl, with a bright eye and a neat ankle, was laying a very clean white cloth on the table; and as Tom sat with his slippered feet on the fender, and his back to the open door, he saw a charming prospect of the bar reflected in the glass over the chimney-piece, with delightful rows of green bottles and gold labels, together with jars of pickles and preserves, and cheeses and boiled hams, and rounds of beef, arranged on shelves in the most tempting and delicious array. Well, this was comfortable too; but even this was not all—for in the bar, seated at tea at the nicest possible little table, drawn close up before the brightest possible little fire, was a buxom widow of somewhere about eight-and-forty or thereabouts, with a face as comfortable as the bar, who was evidently the landlady of the house, and the supreme ruler over all these agreeable possessions. There was only one drawback to the beauty of the whole picture, and that was a tall man—a very tall man— in a brown coat and bright basket buttons, and black whiskers and wavy black hair, who was seated at tea with the widow, and who it required no great penetration to discover was in a fair way of persuading her to be a widow no longer, but to confer upon him the privilege of sitting down in that bar, for and during the whole remainder of the term of his natural life.

‘Tom Smart was by no means of an irritable or envious disposition, but somehow or other the tall man with the brown coat and the bright basket buttons did rouse what little gall he had in his composition, and did make him feel extremely indignant, the more especially as he could now and then observe, from his seat before the glass, certain little affectionate familiarities passing between the tall man and the widow, which sufficiently denoted that the tall man was as high in favour as he was in size. Tom was fond of hot punch—I may venture to say he was very fond of hot punch—and after he had seen the vixenish mare well fed and well littered down, and had eaten every bit of the nice little hot dinner which the widow tossed up for him with her own hands, he just ordered a tumbler of it by way of experiment. Now, if there was one thing in the whole range of domestic art, which the widow could manufacture better than another, it was this identical article; and the first tumbler was adapted to Tom Smart’s taste with such peculiar nicety, that he ordered a second with the least possible delay. Hot punch is a pleasant thing, gentlemen—an extremely pleasant thing under any circumstances—but in that snug old parlour, before the roaring fire, with the wind blowing outside till every timber in the old house creaked again, Tom Smart found it perfectly delightful. He ordered another tumbler, and then another—I am not quite certain whether he didn’t order another after that—but the more he drank of the hot punch, the more he thought of the tall man.

‘“Confound his impudence!” said Tom to himself, “what business has he in that snug bar? Such an ugly villain too!” said Tom. “If the widow had any taste, she might surely pick up some better fellow than that.” Here Tom’s eye wandered from the glass on the chimney-piece to the glass on the table; and as he felt himself becoming gradually sentimental, he emptied the fourth tumbler of punch and ordered a fifth.

‘Tom Smart, gentlemen, had always been very much attached to the public line. It had been long his ambition to stand in a bar of his own, in a green coat, knee-cords, and tops. He had a great notion of taking the chair at convivial dinners, and he had often thought how well he could preside in a room of his own in the talking way, and what a capital example he could set to his customers in the drinking department. All these things passed rapidly through Tom’s mind as he sat drinking the hot punch by the roaring fire, and he felt very justly and properly indignant that the tall man should be in a fair way of keeping such an excellent house, while he, Tom Smart, was as far off from it as ever. So, after deliberating over the two last tumblers, whether he hadn’t a perfect right to pick a quarrel with the tall man for having contrived to get into the good graces of the buxom widow, Tom Smart at last arrived at the satisfactory conclusion that he was a very ill-used and persecuted individual, and had better go to bed.

‘Up a wide and ancient staircase the smart girl preceded Tom, shading the chamber candle with her hand, to protect it from the currents of air which in such a rambling old place might have found plenty of room to disport themselves in, without blowing the candle out, but which did blow it out nevertheless—thus affording Tom’s enemies an opportunity of asserting that it was he, and not the wind, who extinguished the candle, and that while he pretended to be blowing it alight again, he was in fact kissing the girl. Be this as it may, another light was obtained, and Tom was conducted through a maze of rooms, and a labyrinth of passages, to the apartment which had been prepared for his reception, where the girl bade him good-night and left him alone.

‘It was a good large room with big closets, and a bed which might have served for a whole boarding-school, to say nothing of a couple of oaken presses that would have held the baggage of a small army; but what struck Tom’s fancy most was a strange, grim-looking, high backed chair, carved in the most fantastic manner, with a flowered damask cushion, and the round knobs at the bottom of the legs carefully tied up in red cloth, as if it had got the gout in its toes. Of any other queer chair, Tom would only have thought it was a queer chair, and there would have been an end of the matter; but there was something about this particular chair, and yet he couldn’t tell what it was, so odd and so unlike any other piece of furniture he had ever seen, that it seemed to fascinate him. He sat down before the fire, and stared at the old chair for half an hour.—Damn the chair, it was such a strange old thing, he couldn’t take his eyes off it.

‘“Well,” said Tom, slowly undressing himself, and staring at the old chair all the while, which stood with a mysterious aspect by the bedside, “I never saw such a rum concern as that in my days. Very odd,” said Tom, who had got rather sage with the hot punch—“very odd.” Tom shook his head with an air of profound wisdom, and looked at the chair again. He couldn’t make anything of it though, so he got into bed, covered himself up warm, and fell asleep.

‘In about half an hour, Tom woke up with a start, from a confused dream of tall men and tumblers of punch; and the first object that presented itself to his waking imagination was the queer chair.

‘“I won’t look at it any more,” said Tom to himself, and he squeezed his eyelids together, and tried to persuade himself he was going to sleep again. No use; nothing but queer chairs danced before his eyes, kicking up their legs, jumping over each other’s backs, and playing all kinds of antics.

“‘I may as well see one real chair, as two or three complete sets of false ones,” said Tom, bringing out his head from under the bedclothes. There it was, plainly discernible by the light of the fire, looking as provoking as ever.

‘Tom gazed at the chair; and, suddenly as he looked at it, a most extraordinary change seemed to come over it. The carving of the back gradually assumed the lineaments and expression of an old, shrivelled human face; the damask cushion became an antique, flapped waistcoat; the round knobs grew into a couple of feet, encased in red cloth slippers; and the whole chair looked like a very ugly old man, of the previous century, with his arms akimbo. Tom sat up in bed, and rubbed his eyes to dispel the illusion. No. The chair was an ugly old gentleman; and what was more, he was winking at Tom Smart.

‘Tom was naturally a headlong, careless sort of dog, and he had had five tumblers of hot punch into the bargain; so, although he was a little startled at first, he began to grow rather indignant when he saw the old gentleman winking and leering at him with such an impudent air. At length he resolved that he wouldn’t stand it; and as the old face still kept winking away as fast as ever, Tom said, in a very angry tone—

‘“What the devil are you winking at me for?”

‘“Because I like it, Tom Smart,” said the chair; or the old gentleman, whichever you like to call him. He stopped winking though, when Tom spoke, and began grinning like a superannuated monkey.

‘“How do you know my name, old nut-cracker face?” inquired Tom Smart, rather staggered; though he pretended to carry it off so well.

‘“Come, come, Tom,” said the old gentleman, “that’s not the way to address solid Spanish mahogany. Damme, you couldn’t treat me with less respect if I was veneered.” When the old gentleman said this, he looked so fierce that Tom began to grow frightened.

‘“I didn’t mean to treat you with any disrespect, Sir,” said Tom, in a much humbler tone than he had spoken in at first.

‘“Well, well,” said the old fellow, “perhaps not—perhaps not. Tom—”

‘“Sir—”

‘“I know everything about you, Tom; everything. You’re very poor, Tom.”

‘“I certainly am,” said Tom Smart. “But how came you to know that?”

‘“Never mind that,” said the old gentleman; “you’re much too fond of punch, Tom.”

‘Tom Smart was just on the point of protesting that he hadn’t tasted a drop since his last birthday, but when his eye encountered that of the old gentleman he looked so knowing that Tom blushed, and was silent.

‘“Tom,” said the old gentleman, “the widow’s a fine woman—remarkably fine woman—eh, Tom?” Here the old fellow screwed up his eyes, cocked up one of his wasted little legs, and looked altogether so unpleasantly amorous, that Tom was quite disgusted with the levity of his behaviour— at his time of life, too!

‘“I am her guardian, Tom,” said the old gentleman.

‘“Are you?” inquired Tom Smart.

‘“I knew her mother, Tom,” said the old fellow: “and her grandmother. She was very fond of me—made me this waistcoat, Tom.”

‘“Did she?” said Tom Smart.

‘“And these shoes,” said the old fellow, lifting up one of the red cloth mufflers; “but don’t mention it, Tom. I shouldn’t like to have it known that she was so much attached to me. It might occasion some unpleasantness in the family.” When the old rascal said this, he looked so extremely impertinent, that, as Tom Smart afterwards declared, he could have sat upon him without remorse.

‘“I have been a great favourite among the women in my time, Tom,” said the profligate old debauchee; “hundreds of fine women have sat in my lap for hours together. What do you think of that, you dog, eh!” The old gentleman was proceeding to recount some other exploits of his youth, when he was seized with such a violent fit of creaking that he was unable to proceed.

‘“Just serves you right, old boy,” thought Tom Smart; but he didn’t say anything.

‘“Ah!” said the old fellow, “I am a good deal troubled with this now. I am getting old, Tom, and have lost nearly all my nails. I have had an operation performed, too—a small piece let into my back—and I found it a severe trial, Tom.”

‘“I dare say you did, Sir,” said Tom Smart.

‘“However,” said the old gentleman, “that’s not the point. Tom! I want you to marry the widow.”

‘“Me, Sir!” said Tom.

‘“You,” said the old gentleman.

‘“Bless your reverend locks,” said Tom (he had a few scattered horse- hairs left)—“bless your reverend locks, she wouldn’t have me.” And Tom sighed involuntarily, as he thought of the bar.

‘“Wouldn’t she?” said the old gentleman firmly.

‘“No, no,” said Tom; “there’s somebody else in the wind. A tall man—a confoundedly tall man—with black whiskers.”

‘“Tom,” said the old gentleman; “she will never have him.”

‘“Won’t she?” said Tom. “If you stood in the bar, old gentleman, you’d tell another story.”

‘“Pooh, pooh,” said the old gentleman. “I know all about that.”

‘“About what?” said Tom.

‘“The kissing behind the door, and all that sort of thing, Tom,” said the old gentleman. And here he gave another impudent look, which made Tom very wroth, because as you all know, gentlemen, to hear an old fellow, who ought to know better, talking about these things, is very unpleasant—nothing more so.

‘“I know all about that, Tom,” said the old gentleman. “I have seen it done very often in my time, Tom, between more people than I should like to mention to you; but it never came to anything after all.”

‘“You must have seen some queer things,” said Tom, with an inquisitive look.

‘“You may say that, Tom,” replied the old fellow, with a very complicated wink. “I am the last of my family, Tom,” said the old gentleman, with a melancholy sigh.

‘“Was it a large one?” inquired Tom Smart.

‘“There were twelve of us, Tom,” said the old gentleman; “fine, straight-backed, handsome fellows as you’d wish to see. None of your modern abortions—all with arms, and with a degree of polish, though I say it that should not, which it would have done your heart good to behold.”

‘“And what’s become of the others, Sir?” asked Tom Smart—

‘The old gentleman applied his elbow to his eye as he replied, “Gone, Tom, gone. We had hard service, Tom, and they hadn’t all my constitution. They got rheumatic about the legs and arms, and went into kitchens and other hospitals; and one of ‘em, with long service and hard usage, positively lost his senses—he got so crazy that he was obliged to be burnt. Shocking thing that, Tom.”

‘“Dreadful!” said Tom Smart.

‘The old fellow paused for a few minutes, apparently struggling with his feelings of emotion, and then said—

‘“However, Tom, I am wandering from the point. This tall man, Tom, is a rascally adventurer. The moment he married the widow, he would sell off all the furniture, and run away. What would be the consequence? She would be deserted and reduced to ruin, and I should catch my death of cold in some broker’s shop.”

‘“Yes, but—”

‘“Don’t interrupt me,” said the old gentleman. “Of you, Tom, I entertain a very different opinion; for I well know that if you once settled yourself in a public-house, you would never leave it, as long as there was anything to drink within its walls.”

‘“I am very much obliged to you for your good opinion, Sir,” said Tom Smart.

‘“Therefore,” resumed the old gentleman, in a dictatorial tone, “you shall have her, and he shall not.”

‘“What is to prevent it?” said Tom Smart eagerly.

‘“This disclosure,” replied the old gentleman; “he is already married.”

‘“How can I prove it?” said Tom, starting half out of bed.

‘The old gentleman untucked his arm from his side, and having pointed to one of the oaken presses, immediately replaced it, in its old position.

‘“He little thinks,” said the old gentleman, “that in the right-hand pocket of a pair of trousers in that press, he has left a letter, entreating him to return to his disconsolate wife, with six—mark me, Tom—six babes, and all of them small ones.”

‘As the old gentleman solemnly uttered these words, his features grew less and less distinct, and his figure more shadowy. A film came over Tom Smart’s eyes. The old man seemed gradually blending into the chair, the damask waistcoat to resolve into a cushion, the red slippers to shrink into little red cloth bags. The light faded gently away, and Tom Smart fell back on his pillow, and dropped asleep.

‘Morning aroused Tom from the lethargic slumber, into which he had fallen on the disappearance of the old man. He sat up in bed, and for some minutes vainly endeavoured to recall the events of the preceding night. Suddenly they rushed upon him. He looked at the chair; it was a fantastic and grim-looking piece of furniture, certainly, but it must have been a remarkably ingenious and lively imagination, that could have discovered any resemblance between it and an old man.

‘“How are you, old boy?” said Tom. He was bolder in the daylight—most men are.

‘The chair remained motionless, and spoke not a word.

‘“Miserable morning,” said Tom. No. The chair would not be drawn into conversation.

‘“Which press did you point to?—you can tell me that,” said Tom. Devil a word, gentlemen, the chair would say.

‘“It’s not much trouble to open it, anyhow,” said Tom, getting out of bed very deliberately. He walked up to one of the presses. The key was in the lock; he turned it, and opened the door. There was a pair of trousers there. He put his hand into the pocket, and drew forth the identical letter the old gentleman had described!

‘“Queer sort of thing, this,” said Tom Smart, looking first at the chair and then at the press, and then at the letter, and then at the chair again. “Very queer,” said Tom. But, as there was nothing in either, to lessen the queerness, he thought he might as well dress himself, and settle the tall man’s business at once—just to put him out of his misery.

‘Tom surveyed the rooms he passed through, on his way downstairs, with the scrutinising eye of a landlord; thinking it not impossible, that before long, they and their contents would be his property. The tall man was standing in the snug little bar, with his hands behind him, quite at home. He grinned vacantly at Tom. A casual observer might have supposed he did it, only to show his white teeth; but Tom Smart thought that a consciousness of triumph was passing through the place where the tall man’s mind would have been, if he had had any. Tom laughed in his face; and summoned the landlady.

‘“Good-morning ma’am,” said Tom Smart, closing the door of the little parlour as the widow entered.

‘“Good-morning, Sir,” said the widow. “What will you take for breakfast, sir?”

‘Tom was thinking how he should open the case, so he made no answer.

‘“There’s a very nice ham,” said the widow, “and a beautiful cold larded fowl. Shall I send ‘em in, Sir?”

‘These words roused Tom from his reflections. His admiration of the widow increased as she spoke. Thoughtful creature! Comfortable provider!

‘“Who is that gentleman in the bar, ma’am?” inquired Tom.

‘“His name is Jinkins, Sir,” said the widow, slightly blushing.

‘“He’s a tall man,” said Tom.

‘“He is a very fine man, Sir,” replied the widow, “and a very nice gentleman.”

‘“Ah!” said Tom.

‘“Is there anything more you want, Sir?” inquired the widow, rather puzzled by Tom’s manner.

‘“Why, yes,” said Tom. “My dear ma’am, will you have the kindness to sit down for one moment?”

‘The widow looked much amazed, but she sat down, and Tom sat down too, close beside her. I don’t know how it happened, gentlemen—indeed my uncle used to tell me that Tom Smart said he didn’t know how it happened either—but somehow or other the palm of Tom’s hand fell upon the back of the widow’s hand, and remained there while he spoke.

‘“My dear ma’am,” said Tom Smart—he had always a great notion of committing the amiable—“my dear ma’am, you deserve a very excellent husband—you do indeed.”

‘“Lor, Sir!” said the widow—as well she might; Tom’s mode of commencing the conversation being rather unusual, not to say startling; the fact of his never having set eyes upon her before the previous night being taken into consideration. “Lor, Sir!”

‘“I scorn to flatter, my dear ma’am,” said Tom Smart. “You deserve a very admirable husband, and whoever he is, he’ll be a very lucky man.” As Tom said this, his eye involuntarily wandered from the widow’s face to the comfort around him.

‘The widow looked more puzzled than ever, and made an effort to rise. Tom gently pressed her hand, as if to detain her, and she kept her seat. Widows, gentlemen, are not usually timorous, as my uncle used to say.

‘“I am sure I am very much obliged to you, Sir, for your good opinion,” said the buxom landlady, half laughing; “and if ever I marry again—”

’”If,” said Tom Smart, looking very shrewdly out of the right-hand corner of his left eye. “If—”

“Well,” said the widow, laughing outright this time, “_when _I do, I hope I shall have as good a husband as you describe.”

‘“Jinkins, to wit,” said Tom.

‘“Lor, sir!” exclaimed the widow.

‘“Oh, don’t tell me,” said Tom, “I know him.”

‘“I am sure nobody who knows him, knows anything bad of him,” said the widow, bridling up at the mysterious air with which Tom had spoken.

‘“Hem!” said Tom Smart.

‘The widow began to think it was high time to cry, so she took out her handkerchief, and inquired whether Tom wished to insult her, whether he thought it like a gentleman to take away the character of another gentleman behind his back, why, if he had got anything to say, he didn’t say it to the man, like a man, instead of terrifying a poor weak woman in that way; and so forth.

‘“I’ll say it to him fast enough,” said Tom, “only I want you to hear it first.”

‘“What is it?” inquired the widow, looking intently in Tom’s countenance.

‘“I’ll astonish you,” said Tom, putting his hand in his pocket.

‘“If it is, that he wants money,” said the widow, “I know that already, and you needn’t trouble yourself.” ‘“Pooh, nonsense, that’s nothing,” said Tom Smart, “I want money. ‘Tain’t that.”

‘“Oh, dear, what can it be?” exclaimed the poor widow.

‘“Don’t be frightened,” said Tom Smart. He slowly drew forth the letter, and unfolded it. “You won’t scream?” said Tom doubtfully.

‘“No, no,” replied the widow; “let me see it.”

‘“You won’t go fainting away, or any of that nonsense?” said Tom.

‘“No, no,” returned the widow hastily.

‘“And don’t run out, and blow him up,” said Tom; “because I’ll do all that for you. You had better not exert yourself.”

‘“Well, well,” said the widow, “let me see it.”

‘“I will,” replied Tom Smart; and, with these words, he placed the letter in the widow’s hand.

‘Gentlemen, I have heard my uncle say, that Tom Smart said the widow’s lamentations when she heard the disclosure would have pierced a heart of stone. Tom was certainly very tender-hearted, but they pierced his, to the very core. The widow rocked herself to and fro, and wrung her hands.

‘“Oh, the deception and villainy of the man!” said the widow.

‘“Frightful, my dear ma’am; but compose yourself,” said Tom Smart.

‘“Oh, I can’t compose myself,” shrieked the widow. “I shall never find anyone else I can love so much!”

‘“Oh, yes you will, my dear soul,” said Tom Smart, letting fall a shower of the largest-sized tears, in pity for the widow’s misfortunes. Tom Smart, in the energy of his compassion, had put his arm round the widow’s waist; and the widow, in a passion of grief, had clasped Tom’s hand. She looked up in Tom’s face, and smiled through her tears. Tom looked down in hers, and smiled through his.

‘I never could find out, gentlemen, whether Tom did or did not kiss the widow at that particular moment. He used to tell my uncle he didn’t, but I have my doubts about it. Between ourselves, gentlemen, I rather think he did.

‘At all events, Tom kicked the very tall man out at the front door half an hour later, and married the widow a month after. And he used to drive about the country, with the clay-coloured gig with the red wheels, and the vixenish mare with the fast pace, till he gave up business many years afterwards, and went to France with his wife; and then the old house was pulled down.’

‘Will you allow me to ask you,’ said the inquisitive old gentleman, ‘what became of the chair?’

‘Why,’ replied the one-eyed bagman, ‘it was observed to creak very much on the day of the wedding; but Tom Smart couldn’t say for certain whether it was with pleasure or bodily infirmity. He rather thought it was the latter, though, for it never spoke afterwards.’

‘Everybody believed the story, didn’t they?’ said the dirty-faced man, refilling his pipe.

‘Except Tom’s enemies,’ replied the bagman. ‘Some of ‘em said Tom invented it altogether; and others said he was drunk and fancied it, and got hold of the wrong trousers by mistake before he went to bed. But nobody ever minded what _they _said.’

‘Tom Smart said it was all true?’

‘Every word.’

‘And your uncle?’

‘Every letter.’

‘They must have been very nice men, both of ‘em,’ said the dirty-faced man.

‘Yes, they were,’ replied the bagman; ‘very nice men indeed!’

CHAPTER XV. IN WHICH IS GIVEN A FAITHFUL PORTRAITURE OF TWO DISTINGUISHED PERSONS; AND AN ACCURATE DESCRIPTION OF A PUBLIC BREAKFAST IN THEIR HOUSE AND GROUNDS: WHICH PUBLIC BREAKFAST LEADS TO THE RECOGNITION OF AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE, AND THE COMMENCEMENT OF ANOTHER CHAPTER

Mr. Pickwick’s conscience had been somewhat reproaching him for his recent neglect of his friends at the Peacock; and he was just on the point of walking forth in quest of them, on the third morning after the election had terminated, when his faithful valet put into his hand a card, on which was engraved the following inscription:—

Mrs. Leo Hunter THE DEN. EATANSWILL.

‘Person’s a-waitin’,’ said Sam, epigrammatically.

‘Does the person want me, Sam?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘He wants you partickler; and no one else ‘ll do, as the devil’s private secretary said ven he fetched avay Doctor Faustus,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘He. Is it a gentleman?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘A wery good imitation o’ one, if it ain’t,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘But this is a lady’s card,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Given me by a gen’l’m’n, howsoever,’ replied Sam, ‘and he’s a-waitin’ in the drawing-room—said he’d rather wait all day, than not see you.’

Mr. Pickwick, on hearing this determination, descended to the drawing- room, where sat a grave man, who started up on his entrance, and said, with an air of profound respect:—

‘Mr. Pickwick, I presume?’

‘The same.’

‘Allow me, Sir, the honour of grasping your hand. Permit me, Sir, to shake it,’ said the grave man.

‘Certainly,’ said Mr. Pickwick. The stranger shook the extended hand, and then continued—

‘We have heard of your fame, sir. The noise of your antiquarian discussion has reached the ears of Mrs. Leo Hunter—my wife, sir; I am Mr. Leo Hunter’—the stranger paused, as if he expected that Mr. Pickwick would be overcome by the disclosure; but seeing that he remained perfectly calm, proceeded—

‘My wife, sir—Mrs. Leo Hunter—is proud to number among her acquaintance all those who have rendered themselves celebrated by their works and talents. Permit me, sir, to place in a conspicuous part of the list the name of Mr. Pickwick, and his brother-members of the club that derives its name from him.’

‘I shall be extremely happy to make the acquaintance of such a lady, sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘You _shall _make it, sir,’ said the grave man. ‘To-morrow morning, sir, we give a public breakfast—a fete champetre—to a great number of those who have rendered themselves celebrated by their works and talents. Permit Mrs. Leo Hunter, Sir, to have the gratification of seeing you at the Den.’

‘With great pleasure,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Mrs. Leo Hunter has many of these breakfasts, Sir,’ resumed the new acquaintance—‘“feasts of reason,” sir, “and flows of soul,” as somebody who wrote a sonnet to Mrs. Leo Hunter on her breakfasts, feelingly and originally observed.’

‘Was he celebrated for his works and talents?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘He was Sir,’ replied the grave man, ‘all Mrs. Leo Hunter’s acquaintances are; it is her ambition, sir, to have no other acquaintance.’

‘It is a very noble ambition,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘When I inform Mrs. Leo Hunter, that that remark fell from your lips, sir, she will indeed be proud,’ said the grave man. ‘You have a gentleman in your train, who has produced some beautiful little poems, I think, sir.’

‘My friend Mr. Snodgrass has a great taste for poetry,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘So has Mrs. Leo Hunter, Sir. She dotes on poetry, sir. She adores it; I may say that her whole soul and mind are wound up, and entwined with it. She has produced some delightful pieces, herself, sir. You may have met with her “Ode to an Expiring Frog,” sir.’

‘I don’t think I have,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘You astonish me, Sir,’ said Mr. Leo Hunter. ‘It created an immense sensation. It was signed with an “L” and eight stars, and appeared originally in a lady’s magazine. It commenced—

‘“Can I view thee panting, lying On thy stomach, without sighing; Can I unmoved see thee dying On a log Expiring frog!”’

‘Beautiful!’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Fine,’ said Mr. Leo Hunter; ‘so simple.’

‘Very,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘The next verse is still more touching. Shall I repeat it?’

‘If you please,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘It runs thus,’ said the grave man, still more gravely.

‘“Say, have fiends in shape of boys, With wild halloo, and brutal noise, Hunted thee from marshy joys, With a dog, Expiring frog!”’

‘Finely expressed,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘All point, Sir,’ said Mr. Leo Hunter; ‘but you shall hear Mrs. Leo Hunter repeat it. She can do justice to it, Sir. She will repeat it, in character, Sir, to-morrow morning.’

‘In character!’

‘As Minerva. But I forgot—it’s a fancy-dress dejeune.’

‘Dear me,’ said Mr. Pickwick, glancing at his own figure—‘I can’t possibly—’

‘Can’t, sir; can’t!’ exclaimed Mr. Leo Hunter. ‘Solomon Lucas, the Jew in the High Street, has thousands of fancy-dresses. Consider, Sir, how many appropriate characters are open for your selection. Plato, Zeno, Epicurus, Pythagoras—all founders of clubs.’

‘I know that,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘but as I cannot put myself in competition with those great men, I cannot presume to wear their dresses.’

The grave man considered deeply, for a few seconds, and then said—

‘On reflection, Sir, I don’t know whether it would not afford Mrs. Leo Hunter greater pleasure, if her guests saw a gentleman of your celebrity in his own costume, rather than in an assumed one. I may venture to promise an exception in your case, sir—yes, I am quite certain that, on behalf of Mrs. Leo Hunter, I may venture to do so.’

‘In that case,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I shall have great pleasure in coming.’

‘But I waste your time, Sir,’ said the grave man, as if suddenly recollecting himself. ‘I know its value, sir. I will not detain you. I may tell Mrs. Leo Hunter, then, that she may confidently expect you and your distinguished friends? Good-morning, Sir, I am proud to have beheld so eminent a personage—not a step sir; not a word.’ And without giving Mr. Pickwick time to offer remonstrance or denial, Mr. Leo Hunter stalked gravely away.

Mr. Pickwick took up his hat, and repaired to the Peacock, but Mr. Winkle had conveyed the intelligence of the fancy-ball there, before him.

‘Mrs. Pott’s going,’ were the first words with which he saluted his leader.

‘Is she?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘As Apollo,’ replied Winkle. ‘Only Pott objects to the tunic.’

‘He is right. He is quite right,’ said Mr. Pickwick emphatically.

‘Yes; so she’s going to wear a white satin gown with gold spangles.’

‘They’ll hardly know what she’s meant for; will they?’ inquired Mr. Snodgrass.

‘Of course they will,’ replied Mr. Winkle indignantly. ‘They’ll see her lyre, won’t they?’

‘True; I forgot that,’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

‘I shall go as a bandit,’ interposed Mr. Tupman.

‘What!’ said Mr. Pickwick, with a sudden start.

‘As a bandit,’ repeated Mr. Tupman, mildly.

‘You don’t mean to say,’ said Mr. Pickwick, gazing with solemn sternness at his friend—‘you don’t mean to say, Mr. Tupman, that it is your intention to put yourself into a green velvet jacket, with a two-inch tail?’

‘Such is my intention, Sir,’ replied Mr. Tupman warmly. ‘And why not, sir?’

‘Because, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, considerably excited—‘because you are too old, Sir.’

‘Too old!’ exclaimed Mr. Tupman.

‘And if any further ground of objection be wanting,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, ‘you are too fat, sir.’

‘Sir,’ said Mr. Tupman, his face suffused with a crimson glow, ‘this is an insult.’

‘Sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, in the same tone, ‘it is not half the insult to you, that your appearance in my presence in a green velvet jacket, with a two-inch tail, would be to me.’

‘Sir,’ said Mr. Tupman, ‘you’re a fellow.’

‘Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘you’re another!’

Mr. Tupman advanced a step or two, and glared at Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Pickwick returned the glare, concentrated into a focus by means of his spectacles, and breathed a bold defiance. Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle looked on, petrified at beholding such a scene between two such men.

‘Sir,’ said Mr. Tupman, after a short pause, speaking in a low, deep voice, ‘you have called me old.’

‘I have,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘And fat.’

‘I reiterate the charge.’

‘And a fellow.’

‘So you are!’

There was a fearful pause.

‘My attachment to your person, sir,’ said Mr. Tupman, speaking in a voice tremulous with emotion, and tucking up his wristbands meanwhile, ‘is great—very great—but upon that person, I must take summary vengeance.’

‘Come on, Sir!’ replied Mr. Pickwick. Stimulated by the exciting nature of the dialogue, the heroic man actually threw himself into a paralytic attitude, confidently supposed by the two bystanders to have been intended as a posture of defence.

‘What!’ exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass, suddenly recovering the power of speech, of which intense astonishment had previously bereft him, and rushing between the two, at the imminent hazard of receiving an application on the temple from each—‘what! Mr. Pickwick, with the eyes of the world upon you! Mr. Tupman! who, in common with us all, derives a lustre from his undying name! For shame, gentlemen; for shame.’

The unwonted lines which momentary passion had ruled in Mr. Pickwick’s clear and open brow, gradually melted away, as his young friend spoke, like the marks of a black-lead pencil beneath the softening influence of india-rubber. His countenance had resumed its usual benign expression, ere he concluded.

‘I have been hasty,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘very hasty. Tupman; your hand.’

The dark shadow passed from Mr. Tupman’s face, as he warmly grasped the hand of his friend.

‘I have been hasty, too,’ said he.

‘No, no,’ interrupted Mr. Pickwick, ‘the fault was mine. You will wear the green velvet jacket?’

‘No, no,’ replied Mr. Tupman.

‘To oblige me, you will,’ resumed Mr. Pickwick.

‘Well, well, I will,’ said Mr. Tupman.

It was accordingly settled that Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass, should all wear fancy-dresses. Thus Mr. Pickwick was led by the very warmth of his own good feelings to give his consent to a proceeding from which his better judgment would have recoiled—a more striking illustration of his amiable character could hardly have been conceived, even if the events recorded in these pages had been wholly imaginary.

Mr. Leo Hunter had not exaggerated the resources of Mr. Solomon Lucas. His wardrobe was extensive—very extensive—not strictly classical perhaps, not quite new, nor did it contain any one garment made precisely after the fashion of any age or time, but everything was more or less spangled; and what can be prettier than spangles! It may be objected that they are not adapted to the daylight, but everybody knows that they would glitter if there were lamps; and nothing can be clearer than that if people give fancy-balls in the day-time, and the dresses do not show quite as well as they would by night, the fault lies solely with the people who give the fancy-balls, and is in no wise chargeable on the spangles. Such was the convincing reasoning of Mr. Solomon Lucas; and influenced by such arguments did Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass engage to array themselves in costumes which his taste and experience induced him to recommend as admirably suited to the occasion.

A carriage was hired from the Town Arms, for the accommodation of the Pickwickians, and a chariot was ordered from the same repository, for the purpose of conveying Mr. and Mrs. Pott to Mrs. Leo Hunter’s grounds, which Mr. Pott, as a delicate acknowledgment of having received an invitation, had already confidently predicted in the Eatanswill Gazette ‘would present a scene of varied and delicious enchantment—a bewildering coruscation of beauty and talent—a lavish and prodigal display of hospitality—above all, a degree of splendour softened by the most exquisite taste; and adornment refined with perfect harmony and the chastest good keeping—compared with which, the fabled gorgeousness of Eastern fairyland itself would appear to be clothed in as many dark and murky colours, as must be the mind of the splenetic and unmanly being who could presume to taint with the venom of his envy, the preparations made by the virtuous and highly distinguished lady at whose shrine this humble tribute of admiration was offered.’ This last was a piece of biting sarcasm against the Independent, who, in consequence of not having been invited at all, had been, through four numbers, affecting to sneer at the whole affair, in his very largest type, with all the adjectives in capital letters.

The morning came: it was a pleasant sight to behold Mr. Tupman in full brigand’s costume, with a very tight jacket, sitting like a pincushion over his back and shoulders, the upper portion of his legs incased in the velvet shorts, and the lower part thereof swathed in the complicated bandages to which all brigands are peculiarly attached. It was pleasing to see his open and ingenuous countenance, well mustachioed and corked, looking out from an open shirt collar; and to contemplate the sugar-loaf hat, decorated with ribbons of all colours, which he was compelled to carry on his knee, inasmuch as no known conveyance with a top to it, would admit of any man’s carrying it between his head and the roof. Equally humorous and agreeable was the appearance of Mr. Snodgrass in blue satin trunks and cloak, white silk tights and shoes, and Grecian helmet, which everybody knows (and if they do not, Mr. Solomon Lucas did) to have been the regular, authentic, everyday costume of a troubadour, from the earliest ages down to the time of their final disappearance from the face of the earth. All this was pleasant, but this was as nothing compared with the shouting of the populace when the carriage drew up, behind Mr. Pott’s chariot, which chariot itself drew up at Mr. Pott’s door, which door itself opened, and displayed the great Pott accoutred as a Russian officer of justice, with a tremendous knout in his hand—tastefully typical of the stern and mighty power of the Eatanswill Gazette, and the fearful lashings it bestowed on public offenders.

‘Bravo!’ shouted Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass from the passage, when they beheld the walking allegory.

‘Bravo!’ Mr. Pickwick was heard to exclaim, from the passage.

‘Hoo-roar Pott!’ shouted the populace. Amid these salutations, Mr. Pott, smiling with that kind of bland dignity which sufficiently testified that he felt his power, and knew how to exert it, got into the chariot.

Then there emerged from the house, Mrs. Pott, who would have looked very like Apollo if she hadn’t had a gown on, conducted by Mr. Winkle, who, in his light-red coat could not possibly have been mistaken for anything but a sportsman, if he had not borne an equal resemblance to a general postman. Last of all came Mr. Pickwick, whom the boys applauded as loud as anybody, probably under the impression that his tights and gaiters were some remnants of the dark ages; and then the two vehicles proceeded towards Mrs. Leo Hunter’s; Mr. Weller (who was to assist in waiting) being stationed on the box of that in which his master was seated.

Every one of the men, women, boys, girls, and babies, who were assembled to see the visitors in their fancy-dresses, screamed with delight and ecstasy, when Mr. Pickwick, with the brigand on one arm, and the troubadour on the other, walked solemnly up the entrance. Never were such shouts heard as those which greeted Mr. Tupman’s efforts to fix the sugar-loaf hat on his head, by way of entering the garden in style.

The preparations were on the most delightful scale; fully realising the prophetic Pott’s anticipations about the gorgeousness of Eastern fairyland, and at once affording a sufficient contradiction to the malignant statements of the reptile Independent. The grounds were more than an acre and a quarter in extent, and they were filled with people! Never was such a blaze of beauty, and fashion, and literature. There was the young lady who ‘did’ the poetry in the Eatanswill Gazette, in the garb of a sultana, leaning upon the arm of the young gentleman who ‘did’ the review department, and who was appropriately habited in a field- marshal’s uniform—the boots excepted. There were hosts of these geniuses, and any reasonable person would have thought it honour enough to meet them. But more than these, there were half a dozen lions from London—authors, real authors, who had written whole books, and printed them afterwards—and here you might see ‘em, walking about, like ordinary men, smiling, and talking—aye, and talking pretty considerable nonsense too, no doubt with the benign intention of rendering themselves intelligible to the common people about them. Moreover, there was a band of music in pasteboard caps; four something-ean singers in the costume of their country, and a dozen hired waiters in the costume of _their _country—and very dirty costume too. And above all, there was Mrs. Leo Hunter in the character of Minerva, receiving the company, and overflowing with pride and gratification at the notion of having called such distinguished individuals together.

‘Mr. Pickwick, ma’am,’ said a servant, as that gentleman approached the presiding goddess, with his hat in his hand, and the brigand and troubadour on either arm.

‘What! Where!’ exclaimed Mrs. Leo Hunter, starting up, in an affected rapture of surprise.

‘Here,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Is it possible that I have really the gratification of beholding Mr. Pickwick himself!’ ejaculated Mrs. Leo Hunter.

‘No other, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, bowing very low. ‘Permit me to introduce my friends—Mr. Tupman—Mr. Winkle—Mr. Snodgrass—to the authoress of “The Expiring Frog.”’

Very few people but those who have tried it, know what a difficult process it is to bow in green velvet smalls, and a tight jacket, and high-crowned hat; or in blue satin trunks and white silks, or knee-cords and top-boots that were never made for the wearer, and have been fixed upon him without the remotest reference to the comparative dimensions of himself and the suit. Never were such distortions as Mr. Tupman’s frame underwent in his efforts to appear easy and graceful—never was such ingenious posturing, as his fancy-dressed friends exhibited.

‘Mr. Pickwick,’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter, ‘I must make you promise not to stir from my side the whole day. There are hundreds of people here, that I must positively introduce you to.’

‘You are very kind, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘In the first place, here are my little girls; I had almost forgotten them,’ said Minerva, carelessly pointing towards a couple of full-grown young ladies, of whom one might be about twenty, and the other a year or two older, and who were dressed in very juvenile costumes—whether to make them look young, or their mamma younger, Mr. Pickwick does not distinctly inform us.

‘They are very beautiful,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as the juveniles turned away, after being presented.

‘They are very like their mamma, Sir,’ said Mr. Pott, majestically.

‘Oh, you naughty man,’ exclaimed Mrs. Leo Hunter, playfully tapping the editor’s arm with her fan (Minerva with a fan!).

‘Why now, my dear Mrs. Hunter,’ said Mr. Pott, who was trumpeter in ordinary at the Den, ‘you know that when your picture was in the exhibition of the Royal Academy, last year, everybody inquired whether it was intended for you, or your youngest daughter; for you were so much alike that there was no telling the difference between you.’

‘Well, and if they did, why need you repeat it, before strangers?’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter, bestowing another tap on the slumbering lion of the Eatanswill Gazette.

‘Count, count,’ screamed Mrs. Leo Hunter to a well-whiskered individual in a foreign uniform, who was passing by.

‘Ah! you want me?’ said the count, turning back.

‘I want to introduce two very clever people to each other,’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter. ‘Mr. Pickwick, I have great pleasure in introducing you to Count Smorltork.’ She added in a hurried whisper to Mr. Pickwick—‘The famous foreigner—gathering materials for his great work on England— hem!—Count Smorltork, Mr. Pickwick.’

Mr. Pickwick saluted the count with all the reverence due to so great a man, and the count drew forth a set of tablets.

‘What you say, Mrs. Hunt?’ inquired the count, smiling graciously on the gratified Mrs. Leo Hunter, ‘Pig Vig or Big Vig—what you call—lawyer— eh? I see—that is it. Big Vig’—and the count was proceeding to enter Mr. Pickwick in his tablets, as a gentleman of the long robe, who derived his name from the profession to which he belonged, when Mrs. Leo Hunter interposed.

‘No, no, count,’ said the lady, ‘Pick-wick.’

‘Ah, ah, I see,’ replied the count. ‘Peek—christian name; Weeks— surname; good, ver good. Peek Weeks. How you do, Weeks?’

‘Quite well, I thank you,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, with all his usual affability. ‘Have you been long in England?’

‘Long—ver long time—fortnight—more.’

‘Do you stay here long?’

‘One week.’

‘You will have enough to do,’ said Mr. Pickwick smiling, ‘to gather all the materials you want in that time.’

‘Eh, they are gathered,’ said the count.

‘Indeed!’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘They are here,’ added the count, tapping his forehead significantly. ‘Large book at home—full of notes—music, picture, science, potry, poltic; all tings.’

‘The word politics, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘comprises in itself, a difficult study of no inconsiderable magnitude.’

‘Ah!’ said the count, drawing out the tablets again, ‘ver good—fine words to begin a chapter. Chapter forty-seven. Poltics. The word poltic surprises by himself—’ And down went Mr. Pickwick’s remark, in Count Smorltork’s tablets, with such variations and additions as the count’s exuberant fancy suggested, or his imperfect knowledge of the language occasioned.

‘Count,’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter.

‘Mrs. Hunt,’ replied the count.

‘This is Mr. Snodgrass, a friend of Mr. Pickwick’s, and a poet.’

‘Stop,’ exclaimed the count, bringing out the tablets once more. ‘Head, potry—chapter, literary friends—name, Snowgrass; ver good. Introduced to Snowgrass—great poet, friend of Peek Weeks—by Mrs. Hunt, which wrote other sweet poem—what is that name?—Fog—Perspiring Fog—ver good—ver good indeed.’ And the count put up his tablets, and with sundry bows and acknowledgments walked away, thoroughly satisfied that he had made the most important and valuable additions to his stock of information.

‘Wonderful man, Count Smorltork,’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter.

‘Sound philosopher,’ said Mr. Pott.

‘Clear-headed, strong-minded person,’ added Mr. Snodgrass.

A chorus of bystanders took up the shout of Count Smorltork’s praise, shook their heads sagely, and unanimously cried, ‘Very!’

As the enthusiasm in Count Smorltork’s favour ran very high, his praises might have been sung until the end of the festivities, if the four something-ean singers had not ranged themselves in front of a small apple-tree, to look picturesque, and commenced singing their national songs, which appeared by no means difficult of execution, inasmuch as the grand secret seemed to be, that three of the something-ean singers should grunt, while the fourth howled. This interesting performance having concluded amidst the loud plaudits of the whole company, a boy forthwith proceeded to entangle himself with the rails of a chair, and to jump over it, and crawl under it, and fall down with it, and do everything but sit upon it, and then to make a cravat of his legs, and tie them round his neck, and then to illustrate the ease with which a human being can be made to look like a magnified toad—all which feats yielded high delight and satisfaction to the assembled spectators. After which, the voice of Mrs. Pott was heard to chirp faintly forth, something which courtesy interpreted into a song, which was all very classical, and strictly in character, because Apollo was himself a composer, and composers can very seldom sing their own music or anybody else’s, either. This was succeeded by Mrs. Leo Hunter’s recitation of her far-famed ‘Ode to an Expiring Frog,’ which was encored once, and would have been encored twice, if the major part of the guests, who thought it was high time to get something to eat, had not said that it was perfectly shameful to take advantage of Mrs. Hunter’s good nature. So although Mrs. Leo Hunter professed her perfect willingness to recite the ode again, her kind and considerate friends wouldn’t hear of it on any account; and the refreshment room being thrown open, all the people who had ever been there before, scrambled in with all possible despatch- -Mrs. Leo Hunter’s usual course of proceedings being, to issue cards for a hundred, and breakfast for fifty, or in other words to feed only the very particular lions, and let the smaller animals take care of themselves.

‘Where is Mr. Pott?’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter, as she placed the aforesaid lions around her.

‘Here I am,’ said the editor, from the remotest end of the room; far beyond all hope of food, unless something was done for him by the hostess.

‘Won’t you come up here?’

‘Oh, pray don’t mind him,’ said Mrs. Pott, in the most obliging voice— ‘you give yourself a great deal of unnecessary trouble, Mrs. Hunter. You’ll do very well there, won’t you—dear?’

‘Certainly—love,’ replied the unhappy Pott, with a grim smile. Alas for the knout! The nervous arm that wielded it, with such a gigantic force on public characters, was paralysed beneath the glance of the imperious Mrs. Pott.

Mrs. Leo Hunter looked round her in triumph. Count Smorltork was busily engaged in taking notes of the contents of the dishes; Mr. Tupman was doing the honours of the lobster salad to several lionesses, with a degree of grace which no brigand ever exhibited before; Mr. Snodgrass having cut out the young gentleman who cut up the books for the Eatanswill Gazette, was engaged in an impassioned argument with the young lady who did the poetry; and Mr. Pickwick was making himself universally agreeable. Nothing seemed wanting to render the select circle complete, when Mr. Leo Hunter—whose department on these occasions, was to stand about in doorways, and talk to the less important people—suddenly called out—

‘My dear; here’s Mr. Charles Fitz-Marshall.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter, ‘how anxiously I have been expecting him. Pray make room, to let Mr. Fitz-Marshall pass. Tell Mr. Fitz- Marshall, my dear, to come up to me directly, to be scolded for coming so late.’

‘Coming, my dear ma’am,’ cried a voice, ‘as quick as I can—crowds of people—full room—hard work—very.’

Mr. Pickwick’s knife and fork fell from his hand. He stared across the table at Mr. Tupman, who had dropped his knife and fork, and was looking as if he were about to sink into the ground without further notice.

‘Ah!’ cried the voice, as its owner pushed his way among the last five- and-twenty Turks, officers, cavaliers, and Charles the Seconds, that remained between him and the table, ‘regular mangle—Baker’s patent—not a crease in my coat, after all this squeezing—might have “got up my linen” as I came along—ha! ha! not a bad idea, that—queer thing to have it mangled when it’s upon one, though—trying process—very.’

With these broken words, a young man dressed as a naval officer made his way up to the table, and presented to the astonished Pickwickians the identical form and features of Mr. Alfred Jingle.

The offender had barely time to take Mrs. Leo Hunter’s proffered hand, when his eyes encountered the indignant orbs of Mr. Pickwick.

‘Hollo!’ said Jingle. ‘Quite forgot—no directions to postillion—give ‘em at once—back in a minute.’

‘The servant, or Mr. Hunter will do it in a moment, Mr. Fitz-Marshall,’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter.

‘No, no—I’ll do it—shan’t be long—back in no time,’ replied Jingle. With these words he disappeared among the crowd.

‘Will you allow me to ask you, ma’am,’ said the excited Mr. Pickwick, rising from his seat, ‘who that young man is, and where he resides?’

‘He is a gentleman of fortune, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter, ‘to whom I very much want to introduce you. The count will be delighted with him.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Mr. Pickwick hastily. ‘His residence—’

‘Is at present at the Angel at Bury.’

‘At Bury?’

‘At Bury St. Edmunds, not many miles from here. But dear me, Mr. Pickwick, you are not going to leave us; surely Mr. Pickwick you cannot think of going so soon?’

But long before Mrs. Leo Hunter had finished speaking, Mr. Pickwick had plunged through the throng, and reached the garden, whither he was shortly afterwards joined by Mr. Tupman, who had followed his friend closely.

‘It’s of no use,’ said Mr. Tupman. ‘He has gone.’

‘I know it,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘and I will follow him.’

‘Follow him! Where?’ inquired Mr. Tupman.

‘To the Angel at Bury,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, speaking very quickly. ‘How do we know whom he is deceiving there? He deceived a worthy man once, and we were the innocent cause. He shall not do it again, if I can help it; I’ll expose him! Sam! Where’s my servant?’

‘Here you are, Sir,’ said Mr. Weller, emerging from a sequestered spot, where he had been engaged in discussing a bottle of Madeira, which he had abstracted from the breakfast-table an hour or two before. ‘Here’s your servant, Sir. Proud o’ the title, as the living skellinton said, ven they show’d him.’

‘Follow me instantly,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Tupman, if I stay at Bury, you can join me there, when I write. Till then, good-bye!’

Remonstrances were useless. Mr. Pickwick was roused, and his mind was made up. Mr. Tupman returned to his companions; and in another hour had drowned all present recollection of Mr. Alfred Jingle, or Mr. Charles Fitz-Marshall, in an exhilarating quadrille and a bottle of champagne. By that time, Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller, perched on the outside of a stage-coach, were every succeeding minute placing a less and less distance between themselves and the good old town of Bury St. Edmunds.

CHAPTER XVI. TOO FULL OF ADVENTURE TO BE BRIEFLY DESCRIBED

There is no month in the whole year in which nature wears a more beautiful appearance than in the month of August. Spring has many beauties, and May is a fresh and blooming month, but the charms of this time of year are enhanced by their contrast with the winter season. August has no such advantage. It comes when we remember nothing but clear skies, green fields, and sweet-smelling flowers—when the recollection of snow, and ice, and bleak winds, has faded from our minds as completely as they have disappeared from the earth—and yet what a pleasant time it is! Orchards and cornfields ring with the hum of labour; trees bend beneath the thick clusters of rich fruit which bow their branches to the ground; and the corn, piled in graceful sheaves, or waving in every light breath that sweeps above it, as if it wooed the sickle, tinges the landscape with a golden hue. A mellow softness appears to hang over the whole earth; the influence of the season seems to extend itself to the very wagon, whose slow motion across the well- reaped field is perceptible only to the eye, but strikes with no harsh sound upon the ear.

As the coach rolls swiftly past the fields and orchards which skirt the road, groups of women and children, piling the fruit in sieves, or gathering the scattered ears of corn, pause for an instant from their labour, and shading the sun-burned face with a still browner hand, gaze upon the passengers with curious eyes, while some stout urchin, too small to work, but too mischievous to be left at home, scrambles over the side of the basket in which he has been deposited for security, and kicks and screams with delight. The reaper stops in his work, and stands with folded arms, looking at the vehicle as it whirls past; and the rough cart-horses bestow a sleepy glance upon the smart coach team, which says as plainly as a horse’s glance can, ‘It’s all very fine to look at, but slow going, over a heavy field, is better than warm work like that, upon a dusty road, after all.’ You cast a look behind you, as you turn a corner of the road. The women and children have resumed their labour; the reaper once more stoops to his work; the cart-horses have moved on; and all are again in motion.

The influence of a scene like this, was not lost upon the well-regulated mind of Mr. Pickwick. Intent upon the resolution he had formed, of exposing the real character of the nefarious Jingle, in any quarter in which he might be pursuing his fraudulent designs, he sat at first taciturn and contemplative, brooding over the means by which his purpose could be best attained. By degrees his attention grew more and more attracted by the objects around him; and at last he derived as much enjoyment from the ride, as if it had been undertaken for the pleasantest reason in the world.

‘Delightful prospect, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Beats the chimbley-pots, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, touching his hat.

‘I suppose you have hardly seen anything but chimney-pots and bricks and mortar all your life, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, smiling.

‘I worn’t always a boots, sir,’ said Mr. Weller, with a shake of the head. ‘I wos a vaginer’s boy, once.’

‘When was that?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘When I wos first pitched neck and crop into the world, to play at leap- frog with its troubles,’ replied Sam. ‘I wos a carrier’s boy at startin’; then a vaginer’s, then a helper, then a boots. Now I’m a gen’l’m’n’s servant. I shall be a gen’l’m’n myself one of these days, perhaps, with a pipe in my mouth, and a summer-house in the back-garden. Who knows? I shouldn’t be surprised for one.’

‘You are quite a philosopher, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘It runs in the family, I b’lieve, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘My father’s wery much in that line now. If my mother-in-law blows him up, he whistles. She flies in a passion, and breaks his pipe; he steps out, and gets another. Then she screams wery loud, and falls into ‘sterics; and he smokes wery comfortably till she comes to agin. That’s philosophy, Sir, ain’t it?’

‘A very good substitute for it, at all events,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, laughing. ‘It must have been of great service to you, in the course of your rambling life, Sam.’

‘Service, sir,’ exclaimed Sam. ‘You may say that. Arter I run away from the carrier, and afore I took up with the vaginer, I had unfurnished lodgin’s for a fortnight.’

‘Unfurnished lodgings?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes—the dry arches of Waterloo Bridge. Fine sleeping-place—vithin ten minutes’ walk of all the public offices—only if there is any objection to it, it is that the sitivation’s rayther too airy. I see some queer sights there.’

Ah, I suppose you did,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with an air of considerable interest.

‘Sights, sir,’ resumed Mr. Weller, ‘as ‘ud penetrate your benevolent heart, and come out on the other side. You don’t see the reg’lar wagrants there; trust ‘em, they knows better than that. Young beggars, male and female, as hasn’t made a rise in their profession, takes up their quarters there sometimes; but it’s generally the worn-out, starving, houseless creeturs as roll themselves in the dark corners o’ them lonesome places—poor creeturs as ain’t up to the twopenny rope.’

‘And pray, Sam, what is the twopenny rope?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘The twopenny rope, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, ‘is just a cheap lodgin’ house, where the beds is twopence a night.’

‘What do they call a bed a rope for?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Bless your innocence, sir, that ain’t it,’ replied Sam. ‘Ven the lady and gen’l’m’n as keeps the hot-el first begun business, they used to make the beds on the floor; but this wouldn’t do at no price, ‘cos instead o’ taking a moderate twopenn’orth o’ sleep, the lodgers used to lie there half the day. So now they has two ropes, ‘bout six foot apart, and three from the floor, which goes right down the room; and the beds are made of slips of coarse sacking, stretched across ‘em.’

‘Well,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Well,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘the adwantage o’ the plan’s hobvious. At six o’clock every mornin’ they let’s go the ropes at one end, and down falls the lodgers. Consequence is, that being thoroughly waked, they get up wery quietly, and walk away!’

‘Beg your pardon, sir,’ said Sam, suddenly breaking off in his loquacious discourse. ‘Is this Bury St. Edmunds?’

‘It is,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

The coach rattled through the well-paved streets of a handsome little town, of thriving and cleanly appearance, and stopped before a large inn situated in a wide open street, nearly facing the old abbey.

‘And this,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking up. ‘Is the Angel! We alight here, Sam. But some caution is necessary. Order a private room, and do not mention my name. You understand.’

‘Right as a trivet, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, with a wink of intelligence; and having dragged Mr. Pickwick’s portmanteau from the hind boot, into which it had been hastily thrown when they joined the coach at Eatanswill, Mr. Weller disappeared on his errand. A private room was speedily engaged; and into it Mr. Pickwick was ushered without delay.

‘Now, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘the first thing to be done is to—’

Order dinner, Sir,’ interposed Mr. Weller. ‘It’s wery late, sir.’

‘Ah, so it is,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking at his watch. ‘You are right, Sam.’

‘And if I might adwise, Sir,’ added Mr. Weller, ‘I’d just have a good night’s rest arterwards, and not begin inquiring arter this here deep ‘un till the mornin’. There’s nothin’ so refreshen’ as sleep, sir, as the servant girl said afore she drank the egg-cupful of laudanum.’

‘I think you are right, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘But I must first ascertain that he is in the house, and not likely to go away.’

‘Leave that to me, Sir,’ said Sam. ‘Let me order you a snug little dinner, and make my inquiries below while it’s a-getting ready; I could worm ev’ry secret out O’ the boots’s heart, in five minutes, Sir.’

Do so,’ said Mr. Pickwick; and Mr. Weller at once retired.

In half an hour, Mr. Pickwick was seated at a very satisfactory dinner; and in three-quarters Mr. Weller returned with the intelligence that Mr. Charles Fitz-Marshall had ordered his private room to be retained for him, until further notice. He was going to spend the evening at some private house in the neighbourhood, had ordered the boots to sit up until his return, and had taken his servant with him.

‘Now, sir,’ argued Mr. Weller, when he had concluded his report, ‘if I can get a talk with this here servant in the mornin’, he’ll tell me all his master’s concerns.’

‘How do you know that?’ interposed Mr. Pickwick.

‘Bless your heart, sir, servants always do,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘Oh, ah, I forgot that,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Well.’

‘Then you can arrange what’s best to be done, sir, and we can act accordingly.’

As it appeared that this was the best arrangement that could be made, it was finally agreed upon. Mr. Weller, by his master’s permission, retired to spend the evening in his own way; and was shortly afterwards elected, by the unanimous voice of the assembled company, into the taproom chair, in which honourable post he acquitted himself so much to the satisfaction of the gentlemen-frequenters, that their roars of laughter and approbation penetrated to Mr. Pickwick’s bedroom, and shortened the term of his natural rest by at least three hours.

Early on the ensuing morning, Mr. Weller was dispelling all the feverish remains of the previous evening’s conviviality, through the instrumentality of a halfpenny shower-bath (having induced a young gentleman attached to the stable department, by the offer of that coin, to pump over his head and face, until he was perfectly restored), when he was attracted by the appearance of a young fellow in mulberry- coloured livery, who was sitting on a bench in the yard, reading what appeared to be a hymn-book, with an air of deep abstraction, but who occasionally stole a glance at the individual under the pump, as if he took some interest in his proceedings, nevertheless.

‘You’re a rum ‘un to look at, you are!’ thought Mr. Weller, the first time his eyes encountered the glance of the stranger in the mulberry suit, who had a large, sallow, ugly face, very sunken eyes, and a gigantic head, from which depended a quantity of lank black hair. ‘You’re a rum ‘un!’ thought Mr. Weller; and thinking this, he went on washing himself, and thought no more about him.

Still the man kept glancing from his hymn-book to Sam, and from Sam to his hymn-book, as if he wanted to open a conversation. So at last, Sam, by way of giving him an opportunity, said with a familiar nod—

‘How are you, governor?’

‘I am happy to say, I am pretty well, Sir,’ said the man, speaking with great deliberation, and closing the book. ‘I hope you are the same, Sir?’

‘Why, if I felt less like a walking brandy-bottle I shouldn’t be quite so staggery this mornin’,’ replied Sam. ‘Are you stoppin’ in this house, old ‘un?’

The mulberry man replied in the affirmative.

‘How was it you worn’t one of us, last night?’ inquired Sam, scrubbing his face with the towel. ‘You seem one of the jolly sort—looks as conwivial as a live trout in a lime basket,’ added Mr. Weller, in an undertone.

‘I was out last night with my master,’ replied the stranger.

‘What’s his name?’ inquired Mr. Weller, colouring up very red with sudden excitement, and the friction of the towel combined.

‘Fitz-Marshall,’ said the mulberry man.

‘Give us your hand,’ said Mr. Weller, advancing; ‘I should like to know you. I like your appearance, old fellow.’

‘Well, that is very strange,’ said the mulberry man, with great simplicity of manner. ‘I like yours so much, that I wanted to speak to you, from the very first moment I saw you under the pump.’

Did you though?’

‘Upon my word. Now, isn’t that curious?’

‘Wery sing’ler,’ said Sam, inwardly congratulating himself upon the softness of the stranger. ‘What’s your name, my patriarch?’

‘Job.’

‘And a wery good name it is; only one I know that ain’t got a nickname to it. What’s the other name?’

‘Trotter,’ said the stranger. ‘What is yours?’

Sam bore in mind his master’s caution, and replied—

‘My name’s Walker; my master’s name’s Wilkins. Will you take a drop o’ somethin’ this mornin’, Mr. Trotter?’

Mr. Trotter acquiesced in this agreeable proposal; and having deposited his book in his coat pocket, accompanied Mr. Weller to the tap, where they were soon occupied in discussing an exhilarating compound, formed by mixing together, in a pewter vessel, certain quantities of British Hollands and the fragrant essence of the clove.

‘And what sort of a place have you got?’ inquired Sam, as he filled his companion’s glass, for the second time.

‘Bad,’ said Job, smacking his lips, ‘very bad.’

‘You don’t mean that?’ said Sam.

‘I do, indeed. Worse than that, my master’s going to be married.’

‘No.’

‘Yes; and worse than that, too, he’s going to run away with an immense rich heiress, from boarding-school.’

‘What a dragon!’ said Sam, refilling his companion’s glass. ‘It’s some boarding-school in this town, I suppose, ain’t it?’ Now, although this question was put in the most careless tone imaginable, Mr. Job Trotter plainly showed by gestures that he perceived his new friend’s anxiety to draw forth an answer to it. He emptied his glass, looked mysteriously at his companion, winked both of his small eyes, one after the other, and finally made a motion with his arm, as if he were working an imaginary pump-handle; thereby intimating that he (Mr. Trotter) considered himself as undergoing the process of being pumped by Mr. Samuel Weller.

‘No, no,’ said Mr. Trotter, in conclusion, ‘that’s not to be told to everybody. That is a secret—a great secret, Mr. Walker.’ As the mulberry man said this, he turned his glass upside down, by way of reminding his companion that he had nothing left wherewith to slake his thirst. Sam observed the hint; and feeling the delicate manner in which it was conveyed, ordered the pewter vessel to be refilled, whereat the small eyes of the mulberry man glistened.

‘And so it’s a secret?’ said Sam.

‘I should rather suspect it was,’ said the mulberry man, sipping his liquor, with a complacent face.

‘I suppose your mas’r’s wery rich?’ said Sam.

Mr. Trotter smiled, and holding his glass in his left hand, gave four distinct slaps on the pockets of his mulberry indescribables with his right, as if to intimate that his master might have done the same without alarming anybody much by the chinking of coin.

‘Ah,’ said Sam, ‘that’s the game, is it?’

The mulberry man nodded significantly.

‘Well, and don’t you think, old feller,’ remonstrated Mr. Weller, ‘that if you let your master take in this here young lady, you’re a precious rascal?’

‘I know that,’ said Job Trotter, turning upon his companion a countenance of deep contrition, and groaning slightly, ‘I know that, and that’s what it is that preys upon my mind. But what am I to do?’

‘Do!’ said Sam; ‘di-wulge to the missis, and give up your master.’

‘Who’d believe me?’ replied Job Trotter. ‘The young lady’s considered the very picture of innocence and discretion. She’d deny it, and so would my master. Who’d believe me? I should lose my place, and get indicted for a conspiracy, or some such thing; that’s all I should take by my motion.’

‘There’s somethin’ in that,’ said Sam, ruminating; ‘there’s somethin’ in that.’

‘If I knew any respectable gentleman who would take the matter up,’ continued Mr. Trotter. ‘I might have some hope of preventing the elopement; but there’s the same difficulty, Mr. Walker, just the same. I know no gentleman in this strange place; and ten to one if I did, whether he would believe my story.’

‘Come this way,’ said Sam, suddenly jumping up, and grasping the mulberry man by the arm. ‘My mas’r’s the man you want, I see.’ And after a slight resistance on the part of Job Trotter, Sam led his newly-found friend to the apartment of Mr. Pickwick, to whom he presented him, together with a brief summary of the dialogue we have just repeated.

‘I am very sorry to betray my master, sir,’ said Job Trotter, applying to his eyes a pink checked pocket-handkerchief about six inches square.

‘The feeling does you a great deal of honour,’ replied Mr. Pickwick; ‘but it is your duty, nevertheless.’

‘I know it is my duty, Sir,’ replied Job, with great emotion. ‘We should all try to discharge our duty, Sir, and I humbly endeavour to discharge mine, Sir; but it is a hard trial to betray a master, Sir, whose clothes you wear, and whose bread you eat, even though he is a scoundrel, Sir.’

‘You are a very good fellow,’ said Mr. Pickwick, much affected; ‘an honest fellow.’

‘Come, come,’ interposed Sam, who had witnessed Mr. Trotter’s tears with considerable impatience, ‘blow this ‘ere water-cart bis’ness. It won’t do no good, this won’t.’

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick reproachfully. ‘I am sorry to find that you have so little respect for this young man’s feelings.’

‘His feelin’s is all wery well, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘and as they’re so wery fine, and it’s a pity he should lose ‘em, I think he’d better keep ‘em in his own buzzum, than let ‘em ewaporate in hot water, ‘specially as they do no good. Tears never yet wound up a clock, or worked a steam ingin’. The next time you go out to a smoking party, young fellow, fill your pipe with that ‘ere reflection; and for the present just put that bit of pink gingham into your pocket. ‘Tain’t so handsome that you need keep waving it about, as if you was a tight-rope dancer.’

‘My man is in the right,’ said Mr. Pickwick, accosting Job, ‘although his mode of expressing his opinion is somewhat homely, and occasionally incomprehensible.’

‘He is, sir, very right,’ said Mr. Trotter, ‘and I will give way no longer.’

Very well,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Now, where is this boarding-school?’

‘It is a large, old, red brick house, just outside the town, Sir,’ replied Job Trotter.

‘And when,’ said Mr. Pickwick—‘when is this villainous design to be carried into execution—when is this elopement to take place?’

‘To-night, Sir,’ replied Job.

‘To-night!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

‘This very night, sir,’ replied Job Trotter. ‘That is what alarms me so much.’

‘Instant measures must be taken,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘I will see the lady who keeps the establishment immediately.’

‘I beg your pardon, Sir,’ said Job, ‘but that course of proceeding will never do.’

‘Why not?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘My master, sir, is a very artful man.’

‘I know he is,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘And he has so wound himself round the old lady’s heart, Sir,’ resumed Job, ‘that she would believe nothing to his prejudice, if you went down on your bare knees, and swore it; especially as you have no proof but the word of a servant, who, for anything she knows (and my master would be sure to say so), was discharged for some fault, and does this in revenge.’

‘What had better be done, then?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Nothing but taking him in the very act of eloping, will convince the old lady, sir,’ replied Job.

‘All them old cats _will _run their heads agin milestones,’ observed Mr. Weller, in a parenthesis.

‘But this taking him in the very act of elopement, would be a very difficult thing to accomplish, I fear,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘I don’t know, sir,’ said Mr. Trotter, after a few moments’ reflection. ‘I think it might be very easily done.’

‘How?’ was Mr. Pickwick’s inquiry.

‘Why,’ replied Mr. Trotter, ‘my master and I, being in the confidence of the two servants, will be secreted in the kitchen at ten o’clock. When the family have retired to rest, we shall come out of the kitchen, and the young lady out of her bedroom. A post-chaise will be waiting, and away we go.’

‘Well?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Well, sir, I have been thinking that if you were in waiting in the garden behind, alone—’

‘Alone,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Why alone?’

‘I thought it very natural,’ replied Job, ‘that the old lady wouldn’t like such an unpleasant discovery to be made before more persons than can possibly be helped. The young lady, too, sir—consider her feelings.’

‘You are very right,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘The consideration evinces your delicacy of feeling. Go on; you are very right.’

‘Well, sir, I have been thinking that if you were waiting in the back garden alone, and I was to let you in, at the door which opens into it, from the end of the passage, at exactly half-past eleven o’clock, you would be just in the very moment of time to assist me in frustrating the designs of this bad man, by whom I have been unfortunately ensnared.’ Here Mr. Trotter sighed deeply.

‘Don’t distress yourself on that account,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘if he had one grain of the delicacy of feeling which distinguishes you, humble as your station is, I should have some hopes of him.’

Job Trotter bowed low; and in spite of Mr. Weller’s previous remonstrance, the tears again rose to his eyes.

‘I never see such a feller,’ said Sam, ‘Blessed if I don’t think he’s got a main in his head as is always turned on.’

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with great severity, ‘hold your tongue.’

‘Wery well, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘I don’t like this plan,’ said Mr. Pickwick, after deep meditation. ‘Why cannot I communicate with the young lady’s friends?’

‘Because they live one hundred miles from here, sir,’ responded Job Trotter.

‘That’s a clincher,’ said Mr. Weller, aside.

‘Then this garden,’ resumed Mr. Pickwick. ‘How am I to get into it?’

‘The wall is very low, sir, and your servant will give you a leg up.’

My servant will give me a leg up,’ repeated Mr. Pickwick mechanically. ‘You will be sure to be near this door that you speak of?’

‘You cannot mistake it, Sir; it’s the only one that opens into the garden. Tap at it when you hear the clock strike, and I will open it instantly.’

‘I don’t like the plan,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘but as I see no other, and as the happiness of this young lady’s whole life is at stake, I adopt it. I shall be sure to be there.’

Thus, for the second time, did Mr. Pickwick’s innate good-feeling involve him in an enterprise from which he would most willingly have stood aloof.

‘What is the name of the house?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Westgate House, Sir. You turn a little to the right when you get to the end of the town; it stands by itself, some little distance off the high road, with the name on a brass plate on the gate.’

‘I know it,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘I observed it once before, when I was in this town. You may depend upon me.’

Mr. Trotter made another bow, and turned to depart, when Mr. Pickwick thrust a guinea into his hand.

‘You’re a fine fellow,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘and I admire your goodness of heart. No thanks. Remember—eleven o’clock.’

‘There is no fear of my forgetting it, sir,’ replied Job Trotter. With these words he left the room, followed by Sam.

‘I say,’ said the latter, ‘not a bad notion that ‘ere crying. I’d cry like a rain-water spout in a shower on such good terms. How do you do it?’

‘It comes from the heart, Mr. Walker,’ replied Job solemnly. ‘Good- morning, sir.’

‘You’re a soft customer, you are; we’ve got it all out o’ you, anyhow,’ thought Mr. Weller, as Job walked away.

We cannot state the precise nature of the thoughts which passed through Mr. Trotter’s mind, because we don’t know what they were.

The day wore on, evening came, and at a little before ten o’clock Sam Weller reported that Mr. Jingle and Job had gone out together, that their luggage was packed up, and that they had ordered a chaise. The plot was evidently in execution, as Mr. Trotter had foretold.

Half-past ten o’clock arrived, and it was time for Mr. Pickwick to issue forth on his delicate errand. Resisting Sam’s tender of his greatcoat, in order that he might have no encumbrance in scaling the wall, he set forth, followed by his attendant.

There was a bright moon, but it was behind the clouds. It was a fine dry night, but it was most uncommonly dark. Paths, hedges, fields, houses, and trees, were enveloped in one deep shade. The atmosphere was hot and sultry, the summer lightning quivered faintly on the verge of the horizon, and was the only sight that varied the dull gloom in which everything was wrapped—sound there was none, except the distant barking of some restless house-dog.

They found the house, read the brass plate, walked round the wall, and stopped at that portion of it which divided them from the bottom of the garden.

‘You will return to the inn, Sam, when you have assisted me over,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Wery well, Sir.’

‘And you will sit up, till I return.’

‘Cert’nly, Sir.’

‘Take hold of my leg; and, when I say “Over,” raise me gently.’

‘All right, sir.’

Having settled these preliminaries, Mr. Pickwick grasped the top of the wall, and gave the word ‘Over,’ which was literally obeyed. Whether his body partook in some degree of the elasticity of his mind, or whether Mr. Weller’s notions of a gentle push were of a somewhat rougher description than Mr. Pickwick’s, the immediate effect of his assistance was to jerk that immortal gentleman completely over the wall on to the bed beneath, where, after crushing three gooseberry-bushes and a rose- tree, he finally alighted at full length.

‘You ha’n’t hurt yourself, I hope, Sir?’ said Sam, in a loud whisper, as soon as he had recovered from the surprise consequent upon the mysterious disappearance of his master.

‘I have not hurt myself, Sam, certainly,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, from the other side of the wall, ‘but I rather think that _you _have hurt me.’

‘I hope not, Sir,’ said Sam.

‘Never mind,’ said Mr. Pickwick, rising, ‘it’s nothing but a few scratches. Go away, or we shall be overheard.’

‘Good-bye, Sir.’

‘Good-bye.’

With stealthy steps Sam Weller departed, leaving Mr. Pickwick alone in the garden.

Lights occasionally appeared in the different windows of the house, or glanced from the staircases, as if the inmates were retiring to rest. Not caring to go too near the door, until the appointed time, Mr. Pickwick crouched into an angle of the wall, and awaited its arrival.

It was a situation which might well have depressed the spirits of many a man. Mr. Pickwick, however, felt neither depression nor misgiving. He knew that his purpose was in the main a good one, and he placed implicit reliance on the high-minded Job. It was dull, certainly; not to say dreary; but a contemplative man can always employ himself in meditation. Mr. Pickwick had meditated himself into a doze, when he was roused by the chimes of the neighbouring church ringing out the hour—half-past eleven.

‘That’s the time,’ thought Mr. Pickwick, getting cautiously on his feet. He looked up at the house. The lights had disappeared, and the shutters were closed—all in bed, no doubt. He walked on tiptoe to the door, and gave a gentle tap. Two or three minutes passing without any reply, he gave another tap rather louder, and then another rather louder than that.

At length the sound of feet was audible upon the stairs, and then the light of a candle shone through the keyhole of the door. There was a good deal of unchaining and unbolting, and the door was slowly opened.

Now the door opened outwards; and as the door opened wider and wider, Mr. Pickwick receded behind it, more and more. What was his astonishment when he just peeped out, by way of caution, to see that the person who had opened it was—not Job Trotter, but a servant-girl with a candle in her hand! Mr. Pickwick drew in his head again, with the swiftness displayed by that admirable melodramatic performer, Punch, when he lies in wait for the flat-headed comedian with the tin box of music.

‘It must have been the cat, Sarah,’ said the girl, addressing herself to some one in the house. ‘Puss, puss, puss,—tit, tit, tit.’

But no animal being decoyed by these blandishments, the girl slowly closed the door, and re-fastened it; leaving Mr. Pickwick drawn up straight against the wall.

‘This is very curious,’ thought Mr. Pickwick. ‘They are sitting up beyond their usual hour, I suppose. Extremely unfortunate, that they should have chosen this night, of all others, for such a purpose— exceedingly.’ And with these thoughts, Mr. Pickwick cautiously retired to the angle of the wall in which he had been before ensconced; waiting until such time as he might deem it safe to repeat the signal.

He had not been here five minutes, when a vivid flash of lightning was followed by a loud peal of thunder that crashed and rolled away in the distance with a terrific noise—then came another flash of lightning, brighter than the other, and a second peal of thunder louder than the first; and then down came the rain, with a force and fury that swept everything before it.

Mr. Pickwick was perfectly aware that a tree is a very dangerous neighbour in a thunderstorm. He had a tree on his right, a tree on his left, a third before him, and a fourth behind. If he remained where he was, he might fall the victim of an accident; if he showed himself in the centre of the garden, he might be consigned to a constable. Once or twice he tried to scale the wall, but having no other legs this time, than those with which Nature had furnished him, the only effect of his struggles was to inflict a variety of very unpleasant gratings on his knees and shins, and to throw him into a state of the most profuse perspiration.

‘What a dreadful situation,’ said Mr. Pickwick, pausing to wipe his brow after this exercise. He looked up at the house—all was dark. They must be gone to bed now. He would try the signal again.

He walked on tiptoe across the moist gravel, and tapped at the door. He held his breath, and listened at the key-hole. No reply: very odd. Another knock. He listened again. There was a low whispering inside, and then a voice cried—

‘Who’s there?’

‘That’s not Job,’ thought Mr. Pickwick, hastily drawing himself straight up against the wall again. ‘It’s a woman.’

He had scarcely had time to form this conclusion, when a window above stairs was thrown up, and three or four female voices repeated the query—‘Who’s there?’

Mr. Pickwick dared not move hand or foot. It was clear that the whole establishment was roused. He made up his mind to remain where he was, until the alarm had subsided; and then by a supernatural effort, to get over the wall, or perish in the attempt.

Like all Mr. Pickwick’s determinations, this was the best that could be made under the circumstances; but, unfortunately, it was founded upon the assumption that they would not venture to open the door again. What was his discomfiture, when he heard the chain and bolts withdrawn, and saw the door slowly opening, wider and wider! He retreated into the corner, step by step; but do what he would, the interposition of his own person, prevented its being opened to its utmost width.

‘Who’s there?’ screamed a numerous chorus of treble voices from the staircase inside, consisting of the spinster lady of the establishment, three teachers, five female servants, and thirty boarders, all half- dressed and in a forest of curl-papers.

Of course Mr. Pickwick didn’t say who was there: and then the burden of the chorus changed into—‘Lor! I am so frightened.’

‘Cook,’ said the lady abbess, who took care to be on the top stair, the very last of the group—‘cook, why don’t you go a little way into the garden?’

Please, ma’am, I don’t like,’ responded the cook.

‘Lor, what a stupid thing that cook is!’ said the thirty boarders.

‘Cook,’ said the lady abbess, with great dignity; ‘don’t answer me, if you please. I insist upon your looking into the garden immediately.’

Here the cook began to cry, and the housemaid said it was ‘a shame!’ for which partisanship she received a month’s warning on the spot.

‘Do you hear, cook?’ said the lady abbess, stamping her foot impatiently.

‘Don’t you hear your missis, cook?’ said the three teachers.

‘What an impudent thing that cook is!’ said the thirty boarders.

The unfortunate cook, thus strongly urged, advanced a step or two, and holding her candle just where it prevented her from seeing at all, declared there was nothing there, and it must have been the wind. The door was just going to be closed in consequence, when an inquisitive boarder, who had been peeping between the hinges, set up a fearful screaming, which called back the cook and housemaid, and all the more adventurous, in no time.

‘What is the matter with Miss Smithers?’ said the lady abbess, as the aforesaid Miss Smithers proceeded to go into hysterics of four young lady power.

‘Lor, Miss Smithers, dear,’ said the other nine-and-twenty boarders.

‘Oh, the man—the man—behind the door!’ screamed Miss Smithers.

The lady abbess no sooner heard this appalling cry, than she retreated to her own bedroom, double-locked the door, and fainted away comfortably. The boarders, and the teachers, and the servants, fell back upon the stairs, and upon each other; and never was such a screaming, and fainting, and struggling beheld. In the midst of the tumult, Mr. Pickwick emerged from his concealment, and presented himself amongst them.

‘Ladies—dear ladies,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Oh. he says we’re dear,’ cried the oldest and ugliest teacher. ‘Oh, the wretch!’

‘Ladies,’ roared Mr. Pickwick, rendered desperate by the danger of his situation. ‘Hear me. I am no robber. I want the lady of the house.’

‘Oh, what a ferocious monster!’ screamed another teacher. ‘He wants Miss Tomkins.’

Here there was a general scream.

‘Ring the alarm bell, somebody!’ cried a dozen voices.

‘Don’t—don’t,’ shouted Mr. Pickwick. ‘Look at me. Do I look like a robber! My dear ladies—you may bind me hand and leg, or lock me up in a closet, if you like. Only hear what I have got to say—only hear me.’

‘How did you come in our garden?’ faltered the housemaid.

‘Call the lady of the house, and I’ll tell her everything,’ said Mr. Pickwick, exerting his lungs to the utmost pitch. ‘Call her—only be quiet, and call her, and you shall hear everything.’

It might have been Mr. Pickwick’s appearance, or it might have been his manner, or it might have been the temptation—irresistible to a female mind—of hearing something at present enveloped in mystery, that reduced the more reasonable portion of the establishment (some four individuals) to a state of comparative quiet. By them it was proposed, as a test of Mr. Pickwick’s sincerity, that he should immediately submit to personal restraint; and that gentleman having consented to hold a conference with Miss Tomkins, from the interior of a closet in which the day boarders hung their bonnets and sandwich-bags, he at once stepped into it, of his own accord, and was securely locked in. This revived the others; and Miss Tomkins having been brought to, and brought down, the conference began.

‘What did you do in my garden, man?’ said Miss Tomkins, in a faint voice.

‘I came to warn you that one of your young ladies was going to elope to- night,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, from the interior of the closet.

‘Elope!’ exclaimed Miss Tomkins, the three teachers, the thirty boarders, and the five servants. ‘Who with?’

Your friend, Mr. Charles Fitz-Marshall.’

‘My friend! I don’t know any such person.’

‘Well, Mr. Jingle, then.’

‘I never heard the name in my life.’

‘Then, I have been deceived, and deluded,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘I have been the victim of a conspiracy—a foul and base conspiracy. Send to the Angel, my dear ma’am, if you don’t believe me. Send to the Angel for Mr. Pickwick’s manservant, I implore you, ma’am.’

‘He must be respectable—he keeps a manservant,’ said Miss Tomkins to the writing and ciphering governess.

‘It’s my opinion, Miss Tomkins,’ said the writing and ciphering governess, ‘that his manservant keeps him, I think he’s a madman, Miss Tomkins, and the other’s his keeper.’

‘I think you are very right, Miss Gwynn,’ responded Miss Tomkins. ‘Let two of the servants repair to the Angel, and let the others remain here, to protect us.’

So two of the servants were despatched to the Angel in search of Mr. Samuel Weller; and the remaining three stopped behind to protect Miss Tomkins, and the three teachers, and the thirty boarders. And Mr. Pickwick sat down in the closet, beneath a grove of sandwich-bags, and awaited the return of the messengers, with all the philosophy and fortitude he could summon to his aid.

An hour and a half elapsed before they came back, and when they did come, Mr. Pickwick recognised, in addition to the voice of Mr. Samuel Weller, two other voices, the tones of which struck familiarly on his ear; but whose they were, he could not for the life of him call to mind.

A very brief conversation ensued. The door was unlocked. Mr. Pickwick stepped out of the closet, and found himself in the presence of the whole establishment of Westgate House, Mr Samuel Weller, and—old Wardle, and his destined son-in-law, Mr. Trundle!

‘My dear friend,’ said Mr. Pickwick, running forward and grasping Wardle’s hand, ‘my dear friend, pray, for Heaven’s sake, explain to this lady the unfortunate and dreadful situation in which I am placed. You must have heard it from my servant; say, at all events, my dear fellow, that I am neither a robber nor a madman.’

‘I have said so, my dear friend. I have said so already,’ replied Mr. Wardle, shaking the right hand of his friend, while Mr. Trundle shook the left.

‘And whoever says, or has said, he is,’ interposed Mr. Weller, stepping forward, ‘says that which is not the truth, but so far from it, on the contrary, quite the rewerse. And if there’s any number o’ men on these here premises as has said so, I shall be wery happy to give ‘em all a wery convincing proof o’ their being mistaken, in this here wery room, if these wery respectable ladies ‘ll have the goodness to retire, and order ‘em up, one at a time.’ Having delivered this defiance with great volubility, Mr. Weller struck his open palm emphatically with his clenched fist, and winked pleasantly on Miss Tomkins, the intensity of whose horror at his supposing it within the bounds of possibility that there could be any men on the premises of Westgate House Establishment for Young Ladies, it is impossible to describe.

Mr. Pickwick’s explanation having already been partially made, was soon concluded. But neither in the course of his walk home with his friends, nor afterwards when seated before a blazing fire at the supper he so much needed, could a single observation be drawn from him. He seemed bewildered and amazed. Once, and only once, he turned round to Mr. Wardle, and said—

‘How did you come here?’

‘Trundle and I came down here, for some good shooting on the first,’ replied Wardle. ‘We arrived to-night, and were astonished to hear from your servant that you were here too. But I am glad you are,’ said the old fellow, slapping him on the back—‘I am glad you are. We shall have a jovial party on the first, and we’ll give Winkle another chance—eh, old boy?’

Mr. Pickwick made no reply, he did not even ask after his friends at Dingley Dell, and shortly afterwards retired for the night, desiring Sam to fetch his candle when he rung.

The bell did ring in due course, and Mr. Weller presented himself.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking out from under the bed-clothes.

‘Sir,’ said Mr. Weller.

Mr. Pickwick paused, and Mr. Weller snuffed the candle.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick again, as if with a desperate effort.

‘Sir,’ said Mr. Weller, once more.

‘Where is that Trotter?’

‘Job, sir?’

‘Yes.

‘Gone, sir.’

‘With his master, I suppose?’

‘Friend or master, or whatever he is, he’s gone with him,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘There’s a pair on ‘em, sir.’

‘Jingle suspected my design, and set that fellow on you, with this story, I suppose?’ said Mr. Pickwick, half choking.

‘Just that, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘It was all false, of course?’

‘All, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Reg’lar do, sir; artful dodge.’

‘I don’t think he’ll escape us quite so easily the next time, Sam!’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘I don’t think he will, Sir.’

‘Whenever I meet that Jingle again, wherever it is,’ said Mr. Pickwick, raising himself in bed, and indenting his pillow with a tremendous blow, ‘I’ll inflict personal chastisement on him, in addition to the exposure he so richly merits. I will, or my name is not Pickwick.’

‘And venever I catches hold o’ that there melan-cholly chap with the black hair,’ said Sam, ‘if I don’t bring some real water into his eyes, for once in a way, my name ain’t Weller. Good-night, Sir!’

CHAPTER XVII. SHOWING THAT AN ATTACK OF RHEUMATISM, IN SOME CASES, ACTS AS A QUICKENER TO INVENTIVE GENIUS

The constitution of Mr. Pickwick, though able to sustain a very considerable amount of exertion and fatigue, was not proof against such a combination of attacks as he had undergone on the memorable night, recorded in the last chapter. The process of being washed in the night air, and rough-dried in a closet, is as dangerous as it is peculiar. Mr. Pickwick was laid up with an attack of rheumatism.

But although the bodily powers of the great man were thus impaired, his mental energies retained their pristine vigour. His spirits were elastic; his good-humour was restored. Even the vexation consequent upon his recent adventure had vanished from his mind; and he could join in the hearty laughter, which any allusion to it excited in Mr. Wardle, without anger and without embarrassment. Nay, more. During the two days Mr. Pickwick was confined to bed, Sam was his constant attendant. On the first, he endeavoured to amuse his master by anecdote and conversation; on the second, Mr. Pickwick demanded his writing-desk, and pen and ink, and was deeply engaged during the whole day. On the third, being able to sit up in his bedchamber, he despatched his valet with a message to Mr. Wardle and Mr. Trundle, intimating that if they would take their wine there, that evening, they would greatly oblige him. The invitation was most willingly accepted; and when they were seated over their wine, Mr. Pickwick, with sundry blushes, produced the following little tale, as having been ‘edited’ by himself, during his recent indisposition, from his notes of Mr. Weller’s unsophisticated recital.

THE PARISH CLERK A TALE OF TRUE LOVE

‘Once upon a time, in a very small country town, at a considerable distance from London, there lived a little man named Nathaniel Pipkin, who was the parish clerk of the little town, and lived in a little house in the little High Street, within ten minutes’ walk from the little church; and who was to be found every day, from nine till four, teaching a little learning to the little boys. Nathaniel Pipkin was a harmless, inoffensive, good-natured being, with a turned-up nose, and rather turned-in legs, a cast in his eye, and a halt in his gait; and he divided his time between the church and his school, verily believing that there existed not, on the face of the earth, so clever a man as the curate, so imposing an apartment as the vestry-room, or so well-ordered a seminary as his own. Once, and only once, in his life, Nathaniel Pipkin had seen a bishop—a real bishop, with his arms in lawn sleeves, and his head in a wig. He had seen him walk, and heard him talk, at a confirmation, on which momentous occasion Nathaniel Pipkin was so overcome with reverence and awe, when the aforesaid bishop laid his hand on his head, that he fainted right clean away, and was borne out of church in the arms of the beadle.

‘This was a great event, a tremendous era, in Nathaniel Pipkin’s life, and it was the only one that had ever occurred to ruffle the smooth current of his quiet existence, when happening one fine afternoon, in a fit of mental abstraction, to raise his eyes from the slate on which he was devising some tremendous problem in compound addition for an offending urchin to solve, they suddenly rested on the blooming countenance of Maria Lobbs, the only daughter of old Lobbs, the great saddler over the way. Now, the eyes of Mr. Pipkin had rested on the pretty face of Maria Lobbs many a time and oft before, at church and elsewhere; but the eyes of Maria Lobbs had never looked so bright, the cheeks of Maria Lobbs had never looked so ruddy, as upon this particular occasion. No wonder then, that Nathaniel Pipkin was unable to take his eyes from the countenance of Miss Lobbs; no wonder that Miss Lobbs, finding herself stared at by a young man, withdrew her head from the window out of which she had been peeping, and shut the casement and pulled down the blind; no wonder that Nathaniel Pipkin, immediately thereafter, fell upon the young urchin who had previously offended, and cuffed and knocked him about to his heart’s content. All this was very natural, and there’s nothing at all to wonder at about it.

‘It is matter of wonder, though, that anyone of Mr. Nathaniel Pipkin’s retiring disposition, nervous temperament, and most particularly diminutive income, should from this day forth, have dared to aspire to the hand and heart of the only daughter of the fiery old Lobbs—of old Lobbs, the great saddler, who could have bought up the whole village at one stroke of his pen, and never felt the outlay—old Lobbs, who was well known to have heaps of money, invested in the bank at the nearest market town—who was reported to have countless and inexhaustible treasures hoarded up in the little iron safe with the big keyhole, over the chimney-piece in the back parlour—and who, it was well known, on festive occasions garnished his board with a real silver teapot, cream- ewer, and sugar-basin, which he was wont, in the pride of his heart, to boast should be his daughter’s property when she found a man to her mind. I repeat it, to be matter of profound astonishment and intense wonder, that Nathaniel Pipkin should have had the temerity to cast his eyes in this direction. But love is blind; and Nathaniel had a cast in his eye; and perhaps these two circumstances, taken together, prevented his seeing the matter in its proper light.

‘Now, if old Lobbs had entertained the most remote or distant idea of the state of the affections of Nathaniel Pipkin, he would just have razed the school-room to the ground, or exterminated its master from the surface of the earth, or committed some other outrage and atrocity of an equally ferocious and violent description; for he was a terrible old fellow, was Lobbs, when his pride was injured, or his blood was up. Swear! Such trains of oaths would come rolling and pealing over the way, sometimes, when he was denouncing the idleness of the bony apprentice with the thin legs, that Nathaniel Pipkin would shake in his shoes with horror, and the hair of the pupils’ heads would stand on end with fright.

‘Well! Day after day, when school was over, and the pupils gone, did Nathaniel Pipkin sit himself down at the front window, and, while he feigned to be reading a book, throw sidelong glances over the way in search of the bright eyes of Maria Lobbs; and he hadn’t sat there many days, before the bright eyes appeared at an upper window, apparently deeply engaged in reading too. This was delightful, and gladdening to the heart of Nathaniel Pipkin. It was something to sit there for hours together, and look upon that pretty face when the eyes were cast down; but when Maria Lobbs began to raise her eyes from her book, and dart their rays in the direction of Nathaniel Pipkin, his delight and admiration were perfectly boundless. At last, one day when he knew old Lobbs was out, Nathaniel Pipkin had the temerity to kiss his hand to Maria Lobbs; and Maria Lobbs, instead of shutting the window, and pulling down the blind, kissed _hers _to him, and smiled. Upon which Nathaniel Pipkin determined, that, come what might, he would develop the state of his feelings, without further delay.

‘A prettier foot, a gayer heart, a more dimpled face, or a smarter form, never bounded so lightly over the earth they graced, as did those of Maria Lobbs, the old saddler’s daughter. There was a roguish twinkle in her sparkling eyes, that would have made its way to far less susceptible bosoms than that of Nathaniel Pipkin; and there was such a joyous sound in her merry laugh, that the sternest misanthrope must have smiled to hear it. Even old Lobbs himself, in the very height of his ferocity, couldn’t resist the coaxing of his pretty daughter; and when she, and her cousin Kate—an arch, impudent-looking, bewitching little person— made a dead set upon the old man together, as, to say the truth, they very often did, he could have refused them nothing, even had they asked for a portion of the countless and inexhaustible treasures, which were hidden from the light, in the iron safe.

‘Nathaniel Pipkin’s heart beat high within him, when he saw this enticing little couple some hundred yards before him one summer’s evening, in the very field in which he had many a time strolled about till night-time, and pondered on the beauty of Maria Lobbs. But though he had often thought then, how briskly he would walk up to Maria Lobbs and tell her of his passion if he could only meet her, he felt, now that she was unexpectedly before him, all the blood in his body mounting to his face, manifestly to the great detriment of his legs, which, deprived of their usual portion, trembled beneath him. When they stopped to gather a hedge flower, or listen to a bird, Nathaniel Pipkin stopped too, and pretended to be absorbed in meditation, as indeed he really was; for he was thinking what on earth he should ever do, when they turned back, as they inevitably must in time, and meet him face to face. But though he was afraid to make up to them, he couldn’t bear to lose sight of them; so when they walked faster he walked faster, when they lingered he lingered, and when they stopped he stopped; and so they might have gone on, until the darkness prevented them, if Kate had not looked slyly back, and encouragingly beckoned Nathaniel to advance. There was something in Kate’s manner that was not to be resisted, and so Nathaniel Pipkin complied with the invitation; and after a great deal of blushing on his part, and immoderate laughter on that of the wicked little cousin, Nathaniel Pipkin went down on his knees on the dewy grass, and declared his resolution to remain there for ever, unless he were permitted to rise the accepted lover of Maria Lobbs. Upon this, the merry laughter of Miss Lobbs rang through the calm evening air—without seeming to disturb it, though; it had such a pleasant sound—and the wicked little cousin laughed more immoderately than before, and Nathaniel Pipkin blushed deeper than ever. At length, Maria Lobbs being more strenuously urged by the love-worn little man, turned away her head, and whispered her cousin to say, or at all events Kate did say, that she felt much honoured by Mr. Pipkin’s addresses; that her hand and heart were at her father’s disposal; but that nobody could be insensible to Mr. Pipkin’s merits. As all this was said with much gravity, and as Nathaniel Pipkin walked home with Maria Lobbs, and struggled for a kiss at parting, he went to bed a happy man, and dreamed all night long, of softening old Lobbs, opening the strong box, and marrying Maria.

The next day, Nathaniel Pipkin saw old Lobbs go out upon his old gray pony, and after a great many signs at the window from the wicked little cousin, the object and meaning of which he could by no means understand, the bony apprentice with the thin legs came over to say that his master wasn’t coming home all night, and that the ladies expected Mr. Pipkin to tea, at six o’clock precisely. How the lessons were got through that day, neither Nathaniel Pipkin nor his pupils knew any more than you do; but they were got through somehow, and, after the boys had gone, Nathaniel Pipkin took till full six o’clock to dress himself to his satisfaction. Not that it took long to select the garments he should wear, inasmuch as he had no choice about the matter; but the putting of them on to the best advantage, and the touching of them up previously, was a task of no inconsiderable difficulty or importance.

‘There was a very snug little party, consisting of Maria Lobbs and her cousin Kate, and three or four romping, good-humoured, rosy-cheeked girls. Nathaniel Pipkin had ocular demonstration of the fact, that the rumours of old Lobbs’s treasures were not exaggerated. There were the real solid silver teapot, cream-ewer, and sugar-basin, on the table, and real silver spoons to stir the tea with, and real china cups to drink it out of, and plates of the same, to hold the cakes and toast in. The only eye-sore in the whole place was another cousin of Maria Lobbs’s, and a brother of Kate, whom Maria Lobbs called “Henry,” and who seemed to keep Maria Lobbs all to himself, up in one corner of the table. It’s a delightful thing to see affection in families, but it may be carried rather too far, and Nathaniel Pipkin could not help thinking that Maria Lobbs must be very particularly fond of her relations, if she paid as much attention to all of them as to this individual cousin. After tea, too, when the wicked little cousin proposed a game at blind man’s buff, it somehow or other happened that Nathaniel Pipkin was nearly always blind, and whenever he laid his hand upon the male cousin, he was sure to find that Maria Lobbs was not far off. And though the wicked little cousin and the other girls pinched him, and pulled his hair, and pushed chairs in his way, and all sorts of things, Maria Lobbs never seemed to come near him at all; and once—once—Nathaniel Pipkin could have sworn he heard the sound of a kiss, followed by a faint remonstrance from Maria Lobbs, and a half-suppressed laugh from her female friends. All this was odd—very odd—and there is no saying what Nathaniel Pipkin might or might not have done, in consequence, if his thoughts had not been suddenly directed into a new channel.

‘The circumstance which directed his thoughts into a new channel was a loud knocking at the street door, and the person who made this loud knocking at the street door was no other than old Lobbs himself, who had unexpectedly returned, and was hammering away, like a coffin-maker; for he wanted his supper. The alarming intelligence was no sooner communicated by the bony apprentice with the thin legs, than the girls tripped upstairs to Maria Lobbs’s bedroom, and the male cousin and Nathaniel Pipkin were thrust into a couple of closets in the sitting- room, for want of any better places of concealment; and when Maria Lobbs and the wicked little cousin had stowed them away, and put the room to rights, they opened the street door to old Lobbs, who had never left off knocking since he first began.

‘Now it did unfortunately happen that old Lobbs being very hungry was monstrous cross. Nathaniel Pipkin could hear him growling away like an old mastiff with a sore throat; and whenever the unfortunate apprentice with the thin legs came into the room, so surely did old Lobbs commence swearing at him in a most Saracenic and ferocious manner, though apparently with no other end or object than that of easing his bosom by the discharge of a few superfluous oaths. At length some supper, which had been warming up, was placed on the table, and then old Lobbs fell to, in regular style; and having made clear work of it in no time, kissed his daughter, and demanded his pipe.

‘Nature had placed Nathaniel Pipkin’s knees in very close juxtaposition, but when he heard old Lobbs demand his pipe, they knocked together, as if they were going to reduce each other to powder; for, depending from a couple of hooks, in the very closet in which he stood, was a large, brown-stemmed, silver-bowled pipe, which pipe he himself had seen in the mouth of old Lobbs, regularly every afternoon and evening, for the last five years. The two girls went downstairs for the pipe, and upstairs for the pipe, and everywhere but where they knew the pipe was, and old Lobbs stormed away meanwhile, in the most wonderful manner. At last he thought of the closet, and walked up to it. It was of no use a little man like Nathaniel Pipkin pulling the door inwards, when a great strong fellow like old Lobbs was pulling it outwards. Old Lobbs gave it one tug, and open it flew, disclosing Nathaniel Pipkin standing bolt upright inside, and shaking with apprehension from head to foot. Bless us! what an appalling look old Lobbs gave him, as he dragged him out by the collar, and held him at arm’s length.

‘“Why, what the devil do you want here?” said old Lobbs, in a fearful voice.

‘Nathaniel Pipkin could make no reply, so old Lobbs shook him backwards and forwards, for two or three minutes, by way of arranging his ideas for him.

‘“What do you want here?” roared Lobbs; “I suppose you have come after my daughter, now!”

‘Old Lobbs merely said this as a sneer: for he did not believe that mortal presumption could have carried Nathaniel Pipkin so far. What was his indignation, when that poor man replied—

‘“Yes, I did, Mr. Lobbs, I did come after your daughter. I love her, Mr. Lobbs.”

‘“Why, you snivelling, wry-faced, puny villain,” gasped old Lobbs, paralysed by the atrocious confession; “what do you mean by that? Say this to my face! Damme, I’ll throttle you!”

‘It is by no means improbable that old Lobbs would have carried his threat into execution, in the excess of his rage, if his arm had not been stayed by a very unexpected apparition: to wit, the male cousin, who, stepping out of his closet, and walking up to old Lobbs, said—

‘“I cannot allow this harmless person, Sir, who has been asked here, in some girlish frolic, to take upon himself, in a very noble manner, the fault (if fault it is) which I am guilty of, and am ready to avow. I love your daughter, sir; and I came here for the purpose of meeting her.”

‘Old Lobbs opened his eyes very wide at this, but not wider than Nathaniel Pipkin.

‘“You did?” said Lobbs, at last finding breath to speak.

‘“I did.”

‘“And I forbade you this house, long ago.”

‘“You did, or I should not have been here, clandestinely, to-night.”

‘I am sorry to record it of old Lobbs, but I think he would have struck the cousin, if his pretty daughter, with her bright eyes swimming in tears, had not clung to his arm.

‘“Don’t stop him, Maria,” said the young man; “if he has the will to strike me, let him. I would not hurt a hair of his gray head, for the riches of the world.”

‘The old man cast down his eyes at this reproof, and they met those of his daughter. I have hinted once or twice before, that they were very bright eyes, and, though they were tearful now, their influence was by no means lessened. Old Lobbs turned his head away, as if to avoid being persuaded by them, when, as fortune would have it, he encountered the face of the wicked little cousin, who, half afraid for her brother, and half laughing at Nathaniel Pipkin, presented as bewitching an expression of countenance, with a touch of slyness in it, too, as any man, old or young, need look upon. She drew her arm coaxingly through the old man’s, and whispered something in his ear; and do what he would, old Lobbs couldn’t help breaking out into a smile, while a tear stole down his cheek at the same time.

‘Five minutes after this, the girls were brought down from the bedroom with a great deal of giggling and modesty; and while the young people were making themselves perfectly happy, old Lobbs got down the pipe, and smoked it; and it was a remarkable circumstance about that particular pipe of tobacco, that it was the most soothing and delightful one he ever smoked.

‘Nathaniel Pipkin thought it best to keep his own counsel, and by so doing gradually rose into high favour with old Lobbs, who taught him to smoke in time; and they used to sit out in the garden on the fine evenings, for many years afterwards, smoking and drinking in great state. He soon recovered the effects of his attachment, for we find his name in the parish register, as a witness to the marriage of Maria Lobbs to her cousin; and it also appears, by reference to other documents, that on the night of the wedding he was incarcerated in the village cage, for having, in a state of extreme intoxication, committed sundry excesses in the streets, in all of which he was aided and abetted by the bony apprentice with the thin legs.’

CHAPTER XVIII. BRIEFLY ILLUSTRATIVE OF TWO POINTS; FIRST, THE POWER OF HYSTERICS, AND, SECONDLY, THE FORCE OF CIRCUMSTANCES

For two days after the _dejeune _at Mrs. Hunter’s, the Pickwickians remained at Eatanswill, anxiously awaiting the arrival of some intelligence from their revered leader. Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass were once again left to their own means of amusement; for Mr. Winkle, in compliance with a most pressing invitation, continued to reside at Mr. Pott’s house, and to devote his time to the companionship of his amiable lady. Nor was the occasional society of Mr. Pott himself wanting to complete their felicity. Deeply immersed in the intensity of his speculations for the public weal and the destruction of the Independent, it was not the habit of that great man to descend from his mental pinnacle to the humble level of ordinary minds. On this occasion, however, and as if expressly in compliment to any follower of Mr. Pickwick’s, he unbent, relaxed, stepped down from his pedestal, and walked upon the ground, benignly adapting his remarks to the comprehension of the herd, and seeming in outward form, if not in spirit, to be one of them.

Such having been the demeanour of this celebrated public character towards Mr. Winkle, it will be readily imagined that considerable surprise was depicted on the countenance of the latter gentleman, when, as he was sitting alone in the breakfast-room, the door was hastily thrown open, and as hastily closed, on the entrance of Mr. Pott, who, stalking majestically towards him, and thrusting aside his proffered hand, ground his teeth, as if to put a sharper edge on what he was about to utter, and exclaimed, in a saw-like voice—

‘Serpent!’

‘Sir!’ exclaimed Mr. Winkle, starting from his chair.

‘Serpent, Sir,’ repeated Mr. Pott, raising his voice, and then suddenly depressing it: ‘I said, serpent, sir—make the most of it.’

When you have parted with a man at two o’clock in the morning, on terms of the utmost good-fellowship, and he meets you again, at half-past nine, and greets you as a serpent, it is not unreasonable to conclude that something of an unpleasant nature has occurred meanwhile. So Mr. Winkle thought. He returned Mr. Pott’s gaze of stone, and in compliance with that gentleman’s request, proceeded to make the most he could of the ‘serpent.’ The most, however, was nothing at all; so, after a profound silence of some minutes’ duration, he said,—

‘Serpent, Sir! Serpent, Mr. Pott! What can you mean, Sir?—this is pleasantry.’

‘Pleasantry, sir!’ exclaimed Pott, with a motion of the hand, indicative of a strong desire to hurl the Britannia metal teapot at the head of the visitor. ‘Pleasantry, sir!—But—no, I will be calm; I will be calm, Sir;’ in proof of his calmness, Mr. Pott flung himself into a chair, and foamed at the mouth.

‘My dear sir,’ interposed Mr. Winkle.

‘_DEAR _Sir!’ replied Pott. ‘How dare you address me, as dear Sir, Sir? How dare you look me in the face and do it, sir?’

‘Well, Sir, if you come to that,’ responded Mr. Winkle, ‘how dare you look me in the face, and call me a serpent, sir?’

‘Because you are one,’ replied Mr. Pott.

‘Prove it, Sir,’ said Mr. Winkle warmly. ‘Prove it.’

A malignant scowl passed over the profound face of the editor, as he drew from his pocket the Independent of that morning; and laying his finger on a particular paragraph, threw the journal across the table to Mr. Winkle.

That gentleman took it up, and read as follows:—

‘Our obscure and filthy contemporary, in some disgusting observations on the recent election for this borough, has presumed to violate the hallowed sanctity of private life, and to refer in a manner not to be misunderstood, to the personal affairs of our late candidate—aye, and notwithstanding his base defeat, we will add, our future member, Mr. Fizkin. What does our dastardly contemporary mean? What would the ruffian say, if we, setting at naught, like him, the decencies of social intercourse, were to raise the curtain which happily conceals His private life from general ridicule, not to say from general execration? What, if we were even to point out, and comment on, facts and circumstances, which are publicly notorious, and beheld by every one but our mole-eyed contemporary—what if we were to print the following effusion, which we received while we were writing the commencement of this article, from a talented fellow-townsman and correspondent?

‘“LINES TO A BRASS POT

‘“Oh Pott! if you’d known How false she’d have grown, When you heard the marriage bells tinkle; You’d have done then, I vow, What you cannot help now,

‘What,’ said Mr. Pott solemnly—‘what rhymes to “tinkle,” villain?’

‘What rhymes to tinkle?’ said Mrs. Pott, whose entrance at the moment forestalled the reply. ‘What rhymes to tinkle? Why, Winkle, I should conceive.’ Saying this, Mrs. Pott smiled sweetly on the disturbed Pickwickian, and extended her hand towards him. The agitated young man would have accepted it, in his confusion, had not Pott indignantly interposed.

‘Back, ma’am—back!’ said the editor. ‘Take his hand before my very face!’

‘Mr. P.!’ said his astonished lady.

‘Wretched woman, look here,’ exclaimed the husband. ‘Look here, ma’am— “Lines to a Brass Pot.” “Brass Pot”; that’s me, ma’am. “False she’d have grown”; that’s you, ma’am—you.’ With this ebullition of rage, which was not unaccompanied with something like a tremble, at the expression of his wife’s face, Mr. Pott dashed the current number of the Eatanswill Independent at her feet.

‘Upon my word, Sir,’ said the astonished Mrs. Pott, stooping to pick up the paper. ‘Upon my word, Sir!’

Mr. Pott winced beneath the contemptuous gaze of his wife. He had made a desperate struggle to screw up his courage, but it was fast coming unscrewed again.

There appears nothing very tremendous in this little sentence, ‘Upon my word, sir,’ when it comes to be read; but the tone of voice in which it was delivered, and the look that accompanied it, both seeming to bear reference to some revenge to be thereafter visited upon the head of Pott, produced their effect upon him. The most unskilful observer could have detected in his troubled countenance, a readiness to resign his Wellington boots to any efficient substitute who would have consented to stand in them at that moment.

Mrs. Pott read the paragraph, uttered a loud shriek, and threw herself at full length on the hearth-rug, screaming, and tapping it with the heels of her shoes, in a manner which could leave no doubt of the propriety of her feelings on the occasion.

‘My dear,’ said the terrified Pott, ‘I didn’t say I believed it;—I—’ but the unfortunate man’s voice was drowned in the screaming of his partner.

‘Mrs. Pott, let me entreat you, my dear ma’am, to compose yourself,’ said Mr. Winkle; but the shrieks and tappings were louder, and more frequent than ever.

‘My dear,’ said Mr. Pott, ‘I’m very sorry. If you won’t consider your own health, consider me, my dear. We shall have a crowd round the house.’ But the more strenuously Mr. Pott entreated, the more vehemently the screams poured forth.

Very fortunately, however, attached to Mrs. Pott’s person was a bodyguard of one, a young lady whose ostensible employment was to preside over her toilet, but who rendered herself useful in a variety of ways, and in none more so than in the particular department of constantly aiding and abetting her mistress in every wish and inclination opposed to the desires of the unhappy Pott. The screams reached this young lady’s ears in due course, and brought her into the room with a speed which threatened to derange, materially, the very exquisite arrangement of her cap and ringlets.

‘Oh, my dear, dear mistress!’ exclaimed the bodyguard, kneeling frantically by the side of the prostrate Mrs. Pott. ‘Oh, my dear mistress, what is the matter?’

‘Your master—your brutal master,’ murmured the patient.

Pott was evidently giving way.

‘It’s a shame,’ said the bodyguard reproachfully. ‘I know he’ll be the death on you, ma’am. Poor dear thing!’

He gave way more. The opposite party followed up the attack.

‘Oh, don’t leave me—don’t leave me, Goodwin,’ murmured Mrs. Pott, clutching at the wrist of the said Goodwin with an hysteric jerk. ‘You’re the only person that’s kind to me, Goodwin.’

At this affecting appeal, Goodwin got up a little domestic tragedy of her own, and shed tears copiously.

‘Never, ma’am—never,’ said Goodwin. ‘Oh, sir, you should be careful— you should indeed; you don’t know what harm you may do missis; you’ll be sorry for it one day, I know—I’ve always said so.’

The unlucky Pott looked timidly on, but said nothing.

‘Goodwin,’ said Mrs. Pott, in a soft voice.

‘Ma’am,’ said Goodwin.

‘If you only knew how I have loved that man—’

Don’t distress yourself by recollecting it, ma’am,’ said the bodyguard.

Pott looked very frightened. It was time to finish him.

‘And now,’ sobbed Mrs. Pott, ‘now, after all, to be treated in this way; to be reproached and insulted in the presence of a third party, and that party almost a stranger. But I will not submit to it! Goodwin,’ continued Mrs. Pott, raising herself in the arms of her attendant, ‘my brother, the lieutenant, shall interfere. I’ll be separated, Goodwin!’

‘It would certainly serve him right, ma’am,’ said Goodwin.

Whatever thoughts the threat of a separation might have awakened in Mr. Pott’s mind, he forbore to give utterance to them, and contented himself by saying, with great humility:—

‘My dear, will you hear me?’

A fresh train of sobs was the only reply, as Mrs. Pott grew more hysterical, requested to be informed why she was ever born, and required sundry other pieces of information of a similar description.

‘My dear,’ remonstrated Mr. Pott, ‘do not give way to these sensitive feelings. I never believed that the paragraph had any foundation, my dear—impossible. I was only angry, my dear—I may say outrageous—with the Independent people for daring to insert it; that’s all.’ Mr. Pott cast an imploring look at the innocent cause of the mischief, as if to entreat him to say nothing about the serpent.

‘And what steps, sir, do you mean to take to obtain redress?’ inquired Mr. Winkle, gaining courage as he saw Pott losing it.

‘Oh, Goodwin,’ observed Mrs. Pott, ‘does he mean to horsewhip the editor of the Independent—does he, Goodwin?’

‘Hush, hush, ma’am; pray keep yourself quiet,’ replied the bodyguard. ‘I dare say he will, if you wish it, ma’am.’

‘Certainly,’ said Pott, as his wife evinced decided symptoms of going off again. ‘Of course I shall.’

‘When, Goodwin—when?’ said Mrs. Pott, still undecided about the going off.

‘Immediately, of course,’ said Mr. Pott; ‘before the day is out.’

‘Oh, Goodwin,’ resumed Mrs. Pott, ‘it’s the only way of meeting the slander, and setting me right with the world.’

‘Certainly, ma’am,’ replied Goodwin. ‘No man as is a man, ma’am, could refuse to do it.’

So, as the hysterics were still hovering about, Mr. Pott said once more that he would do it; but Mrs. Pott was so overcome at the bare idea of having ever been suspected, that she was half a dozen times on the very verge of a relapse, and most unquestionably would have gone off, had it not been for the indefatigable efforts of the assiduous Goodwin, and repeated entreaties for pardon from the conquered Pott; and finally, when that unhappy individual had been frightened and snubbed down to his proper level, Mrs. Pott recovered, and they went to breakfast.

‘You will not allow this base newspaper slander to shorten your stay here, Mr. Winkle?’ said Mrs. Pott, smiling through the traces of her tears.

‘I hope not,’ said Mr. Pott, actuated, as he spoke, by a wish that his visitor would choke himself with the morsel of dry toast which he was raising to his lips at the moment, and so terminate his stay effectually.

‘I hope not.’

‘You are very good,’ said Mr. Winkle; ‘but a letter has been received from Mr. Pickwick—so I learn by a note from Mr. Tupman, which was brought up to my bedroom door, this morning—in which he requests us to join him at Bury to-day; and we are to leave by the coach at noon.’

‘But you will come back?’ said Mrs. Pott.

‘Oh, certainly,’ replied Mr. Winkle.

‘You are quite sure?’ said Mrs. Pott, stealing a tender look at her visitor.

‘Quite,’ responded Mr. Winkle.

The breakfast passed off in silence, for each of the party was brooding over his, or her, own personal grievances. Mrs. Pott was regretting the loss of a beau; Mr. Pott his rash pledge to horsewhip the Independent; Mr. Winkle his having innocently placed himself in so awkward a situation. Noon approached, and after many adieux and promises to return, he tore himself away.

‘If he ever comes back, I’ll poison him,’ thought Mr. Pott, as he turned into the little back office where he prepared his thunderbolts.

‘If I ever do come back, and mix myself up with these people again,’ thought Mr. Winkle, as he wended his way to the Peacock, ‘I shall deserve to be horsewhipped myself—that’s all.’

His friends were ready, the coach was nearly so, and in half an hour they were proceeding on their journey, along the road over which Mr. Pickwick and Sam had so recently travelled, and of which, as we have already said something, we do not feel called upon to extract Mr. Snodgrass’s poetical and beautiful description.

Mr. Weller was standing at the door of the Angel, ready to receive them, and by that gentleman they were ushered to the apartment of Mr. Pickwick, where, to the no small surprise of Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass, and the no small embarrassment of Mr. Tupman, they found old Wardle and Trundle.

‘How are you?’ said the old man, grasping Mr. Tupman’s hand. ‘Don’t hang back, or look sentimental about it; it can’t be helped, old fellow. For her sake, I wish you’d had her; for your own, I’m very glad you have not. A young fellow like you will do better one of these days, eh?’ With this conclusion, Wardle slapped Mr. Tupman on the back, and laughed heartily.

‘Well, and how are you, my fine fellows?’ said the old gentleman, shaking hands with Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass at the same time. ‘I have just been telling Pickwick that we must have you all down at Christmas. We’re going to have a wedding—a real wedding this time.’

‘A wedding!’ exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass, turning very pale.

‘Yes, a wedding. But don’t be frightened,’ said the good-humoured old man; ‘it’s only Trundle there, and Bella.’

‘Oh, is that all?’ said Mr. Snodgrass, relieved from a painful doubt which had fallen heavily on his breast. ‘Give you joy, Sir. How is Joe?’

‘Very well,’ replied the old gentleman. ‘Sleepy as ever.’

‘And your mother, and the clergyman, and all of ‘em?’

‘Quite well.’

‘Where,’ said Mr. Tupman, with an effort—‘where is—she, Sir?’ and he turned away his head, and covered his eyes with his hand.

‘She!’ said the old gentleman, with a knowing shake of the head. ‘Do you mean my single relative—eh?’

Mr. Tupman, by a nod, intimated that his question applied to the disappointed Rachael.

‘Oh, she’s gone away,’ said the old gentleman. ‘She’s living at a relation’s, far enough off. She couldn’t bear to see the girls, so I let her go. But come! Here’s the dinner. You must be hungry after your ride. I am, without any ride at all; so let us fall to.’

Ample justice was done to the meal; and when they were seated round the table, after it had been disposed of, Mr. Pickwick, to the intense horror and indignation of his followers, related the adventure he had undergone, and the success which had attended the base artifices of the diabolical Jingle.

‘And the attack of rheumatism which I caught in that garden,’ said Mr. Pickwick, in conclusion, ‘renders me lame at this moment.’

‘I, too, have had something of an adventure,’ said Mr. Winkle, with a smile; and, at the request of Mr. Pickwick, he detailed the malicious libel of the Eatanswill Independent, and the consequent excitement of their friend, the editor.

Mr. Pickwick’s brow darkened during the recital. His friends observed it, and, when Mr. Winkle had concluded, maintained a profound silence. Mr. Pickwick struck the table emphatically with his clenched fist, and spoke as follows:—

‘Is it not a wonderful circumstance,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘that we seem destined to enter no man’s house without involving him in some degree of trouble? Does it not, I ask, bespeak the indiscretion, or, worse than that, the blackness of heart—that I should say so!—of my followers, that, beneath whatever roof they locate, they disturb the peace of mind and happiness of some confiding female? Is it not, I say—’

Mr. Pickwick would in all probability have gone on for some time, had not the entrance of Sam, with a letter, caused him to break off in his eloquent discourse. He passed his handkerchief across his forehead, took off his spectacles, wiped them, and put them on again; and his voice had recovered its wonted softness of tone when he said—

‘What have you there, Sam?’

‘Called at the post-office just now, and found this here letter, as has laid there for two days,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘It’s sealed vith a vafer, and directed in round hand.’

‘I don’t know this hand,’ said Mr. Pickwick, opening the letter. ‘Mercy on us! what’s this? It must be a jest; it—it—can’t be true.’

‘What’s the matter?’ was the general inquiry.

‘Nobody dead, is there?’ said Wardle, alarmed at the horror in Mr. Pickwick’s countenance.

Mr. Pickwick made no reply, but, pushing the letter across the table, and desiring Mr. Tupman to read it aloud, fell back in his chair with a look of vacant astonishment quite alarming to behold.

Mr. Tupman, with a trembling voice, read the letter, of which the following is a copy:—

Freeman’s Court, Cornhill, August 28th, 1827.

Bardell against Pickwick.

Sir,

Having been instructed by Mrs. Martha Bardell to commence an action against you for a breach of promise of marriage, for which the plaintiff lays her damages at fifteen hundred pounds, we beg to inform you that a writ has been issued against you in this suit in the Court of Common Pleas; and request to know, by return of post, the name of your attorney in London, who will accept service thereof.

We are, Sir, Your obedient servants, Dodson & Fogg.

Mr. Samuel Pickwick.

There was something so impressive in the mute astonishment with which each man regarded his neighbour, and every man regarded Mr. Pickwick, that all seemed afraid to speak. The silence was at length broken by Mr. Tupman.

‘Dodson and Fogg,’ he repeated mechanically.

‘Bardell and Pickwick,’ said Mr. Snodgrass, musing.

‘Peace of mind and happiness of confiding females,’ murmured Mr. Winkle, with an air of abstraction.

‘It’s a conspiracy,’ said Mr. Pickwick, at length recovering the power of speech; ‘a base conspiracy between these two grasping attorneys, Dodson and Fogg. Mrs. Bardell would never do it;—she hasn’t the heart to do it;—she hasn’t the case to do it. Ridiculous—ridiculous.’

Of her heart,’ said Wardle, with a smile, ‘you should certainly be the best judge. I don’t wish to discourage you, but I should certainly say that, of her case, Dodson and Fogg are far better judges than any of us can be.’

‘It’s a vile attempt to extort money,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘I hope it is,’ said Wardle, with a short, dry cough.

‘Who ever heard me address her in any way but that in which a lodger would address his landlady?’ continued Mr. Pickwick, with great vehemence. ‘Who ever saw me with her? Not even my friends here—’

‘Except on one occasion,’ said Mr. Tupman.

Mr. Pickwick changed colour.

‘Ah,’ said Mr. Wardle. ‘Well, that’s important. There was nothing suspicious then, I suppose?’

Mr. Tupman glanced timidly at his leader. ‘Why,’ said he, ‘there was nothing suspicious; but—I don’t know how it happened, mind—she certainly was reclining in his arms.’

‘Gracious powers!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, as the recollection of the scene in question struck forcibly upon him; ‘what a dreadful instance of the force of circumstances! So she was—so she was.’

‘And our friend was soothing her anguish,’ said Mr. Winkle, rather maliciously.

‘So I was,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘I don’t deny it. So I was.’

‘Hollo!’ said Wardle; ‘for a case in which there’s nothing suspicious, this looks rather queer—eh, Pickwick? Ah, sly dog—sly dog!’ and he laughed till the glasses on the sideboard rang again.

‘What a dreadful conjunction of appearances!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, resting his chin upon his hands. ‘Winkle—Tupman—I beg your pardon for the observations I made just now. We are all the victims of circumstances, and I the greatest.’ With this apology Mr. Pickwick buried his head in his hands, and ruminated; while Wardle measured out a regular circle of nods and winks, addressed to the other members of the company.

‘I’ll have it explained, though,’ said Mr. Pickwick, raising his head and hammering the table. ‘I’ll see this Dodson and Fogg! I’ll go to London to-morrow.’

‘Not to-morrow,’ said Wardle; ‘you’re too lame.’

‘Well, then, next day.’

‘Next day is the first of September, and you’re pledged to ride out with us, as far as Sir Geoffrey Manning’s grounds at all events, and to meet us at lunch, if you don’t take the field.’

‘Well, then, the day after,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘Thursday.—Sam!’

‘Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘Take two places outside to London, on Thursday morning, for yourself and me.’

‘Wery well, Sir.’

Mr. Weller left the room, and departed slowly on his errand, with his hands in his pocket and his eyes fixed on the ground.

‘Rum feller, the hemperor,’ said Mr. Weller, as he walked slowly up the street. ‘Think o’ his makin’ up to that ‘ere Mrs. Bardell—vith a little boy, too! Always the vay vith these here old ‘uns howsoever, as is such steady goers to look at. I didn’t think he’d ha’ done it, though—I didn’t think he’d ha’ done it!’ Moralising in this strain, Mr. Samuel Weller bent his steps towards the booking-office.

CHAPTER XIX. A PLEASANT DAY WITH AN UNPLEASANT TERMINATION

The birds, who, happily for their own peace of mind and personal comfort, were in blissful ignorance of the preparations which had been making to astonish them, on the first of September, hailed it, no doubt, as one of the pleasantest mornings they had seen that season. Many a young partridge who strutted complacently among the stubble, with all the finicking coxcombry of youth, and many an older one who watched his levity out of his little round eye, with the contemptuous air of a bird of wisdom and experience, alike unconscious of their approaching doom, basked in the fresh morning air with lively and blithesome feelings, and a few hours afterwards were laid low upon the earth. But we grow affecting: let us proceed.

In plain commonplace matter-of-fact, then, it was a fine morning—so fine that you would scarcely have believed that the few months of an English summer had yet flown by. Hedges, fields, and trees, hill and moorland, presented to the eye their ever-varying shades of deep rich green; scarce a leaf had fallen, scarce a sprinkle of yellow mingled with the hues of summer, warned you that autumn had begun. The sky was cloudless; the sun shone out bright and warm; the songs of birds, the hum of myriads of summer insects, filled the air; and the cottage gardens, crowded with flowers of every rich and beautiful tint, sparkled, in the heavy dew, like beds of glittering jewels. Everything bore the stamp of summer, and none of its beautiful colour had yet faded from the die.

Such was the morning, when an open carriage, in which were three Pickwickians (Mr. Snodgrass having preferred to remain at home), Mr. Wardle, and Mr. Trundle, with Sam Weller on the box beside the driver, pulled up by a gate at the roadside, before which stood a tall, raw- boned gamekeeper, and a half-booted, leather-legginged boy, each bearing a bag of capacious dimensions, and accompanied by a brace of pointers.

‘I say,’ whispered Mr. Winkle to Wardle, as the man let down the steps, ‘they don’t suppose we’re going to kill game enough to fill those bags, do they?’

‘Fill them!’ exclaimed old Wardle. ‘Bless you, yes! You shall fill one, and I the other; and when we’ve done with them, the pockets of our shooting-jackets will hold as much more.’

Mr. Winkle dismounted without saying anything in reply to this observation; but he thought within himself, that if the party remained in the open air, till he had filled one of the bags, they stood a considerable chance of catching colds in their heads.

‘Hi, Juno, lass-hi, old girl; down, Daph, down,’ said Wardle, caressing the dogs. ‘Sir Geoffrey still in Scotland, of course, Martin?’

The tall gamekeeper replied in the affirmative, and looked with some surprise from Mr. Winkle, who was holding his gun as if he wished his coat pocket to save him the trouble of pulling the trigger, to Mr. Tupman, who was holding his as if he was afraid of it—as there is no earthly reason to doubt he really was.

‘My friends are not much in the way of this sort of thing yet, Martin,’ said Wardle, noticing the look. ‘Live and learn, you know. They’ll be good shots one of these days. I beg my friend Winkle’s pardon, though; he has had some practice.’

Mr. Winkle smiled feebly over his blue neckerchief in acknowledgment of the compliment, and got himself so mysteriously entangled with his gun, in his modest confusion, that if the piece had been loaded, he must inevitably have shot himself dead upon the spot.

‘You mustn’t handle your piece in that ‘ere way, when you come to have the charge in it, Sir,’ said the tall gamekeeper gruffly; ‘or I’m damned if you won’t make cold meat of some on us.’

Mr. Winkle, thus admonished, abruptly altered his position, and in so doing, contrived to bring the barrel into pretty smart contact with Mr. Weller’s head.

‘Hollo!’ said Sam, picking up his hat, which had been knocked off, and rubbing his temple. ‘Hollo, sir! if you comes it this vay, you’ll fill one o’ them bags, and something to spare, at one fire.’

Here the leather-legginged boy laughed very heartily, and then tried to look as if it was somebody else, whereat Mr. Winkle frowned majestically.

‘Where did you tell the boy to meet us with the snack, Martin?’ inquired Wardle.

‘Side of One-tree Hill, at twelve o’clock, Sir.’

‘That’s not Sir Geoffrey’s land, is it?’

‘No, Sir; but it’s close by it. It’s Captain Boldwig’s land; but there’ll be nobody to interrupt us, and there’s a fine bit of turf there.’

‘Very well,’ said old Wardle. ‘Now the sooner we’re off the better. Will you join us at twelve, then, Pickwick?’

Mr. Pickwick was particularly desirous to view the sport, the more especially as he was rather anxious in respect of Mr. Winkle’s life and limbs. On so inviting a morning, too, it was very tantalising to turn back, and leave his friends to enjoy themselves. It was, therefore, with a very rueful air that he replied—

‘Why, I suppose I must.’

‘Ain’t the gentleman a shot, Sir?’ inquired the long gamekeeper.

‘No,’ replied Wardle; ‘and he’s lame besides.’

‘I should very much like to go,’ said Mr. Pickwick—‘very much.’

There was a short pause of commiseration.

‘There’s a barrow t’other side the hedge,’ said the boy. ‘If the gentleman’s servant would wheel along the paths, he could keep nigh us, and we could lift it over the stiles, and that.’

‘The wery thing,’ said Mr. Weller, who was a party interested, inasmuch as he ardently longed to see the sport. ‘The wery thing. Well said, Smallcheek; I’ll have it out in a minute.’

But here a difficulty arose. The long gamekeeper resolutely protested against the introduction into a shooting party, of a gentleman in a barrow, as a gross violation of all established rules and precedents.

It was a great objection, but not an insurmountable one. The gamekeeper having been coaxed and feed, and having, moreover, eased his mind by ‘punching’ the head of the inventive youth who had first suggested the use of the machine, Mr. Pickwick was placed in it, and off the party set; Wardle and the long gamekeeper leading the way, and Mr. Pickwick in the barrow, propelled by Sam, bringing up the rear.

‘Stop, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, when they had got half across the first field.

‘What’s the matter now?’ said Wardle.

‘I won’t suffer this barrow to be moved another step,’ said Mr. Pickwick, resolutely, ‘unless Winkle carries that gun of his in a different manner.’

‘How am I to carry it?’ said the wretched Winkle.

‘Carry it with the muzzle to the ground,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘It’s so unsportsmanlike,’ reasoned Winkle.

‘I don’t care whether it’s unsportsmanlike or not,’ replied Mr. Pickwick; ‘I am not going to be shot in a wheel-barrow, for the sake of appearances, to please anybody.’

‘I know the gentleman’ll put that ‘ere charge into somebody afore he’s done,’ growled the long man.

‘Well, well—I don’t mind,’ said poor Winkle, turning his gun-stock uppermost—‘there.’

‘Anythin’ for a quiet life,’ said Mr. Weller; and on they went again.

‘Stop!’ said Mr. Pickwick, after they had gone a few yards farther.

‘What now?’ said Wardle.

‘That gun of Tupman’s is not safe: I know it isn’t,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Eh? What! not safe?’ said Mr. Tupman, in a tone of great alarm.

‘Not as you are carrying it,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘I am very sorry to make any further objection, but I cannot consent to go on, unless you carry it as Winkle does his.’

‘I think you had better, sir,’ said the long gamekeeper, ‘or you’re quite as likely to lodge the charge in yourself as in anything else.’

Mr. Tupman, with the most obliging haste, placed his piece in the position required, and the party moved on again; the two amateurs marching with reversed arms, like a couple of privates at a royal funeral.

The dogs suddenly came to a dead stop, and the party advancing stealthily a single pace, stopped too.

‘What’s the matter with the dogs’ legs?’ whispered Mr. Winkle. ‘How queer they’re standing.’

‘Hush, can’t you?’ replied Wardle softly. ‘Don’t you see, they’re making a point?’

‘Making a point!’ said Mr. Winkle, staring about him, as if he expected to discover some particular beauty in the landscape, which the sagacious animals were calling special attention to. ‘Making a point! What are they pointing at?’

‘Keep your eyes open,’ said Wardle, not heeding the question in the excitement of the moment. ‘Now then.’

There was a sharp whirring noise, that made Mr. Winkle start back as if he had been shot himself. Bang, bang, went a couple of guns—the smoke swept quickly away over the field, and curled into the air.

‘Where are they!’ said Mr. Winkle, in a state of the highest excitement, turning round and round in all directions. ‘Where are they? Tell me when to fire. Where are they—where are they?’

‘Where are they!’ said Wardle, taking up a brace of birds which the dogs had deposited at his feet. ‘Why, here they are.’

‘No, no; I mean the others,’ said the bewildered Winkle.

‘Far enough off, by this time,’ replied Wardle, coolly reloading his gun.

‘We shall very likely be up with another covey in five minutes,’ said the long gamekeeper. ‘If the gentleman begins to fire now, perhaps he’ll just get the shot out of the barrel by the time they rise.’

‘Ha! ha! ha!’ roared Mr. Weller.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, compassionating his follower’s confusion and embarrassment.

‘Sir.’

‘Don’t laugh.’

‘Certainly not, Sir.’ So, by way of indemnification, Mr. Weller contorted his features from behind the wheel-barrow, for the exclusive amusement of the boy with the leggings, who thereupon burst into a boisterous laugh, and was summarily cuffed by the long gamekeeper, who wanted a pretext for turning round, to hide his own merriment.

‘Bravo, old fellow!’ said Wardle to Mr. Tupman; ‘you fired that time, at all events.’

‘Oh, yes,’ replied Mr. Tupman, with conscious pride. ‘I let it off.’

‘Well done. You’ll hit something next time, if you look sharp. Very easy, ain’t it?’

‘Yes, it’s very easy,’ said Mr. Tupman. ‘How it hurts one’s shoulder, though. It nearly knocked me backwards. I had no idea these small firearms kicked so.’

‘Ah,’ said the old gentleman, smiling, ‘you’ll get used to it in time. Now then—all ready—all right with the barrow there?’

‘All right, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘Come along, then.’

‘Hold hard, Sir,’ said Sam, raising the barrow.

‘Aye, aye,’ replied Mr. Pickwick; and on they went, as briskly as need be.

‘Keep that barrow back now,’ cried Wardle, when it had been hoisted over a stile into another field, and Mr. Pickwick had been deposited in it once more.

‘All right, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, pausing.

‘Now, Winkle,’ said the old gentleman, ‘follow me softly, and don’t be too late this time.’

‘Never fear,’ said Mr. Winkle. ‘Are they pointing?’

‘No, no; not now. Quietly now, quietly.’ On they crept, and very quietly they would have advanced, if Mr. Winkle, in the performance of some very intricate evolutions with his gun, had not accidentally fired, at the most critical moment, over the boy’s head, exactly in the very spot where the tall man’s brain would have been, had he been there instead.

‘Why, what on earth did you do that for?’ said old Wardle, as the birds flew unharmed away.

‘I never saw such a gun in my life,’ replied poor Mr. Winkle, looking at the lock, as if that would do any good. ‘It goes off of its own accord. It _will _do it.’

‘Will do it!’ echoed Wardle, with something of irritation in his manner. ‘I wish it would kill something of its own accord.’

‘It’ll do that afore long, Sir,’ observed the tall man, in a low, prophetic voice.

‘What do you mean by that observation, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Winkle, angrily.

‘Never mind, Sir, never mind,’ replied the long gamekeeper; ‘I’ve no family myself, sir; and this here boy’s mother will get something handsome from Sir Geoffrey, if he’s killed on his land. Load again, Sir, load again.’

‘Take away his gun,’ cried Mr. Pickwick from the barrow, horror-stricken at the long man’s dark insinuations. ‘Take away his gun, do you hear, somebody?’

Nobody, however, volunteered to obey the command; and Mr. Winkle, after darting a rebellious glance at Mr. Pickwick, reloaded his gun, and proceeded onwards with the rest.

We are bound, on the authority of Mr. Pickwick, to state, that Mr. Tupman’s mode of proceeding evinced far more of prudence and deliberation, than that adopted by Mr. Winkle. Still, this by no means detracts from the great authority of the latter gentleman, on all matters connected with the field; because, as Mr. Pickwick beautifully observes, it has somehow or other happened, from time immemorial, that many of the best and ablest philosophers, who have been perfect lights of science in matters of theory, have been wholly unable to reduce them to practice.

Mr. Tupman’s process, like many of our most sublime discoveries, was extremely simple. With the quickness and penetration of a man of genius, he had at once observed that the two great points to be attained were— first, to discharge his piece without injury to himself, and, secondly, to do so, without danger to the bystanders—obviously, the best thing to do, after surmounting the difficulty of firing at all, was to shut his eyes firmly, and fire into the air.

On one occasion, after performing this feat, Mr. Tupman, on opening his eyes, beheld a plump partridge in the act of falling, wounded, to the ground. He was on the point of congratulating Mr. Wardle on his invariable success, when that gentleman advanced towards him, and grasped him warmly by the hand.

‘Tupman,’ said the old gentleman, ‘you singled out that particular bird?’

‘No,’ said Mr. Tupman—‘no.’

‘You did,’ said Wardle. ‘I saw you do it—I observed you pick him out—I noticed you, as you raised your piece to take aim; and I will say this, that the best shot in existence could not have done it more beautifully. You are an older hand at this than I thought you, Tupman; you have been out before.’

It was in vain for Mr. Tupman to protest, with a smile of self-denial, that he never had. The very smile was taken as evidence to the contrary; and from that time forth his reputation was established. It is not the only reputation that has been acquired as easily, nor are such fortunate circumstances confined to partridge-shooting.

Meanwhile, Mr. Winkle flashed, and blazed, and smoked away, without producing any material results worthy of being noted down; sometimes expending his charge in mid-air, and at others sending it skimming along so near the surface of the ground as to place the lives of the two dogs on a rather uncertain and precarious tenure. As a display of fancy- shooting, it was extremely varied and curious; as an exhibition of firing with any precise object, it was, upon the whole, perhaps a failure. It is an established axiom, that ‘every bullet has its billet.’ If it apply in an equal degree to shot, those of Mr. Winkle were unfortunate foundlings, deprived of their natural rights, cast loose upon the world, and billeted nowhere.

‘Well,’ said Wardle, walking up to the side of the barrow, and wiping the streams of perspiration from his jolly red face; ‘smoking day, isn’t it?’

‘It is, indeed,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. The sun is tremendously hot, even to me. I don’t know how you must feel it.’

‘Why,’ said the old gentleman, ‘pretty hot. It’s past twelve, though. You see that green hill there?’

‘Certainly.’

‘That’s the place where we are to lunch; and, by Jove, there’s the boy with the basket, punctual as clockwork!’

‘So he is,’ said Mr. Pickwick, brightening up. ‘Good boy, that. I’ll give him a shilling, presently. Now, then, Sam, wheel away.’

‘Hold on, sir,’ said Mr. Weller, invigorated with the prospect of refreshments. ‘Out of the vay, young leathers. If you walley my precious life don’t upset me, as the gen’l’m’n said to the driver when they was a-carryin’ him to Tyburn.’ And quickening his pace to a sharp run, Mr. Weller wheeled his master nimbly to the green hill, shot him dexterously out by the very side of the basket, and proceeded to unpack it with the utmost despatch.

‘Weal pie,’ said Mr. Weller, soliloquising, as he arranged the eatables on the grass. ‘Wery good thing is weal pie, when you know the lady as made it, and is quite sure it ain’t kittens; and arter all though, where’s the odds, when they’re so like weal that the wery piemen themselves don’t know the difference?’

‘Don’t they, Sam?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Not they, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, touching his hat. ‘I lodged in the same house vith a pieman once, sir, and a wery nice man he was—reg’lar clever chap, too—make pies out o’ anything, he could. “What a number o’ cats you keep, Mr. Brooks,” says I, when I’d got intimate with him. “Ah,” says he, “I do—a good many,” says he, “You must be wery fond o’ cats,” says I. “Other people is,” says he, a-winkin’ at me; “they ain’t in season till the winter though,” says he. “Not in season!” says I. “No,” says he, “fruits is in, cats is out.” “Why, what do you mean?” says I. “Mean!” says he. “That I’ll never be a party to the combination o’ the butchers, to keep up the price o’ meat,” says he. “Mr. Weller,” says he, a-squeezing my hand wery hard, and vispering in my ear—“don’t mention this here agin—but it’s the seasonin’ as does it. They’re all made o’ them noble animals,” says he, a-pointin’ to a wery nice little tabby kitten, “and I seasons ‘em for beefsteak, weal or kidney, ‘cording to the demand. And more than that,” says he, “I can make a weal a beef- steak, or a beef-steak a kidney, or any one on ‘em a mutton, at a minute’s notice, just as the market changes, and appetites wary!”’

‘He must have been a very ingenious young man, that, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with a slight shudder.

‘Just was, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, continuing his occupation of emptying the basket, ‘and the pies was beautiful. Tongue—, well that’s a wery good thing when it ain’t a woman’s. Bread—knuckle o’ ham, reg’lar picter—cold beef in slices, wery good. What’s in them stone jars, young touch-and-go?’

‘Beer in this one,’ replied the boy, taking from his shoulder a couple of large stone bottles, fastened together by a leathern strap—‘cold punch in t’other.’

‘And a wery good notion of a lunch it is, take it altogether,’ said Mr. Weller, surveying his arrangement of the repast with great satisfaction. ‘Now, gen’l’m’n, “fall on,” as the English said to the French when they fixed bagginets.’

It needed no second invitation to induce the party to yield full justice to the meal; and as little pressing did it require to induce Mr. Weller, the long gamekeeper, and the two boys, to station themselves on the grass, at a little distance, and do good execution upon a decent proportion of the viands. An old oak afforded a pleasant shelter to the group, and a rich prospect of arable and meadow land, intersected with luxuriant hedges, and richly ornamented with wood, lay spread out before them.

‘This is delightful—thoroughly delightful!’ said Mr. Pickwick; the skin of whose expressive countenance was rapidly peeling off, with exposure to the sun.

‘So it is—so it is, old fellow,’ replied Wardle. ‘Come; a glass of punch!’

‘With great pleasure,’ said Mr. Pickwick; the satisfaction of whose countenance, after drinking it, bore testimony to the sincerity of the reply.

‘Good,’ said Mr. Pickwick, smacking his lips. ‘Very good. I’ll take another. Cool; very cool. Come, gentlemen,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, still retaining his hold upon the jar, ‘a toast. Our friends at Dingley Dell.’

The toast was drunk with loud acclamations.

‘I’ll tell you what I shall do, to get up my shooting again,’ said Mr. Winkle, who was eating bread and ham with a pocket-knife. ‘I’ll put a stuffed partridge on the top of a post, and practise at it, beginning at a short distance, and lengthening it by degrees. I understand it’s capital practice.’

‘I know a gen’l’man, Sir,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘as did that, and begun at two yards; but he never tried it on agin; for he blowed the bird right clean away at the first fire, and nobody ever seed a feather on him arterwards.’

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘Have the goodness to reserve your anecdotes till they are called for.’

‘Cert’nly, sir.’

Here Mr. Weller winked the eye which was not concealed by the beer-can he was raising to his lips, with such exquisite facetiousness, that the two boys went into spontaneous convulsions, and even the long man condescended to smile.

‘Well, that certainly is most capital cold punch,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking earnestly at the stone bottle; ‘and the day is extremely warm, and—Tupman, my dear friend, a glass of punch?’

‘With the greatest delight,’ replied Mr. Tupman; and having drank that glass, Mr. Pickwick took another, just to see whether there was any orange peel in the punch, because orange peel always disagreed with him; and finding that there was not, Mr. Pickwick took another glass to the health of their absent friend, and then felt himself imperatively called upon to propose another in honour of the punch-compounder, unknown.

This constant succession of glasses produced considerable effect upon Mr. Pickwick; his countenance beamed with the most sunny smiles, laughter played around his lips, and good-humoured merriment twinkled in his eye. Yielding by degrees to the influence of the exciting liquid, rendered more so by the heat, Mr. Pickwick expressed a strong desire to recollect a song which he had heard in his infancy, and the attempt proving abortive, sought to stimulate his memory with more glasses of punch, which appeared to have quite a contrary effect; for, from forgetting the words of the song, he began to forget how to articulate any words at all; and finally, after rising to his legs to address the company in an eloquent speech, he fell into the barrow, and fast asleep, simultaneously.

The basket having been repacked, and it being found perfectly impossible to awaken Mr. Pickwick from his torpor, some discussion took place whether it would be better for Mr. Weller to wheel his master back again, or to leave him where he was, until they should all be ready to return. The latter course was at length decided on; and as the further expedition was not to exceed an hour’s duration, and as Mr. Weller begged very hard to be one of the party, it was determined to leave Mr. Pickwick asleep in the barrow, and to call for him on their return. So away they went, leaving Mr. Pickwick snoring most comfortably in the shade.

That Mr. Pickwick would have continued to snore in the shade until his friends came back, or, in default thereof, until the shades of evening had fallen on the landscape, there appears no reasonable cause to doubt; always supposing that he had been suffered to remain there in peace. But he was _not _suffered to remain there in peace. And this was what prevented him.

Captain Boldwig was a little fierce man in a stiff black neckerchief and blue surtout, who, when he did condescend to walk about his property, did it in company with a thick rattan stick with a brass ferrule, and a gardener and sub-gardener with meek faces, to whom (the gardeners, not the stick) Captain Boldwig gave his orders with all due grandeur and ferocity; for Captain Boldwig’s wife’s sister had married a marquis, and the captain’s house was a villa, and his land ‘grounds,’ and it was all very high, and mighty, and great.

Mr. Pickwick had not been asleep half an hour when little Captain Boldwig, followed by the two gardeners, came striding along as fast as his size and importance would let him; and when he came near the oak tree, Captain Boldwig paused and drew a long breath, and looked at the prospect as if he thought the prospect ought to be highly gratified at having him to take notice of it; and then he struck the ground emphatically with his stick, and summoned the head-gardener.

‘Hunt,’ said Captain Boldwig.

‘Yes, Sir,’ said the gardener.

‘Roll this place to-morrow morning—do you hear, Hunt?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘And take care that you keep this place in good order—do you hear, Hunt?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘And remind me to have a board done about trespassers, and spring guns, and all that sort of thing, to keep the common people out. Do you hear, Hunt; do you hear?’

‘I’ll not forget it, Sir.’

‘I beg your pardon, Sir,’ said the other man, advancing, with his hand to his hat.

‘Well, Wilkins, what’s the matter with you?’ said Captain Boldwig.

‘I beg your pardon, sir—but I think there have been trespassers here to-day.’

‘Ha!’ said the captain, scowling around him.

‘Yes, sir—they have been dining here, I think, sir.’

‘Why, damn their audacity, so they have,’ said Captain Boldwig, as the crumbs and fragments that were strewn upon the grass met his eye. ‘They have actually been devouring their food here. I wish I had the vagabonds here!’ said the captain, clenching the thick stick.

‘I wish I had the vagabonds here,’ said the captain wrathfully.

‘Beg your pardon, sir,’ said Wilkins, ‘but—’

‘But what? Eh?’ roared the captain; and following the timid glance of Wilkins, his eyes encountered the wheel-barrow and Mr. Pickwick.

‘Who are you, you rascal?’ said the captain, administering several pokes to Mr. Pickwick’s body with the thick stick. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Cold punch,’ murmured Mr. Pickwick, as he sank to sleep again.

‘What?’ demanded Captain Boldwig.

No reply.

‘What did he say his name was?’ asked the captain.

‘Punch, I think, sir,’ replied Wilkins.

‘That’s his impudence—that’s his confounded impudence,’ said Captain Boldwig. ‘He’s only feigning to be asleep now,’ said the captain, in a high passion. ‘He’s drunk; he’s a drunken plebeian. Wheel him away, Wilkins, wheel him away directly.’

Where shall I wheel him to, sir?’ inquired Wilkins, with great timidity.

‘Wheel him to the devil,’ replied Captain Boldwig.

‘Very well, sir,’ said Wilkins.

‘Stay,’ said the captain.

Wilkins stopped accordingly.

‘Wheel him,’ said the captain—‘wheel him to the pound; and let us see whether he calls himself Punch when he comes to himself. He shall not bully me—he shall not bully me. Wheel him away.’

Away Mr. Pickwick was wheeled in compliance with this imperious mandate; and the great Captain Boldwig, swelling with indignation, proceeded on his walk.

Inexpressible was the astonishment of the little party when they returned, to find that Mr. Pickwick had disappeared, and taken the wheel-barrow with him. It was the most mysterious and unaccountable thing that was ever heard of. For a lame man to have got upon his legs without any previous notice, and walked off, would have been most extraordinary; but when it came to his wheeling a heavy barrow before him, by way of amusement, it grew positively miraculous. They searched every nook and corner round, together and separately; they shouted, whistled, laughed, called—and all with the same result. Mr. Pickwick was not to be found. After some hours of fruitless search, they arrived at the unwelcome conclusion that they must go home without him.

Meanwhile Mr. Pickwick had been wheeled to the Pound, and safely deposited therein, fast asleep in the wheel-barrow, to the immeasurable delight and satisfaction not only of all the boys in the village, but three-fourths of the whole population, who had gathered round, in expectation of his waking. If their most intense gratification had been awakened by seeing him wheeled in, how many hundredfold was their joy increased when, after a few indistinct cries of ‘Sam!’ he sat up in the barrow, and gazed with indescribable astonishment on the faces before him.

A general shout was of course the signal of his having woke up; and his involuntary inquiry of ‘What’s the matter?’ occasioned another, louder than the first, if possible.

‘Here’s a game!’ roared the populace.

‘Where am I?’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

‘In the pound,’ replied the mob.

‘How came I here? What was I doing? Where was I brought from?’

Boldwig! Captain Boldwig!’ was the only reply.

‘Let me out,’ cried Mr. Pickwick. ‘Where’s my servant? Where are my friends?’

‘You ain’t got no friends. Hurrah!’ Then there came a turnip, then a potato, and then an egg; with a few other little tokens of the playful disposition of the many-headed.

How long this scene might have lasted, or how much Mr. Pickwick might have suffered, no one can tell, had not a carriage, which was driving swiftly by, suddenly pulled up, from whence there descended old Wardle and Sam Weller, the former of whom, in far less time than it takes to write it, if not to read it, had made his way to Mr. Pickwick’s side, and placed him in the vehicle, just as the latter had concluded the third and last round of a single combat with the town-beadle.

‘Run to the justice’s!’ cried a dozen voices.

‘Ah, run avay,’ said Mr. Weller, jumping up on the box. ‘Give my compliments—Mr. Veller’s compliments—to the justice, and tell him I’ve spiled his beadle, and that, if he’ll swear in a new ‘un, I’ll come back again to-morrow and spile him. Drive on, old feller.’

‘I’ll give directions for the commencement of an action for false imprisonment against this Captain Boldwig, directly I get to London,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as soon as the carriage turned out of the town.

‘We were trespassing, it seems,’ said Wardle.

‘I don’t care,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I’ll bring the action.’

‘No, you won’t,’ said Wardle.

‘I will, by—’ But as there was a humorous expression in Wardle’s face, Mr. Pickwick checked himself, and said, ‘Why not?’

‘Because,’ said old Wardle, half-bursting with laughter, ‘because they might turn on some of us, and say we had taken too much cold punch.’

Do what he would, a smile would come into Mr. Pickwick’s face; the smile extended into a laugh; the laugh into a roar; the roar became general. So, to keep up their good-humour, they stopped at the first roadside tavern they came to, and ordered a glass of brandy-and-water all round, with a magnum of extra strength for Mr. Samuel Weller.

CHAPTER XX. SHOWING HOW DODSON AND FOGG WERE MEN OF BUSINESS, AND THEIR CLERKS MEN OF PLEASURE; AND HOW AN AFFECTING INTERVIEW TOOK PLACE BETWEEN MR. WELLER AND HIS LONG-LOST PARENT; SHOWING ALSO WHAT CHOICE SPIRITS ASSEMBLED AT THE MAGPIE AND STUMP, AND WHAT A CAPITAL CHAPTER THE NEXT ONE WILL BE

In the ground-floor front of a dingy house, at the very farthest end of Freeman’s Court, Cornhill, sat the four clerks of Messrs. Dodson & Fogg, two of his Majesty’s attorneys of the courts of King’s Bench and Common Pleas at Westminster, and solicitors of the High Court of Chancery—the aforesaid clerks catching as favourable glimpses of heaven’s light and heaven’s sun, in the course of their daily labours, as a man might hope to do, were he placed at the bottom of a reasonably deep well; and without the opportunity of perceiving the stars in the day-time, which the latter secluded situation affords.

The clerks’ office of Messrs. Dodson & Fogg was a dark, mouldy, earthy- smelling room, with a high wainscotted partition to screen the clerks from the vulgar gaze, a couple of old wooden chairs, a very loud-ticking clock, an almanac, an umbrella-stand, a row of hat-pegs, and a few shelves, on which were deposited several ticketed bundles of dirty papers, some old deal boxes with paper labels, and sundry decayed stone ink bottles of various shapes and sizes. There was a glass door leading into the passage which formed the entrance to the court, and on the outer side of this glass door, Mr. Pickwick, closely followed by Sam Weller, presented himself on the Friday morning succeeding the occurrence of which a faithful narration is given in the last chapter.

‘Come in, can’t you!’ cried a voice from behind the partition, in reply to Mr. Pickwick’s gentle tap at the door. And Mr. Pickwick and Sam entered accordingly.

‘Mr. Dodson or Mr. Fogg at home, sir?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, gently, advancing, hat in hand, towards the partition.

‘Mr. Dodson ain’t at home, and Mr. Fogg’s particularly engaged,’ replied the voice; and at the same time the head to which the voice belonged, with a pen behind its ear, looked over the partition, and at Mr. Pickwick.

It was a ragged head, the sandy hair of which, scrupulously parted on one side, and flattened down with pomatum, was twisted into little semi- circular tails round a flat face ornamented with a pair of small eyes, and garnished with a very dirty shirt collar, and a rusty black stock.

‘Mr. Dodson ain’t at home, and Mr. Fogg’s particularly engaged,’ said the man to whom the head belonged.

‘When will Mr. Dodson be back, sir?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Can’t say.’

‘Will it be long before Mr. Fogg is disengaged, Sir?’

‘Don’t know.’

Here the man proceeded to mend his pen with great deliberation, while another clerk, who was mixing a Seidlitz powder, under cover of the lid of his desk, laughed approvingly.

‘I think I’ll wait,’ said Mr. Pickwick. There was no reply; so Mr. Pickwick sat down unbidden, and listened to the loud ticking of the clock and the murmured conversation of the clerks.

‘That was a game, wasn’t it?’ said one of the gentlemen, in a brown coat and brass buttons, inky drabs, and bluchers, at the conclusion of some inaudible relation of his previous evening’s adventures.

‘Devilish good—devilish good,’ said the Seidlitz-powder man.

‘Tom Cummins was in the chair,’ said the man with the brown coat. ‘It was half-past four when I got to Somers Town, and then I was so uncommon lushy, that I couldn’t find the place where the latch-key went in, and was obliged to knock up the old ‘ooman. I say, I wonder what old Fogg ‘ud say, if he knew it. I should get the sack, I s’pose—eh?’

At this humorous notion, all the clerks laughed in concert.

‘There was such a game with Fogg here, this mornin’,’ said the man in the brown coat, ‘while Jack was upstairs sorting the papers, and you two were gone to the stamp-office. Fogg was down here, opening the letters when that chap as we issued the writ against at Camberwell, you know, came in—what’s his name again?’

‘Ramsey,’ said the clerk who had spoken to Mr. Pickwick.

‘Ah, Ramsey—a precious seedy-looking customer. “Well, sir,” says old Fogg, looking at him very fierce—you know his way—“well, Sir, have you come to settle?” “Yes, I have, sir,” said Ramsey, putting his hand in his pocket, and bringing out the money, “the debt’s two pound ten, and the costs three pound five, and here it is, Sir;” and he sighed like bricks, as he lugged out the money, done up in a bit of blotting-paper. Old Fogg looked first at the money, and then at him, and then he coughed in his rum way, so that I knew something was coming. “You don’t know there’s a declaration filed, which increases the costs materially, I suppose,” said Fogg. “You don’t say that, sir,” said Ramsey, starting back; “the time was only out last night, Sir.” “I do say it, though,” said Fogg, “my clerk’s just gone to file it. Hasn’t Mr. Jackson gone to file that declaration in Bullman and Ramsey, Mr. Wicks?” Of course I said yes, and then Fogg coughed again, and looked at Ramsey. “My God!” said Ramsey; “and here have I nearly driven myself mad, scraping this money together, and all to no purpose.” “None at all,” said Fogg coolly; “so you had better go back and scrape some more together, and bring it here in time.” “I can’t get it, by God!” said Ramsey, striking the desk with his fist. “Don’t bully me, sir,” said Fogg, getting into a passion on purpose. “I am not bullying you, sir,” said Ramsey. “You are,” said Fogg; “get out, sir; get out of this office, Sir, and come back, Sir, when you know how to behave yourself.” Well, Ramsey tried to speak, but Fogg wouldn’t let him, so he put the money in his pocket, and sneaked out. The door was scarcely shut, when old Fogg turned round to me, with a sweet smile on his face, and drew the declaration out of his coat pocket. “Here, Wicks,” says Fogg, “take a cab, and go down to the Temple as quick as you can, and file that. The costs are quite safe, for he’s a steady man with a large family, at a salary of five-and-twenty shillings a week, and if he gives us a warrant of attorney, as he must in the end, I know his employers will see it paid; so we may as well get all we can get out of him, Mr. Wicks; it’s a Christian act to do it, Mr. Wicks, for with his large family and small income, he’ll be all the better for a good lesson against getting into debt—won’t he, Mr. Wicks, won’t he?”— and he smiled so good-naturedly as he went away, that it was delightful to see him. He is a capital man of business,’ said Wicks, in a tone of the deepest admiration, ‘capital, isn’t he?’

The other three cordially subscribed to this opinion, and the anecdote afforded the most unlimited satisfaction.

‘Nice men these here, Sir,’ whispered Mr. Weller to his master; ‘wery nice notion of fun they has, Sir.’

Mr. Pickwick nodded assent, and coughed to attract the attention of the young gentlemen behind the partition, who, having now relaxed their minds by a little conversation among themselves, condescended to take some notice of the stranger.

‘I wonder whether Fogg’s disengaged now?’ said Jackson.

‘I’ll see,’ said Wicks, dismounting leisurely from his stool. ‘What name shall I tell Mr. Fogg?’

‘Pickwick,’ replied the illustrious subject of these memoirs.

Mr. Jackson departed upstairs on his errand, and immediately returned with a message that Mr. Fogg would see Mr. Pickwick in five minutes; and having delivered it, returned again to his desk.

‘What did he say his name was?’ whispered Wicks.

‘Pickwick,’ replied Jackson; ‘it’s the defendant in Bardell and Pickwick.’

A sudden scraping of feet, mingled with the sound of suppressed laughter, was heard from behind the partition.

‘They’re a-twiggin’ of you, Sir,’ whispered Mr. Weller.

‘Twigging of me, Sam!’ replied Mr. Pickwick; ‘what do you mean by twigging me?’

Mr. Weller replied by pointing with his thumb over his shoulder, and Mr. Pickwick, on looking up, became sensible of the pleasing fact, that all the four clerks, with countenances expressive of the utmost amusement, and with their heads thrust over the wooden screen, were minutely inspecting the figure and general appearance of the supposed trifler with female hearts, and disturber of female happiness. On his looking up, the row of heads suddenly disappeared, and the sound of pens travelling at a furious rate over paper, immediately succeeded.

A sudden ring at the bell which hung in the office, summoned Mr. Jackson to the apartment of Fogg, from whence he came back to say that he (Fogg) was ready to see Mr. Pickwick if he would step upstairs.

Upstairs Mr. Pickwick did step accordingly, leaving Sam Weller below. The room door of the one-pair back, bore inscribed in legible characters the imposing words, ‘Mr. Fogg’; and, having tapped thereat, and been desired to come in, Jackson ushered Mr. Pickwick into the presence.

‘Is Mr. Dodson in?’ inquired Mr. Fogg.

‘Just come in, Sir,’ replied Jackson.

‘Ask him to step here.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Exit Jackson.

‘Take a seat, sir,’ said Fogg; ‘there is the paper, sir; my partner will be here directly, and we can converse about this matter, sir.’

Mr. Pickwick took a seat and the paper, but, instead of reading the latter, peeped over the top of it, and took a survey of the man of business, who was an elderly, pimply-faced, vegetable-diet sort of man, in a black coat, dark mixture trousers, and small black gaiters; a kind of being who seemed to be an essential part of the desk at which he was writing, and to have as much thought or feeling.

After a few minutes’ silence, Mr. Dodson, a plump, portly, stern-looking man, with a loud voice, appeared; and the conversation commenced.

‘This is Mr. Pickwick,’ said Fogg.

‘Ah! You are the defendant, Sir, in Bardell and Pickwick?’ said Dodson.

‘I am, sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Well, sir,’ said Dodson, ‘and what do you propose?’

‘Ah!’ said Fogg, thrusting his hands into his trousers’ pockets, and throwing himself back in his chair, ‘what do you propose, Mr Pickwick?’

‘Hush, Fogg,’ said Dodson, ‘let me hear what Mr. Pickwick has to say.’

‘I came, gentlemen,’ said Mr. Pickwick, gazing placidly on the two partners, ‘I came here, gentlemen, to express the surprise with which I received your letter of the other day, and to inquire what grounds of action you can have against me.’

‘Grounds of—’ Fogg had ejaculated this much, when he was stopped by Dodson.

‘Mr. Fogg,’ said Dodson, ‘I am going to speak.’

I beg your pardon, Mr. Dodson,’ said Fogg.

‘For the grounds of action, sir,’ continued Dodson, with moral elevation in his air, ‘you will consult your own conscience and your own feelings. We, Sir, we, are guided entirely by the statement of our client. That statement, Sir, may be true, or it may be false; it may be credible, or it may be incredible; but, if it be true, and if it be credible, I do not hesitate to say, Sir, that our grounds of action, Sir, are strong, and not to be shaken. You may be an unfortunate man, Sir, or you may be a designing one; but if I were called upon, as a juryman upon my oath, Sir, to express an opinion of your conduct, Sir, I do not hesitate to assert that I should have but one opinion about it.’ Here Dodson drew himself up, with an air of offended virtue, and looked at Fogg, who thrust his hands farther in his pockets, and nodding his head sagely, said, in a tone of the fullest concurrence, ‘Most certainly.’

‘Well, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with considerable pain depicted in his countenance, ‘you will permit me to assure you that I am a most unfortunate man, so far as this case is concerned.’

‘I hope you are, Sir,’ replied Dodson; ‘I trust you may be, Sir. If you are really innocent of what is laid to your charge, you are more unfortunate than I had believed any man could possibly be. What do you say, Mr. Fogg?’

‘I say precisely what you say,’ replied Fogg, with a smile of incredulity.

‘The writ, Sir, which commences the action,’ continued Dodson, ‘was issued regularly. Mr. Fogg, where is the _Praecipe _book?’

‘Here it is,’ said Fogg, handing over a square book, with a parchment cover.

‘Here is the entry,’ resumed Dodson. ‘“Middlesex, Capias MARTHA BARDELL, WIDOW, v. SAMUEL PICKWICK. Damages £1500. Dodson & Fogg for the plaintiff, Aug. 28, 1827.” All regular, Sir; perfectly.’ Dodson coughed and looked at Fogg, who said ‘Perfectly,’ also. And then they both looked at Mr. Pickwick.

‘I am to understand, then,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘that it really is your intention to proceed with this action?’

‘Understand, sir!—that you certainly may,’ replied Dodson, with something as near a smile as his importance would allow.

‘And that the damages are actually laid at fifteen hundred pounds?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘To which understanding you may add my assurance, that if we could have prevailed upon our client, they would have been laid at treble the amount, sir,’ replied Dodson.

‘I believe Mrs. Bardell specially said, however,’ observed Fogg, glancing at Dodson, ‘that she would not compromise for a farthing less.’

‘Unquestionably,’ replied Dodson sternly. For the action was only just begun; and it wouldn’t have done to let Mr. Pickwick compromise it then, even if he had been so disposed.

‘As you offer no terms, sir,’ said Dodson, displaying a slip of parchment in his right hand, and affectionately pressing a paper copy of it, on Mr. Pickwick with his left, ‘I had better serve you with a copy of this writ, sir. Here is the original, sir.’

‘Very well, gentlemen, very well,’ said Mr. Pickwick, rising in person and wrath at the same time; ‘you shall hear from my solicitor, gentlemen.’

‘We shall be very happy to do so,’ said Fogg, rubbing his hands.

‘Very,’ said Dodson, opening the door.

‘And before I go, gentlemen,’ said the excited Mr. Pickwick, turning round on the landing, ‘permit me to say, that of all the disgraceful and rascally proceedings—’

‘Stay, sir, stay,’ interposed Dodson, with great politeness. ‘Mr. Jackson! Mr. Wicks!’

‘Sir,’ said the two clerks, appearing at the bottom of the stairs.

‘I merely want you to hear what this gentleman says,’ replied Dodson. ‘Pray, go on, sir—disgraceful and rascally proceedings, I think you said?’

‘I did,’ said Mr. Pickwick, thoroughly roused. ‘I said, Sir, that of all the disgraceful and rascally proceedings that ever were attempted, this is the most so. I repeat it, sir.’

‘You hear that, Mr. Wicks,’ said Dodson.

‘You won’t forget these expressions, Mr. Jackson?’ said Fogg.

‘Perhaps you would like to call us swindlers, sir,’ said Dodson. ‘Pray do, Sir, if you feel disposed; now pray do, Sir.’

‘I do,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘You _are _swindlers.’

‘Very good,’ said Dodson. ‘You can hear down there, I hope, Mr. Wicks?’

‘Oh, yes, Sir,’ said Wicks.

‘You had better come up a step or two higher, if you can’t,’ added Mr. Fogg. ‘Go on, Sir; do go on. You had better call us thieves, Sir; or perhaps You would like to assault one of us. Pray do it, Sir, if you would; we will not make the smallest resistance. Pray do it, Sir.’

As Fogg put himself very temptingly within the reach of Mr. Pickwick’s clenched fist, there is little doubt that that gentleman would have complied with his earnest entreaty, but for the interposition of Sam, who, hearing the dispute, emerged from the office, mounted the stairs, and seized his master by the arm.

‘You just come away,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Battledore and shuttlecock’s a wery good game, vhen you ain’t the shuttlecock and two lawyers the battledores, in which case it gets too excitin’ to be pleasant. Come avay, Sir. If you want to ease your mind by blowing up somebody, come out into the court and blow up me; but it’s rayther too expensive work to be carried on here.’

And without the slightest ceremony, Mr. Weller hauled his master down the stairs, and down the court, and having safely deposited him in Cornhill, fell behind, prepared to follow whithersoever he should lead.

Mr. Pickwick walked on abstractedly, crossed opposite the Mansion House, and bent his steps up Cheapside. Sam began to wonder where they were going, when his master turned round, and said—

‘Sam, I will go immediately to Mr. Perker’s.’

‘That’s just exactly the wery place vere you ought to have gone last night, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘I think it is, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘I _know _it is,’ said Mr. Weller.

‘Well, well, Sam,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘we will go there at once; but first, as I have been rather ruffled, I should like a glass of brandy- and-water warm, Sam. Where can I have it, Sam?’

Mr. Weller’s knowledge of London was extensive and peculiar. He replied, without the slightest consideration—

‘Second court on the right hand side—last house but vun on the same side the vay—take the box as stands in the first fireplace, ‘cos there ain’t no leg in the middle o’ the table, which all the others has, and it’s wery inconvenient.’

Mr. Pickwick observed his valet’s directions implicitly, and bidding Sam follow him, entered the tavern he had pointed out, where the hot brandy- and-water was speedily placed before him; while Mr. Weller, seated at a respectful distance, though at the same table with his master, was accommodated with a pint of porter.

The room was one of a very homely description, and was apparently under the especial patronage of stage-coachmen; for several gentleman, who had all the appearance of belonging to that learned profession, were drinking and smoking in the different boxes. Among the number was one stout, red-faced, elderly man, in particular, seated in an opposite box, who attracted Mr. Pickwick’s attention. The stout man was smoking with great vehemence, but between every half-dozen puffs, he took his pipe from his mouth, and looked first at Mr. Weller and then at Mr. Pickwick. Then, he would bury in a quart pot, as much of his countenance as the dimensions of the quart pot admitted of its receiving, and take another look at Sam and Mr. Pickwick. Then he would take another half-dozen puffs with an air of profound meditation and look at them again. At last the stout man, putting up his legs on the seat, and leaning his back against the wall, began to puff at his pipe without leaving off at all, and to stare through the smoke at the new-comers, as if he had made up his mind to see the most he could of them.

At first the evolutions of the stout man had escaped Mr. Weller’s observation, but by degrees, as he saw Mr. Pickwick’s eyes every now and then turning towards him, he began to gaze in the same direction, at the same time shading his eyes with his hand, as if he partially recognised the object before him, and wished to make quite sure of its identity. His doubts were speedily dispelled, however; for the stout man having blown a thick cloud from his pipe, a hoarse voice, like some strange effort of ventriloquism, emerged from beneath the capacious shawls which muffled his throat and chest, and slowly uttered these sounds—‘Wy, Sammy!’

‘Who’s that, Sam?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Why, I wouldn’t ha’ believed it, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, with astonished eyes. ‘It’s the old ‘un.’

‘Old one,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘What old one?’

‘My father, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘How are you, my ancient?’ And with this beautiful ebullition of filial affection, Mr. Weller made room on the seat beside him, for the stout man, who advanced pipe in mouth and pot in hand, to greet him.

‘Wy, Sammy,’ said the father, ‘I ha’n’t seen you, for two year and better.’

‘Nor more you have, old codger,’ replied the son. ‘How’s mother-in-law?’

‘Wy, I’ll tell you what, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, senior, with much solemnity in his manner; ‘there never was a nicer woman as a widder, than that ‘ere second wentur o’ mine—a sweet creetur she was, Sammy; all I can say on her now, is, that as she was such an uncommon pleasant widder, it’s a great pity she ever changed her condition. She don’t act as a vife, Sammy.’

Don’t she, though?’ inquired Mr. Weller, junior.

The elder Mr. Weller shook his head, as he replied with a sigh, ‘I’ve done it once too often, Sammy; I’ve done it once too often. Take example by your father, my boy, and be wery careful o’ widders all your life, ‘specially if they’ve kept a public-house, Sammy.’ Having delivered this parental advice with great pathos, Mr. Weller, senior, refilled his pipe from a tin box he carried in his pocket; and, lighting his fresh pipe from the ashes of the old One, commenced smoking at a great rate.

‘Beg your pardon, sir,’ he said, renewing the subject, and addressing Mr. Pickwick, after a considerable pause, ‘nothin’ personal, I hope, sir; I hope you ha’n’t got a widder, sir.’

‘Not I,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, laughing; and while Mr. Pickwick laughed, Sam Weller informed his parent in a whisper, of the relation in which he stood towards that gentleman.

‘Beg your pardon, sir,’ said Mr. Weller, senior, taking off his hat, ‘I hope you’ve no fault to find with Sammy, Sir?’

‘None whatever,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Wery glad to hear it, sir,’ replied the old man; ‘I took a good deal o’ pains with his eddication, sir; let him run in the streets when he was wery young, and shift for hisself. It’s the only way to make a boy sharp, sir.’

‘Rather a dangerous process, I should imagine,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile.

‘And not a wery sure one, neither,’ added Mr. Weller; ‘I got reg’larly done the other day.’

‘No!’ said his father.

‘I did,’ said the son; and he proceeded to relate, in as few words as possible, how he had fallen a ready dupe to the stratagems of Job Trotter.

Mr. Weller, senior, listened to the tale with the most profound attention, and, at its termination, said—

‘Worn’t one o’ these chaps slim and tall, with long hair, and the gift o’ the gab wery gallopin’?’

Mr. Pickwick did not quite understand the last item of description, but, comprehending the first, said ‘Yes,’ at a venture.

‘T’ other’s a black-haired chap in mulberry livery, with a wery large head?’

‘Yes, yes, he is,’ said Mr. Pickwick and Sam, with great earnestness.

‘Then I know where they are, and that’s all about it,’ said Mr. Weller; ‘they’re at Ipswich, safe enough, them two.’

‘No!’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Fact,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘and I’ll tell you how I know it. I work an Ipswich coach now and then for a friend o’ mine. I worked down the wery day arter the night as you caught the rheumatic, and at the Black Boy at Chelmsford—the wery place they’d come to—I took ‘em up, right through to Ipswich, where the man-servant—him in the mulberries—told me they was a-goin’ to put up for a long time.’

‘I’ll follow him,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘we may as well see Ipswich as any other place. I’ll follow him.’

‘You’re quite certain it was them, governor?’ inquired Mr. Weller, junior.

‘Quite, Sammy, quite,’ replied his father, ‘for their appearance is wery sing’ler; besides that ‘ere, I wondered to see the gen’l’m’n so formiliar with his servant; and, more than that, as they sat in the front, right behind the box, I heerd ‘em laughing and saying how they’d done old Fireworks.’

‘Old who?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Old Fireworks, Sir; by which, I’ve no doubt, they meant you, Sir.’

There is nothing positively vile or atrocious in the appellation of ‘old Fireworks,’ but still it is by no means a respectful or flattering designation. The recollection of all the wrongs he had sustained at Jingle’s hands, had crowded on Mr. Pickwick’s mind, the moment Mr. Weller began to speak; it wanted but a feather to turn the scale, and ‘old Fireworks’ did it.

‘I’ll follow him,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with an emphatic blow on the table.

‘I shall work down to Ipswich the day arter to-morrow, Sir,’ said Mr. Weller the elder, ‘from the Bull in Whitechapel; and if you really mean to go, you’d better go with me.’

‘So we had,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘very true; I can write to Bury, and tell them to meet me at Ipswich. We will go with you. But don’t hurry away, Mr. Weller; won’t you take anything?’

‘You’re wery good, Sir,’ replied Mr. W., stopping short;—‘perhaps a small glass of brandy to drink your health, and success to Sammy, Sir, wouldn’t be amiss.’

‘Certainly not,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘A glass of brandy here!’ The brandy was brought; and Mr. Weller, after pulling his hair to Mr. Pickwick, and nodding to Sam, jerked it down his capacious throat as if it had been a small thimbleful.

‘Well done, father,’ said Sam, ‘take care, old fellow, or you’ll have a touch of your old complaint, the gout.’

‘I’ve found a sov’rin’ cure for that, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, setting down the glass.

‘A sovereign cure for the gout,’ said Mr. Pickwick, hastily producing his note-book—‘what is it?’

‘The gout, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, ‘the gout is a complaint as arises from too much ease and comfort. If ever you’re attacked with the gout, sir, jist you marry a widder as has got a good loud woice, with a decent notion of usin’ it, and you’ll never have the gout agin. It’s a capital prescription, sir. I takes it reg’lar, and I can warrant it to drive away any illness as is caused by too much jollity.’ Having imparted this valuable secret, Mr. Weller drained his glass once more, produced a laboured wink, sighed deeply, and slowly retired.

‘Well, what do you think of what your father says, Sam?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, with a smile.

‘Think, Sir!’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘why, I think he’s the wictim o’ connubiality, as Blue Beard’s domestic chaplain said, vith a tear of pity, ven he buried him.’

There was no replying to this very apposite conclusion, and, therefore, Mr. Pickwick, after settling the reckoning, resumed his walk to Gray’s Inn. By the time he reached its secluded groves, however, eight o’clock had struck, and the unbroken stream of gentlemen in muddy high-lows, soiled white hats, and rusty apparel, who were pouring towards the different avenues of egress, warned him that the majority of the offices had closed for that day.

After climbing two pairs of steep and dirty stairs, he found his anticipations were realised. Mr. Perker’s ‘outer door’ was closed; and the dead silence which followed Mr. Weller’s repeated kicks thereat, announced that the officials had retired from business for the night.

‘This is pleasant, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘I shouldn’t lose an hour in seeing him; I shall not be able to get one wink of sleep to-night, I know, unless I have the satisfaction of reflecting that I have confided this matter to a professional man.’

‘Here’s an old ‘ooman comin’ upstairs, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘p’raps she knows where we can find somebody. Hollo, old lady, vere’s Mr. Perker’s people?’

‘Mr. Perker’s people,’ said a thin, miserable-looking old woman, stopping to recover breath after the ascent of the staircase—‘Mr. Perker’s people’s gone, and I’m a-goin’ to do the office out.’

Are you Mr. Perker’s servant?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘I am Mr. Perker’s laundress,’ replied the woman.

‘Ah,’ said Mr. Pickwick, half aside to Sam, ‘it’s a curious circumstance, Sam, that they call the old women in these inns, laundresses. I wonder what’s that for?’

‘’Cos they has a mortal awersion to washing anythin’, I suppose, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking at the old woman, whose appearance, as well as the condition of the office, which she had by this time opened, indicated a rooted antipathy to the application of soap and water; ‘do you know where I can find Mr. Perker, my good woman?’

‘No, I don’t,’ replied the old woman gruffly; ‘he’s out o’ town now.’

‘That’s unfortunate,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘where’s his clerk? Do you know?’

‘Yes, I know where he is, but he won’t thank me for telling you,’ replied the laundress.

‘I have very particular business with him,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Won’t it do in the morning?’ said the woman.

‘Not so well,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Well,’ said the old woman, ‘if it was anything very particular, I was to say where he was, so I suppose there’s no harm in telling. If you just go to the Magpie and Stump, and ask at the bar for Mr. Lowten, they’ll show you in to him, and he’s Mr. Perker’s clerk.’

With this direction, and having been furthermore informed that the hostelry in question was situated in a court, happy in the double advantage of being in the vicinity of Clare Market, and closely approximating to the back of New Inn, Mr. Pickwick and Sam descended the rickety staircase in safety, and issued forth in quest of the Magpie and Stump.

This favoured tavern, sacred to the evening orgies of Mr. Lowten and his companions, was what ordinary people would designate a public-house. That the landlord was a man of money-making turn was sufficiently testified by the fact of a small bulkhead beneath the tap-room window, in size and shape not unlike a sedan-chair, being underlet to a mender of shoes: and that he was a being of a philanthropic mind was evident from the protection he afforded to a pieman, who vended his delicacies without fear of interruption, on the very door-step. In the lower windows, which were decorated with curtains of a saffron hue, dangled two or three printed cards, bearing reference to Devonshire cider and Dantzic spruce, while a large blackboard, announcing in white letters to an enlightened public, that there were 500,000 barrels of double stout in the cellars of the establishment, left the mind in a state of not unpleasing doubt and uncertainty as to the precise direction in the bowels of the earth, in which this mighty cavern might be supposed to extend. When we add that the weather-beaten signboard bore the half- obliterated semblance of a magpie intently eyeing a crooked streak of brown paint, which the neighbours had been taught from infancy to consider as the ‘stump,’ we have said all that need be said of the exterior of the edifice.

On Mr. Pickwick’s presenting himself at the bar, an elderly female emerged from behind the screen therein, and presented herself before him.

‘Is Mr. Lowten here, ma’am?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes, he is, Sir,’ replied the landlady. ‘Here, Charley, show the gentleman in to Mr. Lowten.’

‘The gen’l’m’n can’t go in just now,’ said a shambling pot-boy, with a red head, ‘cos’ Mr. Lowten’s a-singin’ a comic song, and he’ll put him out. He’ll be done directly, Sir.’

The red-headed pot-boy had scarcely finished speaking, when a most unanimous hammering of tables, and jingling of glasses, announced that the song had that instant terminated; and Mr. Pickwick, after desiring Sam to solace himself in the tap, suffered himself to be conducted into the presence of Mr. Lowten.

At the announcement of ‘A gentleman to speak to you, Sir,’ a puffy-faced young man, who filled the chair at the head of the table, looked with some surprise in the direction from whence the voice proceeded; and the surprise seemed to be by no means diminished, when his eyes rested on an individual whom he had never seen before.

‘I beg your pardon, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘and I am very sorry to disturb the other gentlemen, too, but I come on very particular business; and if you will suffer me to detain you at this end of the room for five minutes, I shall be very much obliged to you.’

The puffy-faced young man rose, and drawing a chair close to Mr. Pickwick in an obscure corner of the room, listened attentively to his tale of woe.

‘Ah,’ he said, when Mr. Pickwick had concluded, ‘Dodson and Fogg—sharp practice theirs—capital men of business, Dodson and Fogg, sir.’

Mr. Pickwick admitted the sharp practice of Dodson and Fogg, and Lowten resumed.

‘Perker ain’t in town, and he won’t be, neither, before the end of next week; but if you want the action defended, and will leave the copy with me, I can do all that’s needful till he comes back.’

‘That’s exactly what I came here for,’ said Mr. Pickwick, handing over the document. ‘If anything particular occurs, you can write to me at the post-office, Ipswich.’

‘That’s all right,’ replied Mr. Perker’s clerk; and then seeing Mr. Pickwick’s eye wandering curiously towards the table, he added, ‘will you join us, for half an hour or so? We are capital company here to- night. There’s Samkin and Green’s managing-clerk, and Smithers and Price’s chancery, and Pimkin and Thomas’s out o’ doors—sings a capital song, he does—and Jack Bamber, and ever so many more. You’re come out of the country, I suppose. Would you like to join us?’

Mr. Pickwick could not resist so tempting an opportunity of studying human nature. He suffered himself to be led to the table, where, after having been introduced to the company in due form, he was accommodated with a seat near the chairman and called for a glass of his favourite beverage.

A profound silence, quite contrary to Mr. Pickwick’s expectation, succeeded.

‘You don’t find this sort of thing disagreeable, I hope, sir?’ said his right hand neighbour, a gentleman in a checked shirt and Mosaic studs, with a cigar in his mouth.

‘Not in the least,’ replied Mr. Pickwick; ‘I like it very much, although I am no smoker myself.’

‘I should be very sorry to say I wasn’t,’ interposed another gentleman on the opposite side of the table. ‘It’s board and lodgings to me, is smoke.’

Mr. Pickwick glanced at the speaker, and thought that if it were washing too, it would be all the better.

Here there was another pause. Mr. Pickwick was a stranger, and his coming had evidently cast a damp upon the party.

‘Mr. Grundy’s going to oblige the company with a song,’ said the chairman.

‘No, he ain’t,’ said Mr. Grundy.

‘Why not?’ said the chairman.

‘Because he can’t,’ said Mr. Grundy.

‘You had better say he won’t,’ replied the chairman.

‘Well, then, he won’t,’ retorted Mr. Grundy. Mr. Grundy’s positive refusal to gratify the company occasioned another silence.

‘Won’t anybody enliven us?’ said the chairman, despondingly.

‘Why don’t you enliven us yourself, Mr. Chairman?’ said a young man with a whisker, a squint, and an open shirt collar (dirty), from the bottom of the table.

‘Hear! hear!’ said the smoking gentleman, in the Mosaic jewellery.

‘Because I only know one song, and I have sung it already, and it’s a fine of “glasses round” to sing the same song twice in a night,’ replied the chairman.

This was an unanswerable reply, and silence prevailed again.

‘I have been to-night, gentlemen,’ said Mr. Pickwick, hoping to start a subject which all the company could take a part in discussing, ‘I have been to-night, in a place which you all know very well, doubtless, but which I have not been in for some years, and know very little of; I mean Gray’s Inn, gentlemen. Curious little nooks in a great place, like London, these old inns are.’

‘By Jove!’ said the chairman, whispering across the table to Mr. Pickwick, ‘you have hit upon something that one of us, at least, would talk upon for ever. You’ll draw old Jack Bamber out; he was never heard to talk about anything else but the inns, and he has lived alone in them till he’s half crazy.’

The individual to whom Lowten alluded, was a little, yellow, high- shouldered man, whose countenance, from his habit of stooping forward when silent, Mr. Pickwick had not observed before. He wondered, though, when the old man raised his shrivelled face, and bent his gray eye upon him, with a keen inquiring look, that such remarkable features could have escaped his attention for a moment. There was a fixed grim smile perpetually on his countenance; he leaned his chin on a long, skinny hand, with nails of extraordinary length; and as he inclined his head to one side, and looked keenly out from beneath his ragged gray eyebrows, there was a strange, wild slyness in his leer, quite repulsive to behold.

This was the figure that now started forward, and burst into an animated torrent of words. As this chapter has been a long one, however, and as the old man was a remarkable personage, it will be more respectful to him, and more convenient to us, to let him speak for himself in a fresh one.

CHAPTER XXI. IN WHICH THE OLD MAN LAUNCHES FORTH INTO HIS FAVOURITE THEME, AND RELATES A STORY ABOUT A QUEER CLIENT

‘Aha!’ said the old man, a brief description of whose manner and appearance concluded the last chapter, ‘aha! who was talking about the inns?’

‘I was, Sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick—‘I was observing what singular old places they are.’

‘You!’ said the old man contemptuously. ‘What do _you _know of the time when young men shut themselves up in those lonely rooms, and read and read, hour after hour, and night after night, till their reason wandered beneath their midnight studies; till their mental powers were exhausted; till morning’s light brought no freshness or health to them; and they sank beneath the unnatural devotion of their youthful energies to their dry old books? Coming down to a later time, and a very different day, what do you know of the gradual sinking beneath consumption, or the quick wasting of fever—the grand results of “life” and dissipation—which men have undergone in these same rooms? How many vain pleaders for mercy, do you think, have turned away heart-sick from the lawyer’s office, to find a resting-place in the Thames, or a refuge in the jail? They are no ordinary houses, those. There is not a panel in the old wainscotting, but what, if it were endowed with the powers of speech and memory, could start from the wall, and tell its tale of horror—the romance of life, Sir, the romance of life! Common-place as they may seem now, I tell you they are strange old places, and I would rather hear many a legend with a terrific-sounding name, than the true history of one old set of chambers.’

There was something so odd in the old man’s sudden energy, and the subject which had called it forth, that Mr. Pickwick was prepared with no observation in reply; and the old man checking his impetuosity, and resuming the leer, which had disappeared during his previous excitement, said—

‘Look at them in another light—their most common-place and least romantic. What fine places of slow torture they are! Think of the needy man who has spent his all, beggared himself, and pinched his friends, to enter the profession, which is destined never to yield him a morsel of bread. The waiting—the hope—the disappointment—the fear—the misery— the poverty—the blight on his hopes, and end to his career—the suicide perhaps, or the shabby, slipshod drunkard. Am I not right about them?’ And the old man rubbed his hands, and leered as if in delight at having found another point of view in which to place his favourite subject.

Mr. Pickwick eyed the old man with great curiosity, and the remainder of the company smiled, and looked on in silence.

‘Talk of your German universities,’ said the little old man. ‘Pooh, pooh! there’s romance enough at home without going half a mile for it; only people never think of it.’

‘I never thought of the romance of this particular subject before, certainly,’ said Mr. Pickwick, laughing.

‘To be sure you didn’t,’ said the little old man; ‘of course not. As a friend of mine used to say to me, “What is there in chambers in particular?” “Queer old places,” said I. “Not at all,” said he. “Lonely,” said I. “Not a bit of it,” said he. He died one morning of apoplexy, as he was going to open his outer door. Fell with his head in his own letter-box, and there he lay for eighteen months. Everybody thought he’d gone out of town.’

‘And how was he found out at last?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘The benchers determined to have his door broken open, as he hadn’t paid any rent for two years. So they did. Forced the lock; and a very dusty skeleton in a blue coat, black knee-shorts, and silks, fell forward in the arms of the porter who opened the door. Queer, that. Rather, perhaps; rather, eh?’ The little old man put his head more on one side, and rubbed his hands with unspeakable glee.

‘I know another case,’ said the little old man, when his chuckles had in some degree subsided. ‘It occurred in Clifford’s Inn. Tenant of a top set—bad character—shut himself up in his bedroom closet, and took a dose of arsenic. The steward thought he had run away: opened the door, and put a bill up. Another man came, took the chambers, furnished them, and went to live there. Somehow or other he couldn’t sleep—always restless and uncomfortable. “Odd,” says he. “I’ll make the other room my bedchamber, and this my sitting-room.” He made the change, and slept very well at night, but suddenly found that, somehow, he couldn’t read in the evening: he got nervous and uncomfortable, and used to be always snuffing his candles and staring about him. “I can’t make this out,” said he, when he came home from the play one night, and was drinking a glass of cold grog, with his back to the wall, in order that he mightn’t be able to fancy there was any one behind him—“I can’t make it out,” said he; and just then his eyes rested on the little closet that had been always locked up, and a shudder ran through his whole frame from top to toe. “I have felt this strange feeling before,” said he, “I cannot help thinking there’s something wrong about that closet.” He made a strong effort, plucked up his courage, shivered the lock with a blow or two of the poker, opened the door, and there, sure enough, standing bolt upright in the corner, was the last tenant, with a little bottle clasped firmly in his hand, and his face—well!’ As the little old man concluded, he looked round on the attentive faces of his wondering auditory with a smile of grim delight.

‘What strange things these are you tell us of, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, minutely scanning the old man’s countenance, by the aid of his glasses.

‘Strange!’ said the little old man. ‘Nonsense; you think them strange, because you know nothing about it. They are funny, but not uncommon.’

‘Funny!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick involuntarily.

‘Yes, funny, are they not?’ replied the little old man, with a diabolical leer; and then, without pausing for an answer, he continued—

‘I knew another man—let me see—forty years ago now—who took an old, damp, rotten set of chambers, in one of the most ancient inns, that had been shut up and empty for years and years before. There were lots of old women’s stories about the place, and it certainly was very far from being a cheerful one; but he was poor, and the rooms were cheap, and that would have been quite a sufficient reason for him, if they had been ten times worse than they really were. He was obliged to take some mouldering fixtures that were on the place, and, among the rest, was a great lumbering wooden press for papers, with large glass doors, and a green curtain inside; a pretty useless thing for him, for he had no papers to put in it; and as to his clothes, he carried them about with him, and that wasn’t very hard work, either. Well, he had moved in all his furniture—it wasn’t quite a truck-full—and had sprinkled it about the room, so as to make the four chairs look as much like a dozen as possible, and was sitting down before the fire at night, drinking the first glass of two gallons of whisky he had ordered on credit, wondering whether it would ever be paid for, and if so, in how many years’ time, when his eyes encountered the glass doors of the wooden press. “Ah,” says he, “if I hadn’t been obliged to take that ugly article at the old broker’s valuation, I might have got something comfortable for the money. I’ll tell you what it is, old fellow,” he said, speaking aloud to the press, having nothing else to speak to, “if it wouldn’t cost more to break up your old carcass, than it would ever be worth afterward, I’d have a fire out of you in less than no time.” He had hardly spoken the words, when a sound resembling a faint groan, appeared to issue from the interior of the case. It startled him at first, but thinking, on a moment’s reflection, that it must be some young fellow in the next chamber, who had been dining out, he put his feet on the fender, and raised the poker to stir the fire. At that moment, the sound was repeated; and one of the glass doors slowly opening, disclosed a pale and emaciated figure in soiled and worn apparel, standing erect in the press. The figure was tall and thin, and the countenance expressive of care and anxiety; but there was something in the hue of the skin, and gaunt and unearthly appearance of the whole form, which no being of this world was ever seen to wear. “Who are you?” said the new tenant, turning very pale; poising the poker in his hand, however, and taking a very decent aim at the countenance of the figure. “Who are you?” “Don’t throw that poker at me,” replied the form; “if you hurled it with ever so sure an aim, it would pass through me, without resistance, and expend its force on the wood behind. I am a spirit.” “And pray, what do you want here?” faltered the tenant. “In this room,” replied the apparition, “my worldly ruin was worked, and I and my children beggared. In this press, the papers in a long, long suit, which accumulated for years, were deposited. In this room, when I had died of grief, and long-deferred hope, two wily harpies divided the wealth for which I had contested during a wretched existence, and of which, at last, not one farthing was left for my unhappy descendants. I terrified them from the spot, and since that day have prowled by night—the only period at which I can revisit the earth—about the scenes of my long-protracted misery. This apartment is mine: leave it to me.” “If you insist upon making your appearance here,” said the tenant, who had had time to collect his presence of mind during this prosy statement of the ghost’s, “I shall give up possession with the greatest pleasure; but I should like to ask you one question, if you will allow me.” “Say on,” said the apparition sternly. “Well,” said the tenant, “I don’t apply the observation personally to you, because it is equally applicable to most of the ghosts I ever heard of; but it does appear to me somewhat inconsistent, that when you have an opportunity of visiting the fairest spots of earth—for I suppose space is nothing to you—you should always return exactly to the very places where you have been most miserable.” “Egad, that’s very true; I never thought of that before,” said the ghost. “You see, Sir,” pursued the tenant, “this is a very uncomfortable room. From the appearance of that press, I should be disposed to say that it is not wholly free from bugs; and I really think you might find much more comfortable quarters: to say nothing of the climate of London, which is extremely disagreeable.” “You are very right, Sir,” said the ghost politely, “it never struck me till now; I’ll try change of air directly”—and, in fact, he began to vanish as he spoke; his legs, indeed, had quite disappeared. “And if, Sir,” said the tenant, calling after him, “if you _would _have the goodness to suggest to the other ladies and gentlemen who are now engaged in haunting old empty houses, that they might be much more comfortable elsewhere, you will confer a very great benefit on society.” “I will,” replied the ghost; “we must be dull fellows—very dull fellows, indeed; I can’t imagine how we can have been so stupid.” With these words, the spirit disappeared; and what is rather remarkable,’ added the old man, with a shrewd look round the table, ‘he never came back again.’

‘That ain’t bad, if it’s true,’ said the man in the Mosaic studs, lighting a fresh cigar.

‘If!’ exclaimed the old man, with a look of excessive contempt. ‘I suppose,’ he added, turning to Lowten, ‘he’ll say next, that my story about the queer client we had, when I was in an attorney’s office, is not true either—I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘I shan’t venture to say anything at all about it, seeing that I never heard the story,’ observed the owner of the Mosaic decorations.

‘I wish you would repeat it, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Ah, do,’ said Lowten, ‘nobody has heard it but me, and I have nearly forgotten it.’

The old man looked round the table, and leered more horribly than ever, as if in triumph, at the attention which was depicted in every face. Then rubbing his chin with his hand, and looking up to the ceiling as if to recall the circumstances to his memory, he began as follows:—

THE OLD MAN’S TALE ABOUT THE QUEER CLIENT

‘It matters little,’ said the old man, ‘where, or how, I picked up this brief history. If I were to relate it in the order in which it reached me, I should commence in the middle, and when I had arrived at the conclusion, go back for a beginning. It is enough for me to say that some of its circumstances passed before my own eyes; for the remainder I know them to have happened, and there are some persons yet living, who will remember them but too well.

‘In the Borough High Street, near St. George’s Church, and on the same side of the way, stands, as most people know, the smallest of our debtors’ prisons, the Marshalsea. Although in later times it has been a very different place from the sink of filth and dirt it once was, even its improved condition holds out but little temptation to the extravagant, or consolation to the improvident. The condemned felon has as good a yard for air and exercise in Newgate, as the insolvent debtor in the Marshalsea Prison. [Better. But this is past, in a better age, and the prison exists no longer.]

‘It may be my fancy, or it may be that I cannot separate the place from the old recollections associated with it, but this part of London I cannot bear. The street is broad, the shops are spacious, the noise of passing vehicles, the footsteps of a perpetual stream of people—all the busy sounds of traffic, resound in it from morn to midnight; but the streets around are mean and close; poverty and debauchery lie festering in the crowded alleys; want and misfortune are pent up in the narrow prison; an air of gloom and dreariness seems, in my eyes at least, to hang about the scene, and to impart to it a squalid and sickly hue.

‘Many eyes, that have long since been closed in the grave, have looked round upon that scene lightly enough, when entering the gate of the old Marshalsea Prison for the first time; for despair seldom comes with the first severe shock of misfortune. A man has confidence in untried friends, he remembers the many offers of service so freely made by his boon companions when he wanted them not; he has hope—the hope of happy inexperience—and however he may bend beneath the first shock, it springs up in his bosom, and flourishes there for a brief space, until it droops beneath the blight of disappointment and neglect. How soon have those same eyes, deeply sunken in the head, glared from faces wasted with famine, and sallow from confinement, in days when it was no figure of speech to say that debtors rotted in prison, with no hope of release, and no prospect of liberty! The atrocity in its full extent no longer exists, but there is enough of it left to give rise to occurrences that make the heart bleed.

‘Twenty years ago, that pavement was worn with the footsteps of a mother and child, who, day by day, so surely as the morning came, presented themselves at the prison gate; often after a night of restless misery and anxious thoughts, were they there, a full hour too soon, and then the young mother turning meekly away, would lead the child to the old bridge, and raising him in her arms to show him the glistening water, tinted with the light of the morning’s sun, and stirring with all the bustling preparations for business and pleasure that the river presented at that early hour, endeavour to interest his thoughts in the objects before him. But she would quickly set him down, and hiding her face in her shawl, give vent to the tears that blinded her; for no expression of interest or amusement lighted up his thin and sickly face. His recollections were few enough, but they were all of one kind—all connected with the poverty and misery of his parents. Hour after hour had he sat on his mother’s knee, and with childish sympathy watched the tears that stole down her face, and then crept quietly away into some dark corner, and sobbed himself to sleep. The hard realities of the world, with many of its worst privations—hunger and thirst, and cold and want—had all come home to him, from the first dawnings of reason; and though the form of childhood was there, its light heart, its merry laugh, and sparkling eyes were wanting.

‘The father and mother looked on upon this, and upon each other, with thoughts of agony they dared not breathe in words. The healthy, strong- made man, who could have borne almost any fatigue of active exertion, was wasting beneath the close confinement and unhealthy atmosphere of a crowded prison. The slight and delicate woman was sinking beneath the combined effects of bodily and mental illness. The child’s young heart was breaking.

‘Winter came, and with it weeks of cold and heavy rain. The poor girl had removed to a wretched apartment close to the spot of her husband’s imprisonment; and though the change had been rendered necessary by their increasing poverty, she was happier now, for she was nearer him. For two months, she and her little companion watched the opening of the gate as usual. One day she failed to come, for the first time. Another morning arrived, and she came alone. The child was dead.

‘They little know, who coldly talk of the poor man’s bereavements, as a happy release from pain to the departed, and a merciful relief from expense to the survivor—they little know, I say, what the agony of those bereavements is. A silent look of affection and regard when all other eyes are turned coldly away—the consciousness that we possess the sympathy and affection of one being when all others have deserted us—is a hold, a stay, a comfort, in the deepest affliction, which no wealth could purchase, or power bestow. The child had sat at his parents’ feet for hours together, with his little hands patiently folded in each other, and his thin wan face raised towards them. They had seen him pine away, from day to day; and though his brief existence had been a joyless one, and he was now removed to that peace and rest which, child as he was, he had never known in this world, they were his parents, and his loss sank deep into their souls.

‘It was plain to those who looked upon the mother’s altered face, that death must soon close the scene of her adversity and trial. Her husband’s fellow-prisoners shrank from obtruding on his grief and misery, and left to himself alone, the small room he had previously occupied in common with two companions. She shared it with him; and lingering on without pain, but without hope, her life ebbed slowly away.

‘She had fainted one evening in her husband’s arms, and he had borne her to the open window, to revive her with the air, when the light of the moon falling full upon her face, showed him a change upon her features, which made him stagger beneath her weight, like a helpless infant.

‘“Set me down, George,” she said faintly. He did so, and seating himself beside her, covered his face with his hands, and burst into tears.

‘“It is very hard to leave you, George,” she said; “but it is God’s will, and you must bear it for my sake. Oh! how I thank Him for having taken our boy! He is happy, and in heaven now. What would he have done here, without his mother!”

‘“You shall not die, Mary, you shall not die;” said the husband, starting up. He paced hurriedly to and fro, striking his head with his clenched fists; then reseating himself beside her, and supporting her in his arms, added more calmly, “Rouse yourself, my dear girl. Pray, pray do. You will revive yet.”

‘“Never again, George; never again,” said the dying woman. “Let them lay me by my poor boy now, but promise me, that if ever you leave this dreadful place, and should grow rich, you will have us removed to some quiet country churchyard, a long, long way off—very far from here— where we can rest in peace. Dear George, promise me you will.”

‘“I do, I do,” said the man, throwing himself passionately on his knees before her. “Speak to me, Mary, another word; one look—but one!”

‘He ceased to speak: for the arm that clasped his neck grew stiff and heavy. A deep sigh escaped from the wasted form before him; the lips moved, and a smile played upon the face; but the lips were pallid, and the smile faded into a rigid and ghastly stare. He was alone in the world.

‘That night, in the silence and desolation of his miserable room, the wretched man knelt down by the dead body of his wife, and called on God to witness a terrible oath, that from that hour, he devoted himself to revenge her death and that of his child; that thenceforth to the last moment of his life, his whole energies should be directed to this one object; that his revenge should be protracted and terrible; that his hatred should be undying and inextinguishable; and should hunt its object through the world.

‘The deepest despair, and passion scarcely human, had made such fierce ravages on his face and form, in that one night, that his companions in misfortune shrank affrighted from him as he passed by. His eyes were bloodshot and heavy, his face a deadly white, and his body bent as if with age. He had bitten his under lip nearly through in the violence of his mental suffering, and the blood which had flowed from the wound had trickled down his chin, and stained his shirt and neckerchief. No tear, or sound of complaint escaped him; but the unsettled look, and disordered haste with which he paced up and down the yard, denoted the fever which was burning within.

‘It was necessary that his wife’s body should be removed from the prison, without delay. He received the communication with perfect calmness, and acquiesced in its propriety. Nearly all the inmates of the prison had assembled to witness its removal; they fell back on either side when the widower appeared; he walked hurriedly forward, and stationed himself, alone, in a little railed area close to the lodge gate, from whence the crowd, with an instinctive feeling of delicacy, had retired. The rude coffin was borne slowly forward on men’s shoulders. A dead silence pervaded the throng, broken only by the audible lamentations of the women, and the shuffling steps of the bearers on the stone pavement. They reached the spot where the bereaved husband stood: and stopped. He laid his hand upon the coffin, and mechanically adjusting the pall with which it was covered, motioned them onward. The turnkeys in the prison lobby took off their hats as it passed through, and in another moment the heavy gate closed behind it. He looked vacantly upon the crowd, and fell heavily to the ground.

‘Although for many weeks after this, he was watched, night and day, in the wildest ravings of fever, neither the consciousness of his loss, nor the recollection of the vow he had made, ever left him for a moment. Scenes changed before his eyes, place succeeded place, and event followed event, in all the hurry of delirium; but they were all connected in some way with the great object of his mind. He was sailing over a boundless expanse of sea, with a blood-red sky above, and the angry waters, lashed into fury beneath, boiling and eddying up, on every side. There was another vessel before them, toiling and labouring in the howling storm; her canvas fluttering in ribbons from the mast, and her deck thronged with figures who were lashed to the sides, over which huge waves every instant burst, sweeping away some devoted creatures into the foaming sea. Onward they bore, amidst the roaring mass of water, with a speed and force which nothing could resist; and striking the stem of the foremost vessel, crushed her beneath their keel. From the huge whirlpool which the sinking wreck occasioned, arose a shriek so loud and shrill— the death-cry of a hundred drowning creatures, blended into one fierce yell—that it rung far above the war-cry of the elements, and echoed, and re-echoed till it seemed to pierce air, sky, and ocean. But what was that—that old gray head that rose above the water’s surface, and with looks of agony, and screams for aid, buffeted with the waves! One look, and he had sprung from the vessel’s side, and with vigorous strokes was swimming towards it. He reached it; he was close upon it. They were _his _features. The old man saw him coming, and vainly strove to elude his grasp. But he clasped him tight, and dragged him beneath the water. Down, down with him, fifty fathoms down; his struggles grew fainter and fainter, until they wholly ceased. He was dead; he had killed him, and had kept his oath.

‘He was traversing the scorching sands of a mighty desert, barefoot and alone. The sand choked and blinded him; its fine thin grains entered the very pores of his skin, and irritated him almost to madness. Gigantic masses of the same material, carried forward by the wind, and shone through by the burning sun, stalked in the distance like pillars of living fire. The bones of men, who had perished in the dreary waste, lay scattered at his feet; a fearful light fell on everything around; so far as the eye could reach, nothing but objects of dread and horror presented themselves. Vainly striving to utter a cry of terror, with his tongue cleaving to his mouth, he rushed madly forward. Armed with supernatural strength, he waded through the sand, until, exhausted with fatigue and thirst, he fell senseless on the earth. What fragrant coolness revived him; what gushing sound was that? Water! It was indeed a well; and the clear fresh stream was running at his feet. He drank deeply of it, and throwing his aching limbs upon the bank, sank into a delicious trance. The sound of approaching footsteps roused him. An old gray-headed man tottered forward to slake his burning thirst. It was he again! He wound his arms round the old man’s body, and held him back. He struggled, and shrieked for water—for but one drop of water to save his life! But he held the old man firmly, and watched his agonies with greedy eyes; and when his lifeless head fell forward on his bosom, he rolled the corpse from him with his feet.

‘When the fever left him, and consciousness returned, he awoke to find himself rich and free, to hear that the parent who would have let him die in jail—would! who _had _let those who were far dearer to him than his own existence die of want, and sickness of heart that medicine cannot cure—had been found dead in his bed of down. He had had all the heart to leave his son a beggar, but proud even of his health and strength, had put off the act till it was too late, and now might gnash his teeth in the other world, at the thought of the wealth his remissness had left him. He awoke to this, and he awoke to more. To recollect the purpose for which he lived, and to remember that his enemy was his wife’s own father—the man who had cast him into prison, and who, when his daughter and her child sued at his feet for mercy, had spurned them from his door. Oh, how he cursed the weakness that prevented him from being up, and active, in his scheme of vengeance!

‘He caused himself to be carried from the scene of his loss and misery, and conveyed to a quiet residence on the sea-coast; not in the hope of recovering his peace of mind or happiness, for both were fled for ever; but to restore his prostrate energies, and meditate on his darling object. And here, some evil spirit cast in his way the opportunity for his first, most horrible revenge.

‘It was summer-time; and wrapped in his gloomy thoughts, he would issue from his solitary lodgings early in the evening, and wandering along a narrow path beneath the cliffs, to a wild and lonely spot that had struck his fancy in his ramblings, seat himself on some fallen fragment of the rock, and burying his face in his hands, remain there for hours— sometimes until night had completely closed in, and the long shadows of the frowning cliffs above his head cast a thick, black darkness on every object near him.

‘He was seated here, one calm evening, in his old position, now and then raising his head to watch the flight of a sea-gull, or carry his eye along the glorious crimson path, which, commencing in the middle of the ocean, seemed to lead to its very verge where the sun was setting, when the profound stillness of the spot was broken by a loud cry for help; he listened, doubtful of his having heard aright, when the cry was repeated with even greater vehemence than before, and, starting to his feet, he hastened in the direction whence it proceeded.

‘The tale told itself at once: some scattered garments lay on the beach; a human head was just visible above the waves at a little distance from the shore; and an old man, wringing his hands in agony, was running to and fro, shrieking for assistance. The invalid, whose strength was now sufficiently restored, threw off his coat, and rushed towards the sea, with the intention of plunging in, and dragging the drowning man ashore.

‘“Hasten here, Sir, in God’s name; help, help, sir, for the love of Heaven. He is my son, Sir, my only son!” said the old man frantically, as he advanced to meet him. “My only son, Sir, and he is dying before his father’s eyes!”

‘At the first word the old man uttered, the stranger checked himself in his career, and, folding his arms, stood perfectly motionless.

‘“Great God!” exclaimed the old man, recoiling, “Heyling!”

‘The stranger smiled, and was silent.

‘“Heyling!” said the old man wildly; “my boy, Heyling, my dear boy, look, look!” Gasping for breath, the miserable father pointed to the spot where the young man was struggling for life.

‘“Hark!” said the old man. “He cries once more. He is alive yet. Heyling, save him, save him!”

‘The stranger smiled again, and remained immovable as a statue.

‘“I have wronged you,” shrieked the old man, falling on his knees, and clasping his hands together. “Be revenged; take my all, my life; cast me into the water at your feet, and, if human nature can repress a struggle, I will die, without stirring hand or foot. Do it, Heyling, do it, but save my boy; he is so young, Heyling, so young to die!”

‘“Listen,” said the stranger, grasping the old man fiercely by the wrist; “I will have life for life, and here is one. My child died, before his father’s eyes, a far more agonising and painful death than that young slanderer of his sister’s worth is meeting while I speak. You laughed—laughed in your daughter’s face, where death had already set his hand—at our sufferings, then. What think you of them now! See there, see there!”

‘As the stranger spoke, he pointed to the sea. A faint cry died away upon its surface; the last powerful struggle of the dying man agitated the rippling waves for a few seconds; and the spot where he had gone down into his early grave, was undistinguishable from the surrounding water.

‘Three years had elapsed, when a gentleman alighted from a private carriage at the door of a London attorney, then well known as a man of no great nicety in his professional dealings, and requested a private interview on business of importance. Although evidently not past the prime of life, his face was pale, haggard, and dejected; and it did not require the acute perception of the man of business, to discern at a glance, that disease or suffering had done more to work a change in his appearance, than the mere hand of time could have accomplished in twice the period of his whole life.

‘“I wish you to undertake some legal business for me,” said the stranger.

‘The attorney bowed obsequiously, and glanced at a large packet which the gentleman carried in his hand. His visitor observed the look, and proceeded.

‘“It is no common business,” said he; “nor have these papers reached my hands without long trouble and great expense.”

‘The attorney cast a still more anxious look at the packet; and his visitor, untying the string that bound it, disclosed a quantity of promissory notes, with copies of deeds, and other documents.

‘“Upon these papers,” said the client, “the man whose name they bear, has raised, as you will see, large sums of money, for years past. There was a tacit understanding between him and the men into whose hands they originally went—and from whom I have by degrees purchased the whole, for treble and quadruple their nominal value—that these loans should be from time to time renewed, until a given period had elapsed. Such an understanding is nowhere expressed. He has sustained many losses of late; and these obligations accumulating upon him at once, would crush him to the earth.”

‘“The whole amount is many thousands of pounds,” said the attorney, looking over the papers.

‘“It is,” said the client.

‘“What are we to do?” inquired the man of business.

‘“Do!” replied the client, with sudden vehemence. “Put every engine of the law in force, every trick that ingenuity can devise and rascality execute; fair means and foul; the open oppression of the law, aided by all the craft of its most ingenious practitioners. I would have him die a harassing and lingering death. Ruin him, seize and sell his lands and goods, drive him from house and home, and drag him forth a beggar in his old age, to die in a common jail.”

‘“But the costs, my dear Sir, the costs of all this,” reasoned the attorney, when he had recovered from his momentary surprise. “If the defendant be a man of straw, who is to pay the costs, Sir?”

‘“Name any sum,” said the stranger, his hand trembling so violently with excitement, that he could scarcely hold the pen he seized as he spoke— “any sum, and it is yours. Don’t be afraid to name it, man. I shall not think it dear, if you gain my object.”

‘The attorney named a large sum, at hazard, as the advance he should require to secure himself against the possibility of loss; but more with the view of ascertaining how far his client was really disposed to go, than with any idea that he would comply with the demand. The stranger wrote a cheque upon his banker, for the whole amount, and left him.

‘The draft was duly honoured, and the attorney, finding that his strange client might be safely relied upon, commenced his work in earnest. For more than two years afterwards, Mr. Heyling would sit whole days together, in the office, poring over the papers as they accumulated, and reading again and again, his eyes gleaming with joy, the letters of remonstrance, the prayers for a little delay, the representations of the certain ruin in which the opposite party must be involved, which poured in, as suit after suit, and process after process, was commenced. To all applications for a brief indulgence, there was but one reply—the money must be paid. Land, house, furniture, each in its turn, was taken under some one of the numerous executions which were issued; and the old man himself would have been immured in prison had he not escaped the vigilance of the officers, and fled.

‘The implacable animosity of Heyling, so far from being satiated by the success of his persecution, increased a hundredfold with the ruin he inflicted. On being informed of the old man’s flight, his fury was unbounded. He gnashed his teeth with rage, tore the hair from his head, and assailed with horrid imprecations the men who had been intrusted with the writ. He was only restored to comparative calmness by repeated assurances of the certainty of discovering the fugitive. Agents were sent in quest of him, in all directions; every stratagem that could be invented was resorted to, for the purpose of discovering his place of retreat; but it was all in vain. Half a year had passed over, and he was still undiscovered.

‘At length late one night, Heyling, of whom nothing had been seen for many weeks before, appeared at his attorney’s private residence, and sent up word that a gentleman wished to see him instantly. Before the attorney, who had recognised his voice from above stairs, could order the servant to admit him, he had rushed up the staircase, and entered the drawing-room pale and breathless. Having closed the door, to prevent being overheard, he sank into a chair, and said, in a low voice—

‘“Hush! I have found him at last.”

‘“No!” said the attorney. “Well done, my dear sir, well done.”

‘“He lies concealed in a wretched lodging in Camden Town,” said Heyling. “Perhaps it is as well we _did _lose sight of him, for he has been living alone there, in the most abject misery, all the time, and he is poor—very poor.”

‘“Very good,” said the attorney. “You will have the caption made to- morrow, of course?”

‘“Yes,” replied Heyling. “Stay! No! The next day. You are surprised at my wishing to postpone it,” he added, with a ghastly smile; “but I had forgotten. The next day is an anniversary in his life: let it be done then.”

‘“Very good,” said the attorney. “Will you write down instructions for the officer?”

‘“No; let him meet me here, at eight in the evening, and I will accompany him myself.”

‘They met on the appointed night, and, hiring a hackney-coach, directed the driver to stop at that corner of the old Pancras Road, at which stands the parish workhouse. By the time they alighted there, it was quite dark; and, proceeding by the dead wall in front of the Veterinary Hospital, they entered a small by-street, which is, or was at that time, called Little College Street, and which, whatever it may be now, was in those days a desolate place enough, surrounded by little else than fields and ditches.

‘Having drawn the travelling-cap he had on half over his face, and muffled himself in his cloak, Heyling stopped before the meanest-looking house in the street, and knocked gently at the door. It was at once opened by a woman, who dropped a curtsey of recognition, and Heyling, whispering the officer to remain below, crept gently upstairs, and, opening the door of the front room, entered at once.

‘The object of his search and his unrelenting animosity, now a decrepit old man, was seated at a bare deal table, on which stood a miserable candle. He started on the entrance of the stranger, and rose feebly to his feet.

‘“What now, what now?” said the old man. “What fresh misery is this? What do you want here?”

‘“A word with you,” replied Heyling. As he spoke, he seated himself at the other end of the table, and, throwing off his cloak and cap, disclosed his features.

‘The old man seemed instantly deprived of speech. He fell backward in his chair, and, clasping his hands together, gazed on the apparition with a mingled look of abhorrence and fear.

‘“This day six years,” said Heyling, “I claimed the life you owed me for my child’s. Beside the lifeless form of your daughter, old man, I swore to live a life of revenge. I have never swerved from my purpose for a moment’s space; but if I had, one thought of her uncomplaining, suffering look, as she drooped away, or of the starving face of our innocent child, would have nerved me to my task. My first act of requital you well remember: this is my last.”

‘The old man shivered, and his hands dropped powerless by his side.

‘“I leave England to-morrow,” said Heyling, after a moment’s pause. “To- night I consign you to the living death to which you devoted her—a hopeless prison—”

‘He raised his eyes to the old man’s countenance, and paused. He lifted the light to his face, set it gently down, and left the apartment.

‘“You had better see to the old man,” he said to the woman, as he opened the door, and motioned the officer to follow him into the street. “I think he is ill.” The woman closed the door, ran hastily upstairs, and found him lifeless.

‘Beneath a plain gravestone, in one of the most peaceful and secluded churchyards in Kent, where wild flowers mingle with the grass, and the soft landscape around forms the fairest spot in the garden of England, lie the bones of the young mother and her gentle child. But the ashes of the father do not mingle with theirs; nor, from that night forward, did the attorney ever gain the remotest clue to the subsequent history of his queer client.’

As the old man concluded his tale, he advanced to a peg in one corner, and taking down his hat and coat, put them on with great deliberation; and, without saying another word, walked slowly away. As the gentleman with the Mosaic studs had fallen asleep, and the major part of the company were deeply occupied in the humorous process of dropping melted tallow-grease into his brandy-and-water, Mr. Pickwick departed unnoticed, and having settled his own score, and that of Mr. Weller, issued forth, in company with that gentleman, from beneath the portal of the Magpie and Stump.

CHAPTER XXII. MR. PICKWICK JOURNEYS TO IPSWICH AND MEETS WITH A ROMANTIC ADVENTURE WITH A MIDDLE-AGED LADY IN YELLOW CURL-PAPERS

That ‘ere your governor’s luggage, Sammy?’ inquired Mr. Weller of his affectionate son, as he entered the yard of the Bull Inn, Whitechapel, with a travelling-bag and a small portmanteau.

‘You might ha’ made a worser guess than that, old feller,’ replied Mr. Weller the younger, setting down his burden in the yard, and sitting himself down upon it afterwards. ‘The governor hisself’ll be down here presently.’

‘He’s a-cabbin’ it, I suppose?’ said the father.

‘Yes, he’s a havin’ two mile o’ danger at eight-pence,’ responded the son. ‘How’s mother-in-law this mornin’?’

‘Queer, Sammy, queer,’ replied the elder Mr. Weller, with impressive gravity. ‘She’s been gettin’ rayther in the Methodistical order lately, Sammy; and she is uncommon pious, to be sure. She’s too good a creetur for me, Sammy. I feel I don’t deserve her.’

‘Ah,’ said Mr. Samuel. ‘that’s wery self-denyin’ o’ you.’

‘Wery,’ replied his parent, with a sigh. ‘She’s got hold o’ some inwention for grown-up people being born again, Sammy—the new birth, I think they calls it. I should wery much like to see that system in haction, Sammy. I should wery much like to see your mother-in-law born again. Wouldn’t I put her out to nurse!’

‘What do you think them women does t’other day,’ continued Mr. Weller, after a short pause, during which he had significantly struck the side of his nose with his forefinger some half-dozen times. ‘What do you think they does, t’other day, Sammy?’

‘Don’t know,’ replied Sam, ‘what?’

‘Goes and gets up a grand tea drinkin’ for a feller they calls their shepherd,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘I was a-standing starin’ in at the pictur shop down at our place, when I sees a little bill about it; “tickets half-a-crown. All applications to be made to the committee. Secretary, Mrs. Weller”; and when I got home there was the committee a-sittin’ in our back parlour. Fourteen women; I wish you could ha’ heard ‘em, Sammy. There they was, a-passin’ resolutions, and wotin’ supplies, and all sorts o’ games. Well, what with your mother-in-law a-worrying me to go, and what with my looking for’ard to seein’ some queer starts if I did, I put my name down for a ticket; at six o’clock on the Friday evenin’ I dresses myself out wery smart, and off I goes with the old ‘ooman, and up we walks into a fust-floor where there was tea-things for thirty, and a whole lot o’ women as begins whisperin’ to one another, and lookin’ at me, as if they’d never seen a rayther stout gen’l’m’n of eight-and-fifty afore. By and by, there comes a great bustle downstairs, and a lanky chap with a red nose and a white neckcloth rushes up, and sings out, “Here’s the shepherd a-coming to wisit his faithful flock;” and in comes a fat chap in black, vith a great white face, a-smilin’ avay like clockwork. Such goin’s on, Sammy! “The kiss of peace,” says the shepherd; and then he kissed the women all round, and ven he’d done, the man vith the red nose began. I was just a-thinkin’ whether I hadn’t better begin too—‘specially as there was a wery nice lady a-sittin’ next me—ven in comes the tea, and your mother-in-law, as had been makin’ the kettle bile downstairs. At it they went, tooth and nail. Such a precious loud hymn, Sammy, while the tea was a brewing; such a grace, such eatin’ and drinkin’! I wish you could ha’ seen the shepherd walkin’ into the ham and muffins. I never see such a chap to eat and drink— never. The red-nosed man warn’t by no means the sort of person you’d like to grub by contract, but he was nothin’ to the shepherd. Well; arter the tea was over, they sang another hymn, and then the shepherd began to preach: and wery well he did it, considerin’ how heavy them muffins must have lied on his chest. Presently he pulls up, all of a sudden, and hollers out, “Where is the sinner; where is the mis’rable sinner?” Upon which, all the women looked at me, and began to groan as if they was a-dying. I thought it was rather sing’ler, but howsoever, I says nothing. Presently he pulls up again, and lookin’ wery hard at me, says, “Where is the sinner; where is the mis’rable sinner?” and all the women groans again, ten times louder than afore. I got rather savage at this, so I takes a step or two for’ard and says, “My friend,” says I, “did you apply that ‘ere obserwation to me?” ‘Stead of beggin’ my pardon as any gen’l’m’n would ha’ done, he got more abusive than ever:—called me a wessel, Sammy—a wessel of wrath—and all sorts o’ names. So my blood being reg’larly up, I first gave him two or three for himself, and then two or three more to hand over to the man with the red nose, and walked off. I wish you could ha’ heard how the women screamed, Sammy, ven they picked up the shepherd from underneath the table—Hollo! here’s the governor, the size of life.’

As Mr. Weller spoke, Mr. Pickwick dismounted from a cab, and entered the yard.

‘Fine mornin’, Sir,’ said Mr. Weller, senior.

‘Beautiful indeed,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Beautiful indeed,’ echoes a red-haired man with an inquisitive nose and green spectacles, who had unpacked himself from a cab at the same moment as Mr. Pickwick. ‘Going to Ipswich, Sir?’

‘I am,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Extraordinary coincidence. So am I.’

Mr. Pickwick bowed.

‘Going outside?’ said the red-haired man.

Mr. Pickwick bowed again.

‘Bless my soul, how remarkable—I am going outside, too,’ said the red- haired man; ‘we are positively going together.’ And the red-haired man, who was an important-looking, sharp-nosed, mysterious-spoken personage, with a bird-like habit of giving his head a jerk every time he said anything, smiled as if he had made one of the strangest discoveries that ever fell to the lot of human wisdom.

‘I am happy in the prospect of your company, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Ah,’ said the new-comer, ‘it’s a good thing for both of us, isn’t it? Company, you see—company—is—is—it’s a very different thing from solitude—ain’t it?’

‘There’s no denying that ‘ere,’ said Mr. Weller, joining in the conversation, with an affable smile. ‘That’s what I call a self-evident proposition, as the dog’s-meat man said, when the housemaid told him he warn’t a gentleman.’

‘Ah,’ said the red-haired man, surveying Mr. Weller from head to foot with a supercilious look. ‘Friend of yours, sir?’

‘Not exactly a friend,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, in a low tone. ‘The fact is, he is my servant, but I allow him to take a good many liberties; for, between ourselves, I flatter myself he is an original, and I am rather proud of him.’

‘Ah,’ said the red-haired man, ‘that, you see, is a matter of taste. I am not fond of anything original; I don’t like it; don’t see the necessity for it. What’s your name, sir?’

‘Here is my card, sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, much amused by the abruptness of the question, and the singular manner of the stranger.

‘Ah,’ said the red-haired man, placing the card in his pocket-book, ‘Pickwick; very good. I like to know a man’s name, it saves so much trouble. That’s my card, sir. Magnus, you will perceive, sir—Magnus is my name. It’s rather a good name, I think, sir.’

‘A very good name, indeed,’ said Mr. Pickwick, wholly unable to repress a smile.

‘Yes, I think it is,’ resumed Mr. Magnus. ‘There’s a good name before it, too, you will observe. Permit me, sir—if you hold the card a little slanting, this way, you catch the light upon the up-stroke. There—Peter Magnus—sounds well, I think, sir.’

‘Very,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Curious circumstance about those initials, sir,’ said Mr. Magnus. ‘You will observe—P.M.—post meridian. In hasty notes to intimate acquaintance, I sometimes sign myself “Afternoon.” It amuses my friends very much, Mr. Pickwick.’

‘It is calculated to afford them the highest gratification, I should conceive,’ said Mr. Pickwick, rather envying the ease with which Mr. Magnus’s friends were entertained.

‘Now, gen’l’m’n,’ said the hostler, ‘coach is ready, if you please.’

‘Is all my luggage in?’ inquired Mr. Magnus.

‘All right, sir.’

‘Is the red bag in?’

‘All right, Sir.’

‘And the striped bag?’

‘Fore boot, Sir.’

‘And the brown-paper parcel?’

‘Under the seat, Sir.’

‘And the leather hat-box?’

‘They’re all in, Sir.’

‘Now, will you get up?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Excuse me,’ replied Magnus, standing on the wheel. ‘Excuse me, Mr. Pickwick. I cannot consent to get up, in this state of uncertainty. I am quite satisfied from that man’s manner, that the leather hat-box is not in.’

The solemn protestations of the hostler being wholly unavailing, the leather hat-box was obliged to be raked up from the lowest depth of the boot, to satisfy him that it had been safely packed; and after he had been assured on this head, he felt a solemn presentiment, first, that the red bag was mislaid, and next that the striped bag had been stolen, and then that the brown-paper parcel ‘had come untied.’ At length when he had received ocular demonstration of the groundless nature of each and every of these suspicions, he consented to climb up to the roof of the coach, observing that now he had taken everything off his mind, he felt quite comfortable and happy.

‘You’re given to nervousness, ain’t you, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Weller, senior, eyeing the stranger askance, as he mounted to his place.

‘Yes; I always am rather about these little matters,’ said the stranger, ‘but I am all right now—quite right.’

‘Well, that’s a blessin’, said Mr. Weller. ‘Sammy, help your master up to the box; t’other leg, Sir, that’s it; give us your hand, Sir. Up with you. You was a lighter weight when you was a boy, sir.’

True enough, that, Mr. Weller,’ said the breathless Mr. Pickwick good- humouredly, as he took his seat on the box beside him.

‘Jump up in front, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Now Villam, run ‘em out. Take care o’ the archvay, gen’l’m’n. “Heads,” as the pieman says. That’ll do, Villam. Let ‘em alone.’ And away went the coach up Whitechapel, to the admiration of the whole population of that pretty densely populated quarter.

‘Not a wery nice neighbourhood, this, Sir,’ said Sam, with a touch of the hat, which always preceded his entering into conversation with his master.

‘It is not indeed, Sam,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, surveying the crowded and filthy street through which they were passing.

‘It’s a wery remarkable circumstance, Sir,’ said Sam, ‘that poverty and oysters always seem to go together.’

‘I don’t understand you, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘What I mean, sir,’ said Sam, ‘is, that the poorer a place is, the greater call there seems to be for oysters. Look here, sir; here’s a oyster-stall to every half-dozen houses. The street’s lined vith ‘em. Blessed if I don’t think that ven a man’s wery poor, he rushes out of his lodgings, and eats oysters in reg’lar desperation.’

‘To be sure he does,’ said Mr. Weller, senior; ‘and it’s just the same vith pickled salmon!’

‘Those are two very remarkable facts, which never occurred to me before,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘The very first place we stop at, I’ll make a note of them.’

By this time they had reached the turnpike at Mile End; a profound silence prevailed until they had got two or three miles farther on, when Mr. Weller, senior, turning suddenly to Mr. Pickwick, said—

‘Wery queer life is a pike-keeper’s, sir.’

‘A what?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘A pike-keeper.’

‘What do you mean by a pike-keeper?’ inquired Mr. Peter Magnus.

‘The old ‘un means a turnpike-keeper, gen’l’m’n,’ observed Mr. Samuel Weller, in explanation.

‘Oh,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I see. Yes; very curious life. Very uncomfortable.’

‘They’re all on ‘em men as has met vith some disappointment in life,’ said Mr. Weller, senior.

‘Ay, ay,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes. Consequence of vich, they retires from the world, and shuts themselves up in pikes; partly with the view of being solitary, and partly to rewenge themselves on mankind by takin’ tolls.’

‘Dear me,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I never knew that before.’

‘Fact, Sir,’ said Mr. Weller; ‘if they was gen’l’m’n, you’d call ‘em misanthropes, but as it is, they only takes to pike-keepin’.’

With such conversation, possessing the inestimable charm of blending amusement with instruction, did Mr. Weller beguile the tediousness of the journey, during the greater part of the day. Topics of conversation were never wanting, for even when any pause occurred in Mr. Weller’s loquacity, it was abundantly supplied by the desire evinced by Mr. Magnus to make himself acquainted with the whole of the personal history of his fellow-travellers, and his loudly-expressed anxiety at every stage, respecting the safety and well-being of the two bags, the leather hat-box, and the brown-paper parcel.

In the main street of Ipswich, on the left-hand side of the way, a short distance after you have passed through the open space fronting the Town Hall, stands an inn known far and wide by the appellation of the Great White Horse, rendered the more conspicuous by a stone statue of some rampacious animal with flowing mane and tail, distantly resembling an insane cart-horse, which is elevated above the principal door. The Great White Horse is famous in the neighbourhood, in the same degree as a prize ox, or a county-paper-chronicled turnip, or unwieldy pig—for its enormous size. Never was such labyrinths of uncarpeted passages, such clusters of mouldy, ill-lighted rooms, such huge numbers of small dens for eating or sleeping in, beneath any one roof, as are collected together between the four walls of the Great White Horse at Ipswich.

It was at the door of this overgrown tavern that the London coach stopped, at the same hour every evening; and it was from this same London coach that Mr. Pickwick, Sam Weller, and Mr. Peter Magnus dismounted, on the particular evening to which this chapter of our history bears reference.

‘Do you stop here, sir?’ inquired Mr. Peter Magnus, when the striped bag, and the red bag, and the brown-paper parcel, and the leather hat- box, had all been deposited in the passage. ‘Do you stop here, sir?’

‘I do,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Dear me,’ said Mr. Magnus, ‘I never knew anything like these extraordinary coincidences. Why, I stop here too. I hope we dine together?’

‘With pleasure,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘I am not quite certain whether I have any friends here or not, though. Is there any gentleman of the name of Tupman here, waiter?’

A corpulent man, with a fortnight’s napkin under his arm, and coeval stockings on his legs, slowly desisted from his occupation of staring down the street, on this question being put to him by Mr. Pickwick; and, after minutely inspecting that gentleman’s appearance, from the crown of his hat to the lowest button of his gaiters, replied emphatically—

‘No!’

‘Nor any gentleman of the name of Snodgrass?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘No!’

‘Nor Winkle?’

‘No!’

‘My friends have not arrived to-day, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘We will dine alone, then. Show us a private room, waiter.’

On this request being preferred, the corpulent man condescended to order the boots to bring in the gentlemen’s luggage; and preceding them down a long, dark passage, ushered them into a large, badly-furnished apartment, with a dirty grate, in which a small fire was making a wretched attempt to be cheerful, but was fast sinking beneath the dispiriting influence of the place. After the lapse of an hour, a bit of fish and a steak was served up to the travellers, and when the dinner was cleared away, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Peter Magnus drew their chairs up to the fire, and having ordered a bottle of the worst possible port wine, at the highest possible price, for the good of the house, drank brandy-and-water for their own.

Mr. Peter Magnus was naturally of a very communicative disposition, and the brandy-and-water operated with wonderful effect in warming into life the deepest hidden secrets of his bosom. After sundry accounts of himself, his family, his connections, his friends, his jokes, his business, and his brothers (most talkative men have a great deal to say about their brothers), Mr. Peter Magnus took a view of Mr. Pickwick through his coloured spectacles for several minutes, and then said, with an air of modesty—

‘And what do you think—what do you think, Mr. Pickwick—I have come down here for?’

‘Upon my word,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘it is wholly impossible for me to guess; on business, perhaps.’

‘Partly right, Sir,’ replied Mr. Peter Magnus, ‘but partly wrong at the same time; try again, Mr. Pickwick.’

‘Really,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I must throw myself on your mercy, to tell me or not, as you may think best; for I should never guess, if I were to try all night.’

‘Why, then, he-he-he!’ said Mr. Peter Magnus, with a bashful titter, ‘what should you think, Mr. Pickwick, if I had come down here to make a proposal, Sir, eh? He, he, he!’

‘Think! That you are very likely to succeed,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, with one of his beaming smiles.

‘Ah!’ said Mr. Magnus. ‘But do you really think so, Mr. Pickwick? Do you, though?’

‘Certainly,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘No; but you’re joking, though.’

‘I am not, indeed.’

‘Why, then,’ said Mr. Magnus, ‘to let you into a little secret, I think so too. I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Pickwick, although I’m dreadful jealous by nature—horrid—that the lady is in this house.’ Here Mr. Magnus took off his spectacles, on purpose to wink, and then put them on again.

‘That’s what you were running out of the room for, before dinner, then, so often,’ said Mr. Pickwick archly.

‘Hush! Yes, you’re right, that was it; not such a fool as to see her, though.’

‘No!’

‘No; wouldn’t do, you know, after having just come off a journey. Wait till to-morrow, sir; double the chance then. Mr. Pickwick, Sir, there is a suit of clothes in that bag, and a hat in that box, which, I expect, in the effect they will produce, will be invaluable to me, sir.’

‘Indeed!’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes; you must have observed my anxiety about them to-day. I do not believe that such another suit of clothes, and such a hat, could be bought for money, Mr. Pickwick.’

Mr. Pickwick congratulated the fortunate owner of the irresistible garments on their acquisition; and Mr. Peter Magnus remained a few moments apparently absorbed in contemplation.

‘She’s a fine creature,’ said Mr. Magnus.

‘Is she?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Very,’ said Mr. Magnus. ‘Very. She lives about twenty miles from here, Mr. Pickwick. I heard she would be here to-night and all to-morrow forenoon, and came down to seize the opportunity. I think an inn is a good sort of a place to propose to a single woman in, Mr. Pickwick. She is more likely to feel the loneliness of her situation in travelling, perhaps, than she would be at home. What do you think, Mr. Pickwick?’

‘I think it is very probable,’ replied that gentleman.

‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Mr. Peter Magnus, ‘but I am naturally rather curious; what may you have come down here for?’

‘On a far less pleasant errand, Sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, the colour mounting to his face at the recollection. ‘I have come down here, Sir, to expose the treachery and falsehood of an individual, upon whose truth and honour I placed implicit reliance.’

‘Dear me,’ said Mr. Peter Magnus, ‘that’s very unpleasant. It is a lady, I presume? Eh? ah! Sly, Mr. Pickwick, sly. Well, Mr. Pickwick, sir, I wouldn’t probe your feelings for the world. Painful subjects, these, sir, very painful. Don’t mind me, Mr. Pickwick, if you wish to give vent to your feelings. I know what it is to be jilted, Sir; I have endured that sort of thing three or four times.’

‘I am much obliged to you, for your condolence on what you presume to be my melancholy case,’ said Mr. Pickwick, winding up his watch, and laying it on the table, ‘but—’

‘No, no,’ said Mr. Peter Magnus, ‘not a word more; it’s a painful subject. I see, I see. What’s the time, Mr. Pickwick?’

Past twelve.’

‘Dear me, it’s time to go to bed. It will never do, sitting here. I shall be pale to-morrow, Mr. Pickwick.’

At the bare notion of such a calamity, Mr. Peter Magnus rang the bell for the chambermaid; and the striped bag, the red bag, the leathern hat- box, and the brown-paper parcel, having been conveyed to his bedroom, he retired in company with a japanned candlestick, to one side of the house, while Mr. Pickwick, and another japanned candlestick, were conducted through a multitude of tortuous windings, to another.

‘This is your room, sir,’ said the chambermaid.

‘Very well,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, looking round him. It was a tolerably large double-bedded room, with a fire; upon the whole, a more comfortable-looking apartment than Mr. Pickwick’s short experience of the accommodations of the Great White Horse had led him to expect.

‘Nobody sleeps in the other bed, of course,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Oh, no, Sir.’

‘Very good. Tell my servant to bring me up some hot water at half-past eight in the morning, and that I shall not want him any more to-night.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ and bidding Mr. Pickwick good-night, the chambermaid retired, and left him alone.

Mr. Pickwick sat himself down in a chair before the fire, and fell into a train of rambling meditations. First he thought of his friends, and wondered when they would join him; then his mind reverted to Mrs. Martha Bardell; and from that lady it wandered, by a natural process, to the dingy counting-house of Dodson & Fogg. From Dodson & Fogg’s it flew off at a tangent, to the very centre of the history of the queer client; and then it came back to the Great White Horse at Ipswich, with sufficient clearness to convince Mr. Pickwick that he was falling asleep. So he roused himself, and began to undress, when he recollected he had left his watch on the table downstairs.

Now this watch was a special favourite with Mr. Pickwick, having been carried about, beneath the shadow of his waistcoat, for a greater number of years than we feel called upon to state at present. The possibility of going to sleep, unless it were ticking gently beneath his pillow, or in the watch-pocket over his head, had never entered Mr. Pickwick’s brain. So as it was pretty late now, and he was unwilling to ring his bell at that hour of the night, he slipped on his coat, of which he had just divested himself, and taking the japanned candlestick in his hand, walked quietly downstairs.

The more stairs Mr. Pickwick went down, the more stairs there seemed to be to descend, and again and again, when Mr. Pickwick got into some narrow passage, and began to congratulate himself on having gained the ground-floor, did another flight of stairs appear before his astonished eyes. At last he reached a stone hall, which he remembered to have seen when he entered the house. Passage after passage did he explore; room after room did he peep into; at length, as he was on the point of giving up the search in despair, he opened the door of the identical room in which he had spent the evening, and beheld his missing property on the table.

Mr. Pickwick seized the watch in triumph, and proceeded to retrace his steps to his bedchamber. If his progress downward had been attended with difficulties and uncertainty, his journey back was infinitely more perplexing. Rows of doors, garnished with boots of every shape, make, and size, branched off in every possible direction. A dozen times did he softly turn the handle of some bedroom door which resembled his own, when a gruff cry from within of ‘Who the devil’s that?’ or ‘What do you want here?’ caused him to steal away, on tiptoe, with a perfectly marvellous celerity. He was reduced to the verge of despair, when an open door attracted his attention. He peeped in. Right at last! There were the two beds, whose situation he perfectly remembered, and the fire still burning. His candle, not a long one when he first received it, had flickered away in the drafts of air through which he had passed and sank into the socket as he closed the door after him. ‘No matter,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I can undress myself just as well by the light of the fire.’

The bedsteads stood one on each side of the door; and on the inner side of each was a little path, terminating in a rush-bottomed chair, just wide enough to admit of a person’s getting into or out of bed, on that side, if he or she thought proper. Having carefully drawn the curtains of his bed on the outside, Mr. Pickwick sat down on the rush-bottomed chair, and leisurely divested himself of his shoes and gaiters. He then took off and folded up his coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth, and slowly drawing on his tasselled nightcap, secured it firmly on his head, by tying beneath his chin the strings which he always had attached to that article of dress. It was at this moment that the absurdity of his recent bewilderment struck upon his mind. Throwing himself back in the rush- bottomed chair, Mr. Pickwick laughed to himself so heartily, that it would have been quite delightful to any man of well-constituted mind to have watched the smiles that expanded his amiable features as they shone forth from beneath the nightcap.

‘It is the best idea,’ said Mr. Pickwick to himself, smiling till he almost cracked the nightcap strings—‘it is the best idea, my losing myself in this place, and wandering about these staircases, that I ever heard of. Droll, droll, very droll.’ Here Mr. Pickwick smiled again, a broader smile than before, and was about to continue the process of undressing, in the best possible humour, when he was suddenly stopped by a most unexpected interruption: to wit, the entrance into the room of some person with a candle, who, after locking the door, advanced to the dressing-table, and set down the light upon it.

The smile that played on Mr. Pickwick’s features was instantaneously lost in a look of the most unbounded and wonder-stricken surprise. The person, whoever it was, had come in so suddenly and with so little noise, that Mr. Pickwick had had no time to call out, or oppose their entrance. Who could it be? A robber? Some evil-minded person who had seen him come upstairs with a handsome watch in his hand, perhaps. What was he to do?

The only way in which Mr. Pickwick could catch a glimpse of his mysterious visitor with the least danger of being seen himself, was by creeping on to the bed, and peeping out from between the curtains on the opposite side. To this manoeuvre he accordingly resorted. Keeping the curtains carefully closed with his hand, so that nothing more of him could be seen than his face and nightcap, and putting on his spectacles, he mustered up courage and looked out.

Mr. Pickwick almost fainted with horror and dismay. Standing before the dressing-glass was a middle-aged lady, in yellow curl-papers, busily engaged in brushing what ladies call their ‘back-hair.’ However the unconscious middle-aged lady came into that room, it was quite clear that she contemplated remaining there for the night; for she had brought a rushlight and shade with her, which, with praiseworthy precaution against fire, she had stationed in a basin on the floor, where it was glimmering away, like a gigantic lighthouse in a particularly small piece of water.

‘Bless my soul!’ thought Mr. Pickwick, ‘what a dreadful thing!’

‘Hem!’ said the lady; and in went Mr. Pickwick’s head with automaton- like rapidity.

‘I never met with anything so awful as this,’ thought poor Mr. Pickwick, the cold perspiration starting in drops upon his nightcap. ‘Never. This is fearful.’

It was quite impossible to resist the urgent desire to see what was going forward. So out went Mr. Pickwick’s head again. The prospect was worse than before. The middle-aged lady had finished arranging her hair; had carefully enveloped it in a muslin nightcap with a small plaited border; and was gazing pensively on the fire.

‘This matter is growing alarming,’ reasoned Mr. Pickwick with himself. ‘I can’t allow things to go on in this way. By the self-possession of that lady, it is clear to me that I must have come into the wrong room. If I call out she’ll alarm the house; but if I remain here the consequences will be still more frightful.’

Mr. Pickwick, it is quite unnecessary to say, was one of the most modest and delicate-minded of mortals. The very idea of exhibiting his nightcap to a lady overpowered him, but he had tied those confounded strings in a knot, and, do what he would, he couldn’t get it off. The disclosure must be made. There was only one other way of doing it. He shrunk behind the curtains, and called out very loudly—

‘Ha-hum!’

That the lady started at this unexpected sound was evident, by her falling up against the rushlight shade; that she persuaded herself it must have been the effect of imagination was equally clear, for when Mr. Pickwick, under the impression that she had fainted away stone-dead with fright, ventured to peep out again, she was gazing pensively on the fire as before.

‘Most extraordinary female this,’ thought Mr. Pickwick, popping in again. ‘Ha-hum!’

These last sounds, so like those in which, as legends inform us, the ferocious giant Blunderbore was in the habit of expressing his opinion that it was time to lay the cloth, were too distinctly audible to be again mistaken for the workings of fancy.

‘Gracious Heaven!’ said the middle-aged lady, ‘what’s that?’

‘It’s—it’s—only a gentleman, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick, from behind the curtains.

‘A gentleman!’ said the lady, with a terrific scream.

‘It’s all over!’ thought Mr. Pickwick.

‘A strange man!’ shrieked the lady. Another instant and the house would be alarmed. Her garments rustled as she rushed towards the door.

‘Ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick, thrusting out his head in the extremity of his desperation, ‘ma’am!’

Now, although Mr. Pickwick was not actuated by any definite object in putting out his head, it was instantaneously productive of a good effect. The lady, as we have already stated, was near the door. She must pass it, to reach the staircase, and she would most undoubtedly have done so by this time, had not the sudden apparition of Mr. Pickwick’s nightcap driven her back into the remotest corner of the apartment, where she stood staring wildly at Mr. Pickwick, while Mr. Pickwick in his turn stared wildly at her.

‘Wretch,’ said the lady, covering her eyes with her hands, ‘what do you want here?’

‘Nothing, ma’am; nothing whatever, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick earnestly.

‘Nothing!’ said the lady, looking up.

‘Nothing, ma’am, upon my honour,’ said Mr. Pickwick, nodding his head so energetically, that the tassel of his nightcap danced again. ‘I am almost ready to sink, ma’am, beneath the confusion of addressing a lady in my nightcap (here the lady hastily snatched off hers), but I can’t get it off, ma’am (here Mr. Pickwick gave it a tremendous tug, in proof of the statement). It is evident to me, ma’am, now, that I have mistaken this bedroom for my own. I had not been here five minutes, ma’am, when you suddenly entered it.’

‘If this improbable story be really true, Sir,’ said the lady, sobbing violently, ‘you will leave it instantly.’

‘I will, ma’am, with the greatest pleasure,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Instantly, sir,’ said the lady.

‘Certainly, ma’am,’ interposed Mr. Pickwick, very quickly. ‘Certainly, ma’am. I—I—am very sorry, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick, making his appearance at the bottom of the bed, ‘to have been the innocent occasion of this alarm and emotion; deeply sorry, ma’am.’

The lady pointed to the door. One excellent quality of Mr. Pickwick’s character was beautifully displayed at this moment, under the most trying circumstances. Although he had hastily put on his hat over his nightcap, after the manner of the old patrol; although he carried his shoes and gaiters in his hand, and his coat and waistcoat over his arm; nothing could subdue his native politeness.

‘I am exceedingly sorry, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick, bowing very low.

‘If you are, Sir, you will at once leave the room,’ said the lady.

‘Immediately, ma’am; this instant, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick, opening the door, and dropping both his shoes with a crash in so doing.

‘I trust, ma’am,’ resumed Mr. Pickwick, gathering up his shoes, and turning round to bow again—‘I trust, ma’am, that my unblemished character, and the devoted respect I entertain for your sex, will plead as some slight excuse for this—’ But before Mr. Pickwick could conclude the sentence, the lady had thrust him into the passage, and locked and bolted the door behind him.

Whatever grounds of self-congratulation Mr. Pickwick might have for having escaped so quietly from his late awkward situation, his present position was by no means enviable. He was alone, in an open passage, in a strange house in the middle of the night, half dressed; it was not to be supposed that he could find his way in perfect darkness to a room which he had been wholly unable to discover with a light, and if he made the slightest noise in his fruitless attempts to do so, he stood every chance of being shot at, and perhaps killed, by some wakeful traveller. He had no resource but to remain where he was until daylight appeared. So after groping his way a few paces down the passage, and, to his infinite alarm, stumbling over several pairs of boots in so doing, Mr. Pickwick crouched into a little recess in the wall, to wait for morning, as philosophically as he might.

He was not destined, however, to undergo this additional trial of patience; for he had not been long ensconced in his present concealment when, to his unspeakable horror, a man, bearing a light, appeared at the end of the passage. His horror was suddenly converted into joy, however, when he recognised the form of his faithful attendant. It was indeed Mr. Samuel Weller, who after sitting up thus late, in conversation with the boots, who was sitting up for the mail, was now about to retire to rest.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, suddenly appearing before him, ‘where’s my bedroom?’

Mr. Weller stared at his master with the most emphatic surprise; and it was not until the question had been repeated three several times, that he turned round, and led the way to the long-sought apartment.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as he got into bed, ‘I have made one of the most extraordinary mistakes to-night, that ever were heard of.’

‘Wery likely, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller drily.

‘But of this I am determined, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘that if I were to stop in this house for six months, I would never trust myself about it, alone, again.’

‘That’s the wery prudentest resolution as you could come to, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘You rayther want somebody to look arter you, Sir, when your judgment goes out a wisitin’.’

‘What do you mean by that, Sam?’ said Mr. Pickwick. He raised himself in bed, and extended his hand, as if he were about to say something more; but suddenly checking himself, turned round, and bade his valet ‘Good- night.’

‘Good-night, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller. He paused when he got outside the door—shook his head—walked on—stopped—snuffed the candle—shook his head again—and finally proceeded slowly to his chamber, apparently buried in the profoundest meditation.

CHAPTER XXIII. IN WHICH MR. SAMUEL WELLER BEGINS TO DEVOTE HIS ENERGIES TO THE RETURN MATCH BETWEEN HIMSELF AND MR. TROTTER

In a small room in the vicinity of the stableyard, betimes in the morning, which was ushered in by Mr. Pickwick’s adventure with the middle—aged lady in the yellow curl-papers, sat Mr. Weller, senior, preparing himself for his journey to London. He was sitting in an excellent attitude for having his portrait taken; and here it is.

It is very possible that at some earlier period of his career, Mr. Weller’s profile might have presented a bold and determined outline. His face, however, had expanded under the influence of good living, and a disposition remarkable for resignation; and its bold, fleshy curves had so far extended beyond the limits originally assigned them, that unless you took a full view of his countenance in front, it was difficult to distinguish more than the extreme tip of a very rubicund nose. His chin, from the same cause, had acquired the grave and imposing form which is generally described by prefixing the word ‘double’ to that expressive feature; and his complexion exhibited that peculiarly mottled combination of colours which is only to be seen in gentlemen of his profession, and in underdone roast beef. Round his neck he wore a crimson travelling-shawl, which merged into his chin by such imperceptible gradations, that it was difficult to distinguish the folds of the one, from the folds of the other. Over this, he mounted a long waistcoat of a broad pink-striped pattern, and over that again, a wide- skirted green coat, ornamented with large brass buttons, whereof the two which garnished the waist, were so far apart, that no man had ever beheld them both at the same time. His hair, which was short, sleek, and black, was just visible beneath the capacious brim of a low-crowned brown hat. His legs were encased in knee-cord breeches, and painted top- boots; and a copper watch-chain, terminating in one seal, and a key of the same material, dangled loosely from his capacious waistband.

We have said that Mr. Weller was engaged in preparing for his journey to London—he was taking sustenance, in fact. On the table before him, stood a pot of ale, a cold round of beef, and a very respectable-looking loaf, to each of which he distributed his favours in turn, with the most rigid impartiality. He had just cut a mighty slice from the latter, when the footsteps of somebody entering the room, caused him to raise his head; and he beheld his son.

‘Mornin’, Sammy!’ said the father.

The son walked up to the pot of ale, and nodding significantly to his parent, took a long draught by way of reply.

‘Wery good power o’ suction, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller the elder, looking into the pot, when his first-born had set it down half empty. ‘You’d ha’ made an uncommon fine oyster, Sammy, if you’d been born in that station o’ life.’

‘Yes, I des-say, I should ha’ managed to pick up a respectable livin’,’ replied Sam applying himself to the cold beef, with considerable vigour.

‘I’m wery sorry, Sammy,’ said the elder Mr. Weller, shaking up the ale, by describing small circles with the pot, preparatory to drinking. ‘I’m wery sorry, Sammy, to hear from your lips, as you let yourself be gammoned by that ‘ere mulberry man. I always thought, up to three days ago, that the names of Veller and gammon could never come into contract, Sammy, never.’

‘Always exceptin’ the case of a widder, of course,’ said Sam.

‘Widders, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller, slightly changing colour. ‘Widders are ‘ceptions to ev’ry rule. I have heerd how many ordinary women one widder’s equal to in pint o’ comin’ over you. I think it’s five-and- twenty, but I don’t rightly know vether it ain’t more.’

‘Well; that’s pretty well,’ said Sam.

‘Besides,’ continued Mr. Weller, not noticing the interruption, ‘that’s a wery different thing. You know what the counsel said, Sammy, as defended the gen’l’m’n as beat his wife with the poker, venever he got jolly. “And arter all, my Lord,” says he, “it’s a amiable weakness.” So I says respectin’ widders, Sammy, and so you’ll say, ven you gets as old as me.’

‘I ought to ha’ know’d better, I know,’ said Sam.

‘Ought to ha’ know’d better!’ repeated Mr. Weller, striking the table with his fist. ‘Ought to ha’ know’d better! why, I know a young ‘un as hasn’t had half nor quarter your eddication—as hasn’t slept about the markets, no, not six months—who’d ha’ scorned to be let in, in such a vay; scorned it, Sammy.’ In the excitement of feeling produced by this agonising reflection, Mr. Weller rang the bell, and ordered an additional pint of ale.

‘Well, it’s no use talking about it now,’ said Sam. ‘It’s over, and can’t be helped, and that’s one consolation, as they always says in Turkey, ven they cuts the wrong man’s head off. It’s my innings now, gov’nor, and as soon as I catches hold o’ this ‘ere Trotter, I’ll have a good ‘un.’

‘I hope you will, Sammy. I hope you will,’ returned Mr. Weller. ‘Here’s your health, Sammy, and may you speedily vipe off the disgrace as you’ve inflicted on the family name.’ In honour of this toast Mr. Weller imbibed at a draught, at least two-thirds of a newly-arrived pint, and handed it over to his son, to dispose of the remainder, which he instantaneously did.

‘And now, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, consulting a large double-faced silver watch that hung at the end of the copper chain. ‘Now it’s time I was up at the office to get my vay-bill and see the coach loaded; for coaches, Sammy, is like guns—they requires to be loaded with wery great care, afore they go off.’

At this parental and professional joke, Mr. Weller, junior, smiled a filial smile. His revered parent continued in a solemn tone—

‘I’m a-goin’ to leave you, Samivel, my boy, and there’s no telling ven I shall see you again. Your mother-in-law may ha’ been too much for me, or a thousand things may have happened by the time you next hears any news o’ the celebrated Mr. Veller o’ the Bell Savage. The family name depends wery much upon you, Samivel, and I hope you’ll do wot’s right by it. Upon all little pints o’ breedin’, I know I may trust you as vell as if it was my own self. So I’ve only this here one little bit of adwice to give you. If ever you gets to up’ards o’ fifty, and feels disposed to go a-marryin’ anybody—no matter who—jist you shut yourself up in your own room, if you’ve got one, and pison yourself off hand. Hangin’s wulgar, so don’t you have nothin’ to say to that. Pison yourself, Samivel, my boy, pison yourself, and you’ll be glad on it arterwards.’ With these affecting words, Mr. Weller looked steadfastly on his son, and turning slowly upon his heel, disappeared from his sight.

In the contemplative mood which these words had awakened, Mr. Samuel Weller walked forth from the Great White Horse when his father had left him; and bending his steps towards St. Clement’s Church, endeavoured to dissipate his melancholy, by strolling among its ancient precincts. He had loitered about, for some time, when he found himself in a retired spot—a kind of courtyard of venerable appearance—which he discovered had no other outlet than the turning by which he had entered. He was about retracing his steps, when he was suddenly transfixed to the spot by a sudden appearance; and the mode and manner of this appearance, we now proceed to relate.

Mr. Samuel Weller had been staring up at the old brick houses now and then, in his deep abstraction, bestowing a wink upon some healthy- looking servant girl as she drew up a blind, or threw open a bedroom window, when the green gate of a garden at the bottom of the yard opened, and a man having emerged therefrom, closed the green gate very carefully after him, and walked briskly towards the very spot where Mr. Weller was standing.

Now, taking this, as an isolated fact, unaccompanied by any attendant circumstances, there was nothing very extraordinary in it; because in many parts of the world men do come out of gardens, close green gates after them, and even walk briskly away, without attracting any particular share of public observation. It is clear, therefore, that there must have been something in the man, or in his manner, or both, to attract Mr. Weller’s particular notice. Whether there was, or not, we must leave the reader to determine, when we have faithfully recorded the behaviour of the individual in question.

When the man had shut the green gate after him, he walked, as we have said twice already, with a brisk pace up the courtyard; but he no sooner caught sight of Mr. Weller than he faltered, and stopped, as if uncertain, for the moment, what course to adopt. As the green gate was closed behind him, and there was no other outlet but the one in front, however, he was not long in perceiving that he must pass Mr. Samuel Weller to get away. He therefore resumed his brisk pace, and advanced, staring straight before him. The most extraordinary thing about the man was, that he was contorting his face into the most fearful and astonishing grimaces that ever were beheld. Nature’s handiwork never was disguised with such extraordinary artificial carving, as the man had overlaid his countenance with in one moment.

‘Well!’ said Mr. Weller to himself, as the man approached. ‘This is wery odd. I could ha’ swore it was him.’

Up came the man, and his face became more frightfully distorted than ever, as he drew nearer.

‘I could take my oath to that ‘ere black hair and mulberry suit,’ said Mr. Weller; ‘only I never see such a face as that afore.’

As Mr. Weller said this, the man’s features assumed an unearthly twinge, perfectly hideous. He was obliged to pass very near Sam, however, and the scrutinising glance of that gentleman enabled him to detect, under all these appalling twists of feature, something too like the small eyes of Mr. Job Trotter to be easily mistaken.

‘Hollo, you Sir!’ shouted Sam fiercely.

The stranger stopped.

‘Hollo!’ repeated Sam, still more gruffly.

The man with the horrible face looked, with the greatest surprise, up the court, and down the court, and in at the windows of the houses— everywhere but at Sam Weller—and took another step forward, when he was brought to again by another shout.

‘Hollo, you sir!’ said Sam, for the third time.

There was no pretending to mistake where the voice came from now, so the stranger, having no other resource, at last looked Sam Weller full in the face.

‘It won’t do, Job Trotter,’ said Sam. ‘Come! None o’ that ‘ere nonsense. You ain’t so wery ‘andsome that you can afford to throw avay many o’ your good looks. Bring them ‘ere eyes o’ yourn back into their proper places, or I’ll knock ‘em out of your head. D’ye hear?’

As Mr. Weller appeared fully disposed to act up to the spirit of this address, Mr. Trotter gradually allowed his face to resume its natural expression; and then giving a start of joy, exclaimed, ‘What do I see? Mr. Walker!’

‘Ah,’ replied Sam. ‘You’re wery glad to see me, ain’t you?’

‘Glad!’ exclaimed Job Trotter; ‘Oh, Mr. Walker, if you had but known how I have looked forward to this meeting! It is too much, Mr. Walker; I cannot bear it, indeed I cannot.’ And with these words, Mr. Trotter burst into a regular inundation of tears, and, flinging his arms around those of Mr. Weller, embraced him closely, in an ecstasy of joy.

‘Get off!’ cried Sam, indignant at this process, and vainly endeavouring to extricate himself from the grasp of his enthusiastic acquaintance. ‘Get off, I tell you. What are you crying over me for, you portable engine?’

‘Because I am so glad to see you,’ replied Job Trotter, gradually releasing Mr. Weller, as the first symptoms of his pugnacity disappeared. ‘Oh, Mr. Walker, this is too much.’

‘Too much!’ echoed Sam, ‘I think it is too much—rayther! Now, what have you got to say to me, eh?’

Mr. Trotter made no reply; for the little pink pocket-handkerchief was in full force.

‘What have you got to say to me, afore I knock your head off?’ repeated Mr. Weller, in a threatening manner.

‘Eh!’ said Mr. Trotter, with a look of virtuous surprise.

‘What have you got to say to me?’

‘I, Mr. Walker!’

‘Don’t call me Valker; my name’s Veller; you know that vell enough. What have you got to say to me?’

‘Bless you, Mr. Walker—Weller, I mean—a great many things, if you will come away somewhere, where we can talk comfortably. If you knew how I have looked for you, Mr. Weller—’

‘Wery hard, indeed, I s’pose?’ said Sam drily.

‘Very, very, Sir,’ replied Mr. Trotter, without moving a muscle of his face. ‘But shake hands, Mr. Weller.’

Sam eyed his companion for a few seconds, and then, as if actuated by a sudden impulse, complied with his request.

‘How,’ said Job Trotter, as they walked away, ‘how is your dear, good master? Oh, he is a worthy gentleman, Mr. Weller! I hope he didn’t catch cold, that dreadful night, Sir.’

There was a momentary look of deep slyness in Job Trotter’s eye, as he said this, which ran a thrill through Mr. Weller’s clenched fist, as he burned with a desire to make a demonstration on his ribs. Sam constrained himself, however, and replied that his master was extremely well.

‘Oh, I am so glad,’ replied Mr. Trotter; ‘is he here?’

‘Is yourn?’ asked Sam, by way of reply.

‘Oh, yes, he is here, and I grieve to say, Mr. Weller, he is going on worse than ever.’

‘Ah, ah!’ said Sam.

‘Oh, shocking—terrible!’

‘At a boarding-school?’ said Sam.

‘No, not at a boarding-school,’ replied Job Trotter, with the same sly look which Sam had noticed before; ‘not at a boarding-school.’

‘At the house with the green gate?’ said Sam, eyeing his companion closely.

‘No, no—oh, not there,’ replied Job, with a quickness very unusual to him, ‘not there.’

‘What was you a-doin’ there?’ asked Sam, with a sharp glance. ‘Got inside the gate by accident, perhaps?’

‘Why, Mr. Weller,’ replied Job, ‘I don’t mind telling you my little secrets, because, you know, we took such a fancy for each other when we first met. You recollect how pleasant we were that morning?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Sam, impatiently. ‘I remember. Well?’

‘Well,’ replied Job, speaking with great precision, and in the low tone of a man who communicates an important secret; ‘in that house with the green gate, Mr. Weller, they keep a good many servants.’

‘So I should think, from the look on it,’ interposed Sam.

‘Yes,’ continued Mr. Trotter, ‘and one of them is a cook, who has saved up a little money, Mr. Weller, and is desirous, if she can establish herself in life, to open a little shop in the chandlery way, you see.’

Yes.’

‘Yes, Mr. Weller. Well, Sir, I met her at a chapel that I go to; a very neat little chapel in this town, Mr. Weller, where they sing the number four collection of hymns, which I generally carry about with me, in a little book, which you may perhaps have seen in my hand—and I got a little intimate with her, Mr. Weller, and from that, an acquaintance sprung up between us, and I may venture to say, Mr. Weller, that I am to be the chandler.’

‘Ah, and a wery amiable chandler you’ll make,’ replied Sam, eyeing Job with a side look of intense dislike.

‘The great advantage of this, Mr. Weller,’ continued Job, his eyes filling with tears as he spoke, ‘will be, that I shall be able to leave my present disgraceful service with that bad man, and to devote myself to a better and more virtuous life; more like the way in which I was brought up, Mr. Weller.’

‘You must ha’ been wery nicely brought up,’ said Sam.

‘Oh, very, Mr. Weller, very,’ replied Job. At the recollection of the purity of his youthful days, Mr. Trotter pulled forth the pink handkerchief, and wept copiously.

‘You must ha’ been an uncommon nice boy, to go to school vith,’ said Sam.

‘I was, sir,’ replied Job, heaving a deep sigh; ‘I was the idol of the place.’

‘Ah,’ said Sam, ‘I don’t wonder at it. What a comfort you must ha’ been to your blessed mother.’

At these words, Mr. Job Trotter inserted an end of the pink handkerchief into the corner of each eye, one after the other, and began to weep copiously.

‘Wot’s the matter with the man,’ said Sam, indignantly. ‘Chelsea water- works is nothin’ to you. What are you melting vith now? The consciousness o’ willainy?’

‘I cannot keep my feelings down, Mr. Weller,’ said Job, after a short pause. ‘To think that my master should have suspected the conversation I had with yours, and so dragged me away in a post-chaise, and after persuading the sweet young lady to say she knew nothing of him, and bribing the school-mistress to do the same, deserted her for a better speculation! Oh! Mr. Weller, it makes me shudder.’

‘Oh, that was the vay, was it?’ said Mr. Weller.

‘To be sure it was,’ replied Job.

‘Vell,’ said Sam, as they had now arrived near the hotel, ‘I vant to have a little bit o’ talk with you, Job; so if you’re not partickler engaged, I should like to see you at the Great White Horse to-night, somewheres about eight o’clock.’

‘I shall be sure to come,’ said Job.

‘Yes, you’d better,’ replied Sam, with a very meaning look, ‘or else I shall perhaps be askin’ arter you, at the other side of the green gate, and then I might cut you out, you know.’

‘I shall be sure to be with you, sir,’ said Mr. Trotter; and wringing Sam’s hand with the utmost fervour, he walked away.

‘Take care, Job Trotter, take care,’ said Sam, looking after him, ‘or I shall be one too many for you this time. I shall, indeed.’ Having uttered this soliloquy, and looked after Job till he was to be seen no more, Mr. Weller made the best of his way to his master’s bedroom.

‘It’s all in training, Sir,’ said Sam.

‘What’s in training, Sam?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘I’ve found ‘em out, Sir,’ said Sam.

‘Found out who?’

‘That ‘ere queer customer, and the melan-cholly chap with the black hair.’

‘Impossible, Sam!’ said Mr. Pickwick, with the greatest energy. ‘Where are they, Sam: where are they?’

‘Hush, hush!’ replied Mr. Weller; and as he assisted Mr. Pickwick to dress, he detailed the plan of action on which he proposed to enter.

‘But when is this to be done, Sam?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘All in good time, Sir,’ replied Sam.

Whether it was done in good time, or not, will be seen hereafter.

CHAPTER XXIV. WHEREIN MR. PETER MAGNUS GROWS JEALOUS, AND THE MIDDLE- AGED LADY APPREHENSIVE, WHICH BRINGS THE PICKWICKIANS WITHIN THE GRASP OF THE LAW

When Mr. Pickwick descended to the room in which he and Mr. Peter Magnus had spent the preceding evening, he found that gentleman with the major part of the contents of the two bags, the leathern hat-box, and the brown-paper parcel, displaying to all possible advantage on his person, while he himself was pacing up and down the room in a state of the utmost excitement and agitation.

‘Good-morning, Sir,’ said Mr. Peter Magnus. ‘What do you think of this, Sir?’

‘Very effective indeed,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, surveying the garments of Mr. Peter Magnus with a good-natured smile.

‘Yes, I think it’ll do,’ said Mr. Magnus. ‘Mr. Pickwick, Sir, I have sent up my card.’

‘Have you?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘And the waiter brought back word, that she would see me at eleven—at eleven, Sir; it only wants a quarter now.’

‘Very near the time,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes, it is rather near,’ replied Mr. Magnus, ‘rather too near to be pleasant—eh! Mr. Pickwick, sir?’

‘Confidence is a great thing in these cases,’ observed Mr. Pickwick.

‘I believe it is, Sir,’ said Mr. Peter Magnus. ‘I am very confident, Sir. Really, Mr. Pickwick, I do not see why a man should feel any fear in such a case as this, sir. What is it, Sir? There’s nothing to be ashamed of; it’s a matter of mutual accommodation, nothing more. Husband on one side, wife on the other. That’s my view of the matter, Mr. Pickwick.’

‘It is a very philosophical one,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘But breakfast is waiting, Mr. Magnus. Come.’

Down they sat to breakfast, but it was evident, notwithstanding the boasting of Mr. Peter Magnus, that he laboured under a very considerable degree of nervousness, of which loss of appetite, a propensity to upset the tea-things, a spectral attempt at drollery, and an irresistible inclination to look at the clock, every other second, were among the principal symptoms.

‘He-he-he,’ tittered Mr. Magnus, affecting cheerfulness, and gasping with agitation. ‘It only wants two minutes, Mr. Pickwick. Am I pale, Sir?’

‘Not very,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

There was a brief pause.

‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Pickwick; but have you ever done this sort of thing in your time?’ said Mr. Magnus.

‘You mean proposing?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes.’

‘Never,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with great energy, ‘never.’

‘You have no idea, then, how it’s best to begin?’ said Mr. Magnus.

‘Why,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I may have formed some ideas upon the subject, but, as I have never submitted them to the test of experience, I should be sorry if you were induced to regulate your proceedings by them.’

‘I should feel very much obliged to you, for any advice, Sir,’ said Mr. Magnus, taking another look at the clock, the hand of which was verging on the five minutes past.

‘Well, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with the profound solemnity with which that great man could, when he pleased, render his remarks so deeply impressive. ‘I should commence, sir, with a tribute to the lady’s beauty and excellent qualities; from them, Sir, I should diverge to my own unworthiness.’

‘Very good,’ said Mr. Magnus.

‘Unworthiness for _her _only, mind, sir,’ resumed Mr. Pickwick; ‘for to show that I was not wholly unworthy, sir, I should take a brief review of my past life, and present condition. I should argue, by analogy, that to anybody else, I must be a very desirable object. I should then expatiate on the warmth of my love, and the depth of my devotion. Perhaps I might then be tempted to seize her hand.’

‘Yes, I see,’ said Mr. Magnus; ‘that would be a very great point.’

‘I should then, Sir,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, growing warmer as the subject presented itself in more glowing colours before him—‘I should then, Sir, come to the plain and simple question, “Will you have me?” I think I am justified in assuming that upon this, she would turn away her head.’

‘You think that may be taken for granted?’ said Mr. Magnus; ‘because, if she did not do that at the right place, it would be embarrassing.’

‘I think she would,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Upon this, sir, I should squeeze her hand, and I think—I think, Mr. Magnus—that after I had done that, supposing there was no refusal, I should gently draw away the handkerchief, which my slight knowledge of human nature leads me to suppose the lady would be applying to her eyes at the moment, and steal a respectful kiss. I think I should kiss her, Mr. Magnus; and at this particular point, I am decidedly of opinion that if the lady were going to take me at all, she would murmur into my ears a bashful acceptance.’

Mr. Magnus started; gazed on Mr. Pickwick’s intelligent face, for a short time in silence; and then (the dial pointing to the ten minutes past) shook him warmly by the hand, and rushed desperately from the room.

Mr. Pickwick had taken a few strides to and fro; and the small hand of the clock following the latter part of his example, had arrived at the figure which indicates the half-hour, when the door suddenly opened. He turned round to meet Mr. Peter Magnus, and encountered, in his stead, the joyous face of Mr. Tupman, the serene countenance of Mr. Winkle, and the intellectual lineaments of Mr. Snodgrass.

As Mr. Pickwick greeted them, Mr. Peter Magnus tripped into the room.

‘My friends, the gentleman I was speaking of—Mr. Magnus,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Your servant, gentlemen,’ said Mr. Magnus, evidently in a high state of excitement; ‘Mr. Pickwick, allow me to speak to you one moment, sir.’

As he said this, Mr. Magnus harnessed his forefinger to Mr. Pickwick’s buttonhole, and, drawing him to a window recess, said—

‘Congratulate me, Mr. Pickwick; I followed your advice to the very letter.’

‘And it was all correct, was it?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘It was, Sir. Could not possibly have been better,’ replied Mr. Magnus. ‘Mr. Pickwick, she is mine.’

‘I congratulate you, with all my heart,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, warmly shaking his new friend by the hand.

‘You must see her. Sir,’ said Mr. Magnus; ‘this way, if you please. Excuse us for one instant, gentlemen.’ Hurrying on in this way, Mr. Peter Magnus drew Mr. Pickwick from the room. He paused at the next door in the passage, and tapped gently thereat.

‘Come in,’ said a female voice. And in they went.

‘Miss Witherfield,’ said Mr. Magnus, ‘allow me to introduce my very particular friend, Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Pickwick, I beg to make you known to Miss Witherfield.’

The lady was at the upper end of the room. As Mr. Pickwick bowed, he took his spectacles from his waistcoat pocket, and put them on; a process which he had no sooner gone through, than, uttering an exclamation of surprise, Mr. Pickwick retreated several paces, and the lady, with a half-suppressed scream, hid her face in her hands, and dropped into a chair; whereupon Mr. Peter Magnus was stricken motionless on the spot, and gazed from one to the other, with a countenance expressive of the extremities of horror and surprise.

This certainly was, to all appearance, very unaccountable behaviour; but the fact is, that Mr. Pickwick no sooner put on his spectacles, than he at once recognised in the future Mrs. Magnus the lady into whose room he had so unwarrantably intruded on the previous night; and the spectacles had no sooner crossed Mr. Pickwick’s nose, than the lady at once identified the countenance which she had seen surrounded by all the horrors of a nightcap. So the lady screamed, and Mr. Pickwick started.

‘Mr. Pickwick!’ exclaimed Mr. Magnus, lost in astonishment, ‘what is the meaning of this, Sir? What is the meaning of it, Sir?’ added Mr. Magnus, in a threatening, and a louder tone.

‘Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, somewhat indignant at the very sudden manner in which Mr. Peter Magnus had conjugated himself into the imperative mood, ‘I decline answering that question.’

‘You decline it, Sir?’ said Mr. Magnus.

‘I do, Sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick; ‘I object to say anything which may compromise that lady, or awaken unpleasant recollections in her breast, without her consent and permission.’

‘Miss Witherfield,’ said Mr. Peter Magnus, ‘do you know this person?’

‘Know him!’ repeated the middle-aged lady, hesitating.

‘Yes, know him, ma’am; I said know him,’ replied Mr. Magnus, with ferocity.

‘I have seen him,’ replied the middle-aged lady.

‘Where?’ inquired Mr. Magnus, ‘where?’

‘That,’ said the middle-aged lady, rising from her seat, and averting her head—‘that I would not reveal for worlds.’

‘I understand you, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘and respect your delicacy; it shall never be revealed by me depend upon it.’

‘Upon my word, ma’am,’ said Mr. Magnus, ‘considering the situation in which I am placed with regard to yourself, you carry this matter off with tolerable coolness—tolerable coolness, ma’am.’

‘Cruel Mr. Magnus!’ said the middle-aged lady; here she wept very copiously indeed.

‘Address your observations to me, sir,’ interposed Mr. Pickwick; ‘I alone am to blame, if anybody be.’

‘Oh! you alone are to blame, are you, sir?’ said Mr. Magnus; ‘I—I—see through this, sir. You repent of your determination now, do you?’

‘My determination!’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Your determination, Sir. Oh! don’t stare at me, Sir,’ said Mr. Magnus; ‘I recollect your words last night, Sir. You came down here, sir, to expose the treachery and falsehood of an individual on whose truth and honour you had placed implicit reliance—eh?’ Here Mr. Peter Magnus indulged in a prolonged sneer; and taking off his green spectacles— which he probably found superfluous in his fit of jealousy—rolled his little eyes about, in a manner frightful to behold.

‘Eh?’ said Mr. Magnus; and then he repeated the sneer with increased effect. ‘But you shall answer it, Sir.’

‘Answer what?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Never mind, sir,’ replied Mr. Magnus, striding up and down the room. ‘Never mind.’

There must be something very comprehensive in this phrase of ‘Never mind,’ for we do not recollect to have ever witnessed a quarrel in the street, at a theatre, public room, or elsewhere, in which it has not been the standard reply to all belligerent inquiries. ‘Do you call yourself a gentleman, sir?’—‘Never mind, sir.’

Did I offer to say anything to the young woman, sir?’—‘Never mind, sir.’

Do you want your head knocked up against that wall, sir?’—‘Never mind, sir.’ It is observable, too, that there would appear to be some hidden taunt in this universal ‘Never mind,’ which rouses more indignation in the bosom of the individual addressed, than the most lavish abuse could possibly awaken.

We do not mean to assert that the application of this brevity to himself, struck exactly that indignation to Mr. Pickwick’s soul, which it would infallibly have roused in a vulgar breast. We merely record the fact that Mr. Pickwick opened the room door, and abruptly called out, ‘Tupman, come here!’

Mr. Tupman immediately presented himself, with a look of very considerable surprise.

‘Tupman,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘a secret of some delicacy, in which that lady is concerned, is the cause of a difference which has just arisen between this gentleman and myself. When I assure him, in your presence, that it has no relation to himself, and is not in any way connected with his affairs, I need hardly beg you to take notice that if he continue to dispute it, he expresses a doubt of my veracity, which I shall consider extremely insulting.’ As Mr. Pickwick said this, he looked encyclopedias at Mr. Peter Magnus.

Mr. Pickwick’s upright and honourable bearing, coupled with that force and energy of speech which so eminently distinguished him, would have carried conviction to any reasonable mind; but, unfortunately, at that particular moment, the mind of Mr. Peter Magnus was in anything but reasonable order. Consequently, instead of receiving Mr. Pickwick’s explanation as he ought to have done, he forthwith proceeded to work himself into a red-hot, scorching, consuming passion, and to talk about what was due to his own feelings, and all that sort of thing; adding force to his declamation by striding to and fro, and pulling his hair— amusements which he would vary occasionally, by shaking his fist in Mr. Pickwick’s philanthropic countenance.

Mr. Pickwick, in his turn, conscious of his own innocence and rectitude, and irritated by having unfortunately involved the middle-aged lady in such an unpleasant affair, was not so quietly disposed as was his wont. The consequence was, that words ran high, and voices higher; and at length Mr. Magnus told Mr. Pickwick he should hear from him; to which Mr. Pickwick replied, with laudable politeness, that the sooner he heard from him the better; whereupon the middle-aged lady rushed in terror from the room, out of which Mr. Tupman dragged Mr. Pickwick, leaving Mr. Peter Magnus to himself and meditation.

If the middle-aged lady had mingled much with the busy world, or had profited at all by the manners and customs of those who make the laws and set the fashions, she would have known that this sort of ferocity is the most harmless thing in nature; but as she had lived for the most part in the country, and never read the parliamentary debates, she was little versed in these particular refinements of civilised life. Accordingly, when she had gained her bedchamber, bolted herself in, and began to meditate on the scene she had just witnessed, the most terrific pictures of slaughter and destruction presented themselves to her imagination; among which, a full-length portrait of Mr. Peter Magnus borne home by four men, with the embellishment of a whole barrelful of bullets in his left side, was among the very least. The more the middle- aged lady meditated, the more terrified she became; and at length she determined to repair to the house of the principal magistrate of the town, and request him to secure the persons of Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman without delay.

To this decision the middle-aged lady was impelled by a variety of considerations, the chief of which was the incontestable proof it would afford of her devotion to Mr. Peter Magnus, and her anxiety for his safety. She was too well acquainted with his jealous temperament to venture the slightest allusion to the real cause of her agitation on beholding Mr. Pickwick; and she trusted to her own influence and power of persuasion with the little man, to quell his boisterous jealousy, supposing that Mr. Pickwick were removed, and no fresh quarrel could arise. Filled with these reflections, the middle-aged lady arrayed herself in her bonnet and shawl, and repaired to the mayor’s dwelling straightway.

Now George Nupkins, Esquire, the principal magistrate aforesaid, was as grand a personage as the fastest walker would find out, between sunrise and sunset, on the twenty-first of June, which being, according to the almanacs, the longest day in the whole year, would naturally afford him the longest period for his search. On this particular morning, Mr. Nupkins was in a state of the utmost excitement and irritation, for there had been a rebellion in the town; all the day-scholars at the largest day-school had conspired to break the windows of an obnoxious apple-seller, and had hooted the beadle and pelted the constabulary—an elderly gentleman in top-boots, who had been called out to repress the tumult, and who had been a peace-officer, man and boy, for half a century at least. And Mr. Nupkins was sitting in his easy-chair, frowning with majesty, and boiling with rage, when a lady was announced on pressing, private, and particular business. Mr. Nupkins looked calmly terrible, and commanded that the lady should be shown in; which command, like all the mandates of emperors, and magistrates, and other great potentates of the earth, was forthwith obeyed; and Miss Witherfield, interestingly agitated, was ushered in accordingly.

‘Muzzle!’ said the magistrate.

Muzzle was an undersized footman, with a long body and short legs.

‘Muzzle!’

Yes, your Worship.’

‘Place a chair, and leave the room.’

‘Yes, your Worship.’

‘Now, ma’am, will you state your business?’ said the magistrate.

‘It is of a very painful kind, Sir,’ said Miss Witherfield.

‘Very likely, ma’am,’ said the magistrate. ‘Compose your feelings, ma’am.’ Here Mr. Nupkins looked benignant. ‘And then tell me what legal business brings you here, ma’am.’ Here the magistrate triumphed over the man; and he looked stern again.

‘It is very distressing to me, Sir, to give this information,’ said Miss Witherfield, ‘but I fear a duel is going to be fought here.’

‘Here, ma’am?’ said the magistrate. ‘Where, ma’am?’

‘In Ipswich.’

In Ipswich, ma’am! A duel in Ipswich!’ said the magistrate, perfectly aghast at the notion. ‘Impossible, ma’am; nothing of the kind can be contemplated in this town, I am persuaded. Bless my soul, ma’am, are you aware of the activity of our local magistracy? Do you happen to have heard, ma’am, that I rushed into a prize-ring on the fourth of May last, attended by only sixty special constables; and, at the hazard of falling a sacrifice to the angry passions of an infuriated multitude, prohibited a pugilistic contest between the Middlesex Dumpling and the Suffolk Bantam? A duel in Ipswich, ma’am? I don’t think—I do not think,’ said the magistrate, reasoning with himself, ‘that any two men can have had the hardihood to plan such a breach of the peace, in this town.’

‘My information is, unfortunately, but too correct,’ said the middle- aged lady; ‘I was present at the quarrel.’

‘It’s a most extraordinary thing,’ said the astounded magistrate. ‘Muzzle!’

‘Yes, your Worship.’

‘Send Mr. Jinks here, directly! Instantly.’

‘Yes, your Worship.’

Muzzle retired; and a pale, sharp-nosed, half-fed, shabbily-clad clerk, of middle age, entered the room.

‘Mr. Jinks,’ said the magistrate. ‘Mr. Jinks.’

‘Sir,’ said Mr. Jinks.

‘This lady, Mr. Jinks, has come here, to give information of an intended duel in this town.’

Mr. Jinks, not knowing exactly what to do, smiled a dependent’s smile.

‘What are you laughing at, Mr. Jinks?’ said the magistrate.

Mr. Jinks looked serious instantly.

‘Mr. Jinks,’ said the magistrate, ‘you’re a fool.’

Mr. Jinks looked humbly at the great man, and bit the top of his pen.

‘You may see something very comical in this information, Sir—but I can tell you this, Mr. Jinks, that you have very little to laugh at,’ said the magistrate.

The hungry-looking Jinks sighed, as if he were quite aware of the fact of his having very little indeed to be merry about; and, being ordered to take the lady’s information, shambled to a seat, and proceeded to write it down.

‘This man, Pickwick, is the principal, I understand?’ said the magistrate, when the statement was finished.

‘He is,’ said the middle-aged lady.

‘And the other rioter—what’s his name, Mr. Jinks?’

‘Tupman, Sir.’

Tupman is the second?’

‘Yes.’

‘The other principal, you say, has absconded, ma’am?’

‘Yes,’ replied Miss Witherfield, with a short cough.

‘Very well,’ said the magistrate. ‘These are two cut-throats from London, who have come down here to destroy his Majesty’s population, thinking that at this distance from the capital, the arm of the law is weak and paralysed. They shall be made an example of. Draw up the warrants, Mr. Jinks. Muzzle!’

‘Yes, your Worship.’

‘Is Grummer downstairs?’

‘Yes, your Worship.’

‘Send him up.’

The obsequious Muzzle retired, and presently returned, introducing the elderly gentleman in the top-boots, who was chiefly remarkable for a bottle-nose, a hoarse voice, a snuff-coloured surtout, and a wandering eye.

‘Grummer,’ said the magistrate.

‘Your Wash-up.’

‘Is the town quiet now?’

‘Pretty well, your Wash-up,’ replied Grummer. ‘Pop’lar feeling has in a measure subsided, consekens o’ the boys having dispersed to cricket.’

‘Nothing but vigorous measures will do in these times, Grummer,’ said the magistrate, in a determined manner. ‘If the authority of the king’s officers is set at naught, we must have the riot act read. If the civil power cannot protect these windows, Grummer, the military must protect the civil power, and the windows too. I believe that is a maxim of the constitution, Mr. Jinks?’

Certainly, sir,’ said Jinks.

‘Very good,’ said the magistrate, signing the warrants. ‘Grummer, you will bring these persons before me, this afternoon. You will find them at the Great White Horse. You recollect the case of the Middlesex Dumpling and the Suffolk Bantam, Grummer?’

Mr. Grummer intimated, by a retrospective shake of the head, that he should never forget it—as indeed it was not likely he would, so long as it continued to be cited daily.

‘This is even more unconstitutional,’ said the magistrate; ‘this is even a greater breach of the peace, and a grosser infringement of his Majesty’s prerogative. I believe duelling is one of his Majesty’s most undoubted prerogatives, Mr. Jinks?’

‘Expressly stipulated in Magna Charta, sir,’ said Mr. Jinks.

‘One of the brightest jewels in the British crown, wrung from his Majesty by the barons, I believe, Mr. Jinks?’ said the magistrate.

‘Just so, Sir,’ replied Mr. Jinks.

‘Very well,’ said the magistrate, drawing himself up proudly, ‘it shall not be violated in this portion of his dominions. Grummer, procure assistance, and execute these warrants with as little delay as possible. Muzzle!’

‘Yes, your Worship.’

‘Show the lady out.’

Miss Witherfield retired, deeply impressed with the magistrate’s learning and research; Mr. Nupkins retired to lunch; Mr. Jinks retired within himself—that being the only retirement he had, except the sofa- bedstead in the small parlour which was occupied by his landlady’s family in the daytime—and Mr. Grummer retired, to wipe out, by his mode of discharging his present commission, the insult which had been fastened upon himself, and the other representative of his Majesty—the beadle—in the course of the morning.

While these resolute and determined preparations for the conservation of the king’s peace were pending, Mr. Pickwick and his friends, wholly unconscious of the mighty events in progress, had sat quietly down to dinner; and very talkative and companionable they all were. Mr. Pickwick was in the very act of relating his adventure of the preceding night, to the great amusement of his followers, Mr. Tupman especially, when the door opened, and a somewhat forbidding countenance peeped into the room. The eyes in the forbidding countenance looked very earnestly at Mr. Pickwick, for several seconds, and were to all appearance satisfied with their investigation; for the body to which the forbidding countenance belonged, slowly brought itself into the apartment, and presented the form of an elderly individual in top-boots—not to keep the reader any longer in suspense, in short, the eyes were the wandering eyes of Mr. Grummer, and the body was the body of the same gentleman.

Mr. Grummer’s mode of proceeding was professional, but peculiar. His first act was to bolt the door on the inside; his second, to polish his head and countenance very carefully with a cotton handkerchief; his third, to place his hat, with the cotton handkerchief in it, on the nearest chair; and his fourth, to produce from the breast-pocket of his coat a short truncheon, surmounted by a brazen crown, with which he beckoned to Mr. Pickwick with a grave and ghost-like air.

Mr. Snodgrass was the first to break the astonished silence. He looked steadily at Mr. Grummer for a brief space, and then said emphatically, ‘This is a private room, Sir. A private room.’

Mr. Grummer shook his head, and replied, ‘No room’s private to his Majesty when the street door’s once passed. That’s law. Some people maintains that an Englishman’s house is his castle. That’s gammon.’

The Pickwickians gazed on each other with wondering eyes.

‘Which is Mr. Tupman?’ inquired Mr. Grummer. He had an intuitive perception of Mr. Pickwick; he knew him at once.

‘My name’s Tupman,’ said that gentleman.

‘My name’s Law,’ said Mr. Grummer.

‘What?’ said Mr. Tupman.

‘Law,’ replied Mr. Grummer—‘Law, civil power, and exekative; them’s my titles; here’s my authority. Blank Tupman, blank Pickwick—against the peace of our sufferin’ lord the king—stattit in the case made and purwided—and all regular. I apprehend you Pickwick! Tupman—the aforesaid.’

‘What do you mean by this insolence?’ said Mr. Tupman, starting up; ‘leave the room!’

‘Hollo,’ said Mr. Grummer, retreating very expeditiously to the door, and opening it an inch or two, ‘Dubbley.’

‘Well,’ said a deep voice from the passage.

‘Come for’ard, Dubbley.’

At the word of command, a dirty-faced man, something over six feet high, and stout in proportion, squeezed himself through the half-open door (making his face very red in the process), and entered the room.

‘Is the other specials outside, Dubbley?’ inquired Mr. Grummer.

Mr. Dubbley, who was a man of few words, nodded assent.

‘Order in the diwision under your charge, Dubbley,’ said Mr. Grummer.

Mr. Dubbley did as he was desired; and half a dozen men, each with a short truncheon and a brass crown, flocked into the room. Mr. Grummer pocketed his staff, and looked at Mr. Dubbley; Mr. Dubbley pocketed his staff and looked at the division; the division pocketed their staves and looked at Messrs. Tupman and Pickwick.

Mr. Pickwick and his followers rose as one man.

‘What is the meaning of this atrocious intrusion upon my privacy?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Who dares apprehend me?’ said Mr. Tupman.

‘What do you want here, scoundrels?’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

Mr. Winkle said nothing, but he fixed his eyes on Grummer, and bestowed a look upon him, which, if he had had any feeling, must have pierced his brain. As it was, however, it had no visible effect on him whatever.

When the executive perceived that Mr. Pickwick and his friends were disposed to resist the authority of the law, they very significantly turned up their coat sleeves, as if knocking them down in the first instance, and taking them up afterwards, were a mere professional act which had only to be thought of to be done, as a matter of course. This demonstration was not lost upon Mr. Pickwick. He conferred a few moments with Mr. Tupman apart, and then signified his readiness to proceed to the mayor’s residence, merely begging the parties then and there assembled, to take notice, that it was his firm intention to resent this monstrous invasion of his privileges as an Englishman, the instant he was at liberty; whereat the parties then and there assembled laughed very heartily, with the single exception of Mr. Grummer, who seemed to consider that any slight cast upon the divine right of magistrates was a species of blasphemy not to be tolerated.

But when Mr. Pickwick had signified his readiness to bow to the laws of his country, and just when the waiters, and hostlers, and chambermaids, and post-boys, who had anticipated a delightful commotion from his threatened obstinacy, began to turn away, disappointed and disgusted, a difficulty arose which had not been foreseen. With every sentiment of veneration for the constituted authorities, Mr. Pickwick resolutely protested against making his appearance in the public streets, surrounded and guarded by the officers of justice, like a common criminal. Mr. Grummer, in the then disturbed state of public feeling (for it was half-holiday, and the boys had not yet gone home), as resolutely protested against walking on the opposite side of the way, and taking Mr. Pickwick’s parole that he would go straight to the magistrate’s; and both Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman as strenuously objected to the expense of a post-coach, which was the only respectable conveyance that could be obtained. The dispute ran high, and the dilemma lasted long; and just as the executive were on the point of overcoming Mr. Pickwick’s objection to walking to the magistrate’s, by the trite expedient of carrying him thither, it was recollected that there stood in the inn yard, an old sedan-chair, which, having been originally built for a gouty gentleman with funded property, would hold Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman, at least as conveniently as a modern post-chaise. The chair was hired, and brought into the hall; Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman squeezed themselves inside, and pulled down the blinds; a couple of chairmen were speedily found; and the procession started in grand order. The specials surrounded the body of the vehicle; Mr. Grummer and Mr. Dubbley marched triumphantly in front; Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle walked arm-in-arm behind; and the unsoaped of Ipswich brought up the rear.

The shopkeepers of the town, although they had a very indistinct notion of the nature of the offence, could not but be much edified and gratified by this spectacle. Here was the strong arm of the law, coming down with twenty gold-beater force, upon two offenders from the metropolis itself; the mighty engine was directed by their own magistrate, and worked by their own officers; and both the criminals, by their united efforts, were securely shut up, in the narrow compass of one sedan-chair. Many were the expressions of approval and admiration which greeted Mr. Grummer, as he headed the cavalcade, staff in hand; loud and long were the shouts raised by the unsoaped; and amidst these united testimonials of public approbation, the procession moved slowly and majestically along.

Mr. Weller, habited in his morning jacket, with the black calico sleeves, was returning in a rather desponding state from an unsuccessful survey of the mysterious house with the green gate, when, raising his eyes, he beheld a crowd pouring down the street, surrounding an object which had very much the appearance of a sedan-chair. Willing to divert his thoughts from the failure of his enterprise, he stepped aside to see the crowd pass; and finding that they were cheering away, very much to their own satisfaction, forthwith began (by way of raising his spirits) to cheer too, with all his might and main.

Mr. Grummer passed, and Mr. Dubbley passed, and the sedan passed, and the bodyguard of specials passed, and Sam was still responding to the enthusiastic cheers of the mob, and waving his hat about as if he were in the very last extreme of the wildest joy (though, of course, he had not the faintest idea of the matter in hand), when he was suddenly stopped by the unexpected appearance of Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass.

‘What’s the row, gen’l’m’n? ’cried Sam. ‘Who have they got in this here watch-box in mournin’?’

Both gentlemen replied together, but their words were lost in the tumult.

‘Who is it?’ cried Sam again.

Once more was a joint reply returned; and, though the words were inaudible, Sam saw by the motion of the two pairs of lips that they had uttered the magic word ‘Pickwick.’

This was enough. In another minute Mr. Weller had made his way through the crowd, stopped the chairmen, and confronted the portly Grummer.

‘Hollo, old gen’l’m’n!’ said Sam. ‘Who have you got in this here conweyance?’

‘Stand back,’ said Mr. Grummer, whose dignity, like the dignity of a great many other men, had been wondrously augmented by a little popularity.

‘Knock him down, if he don’t,’ said Mr. Dubbley.

‘I’m wery much obliged to you, old gen’l’m’n,’ replied Sam, ‘for consulting my conwenience, and I’m still more obliged to the other gen’l’m’n, who looks as if he’d just escaped from a giant’s carrywan, for his wery ‘andsome suggestion; but I should prefer your givin’ me a answer to my question, if it’s all the same to you.—How are you, Sir?’ This last observation was addressed with a patronising air to Mr. Pickwick, who was peeping through the front window.

Mr. Grummer, perfectly speechless with indignation, dragged the truncheon with the brass crown from its particular pocket, and flourished it before Sam’s eyes.

‘Ah,’ said Sam, ‘it’s wery pretty, ‘specially the crown, which is uncommon like the real one.’

‘Stand back!’ said the outraged Mr. Grummer. By way of adding force to the command, he thrust the brass emblem of royalty into Sam’s neckcloth with one hand, and seized Sam’s collar with the other—a compliment which Mr. Weller returned by knocking him down out of hand, having previously with the utmost consideration, knocked down a chairman for him to lie upon.

Whether Mr. Winkle was seized with a temporary attack of that species of insanity which originates in a sense of injury, or animated by this display of Mr. Weller’s valour, is uncertain; but certain it is, that he no sooner saw Mr. Grummer fall than he made a terrific onslaught on a small boy who stood next him; whereupon Mr. Snodgrass, in a truly Christian spirit, and in order that he might take no one unawares, announced in a very loud tone that he was going to begin, and proceeded to take off his coat with the utmost deliberation. He was immediately surrounded and secured; and it is but common justice both to him and Mr. Winkle to say, that they did not make the slightest attempt to rescue either themselves or Mr. Weller; who, after a most vigorous resistance, was overpowered by numbers and taken prisoner. The procession then reformed; the chairmen resumed their stations; and the march was re- commenced.

Mr. Pickwick’s indignation during the whole of this proceeding was beyond all bounds. He could just see Sam upsetting the specials, and flying about in every direction; and that was all he could see, for the sedan doors wouldn’t open, and the blinds wouldn’t pull up. At length, with the assistance of Mr. Tupman, he managed to push open the roof; and mounting on the seat, and steadying himself as well as he could, by placing his hand on that gentleman’s shoulder, Mr. Pickwick proceeded to address the multitude; to dwell upon the unjustifiable manner in which he had been treated; and to call upon them to take notice that his servant had been first assaulted. In this order they reached the magistrate’s house; the chairmen trotting, the prisoners following, Mr. Pickwick oratorising, and the crowd shouting.

CHAPTER XXV. SHOWING, AMONG A VARIETY OF PLEASANT MATTERS, HOW MAJESTIC AND IMPARTIAL MR. NUPKINS WAS; AND HOW MR. WELLER RETURNED MR. JOB TROTTER’S SHUTTLECOCK AS HEAVILY AS IT CAME—WITH ANOTHER MATTER, WHICH WILL BE FOUND IN ITS PLACE

Violent was Mr. Weller’s indignation as he was borne along; numerous were the allusions to the personal appearance and demeanour of Mr. Grummer and his companion; and valorous were the defiances to any six of the gentlemen present, in which he vented his dissatisfaction. Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle listened with gloomy respect to the torrent of eloquence which their leader poured forth from the sedan-chair, and the rapid course of which not all Mr. Tupman’s earnest entreaties to have the lid of the vehicle closed, were able to check for an instant. But Mr. Weller’s anger quickly gave way to curiosity when the procession turned down the identical courtyard in which he had met with the runaway Job Trotter; and curiosity was exchanged for a feeling of the most gleeful astonishment, when the all-important Mr. Grummer, commanding the sedan-bearers to halt, advanced with dignified and portentous steps to the very green gate from which Job Trotter had emerged, and gave a mighty pull at the bell-handle which hung at the side thereof. The ring was answered by a very smart and pretty-faced servant-girl, who, after holding up her hands in astonishment at the rebellious appearance of the prisoners, and the impassioned language of Mr. Pickwick, summoned Mr. Muzzle. Mr. Muzzle opened one half of the carriage gate, to admit the sedan, the captured ones, and the specials; and immediately slammed it in the faces of the mob, who, indignant at being excluded, and anxious to see what followed, relieved their feelings by kicking at the gate and ringing the bell, for an hour or two afterwards. In this amusement they all took part by turns, except three or four fortunate individuals, who, having discovered a grating in the gate, which commanded a view of nothing, stared through it with the indefatigable perseverance with which people will flatten their noses against the front windows of a chemist’s shop, when a drunken man, who has been run over by a dog-cart in the street, is undergoing a surgical inspection in the back-parlour.

At the foot of a flight of steps, leading to the house door, which was guarded on either side by an American aloe in a green tub, the sedan- chair stopped. Mr. Pickwick and his friends were conducted into the hall, whence, having been previously announced by Muzzle, and ordered in by Mr. Nupkins, they were ushered into the worshipful presence of that public-spirited officer.

The scene was an impressive one, well calculated to strike terror to the hearts of culprits, and to impress them with an adequate idea of the stern majesty of the law. In front of a big book-case, in a big chair, behind a big table, and before a big volume, sat Mr. Nupkins, looking a full size larger than any one of them, big as they were. The table was adorned with piles of papers; and above the farther end of it, appeared the head and shoulders of Mr. Jinks, who was busily engaged in looking as busy as possible. The party having all entered, Muzzle carefully closed the door, and placed himself behind his master’s chair to await his orders. Mr. Nupkins threw himself back with thrilling solemnity, and scrutinised the faces of his unwilling visitors.

‘Now, Grummer, who is that person?’ said Mr. Nupkins, pointing to Mr. Pickwick, who, as the spokesman of his friends, stood hat in hand, bowing with the utmost politeness and respect.

‘This here’s Pickvick, your Wash-up,’ said Grummer.

‘Come, none o’ that ‘ere, old Strike-a-light,’ interposed Mr. Weller, elbowing himself into the front rank. ‘Beg your pardon, sir, but this here officer o’ yourn in the gambooge tops, ‘ull never earn a decent livin’ as a master o’ the ceremonies any vere. This here, sir’ continued Mr. Weller, thrusting Grummer aside, and addressing the magistrate with pleasant familiarity, ‘this here is S. Pickvick, Esquire; this here’s Mr. Tupman; that ‘ere’s Mr. Snodgrass; and farder on, next him on the t’other side, Mr. Winkle—all wery nice gen’l’m’n, Sir, as you’ll be wery happy to have the acquaintance on; so the sooner you commits these here officers o’ yourn to the tread-mill for a month or two, the sooner we shall begin to be on a pleasant understanding. Business first, pleasure arterwards, as King Richard the Third said when he stabbed the t’other king in the Tower, afore he smothered the babbies.’

At the conclusion of this address, Mr. Weller brushed his hat with his right elbow, and nodded benignly to Jinks, who had heard him throughout with unspeakable awe.

‘Who is this man, Grummer?’ said the magistrate.

‘Wery desp’rate ch’racter, your Wash-up,’ replied Grummer. ‘He attempted to rescue the prisoners, and assaulted the officers; so we took him into custody, and brought him here.’

‘You did quite right,’ replied the magistrate. ‘He is evidently a desperate ruffian.’

‘He is my servant, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick angrily.

‘Oh! he is your servant, is he?’ said Mr. Nupkins. ‘A conspiracy to defeat the ends of justice, and murder its officers. Pickwick’s servant. Put that down, Mr. Jinks.’

Mr. Jinks did so.

‘What’s your name, fellow?’ thundered Mr. Nupkins.

‘Veller,’ replied Sam.

‘A very good name for the Newgate Calendar,’ said Mr. Nupkins.

This was a joke; so Jinks, Grummer, Dubbley, all the specials, and Muzzle, went into fits of laughter of five minutes’ duration.

‘Put down his name, Mr. Jinks,’ said the magistrate.

‘Two L’s, old feller,’ said Sam.

Here an unfortunate special laughed again, whereupon the magistrate threatened to commit him instantly. It is a dangerous thing to laugh at the wrong man, in these cases.

‘Where do you live?’ said the magistrate.

‘Vere ever I can,’ replied Sam.

‘Put down that, Mr. Jinks,’ said the magistrate, who was fast rising into a rage.

‘Score it under,’ said Sam.

‘He is a vagabond, Mr. Jinks,’ said the magistrate. ‘He is a vagabond on his own statement,—is he not, Mr. Jinks?’

‘Certainly, Sir.’

‘Then I’ll commit him—I’ll commit him as such,’ said Mr. Nupkins.

‘This is a wery impartial country for justice, ‘said Sam.’ There ain’t a magistrate goin’ as don’t commit himself twice as he commits other people.’

At this sally another special laughed, and then tried to look so supernaturally solemn, that the magistrate detected him immediately.

‘Grummer,’ said Mr. Nupkins, reddening with passion, ‘how dare you select such an inefficient and disreputable person for a special constable, as that man? How dare you do it, Sir?’

‘I am very sorry, your Wash-up,’ stammered Grummer.

‘Very sorry!’ said the furious magistrate. ‘You shall repent of this neglect of duty, Mr. Grummer; you shall be made an example of. Take that fellow’s staff away. He’s drunk. You’re drunk, fellow.’

‘I am not drunk, your Worship,’ said the man.

‘You _are _drunk,’ returned the magistrate. ‘How dare you say you are not drunk, Sir, when I say you are? Doesn’t he smell of spirits, Grummer?’

‘Horrid, your Wash-up,’ replied Grummer, who had a vague impression that there was a smell of rum somewhere.

‘I knew he did,’ said Mr. Nupkins. ‘I saw he was drunk when he first came into the room, by his excited eye. Did you observe his excited eye, Mr. Jinks?’

‘Certainly, Sir.’

‘I haven’t touched a drop of spirits this morning,’ said the man, who was as sober a fellow as need be.

‘How dare you tell me a falsehood?’ said Mr. Nupkins. ‘Isn’t he drunk at this moment, Mr. Jinks?’

‘Certainly, Sir,’ replied Jinks.

‘Mr. Jinks,’ said the magistrate, ‘I shall commit that man for contempt. Make out his committal, Mr. Jinks.’

And committed the special would have been, only Jinks, who was the magistrate’s adviser (having had a legal education of three years in a country attorney’s office), whispered the magistrate that he thought it wouldn’t do; so the magistrate made a speech, and said, that in consideration of the special’s family, he would merely reprimand and discharge him. Accordingly, the special was abused, vehemently, for a quarter of an hour, and sent about his business; and Grummer, Dubbley, Muzzle, and all the other specials, murmured their admiration of the magnanimity of Mr. Nupkins.

‘Now, Mr. Jinks,’ said the magistrate, ‘swear Grummer.’

Grummer was sworn directly; but as Grummer wandered, and Mr. Nupkins’s dinner was nearly ready, Mr. Nupkins cut the matter short, by putting leading questions to Grummer, which Grummer answered as nearly in the affirmative as he could. So the examination went off, all very smooth and comfortable, and two assaults were proved against Mr. Weller, and a threat against Mr. Winkle, and a push against Mr. Snodgrass. When all this was done to the magistrate’s satisfaction, the magistrate and Mr. Jinks consulted in whispers.

The consultation having lasted about ten minutes, Mr. Jinks retired to his end of the table; and the magistrate, with a preparatory cough, drew himself up in his chair, and was proceeding to commence his address, when Mr. Pickwick interposed.

‘I beg your pardon, sir, for interrupting you,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘but before you proceed to express, and act upon, any opinion you may have formed on the statements which have been made here, I must claim my right to be heard so far as I am personally concerned.’

‘Hold your tongue, Sir,’ said the magistrate peremptorily.

‘I must submit to you, Sir—’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Hold your tongue, sir,’ interposed the magistrate, ‘or I shall order an officer to remove you.’

‘You may order your officers to do whatever you please, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘and I have no doubt, from the specimen I have had of the subordination preserved amongst them, that whatever you order, they will execute, Sir; but I shall take the liberty, Sir, of claiming my right to be heard, until I am removed by force.’

‘Pickvick and principle!’ exclaimed Mr. Weller, in a very audible voice.

‘Sam, be quiet,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Dumb as a drum vith a hole in it, Sir,’ replied Sam.

Mr. Nupkins looked at Mr. Pickwick with a gaze of intense astonishment, at his displaying such unwonted temerity; and was apparently about to return a very angry reply, when Mr. Jinks pulled him by the sleeve, and whispered something in his ear. To this, the magistrate returned a half- audible answer, and then the whispering was renewed. Jinks was evidently remonstrating.

At length the magistrate, gulping down, with a very bad grace, his disinclination to hear anything more, turned to Mr. Pickwick, and said sharply, ‘What do you want to say?’

‘First,’ said Mr. Pickwick, sending a look through his spectacles, under which even Nupkins quailed, ‘first, I wish to know what I and my friend have been brought here for?’

‘Must I tell him?’ whispered the magistrate to Jinks.

‘I think you had better, sir,’ whispered Jinks to the magistrate.

‘An information has been sworn before me,’ said the magistrate, ‘that it is apprehended you are going to fight a duel, and that the other man, Tupman, is your aider and abettor in it. Therefore—eh, Mr. Jinks?’

‘Certainly, sir.’

‘Therefore, I call upon you both, to—I think that’s the course, Mr. Jinks?’

‘Certainly, Sir.’

‘To—to—what, Mr. Jinks?’ said the magistrate pettishly.

‘To find bail, sir.’

‘Yes. Therefore, I call upon you both—as I was about to say when I was interrupted by my clerk—to find bail.’

Good bail,’ whispered Mr. Jinks.

‘I shall require good bail,’ said the magistrate.

‘Town’s-people,’ whispered Jinks.

‘They must be townspeople,’ said the magistrate.

‘Fifty pounds each,’ whispered Jinks, ‘and householders, of course.’

‘I shall require two sureties of fifty pounds each,’ said the magistrate aloud, with great dignity, ‘and they must be householders, of course.’

‘But bless my heart, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, who, together with Mr. Tupman, was all amazement and indignation; ‘we are perfect strangers in this town. I have as little knowledge of any householders here, as I have intention of fighting a duel with anybody.’

‘I dare say,’ replied the magistrate, ‘I dare say—don’t you, Mr. Jinks?’

‘Certainly, Sir.’

‘Have you anything more to say?’ inquired the magistrate.

Mr. Pickwick had a great deal more to say, which he would no doubt have said, very little to his own advantage, or the magistrate’s satisfaction, if he had not, the moment he ceased speaking, been pulled by the sleeve by Mr. Weller, with whom he was immediately engaged in so earnest a conversation, that he suffered the magistrate’s inquiry to pass wholly unnoticed. Mr. Nupkins was not the man to ask a question of the kind twice over; and so, with another preparatory cough, he proceeded, amidst the reverential and admiring silence of the constables, to pronounce his decision.

He should fine Weller two pounds for the first assault, and three pounds for the second. He should fine Winkle two pounds, and Snodgrass one pound, besides requiring them to enter into their own recognisances to keep the peace towards all his Majesty’s subjects, and especially towards his liege servant, Daniel Grummer. Pickwick and Tupman he had already held to bail.

Immediately on the magistrate ceasing to speak, Mr. Pickwick, with a smile mantling on his again good-humoured countenance, stepped forward, and said—

‘I beg the magistrate’s pardon, but may I request a few minutes’ private conversation with him, on a matter of deep importance to himself?’

‘What?’ said the magistrate. Mr. Pickwick repeated his request.

‘This is a most extraordinary request,’ said the magistrate. ‘A private interview?’

‘A private interview,’ replied Mr. Pickwick firmly; ‘only, as a part of the information which I wish to communicate is derived from my servant, I should wish him to be present.’

The magistrate looked at Mr. Jinks; Mr. Jinks looked at the magistrate; the officers looked at each other in amazement. Mr. Nupkins turned suddenly pale. Could the man Weller, in a moment of remorse, have divulged some secret conspiracy for his assassination? It was a dreadful thought. He was a public man; and he turned paler, as he thought of Julius Caesar and Mr. Perceval.

The magistrate looked at Mr. Pickwick again, and beckoned Mr. Jinks.

‘What do you think of this request, Mr. Jinks?’ murmured Mr. Nupkins.

Mr. Jinks, who didn’t exactly know what to think of it, and was afraid he might offend, smiled feebly, after a dubious fashion, and, screwing up the corners of his mouth, shook his head slowly from side to side.

‘Mr. Jinks,’ said the magistrate gravely, ‘you are an ass.’

At this little expression of opinion, Mr. Jinks smiled again—rather more feebly than before—and edged himself, by degrees, back into his own corner.

Mr. Nupkins debated the matter within himself for a few seconds, and then, rising from his chair, and requesting Mr. Pickwick and Sam to follow him, led the way into a small room which opened into the justice- parlour. Desiring Mr. Pickwick to walk to the upper end of the little apartment, and holding his hand upon the half-closed door, that he might be able to effect an immediate escape, in case there was the least tendency to a display of hostilities, Mr. Nupkins expressed his readiness to hear the communication, whatever it might be.

‘I will come to the point at once, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘it affects yourself and your credit materially. I have every reason to believe, Sir, that you are harbouring in your house a gross impostor!’

‘Two,’ interrupted Sam. ‘Mulberry agin all natur, for tears and willainny!’

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘if I am to render myself intelligible to this gentleman, I must beg you to control your feelings.’

‘Wery sorry, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘but when I think o’ that ‘ere Job, I can’t help opening the walve a inch or two.’

‘In one word, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘is my servant right in suspecting that a certain Captain Fitz-Marshall is in the habit of visiting here? Because,’ added Mr. Pickwick, as he saw that Mr. Nupkins was about to offer a very indignant interruption, ‘because if he be, I know that person to be a—’

‘Hush, hush,’ said Mr. Nupkins, closing the door. ‘Know him to be what, Sir?’

‘An unprincipled adventurer—a dishonourable character—a man who preys upon society, and makes easily-deceived people his dupes, Sir; his absurd, his foolish, his wretched dupes, Sir,’ said the excited Mr. Pickwick.

‘Dear me,’ said Mr. Nupkins, turning very red, and altering his whole manner directly. ‘Dear me, Mr.—’

‘Pickvick,’ said Sam.

‘Pickwick,’ said the magistrate, ‘dear me, Mr. Pickwick—pray take a seat—you cannot mean this? Captain Fitz-Marshall!’

‘Don’t call him a cap’en,’ said Sam, ‘nor Fitz-Marshall neither; he ain’t neither one nor t’other. He’s a strolling actor, he is, and his name’s Jingle; and if ever there was a wolf in a mulberry suit, that ‘ere Job Trotter’s him.’

‘It is very true, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, replying to the magistrate’s look of amazement; ‘my only business in this town, is to expose the person of whom we now speak.’

Mr. Pickwick proceeded to pour into the horror-stricken ear of Mr. Nupkins, an abridged account of all Mr. Jingle’s atrocities. He related how he had first met him; how he had eloped with Miss Wardle; how he had cheerfully resigned the lady for a pecuniary consideration; how he had entrapped himself into a lady’s boarding-school at midnight; and how he (Mr. Pickwick) now felt it his duty to expose his assumption of his present name and rank.

As the narrative proceeded, all the warm blood in the body of Mr. Nupkins tingled up into the very tips of his ears. He had picked up the captain at a neighbouring race-course. Charmed with his long list of aristocratic acquaintance, his extensive travel, and his fashionable demeanour, Mrs. Nupkins and Miss Nupkins had exhibited Captain Fitz- Marshall, and quoted Captain Fitz-Marshall, and hurled Captain Fitz- Marshall at the devoted heads of their select circle of acquaintance, until their bosom friends, Mrs. Porkenham and the Misses Porkenhams, and Mr. Sidney Porkenham, were ready to burst with jealousy and despair. And now, to hear, after all, that he was a needy adventurer, a strolling player, and if not a swindler, something so very like it, that it was hard to tell the difference! Heavens! what would the Porkenhams say! What would be the triumph of Mr. Sidney Porkenham when he found that his addresses had been slighted for such a rival! How should he, Nupkins, meet the eye of old Porkenham at the next quarter-sessions! And what a handle would it be for the opposition magisterial party if the story got abroad!

‘But after all,’ said Mr. Nupkins, brightening for a moment, after a long pause; ‘after all, this is a mere statement. Captain Fitz-Marshall is a man of very engaging manners, and, I dare say, has many enemies. What proof have you of the truth of these representations?’

‘Confront me with him,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘that is all I ask, and all I require. Confront him with me and my friends here; you will want no further proof.’

‘Why,’ said Mr. Nupkins, ‘that might be very easily done, for he will be here to-night, and then there would be no occasion to make the matter public, just—just—for the young man’s own sake, you know. I—I—should like to consult Mrs. Nupkins on the propriety of the step, in the first instance, though. At all events, Mr. Pickwick, we must despatch this legal business before we can do anything else. Pray step back into the next room.’

Into the next room they went.

‘Grummer,’ said the magistrate, in an awful voice.

‘Your Wash-up,’ replied Grummer, with the smile of a favourite.

‘Come, come, Sir,’ said the magistrate sternly, ‘don’t let me see any of this levity here. It is very unbecoming, and I can assure you that you have very little to smile at. Was the account you gave me just now strictly true? Now be careful, sir!’

Your Wash-up,’ stammered Grummer, ‘I-’

‘Oh, you are confused, are you?’ said the magistrate. ‘Mr. Jinks, you observe this confusion?’

‘Certainly, Sir,’ replied Jinks.

‘Now,’ said the magistrate, ‘repeat your statement, Grummer, and again I warn you to be careful. Mr. Jinks, take his words down.’

The unfortunate Grummer proceeded to re-state his complaint, but, what between Mr. Jinks’s taking down his words, and the magistrate’s taking them up, his natural tendency to rambling, and his extreme confusion, he managed to get involved, in something under three minutes, in such a mass of entanglement and contradiction, that Mr. Nupkins at once declared he didn’t believe him. So the fines were remitted, and Mr. Jinks found a couple of bail in no time. And all these solemn proceedings having been satisfactorily concluded, Mr. Grummer was ignominiously ordered out—an awful instance of the instability of human greatness, and the uncertain tenure of great men’s favour.

Mrs. Nupkins was a majestic female in a pink gauze turban and a light brown wig. Miss Nupkins possessed all her mamma’s haughtiness without the turban, and all her ill-nature without the wig; and whenever the exercise of these two amiable qualities involved mother and daughter in some unpleasant dilemma, as they not infrequently did, they both concurred in laying the blame on the shoulders of Mr. Nupkins. Accordingly, when Mr. Nupkins sought Mrs. Nupkins, and detailed the communication which had been made by Mr. Pickwick, Mrs. Nupkins suddenly recollected that she had always expected something of the kind; that she had always said it would be so; that her advice was never taken; that she really did not know what Mr. Nupkins supposed she was; and so forth.

‘The idea!’ said Miss Nupkins, forcing a tear of very scanty proportions into the corner of each eye; ‘the idea of my being made such a fool of!’

‘Ah! you may thank your papa, my dear,’ said Mrs. Nupkins; ‘how I have implored and begged that man to inquire into the captain’s family connections; how I have urged and entreated him to take some decisive step! I am quite certain nobody would believe it—quite.’

‘But, my dear,’ said Mr. Nupkins.

‘Don’t talk to me, you aggravating thing, don’t!’ said Mrs. Nupkins.

‘My love,’ said Mr. Nupkins, ‘you professed yourself very fond of Captain Fitz-Marshall. You have constantly asked him here, my dear, and you have lost no opportunity of introducing him elsewhere.’

‘Didn’t I say so, Henrietta?’ cried Mrs. Nupkins, appealing to her daughter with the air of a much-injured female. ‘Didn’t I say that your papa would turn round and lay all this at my door? Didn’t I say so?’ Here Mrs. Nupkins sobbed.

‘Oh, pa!’ remonstrated Miss Nupkins. And here she sobbed too.

‘Isn’t it too much, when he has brought all this disgrace and ridicule upon us, to taunt me with being the cause of it?’ exclaimed Mrs. Nupkins.

‘How can we ever show ourselves in society!’ said Miss Nupkins.

‘How can we face the Porkenhams?’ cried Mrs. Nupkins.

‘Or the Griggs!’ cried Miss Nupkins.

‘Or the Slummintowkens!’ cried Mrs. Nupkins. ‘But what does your papa care! What is it to him!’ At this dreadful reflection, Mrs. Nupkins wept mental anguish, and Miss Nupkins followed on the same side.

Mrs. Nupkins’s tears continued to gush forth, with great velocity, until she had gained a little time to think the matter over; when she decided, in her own mind, that the best thing to do would be to ask Mr. Pickwick and his friends to remain until the captain’s arrival, and then to give Mr. Pickwick the opportunity he sought. If it appeared that he had spoken truly, the captain could be turned out of the house without noising the matter abroad, and they could easily account to the Porkenhams for his disappearance, by saying that he had been appointed, through the Court influence of his family, to the governor-generalship of Sierra Leone, of Saugur Point, or any other of those salubrious climates which enchant Europeans so much, that when they once get there, they can hardly ever prevail upon themselves to come back again.

When Mrs. Nupkins dried up her tears, Miss Nupkins dried up hers, and Mr. Nupkins was very glad to settle the matter as Mrs. Nupkins had proposed. So Mr. Pickwick and his friends, having washed off all marks of their late encounter, were introduced to the ladies, and soon afterwards to their dinner; and Mr. Weller, whom the magistrate, with his peculiar sagacity, had discovered in half an hour to be one of the finest fellows alive, was consigned to the care and guardianship of Mr. Muzzle, who was specially enjoined to take him below, and make much of him.

‘How de do, sir?’ said Mr. Muzzle, as he conducted Mr. Weller down the kitchen stairs.

‘Why, no considerable change has taken place in the state of my system, since I see you cocked up behind your governor’s chair in the parlour, a little vile ago,’ replied Sam.

‘You will excuse my not taking more notice of you then,’ said Mr. Muzzle. ‘You see, master hadn’t introduced us, then. Lord, how fond he is of you, Mr. Weller, to be sure!’

‘Ah!’ said Sam, ‘what a pleasant chap he is!’

‘Ain’t he?’ replied Mr. Muzzle.

‘So much humour,’ said Sam.

‘And such a man to speak,’ said Mr. Muzzle. ‘How his ideas flow, don’t they?’

‘Wonderful,’ replied Sam; ‘they comes a-pouring out, knocking each other’s heads so fast, that they seems to stun one another; you hardly know what he’s arter, do you?’

That’s the great merit of his style of speaking,’ rejoined Mr. Muzzle. ‘Take care of the last step, Mr. Weller. Would you like to wash your hands, sir, before we join the ladies? Here’s a sink, with the water laid on, Sir, and a clean jack towel behind the door.’

‘Ah! perhaps I may as well have a rinse,’ replied Mr. Weller, applying plenty of yellow soap to the towel, and rubbing away till his face shone again. ‘How many ladies are there?’

‘Only two in our kitchen,’ said Mr. Muzzle; ‘cook and ‘ouse-maid. We keep a boy to do the dirty work, and a gal besides, but they dine in the wash’us.’

‘Oh, they dines in the wash’us, do they?’ said Mr. Weller.

‘Yes,’ replied Mr. Muzzle, ‘we tried ‘em at our table when they first come, but we couldn’t keep ‘em. The gal’s manners is dreadful vulgar; and the boy breathes so very hard while he’s eating, that we found it impossible to sit at table with him.’

‘Young grampus!’ said Mr. Weller.

‘Oh, dreadful,’ rejoined Mr. Muzzle; ‘but that is the worst of country service, Mr. Weller; the juniors is always so very savage. This way, sir, if you please, this way.’

Preceding Mr. Weller, with the utmost politeness, Mr. Muzzle conducted him into the kitchen.

‘Mary,’ said Mr. Muzzle to the pretty servant-girl, ‘this is Mr. Weller; a gentleman as master has sent down, to be made as comfortable as possible.’

‘And your master’s a knowin’ hand, and has just sent me to the right place,’ said Mr. Weller, with a glance of admiration at Mary. ‘If I wos master o’ this here house, I should alvays find the materials for comfort vere Mary wos.’

Lor, Mr. Weller!’ said Mary blushing.

‘Well, I never!’ ejaculated the cook.

‘Bless me, cook, I forgot you,’ said Mr. Muzzle. ‘Mr. Weller, let me introduce you.’

‘How are you, ma’am?’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Wery glad to see you, indeed, and hope our acquaintance may be a long ‘un, as the gen’l’m’n said to the fi’ pun’ note.’

When this ceremony of introduction had been gone through, the cook and Mary retired into the back kitchen to titter, for ten minutes; then returning, all giggles and blushes, they sat down to dinner.

Mr. Weller’s easy manners and conversational powers had such irresistible influence with his new friends, that before the dinner was half over, they were on a footing of perfect intimacy, and in possession of a full account of the delinquency of Job Trotter.

‘I never could a-bear that Job,’ said Mary.

‘No more you never ought to, my dear,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘Why not?’ inquired Mary.

‘’Cos ugliness and svindlin’ never ought to be formiliar with elegance and wirtew,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Ought they, Mr. Muzzle?’

‘Not by no means,’ replied that gentleman.

Here Mary laughed, and said the cook had made her; and the cook laughed, and said she hadn’t.

‘I ha’n’t got a glass,’ said Mary.

‘Drink with me, my dear,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Put your lips to this here tumbler, and then I can kiss you by deputy.’

‘For shame, Mr. Weller!’ said Mary.

‘What’s a shame, my dear?’

‘Talkin’ in that way.’

‘Nonsense; it ain’t no harm. It’s natur; ain’t it, cook?’

‘Don’t ask me, imperence,’ replied the cook, in a high state of delight; and hereupon the cook and Mary laughed again, till what between the beer, and the cold meat, and the laughter combined, the latter young lady was brought to the verge of choking—an alarming crisis from which she was only recovered by sundry pats on the back, and other necessary attentions, most delicately administered by Mr. Samuel Weller.

In the midst of all this jollity and conviviality, a loud ring was heard at the garden gate, to which the young gentleman who took his meals in the wash-house, immediately responded. Mr. Weller was in the height of his attentions to the pretty house-maid; Mr. Muzzle was busy doing the honours of the table; and the cook had just paused to laugh, in the very act of raising a huge morsel to her lips; when the kitchen door opened, and in walked Mr. Job Trotter.

We have said in walked Mr. Job Trotter, but the statement is not distinguished by our usual scrupulous adherence to fact. The door opened and Mr. Trotter appeared. He would have walked in, and was in the very act of doing so, indeed, when catching sight of Mr. Weller, he involuntarily shrank back a pace or two, and stood gazing on the unexpected scene before him, perfectly motionless with amazement and terror.

‘Here he is!’ said Sam, rising with great glee. ‘Why we were that wery moment a-speaking o’ you. How are you? Where have you been? Come in.’

Laying his hand on the mulberry collar of the unresisting Job, Mr. Weller dragged him into the kitchen; and, locking the door, handed the key to Mr. Muzzle, who very coolly buttoned it up in a side pocket.

‘Well, here’s a game!’ cried Sam. ‘Only think o’ my master havin’ the pleasure o’ meeting yourn upstairs, and me havin’ the joy o’ meetin’ you down here. How are you gettin’ on, and how is the chandlery bis’ness likely to do? Well, I am so glad to see you. How happy you look. It’s quite a treat to see you; ain’t it, Mr. Muzzle?’

‘Quite,’ said Mr. Muzzle.

‘So cheerful he is!’ said Sam.

‘In such good spirits!’ said Muzzle.

‘And so glad to see us—that makes it so much more comfortable,’ said Sam. ‘Sit down; sit down.’

Mr. Trotter suffered himself to be forced into a chair by the fireside. He cast his small eyes, first on Mr. Weller, and then on Mr. Muzzle, but said nothing.

‘Well, now,’ said Sam, ‘afore these here ladies, I should jest like to ask you, as a sort of curiosity, whether you don’t consider yourself as nice and well-behaved a young gen’l’m’n, as ever used a pink check pocket-handkerchief, and the number four collection?’

‘And as was ever a-going to be married to a cook,’ said that lady indignantly. ‘The willin!’

‘And leave off his evil ways, and set up in the chandlery line arterwards,’ said the housemaid.

‘Now, I’ll tell you what it is, young man,’ said Mr. Muzzle solemnly, enraged at the last two allusions, ‘this here lady (pointing to the cook) keeps company with me; and when you presume, Sir, to talk of keeping chandlers’ shops with her, you injure me in one of the most delicatest points in which one man can injure another. Do you understand that, Sir?’

Here Mr. Muzzle, who had a great notion of his eloquence, in which he imitated his master, paused for a reply.

But Mr. Trotter made no reply. So Mr. Muzzle proceeded in a solemn manner—

‘It’s very probable, sir, that you won’t be wanted upstairs for several minutes, Sir, because my master is at this moment particularly engaged in settling the hash of _your _master, Sir; and therefore you’ll have leisure, Sir, for a little private talk with me, Sir. Do you understand that, Sir?’

Mr. Muzzle again paused for a reply; and again Mr. Trotter disappointed him.

‘Well, then,’ said Mr. Muzzle, ‘I’m very sorry to have to explain myself before ladies, but the urgency of the case will be my excuse. The back kitchen’s empty, Sir. If you will step in there, Sir, Mr. Weller will see fair, and we can have mutual satisfaction till the bell rings. Follow me, Sir!’

As Mr. Muzzle uttered these words, he took a step or two towards the door; and, by way of saving time, began to pull off his coat as he walked along.

Now, the cook no sooner heard the concluding words of this desperate challenge, and saw Mr. Muzzle about to put it into execution, than she uttered a loud and piercing shriek; and rushing on Mr. Job Trotter, who rose from his chair on the instant, tore and buffeted his large flat face, with an energy peculiar to excited females, and twining her hands in his long black hair, tore therefrom about enough to make five or six dozen of the very largest-sized mourning-rings. Having accomplished this feat with all the ardour which her devoted love for Mr. Muzzle inspired, she staggered back; and being a lady of very excitable and delicate feelings, she instantly fell under the dresser, and fainted away.

At this moment, the bell rang.

‘That’s for you, Job Trotter,’ said Sam; and before Mr. Trotter could offer remonstrance or reply—even before he had time to stanch the wounds inflicted by the insensible lady—Sam seized one arm and Mr. Muzzle the other, and one pulling before, and the other pushing behind, they conveyed him upstairs, and into the parlour.

It was an impressive tableau. Alfred Jingle, Esquire, alias Captain Fitz-Marshall, was standing near the door with his hat in his hand, and a smile on his face, wholly unmoved by his very unpleasant situation. Confronting him, stood Mr. Pickwick, who had evidently been inculcating some high moral lesson; for his left hand was beneath his coat tail, and his right extended in air, as was his wont when delivering himself of an impressive address. At a little distance, stood Mr. Tupman with indignant countenance, carefully held back by his two younger friends; at the farther end of the room were Mr. Nupkins, Mrs. Nupkins, and Miss Nupkins, gloomily grand and savagely vexed.

‘What prevents me,’ said Mr. Nupkins, with magisterial dignity, as Job was brought in—‘what prevents me from detaining these men as rogues and impostors? It is a foolish mercy. What prevents me?’

‘Pride, old fellow, pride,’ replied Jingle, quite at his ease. ‘Wouldn’t do—no go—caught a captain, eh?—ha! ha! very good—husband for daughter—biter bit—make it public—not for worlds—look stupid—very!’

‘Wretch,’ said Mr. Nupkins, ‘we scorn your base insinuations.’

‘I always hated him,’ added Henrietta.

‘Oh, of course,’ said Jingle. ‘Tall young man—old lover—Sidney Porkenham—rich—fine fellow—not so rich as captain, though, eh?—turn him away—off with him—anything for captain—nothing like captain anywhere—all the girls—raving mad—eh, Job, eh?’

Here Mr. Jingle laughed very heartily; and Job, rubbing his hands with delight, uttered the first sound he had given vent to since he entered the house—a low, noiseless chuckle, which seemed to intimate that he enjoyed his laugh too much, to let any of it escape in sound.

‘Mr. Nupkins,’ said the elder lady,’ this is not a fit conversation for the servants to overhear. Let these wretches be removed.’

‘Certainly, my dear,’ Said Mr. Nupkins. ‘Muzzle!’

‘Your Worship.’

‘Open the front door.’

‘Yes, your Worship.’

‘Leave the house!’ said Mr. Nupkins, waving his hand emphatically.

Jingle smiled, and moved towards the door.

‘Stay!’ said Mr. Pickwick. Jingle stopped.

‘I might,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘have taken a much greater revenge for the treatment I have experienced at your hands, and that of your hypocritical friend there.’

Job Trotter bowed with great politeness, and laid his hand upon his heart.

‘I say,’ said Mr. Pickwick, growing gradually angry, ‘that I might have taken a greater revenge, but I content myself with exposing you, which I consider a duty I owe to society. This is a leniency, Sir, which I hope you will remember.’

When Mr. Pickwick arrived at this point, Job Trotter, with facetious gravity, applied his hand to his ear, as if desirous not to lose a syllable he uttered.

‘And I have only to add, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, now thoroughly angry, ‘that I consider you a rascal, and a—a—ruffian—and—and worse than any man I ever saw, or heard of, except that pious and sanctified vagabond in the mulberry livery.’

‘Ha! ha!’ said Jingle, ‘good fellow, Pickwick—fine heart—stout old boy—but must _not _be passionate—bad thing, very—bye, bye—see you again some day—keep up your spirits—now, Job—trot!’

With these words, Mr. Jingle stuck on his hat in his old fashion, and strode out of the room. Job Trotter paused, looked round, smiled and then with a bow of mock solemnity to Mr. Pickwick, and a wink to Mr. Weller, the audacious slyness of which baffles all description, followed the footsteps of his hopeful master.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as Mr. Weller was following.

‘Sir.’

Stay here.’

Mr. Weller seemed uncertain.

‘Stay here,’ repeated Mr. Pickwick.

‘Mayn’t I polish that ‘ere Job off, in the front garden?’ said Mr. Weller.

‘Certainly not,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Mayn’t I kick him out o’ the gate, Sir?’ said Mr. Weller.

‘Not on any account,’ replied his master.

For the first time since his engagement, Mr. Weller looked, for a moment, discontented and unhappy. But his countenance immediately cleared up; for the wily Mr. Muzzle, by concealing himself behind the street door, and rushing violently out, at the right instant, contrived with great dexterity to overturn both Mr. Jingle and his attendant, down the flight of steps, into the American aloe tubs that stood beneath.

‘Having discharged my duty, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick to Mr. Nupkins, ‘I will, with my friends, bid you farewell. While we thank you for such hospitality as we have received, permit me to assure you, in our joint names, that we should not have accepted it, or have consented to extricate ourselves in this way, from our previous dilemma, had we not been impelled by a strong sense of duty. We return to London to-morrow. Your secret is safe with us.’

Having thus entered his protest against their treatment of the morning, Mr. Pickwick bowed low to the ladies, and notwithstanding the solicitations of the family, left the room with his friends.

‘Get your hat, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘It’s below stairs, Sir,’ said Sam, and he ran down after it.

Now, there was nobody in the kitchen, but the pretty housemaid; and as Sam’s hat was mislaid, he had to look for it, and the pretty housemaid lighted him. They had to look all over the place for the hat. The pretty housemaid, in her anxiety to find it, went down on her knees, and turned over all the things that were heaped together in a little corner by the door. It was an awkward corner. You couldn’t get at it without shutting the door first.

‘Here it is,’ said the pretty housemaid. ‘This is it, ain’t it?’

‘Let me look,’ said Sam.

The pretty housemaid had stood the candle on the floor; and, as it gave a very dim light, Sam was obliged to go down on _his _knees before he could see whether it really was his own hat or not. It was a remarkably small corner, and so—it was nobody’s fault but the man’s who built the house—Sam and the pretty housemaid were necessarily very close together.

‘Yes, this is it,’ said Sam. ‘Good-bye!’

‘Good-bye!’ said the pretty housemaid.

‘Good-bye!’ said Sam; and as he said it, he dropped the hat that had cost so much trouble in looking for.

‘How awkward you are,’ said the pretty housemaid. ‘You’ll lose it again, if you don’t take care.’

So just to prevent his losing it again, she put it on for him.

Whether it was that the pretty housemaid’s face looked prettier still, when it was raised towards Sam’s, or whether it was the accidental consequence of their being so near to each other, is matter of uncertainty to this day; but Sam kissed her.

‘You don’t mean to say you did that on purpose,’ said the pretty housemaid, blushing.

‘No, I didn’t then,’ said Sam; ‘but I will now.’

So he kissed her again.

‘Sam!’ said Mr. Pickwick, calling over the banisters.

‘Coming, Sir,’ replied Sam, running upstairs.

‘How long you have been!’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘There was something behind the door, Sir, which perwented our getting it open, for ever so long, Sir,’ replied Sam.

And this was the first passage of Mr. Weller’s first love.

CHAPTER XXVI. WHICH CONTAINS A BRIEF ACCOUNT OF THE PROGRESS OF THE ACTION OF BARDELL AGAINST PICKWICK

Having accomplished the main end and object of his journey, by the exposure of Jingle, Mr. Pickwick resolved on immediately returning to London, with the view of becoming acquainted with the proceedings which had been taken against him, in the meantime, by Messrs. Dodson and Fogg. Acting upon this resolution with all the energy and decision of his character, he mounted to the back seat of the first coach which left Ipswich on the morning after the memorable occurrences detailed at length in the two preceding chapters; and accompanied by his three friends, and Mr. Samuel Weller, arrived in the metropolis, in perfect health and safety, the same evening.

Here the friends, for a short time, separated. Messrs. Tupman, Winkle, and Snodgrass repaired to their several homes to make such preparations as might be requisite for their forthcoming visit to Dingley Dell; and Mr. Pickwick and Sam took up their present abode in very good, old- fashioned, and comfortable quarters, to wit, the George and Vulture Tavern and Hotel, George Yard, Lombard Street.

Mr. Pickwick had dined, finished his second pint of particular port, pulled his silk handkerchief over his head, put his feet on the fender, and thrown himself back in an easy-chair, when the entrance of Mr. Weller with his carpet-bag, aroused him from his tranquil meditation.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Sir,’ said Mr. Weller.

‘I have just been thinking, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘that having left a good many things at Mrs. Bardell’s, in Goswell Street, I ought to arrange for taking them away, before I leave town again.’

‘Wery good, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘I could send them to Mr. Tupman’s, for the present, Sam,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, ‘but before we take them away, it is necessary that they should be looked up, and put together. I wish you would step up to Goswell Street, Sam, and arrange about it.’

‘At once, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Weller.

‘At once,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘And stay, Sam,’ added Mr. Pickwick, pulling out his purse, ‘there is some rent to pay. The quarter is not due till Christmas, but you may pay it, and have done with it. A month’s notice terminates my tenancy. Here it is, written out. Give it, and tell Mrs. Bardell she may put a bill up, as soon as she likes.’

‘Wery good, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘anythin’ more, sir?’

‘Nothing more, Sam.’

Mr. Weller stepped slowly to the door, as if he expected something more; slowly opened it, slowly stepped out, and had slowly closed it within a couple of inches, when Mr. Pickwick called out—

‘Sam.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Mr. Weller, stepping quickly back, and closing the door behind him.

‘I have no objection, Sam, to your endeavouring to ascertain how Mrs. Bardell herself seems disposed towards me, and whether it is really probable that this vile and groundless action is to be carried to extremity. I say I do not object to you doing this, if you wish it, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

Sam gave a short nod of intelligence, and left the room. Mr. Pickwick drew the silk handkerchief once more over his head, And composed himself for a nap. Mr. Weller promptly walked forth, to execute his commission.

It was nearly nine o’clock when he reached Goswell Street. A couple of candles were burning in the little front parlour, and a couple of caps were reflected on the window-blind. Mrs. Bardell had got company.

Mr. Weller knocked at the door, and after a pretty long interval— occupied by the party without, in whistling a tune, and by the party within, in persuading a refractory flat candle to allow itself to be lighted—a pair of small boots pattered over the floor-cloth, and Master Bardell presented himself.

‘Well, young townskip,’ said Sam, ‘how’s mother?’

‘She’s pretty well,’ replied Master Bardell, ‘so am I.’

‘Well, that’s a mercy,’ said Sam; ‘tell her I want to speak to her, will you, my hinfant fernomenon?’

Master Bardell, thus adjured, placed the refractory flat candle on the bottom stair, and vanished into the front parlour with his message.

The two caps, reflected on the window-blind, were the respective head- dresses of a couple of Mrs. Bardell’s most particular acquaintance, who had just stepped in, to have a quiet cup of tea, and a little warm supper of a couple of sets of pettitoes and some toasted cheese. The cheese was simmering and browning away, most delightfully, in a little Dutch oven before the fire; the pettitoes were getting on deliciously in a little tin saucepan on the hob; and Mrs. Bardell and her two friends were getting on very well, also, in a little quiet conversation about and concerning all their particular friends and acquaintance; when Master Bardell came back from answering the door, and delivered the message intrusted to him by Mr. Samuel Weller.

‘Mr. Pickwick’s servant!’ said Mrs. Bardell, turning pale.

‘Bless my soul!’ said Mrs. Cluppins.

‘Well, I raly would not ha’ believed it, unless I had ha’ happened to ha’ been here!’ said Mrs. Sanders.

Mrs. Cluppins was a little, brisk, busy-looking woman; Mrs. Sanders was a big, fat, heavy-faced personage; and the two were the company.

Mrs. Bardell felt it proper to be agitated; and as none of the three exactly knew whether under existing circumstances, any communication, otherwise than through Dodson & Fogg, ought to be held with Mr. Pickwick’s servant, they were all rather taken by surprise. In this state of indecision, obviously the first thing to be done, was to thump the boy for finding Mr. Weller at the door. So his mother thumped him, and he cried melodiously.

‘Hold your noise—do—you naughty creetur!’ said Mrs. Bardell.

‘Yes; don’t worrit your poor mother,’ said Mrs. Sanders.

‘She’s quite enough to worrit her, as it is, without you, Tommy,’ said Mrs. Cluppins, with sympathising resignation.

‘Ah! worse luck, poor lamb!’ said Mrs. Sanders.

At all which moral reflections, Master Bardell howled the louder.

‘Now, what shall I do?’ said Mrs. Bardell to Mrs. Cluppins.

‘I think you ought to see him,’ replied Mrs. Cluppins. ‘But on no account without a witness.’

‘I think two witnesses would be more lawful,’ said Mrs. Sanders, who, like the other friend, was bursting with curiosity.

‘Perhaps he’d better come in here,’ said Mrs. Bardell.

‘To be sure,’ replied Mrs. Cluppins, eagerly catching at the idea; ‘walk in, young man; and shut the street door first, please.’

Mr. Weller immediately took the hint; and presenting himself in the parlour, explained his business to Mrs. Bardell thus—

‘Wery sorry to ‘casion any personal inconwenience, ma’am, as the housebreaker said to the old lady when he put her on the fire; but as me and my governor ‘s only jest come to town, and is jest going away agin, it can’t be helped, you see.’

‘Of course, the young man can’t help the faults of his master,’ said Mrs. Cluppins, much struck by Mr. Weller’s appearance and conversation.

‘Certainly not,’ chimed in Mrs. Sanders, who, from certain wistful glances at the little tin saucepan, seemed to be engaged in a mental calculation of the probable extent of the pettitoes, in the event of Sam’s being asked to stop to supper.

‘So all I’ve come about, is jest this here,’ said Sam, disregarding the interruption; ‘first, to give my governor’s notice—there it is. Secondly, to pay the rent—here it is. Thirdly, to say as all his things is to be put together, and give to anybody as we sends for ‘em. Fourthly, that you may let the place as soon as you like—and that’s all.’

‘Whatever has happened,’ said Mrs. Bardell, ‘I always have said, and always will say, that in every respect but one, Mr. Pickwick has always behaved himself like a perfect gentleman. His money always as good as the bank—always.’

As Mrs. Bardell said this, she applied her handkerchief to her eyes, and went out of the room to get the receipt.

Sam well knew that he had only to remain quiet, and the women were sure to talk; so he looked alternately at the tin saucepan, the toasted cheese, the wall, and the ceiling, in profound silence.

‘Poor dear!’ said Mrs. Cluppins.

‘Ah, poor thing!’ replied Mrs. Sanders.

Sam said nothing. He saw they were coming to the subject.

‘I raly cannot contain myself,’ said Mrs. Cluppins, ‘when I think of such perjury. I don’t wish to say anything to make you uncomfortable, young man, but your master’s an old brute, and I wish I had him here to tell him so.’

I wish you had,’ said Sam.

‘To see how dreadful she takes on, going moping about, and taking no pleasure in nothing, except when her friends comes in, out of charity, to sit with her, and make her comfortable,’ resumed Mrs. Cluppins, glancing at the tin saucepan and the Dutch oven, ‘it’s shocking!’

‘Barbareous,’ said Mrs. Sanders.

‘And your master, young man! A gentleman with money, as could never feel the expense of a wife, no more than nothing,’ continued Mrs. Cluppins, with great volubility; ‘why there ain’t the faintest shade of an excuse for his behaviour! Why don’t he marry her?’

‘Ah,’ said Sam, ‘to be sure; that’s the question.’

‘Question, indeed,’ retorted Mrs. Cluppins, ‘she’d question him, if she’d my spirit. Hows’ever, there is law for us women, mis’rable creeturs as they’d make us, if they could; and that your master will find out, young man, to his cost, afore he’s six months older.’

At this consolatory reflection, Mrs. Cluppins bridled up, and smiled at Mrs. Sanders, who smiled back again.

‘The action’s going on, and no mistake,’ thought Sam, as Mrs. Bardell re-entered with the receipt.

‘Here’s the receipt, Mr. Weller,’ said Mrs. Bardell, ‘and here’s the change, and I hope you’ll take a little drop of something to keep the cold out, if it’s only for old acquaintance’ sake, Mr. Weller.’

Sam saw the advantage he should gain, and at once acquiesced; whereupon Mrs. Bardell produced, from a small closet, a black bottle and a wine- glass; and so great was her abstraction, in her deep mental affliction, that, after filling Mr. Weller’s glass, she brought out three more wine- glasses, and filled them too.

‘Lauk, Mrs. Bardell,’ said Mrs. Cluppins, ‘see what you’ve been and done!’

‘Well, that is a good one!’ ejaculated Mrs. Sanders.

‘Ah, my poor head!’ said Mrs. Bardell, with a faint smile.

Sam understood all this, of course, so he said at once, that he never could drink before supper, unless a lady drank with him. A great deal of laughter ensued, and Mrs. Sanders volunteered to humour him, so she took a slight sip out of her glass. Then Sam said it must go all round, so they all took a slight sip. Then little Mrs. Cluppins proposed as a toast, ‘Success to Bardell agin Pickwick’; and then the ladies emptied their glasses in honour of the sentiment, and got very talkative directly.

‘I suppose you’ve heard what’s going forward, Mr. Weller?’ said Mrs. Bardell.

‘I’ve heerd somethin’ on it,’ replied Sam.

‘It’s a terrible thing to be dragged before the public, in that way, Mr. Weller,’ said Mrs. Bardell; ‘but I see now, that it’s the only thing I ought to do, and my lawyers, Mr. Dodson and Fogg, tell me that, with the evidence as we shall call, we must succeed. I don’t know what I should do, Mr. Weller, if I didn’t.’

The mere idea of Mrs. Bardell’s failing in her action, affected Mrs. Sanders so deeply, that she was under the necessity of refilling and re- emptying her glass immediately; feeling, as she said afterwards, that if she hadn’t had the presence of mind to do so, she must have dropped.

‘Ven is it expected to come on?’ inquired Sam.

‘Either in February or March,’ replied Mrs. Bardell.

‘What a number of witnesses there’ll be, won’t there?’ said Mrs. Cluppins.

‘Ah! won’t there!’ replied Mrs. Sanders.

‘And won’t Mr. Dodson and Fogg be wild if the plaintiff shouldn’t get it?’ added Mrs. Cluppins, ‘when they do it all on speculation!’

‘Ah! won’t they!’ said Mrs. Sanders.

‘But the plaintiff must get it,’ resumed Mrs. Cluppins.

‘I hope so,’ said Mrs. Bardell.

‘Oh, there can’t be any doubt about it,’ rejoined Mrs. Sanders.

‘Vell,’ said Sam, rising and setting down his glass, ‘all I can say is, that I vish you _may _get it.’

‘Thank’ee, Mr. Weller,’ said Mrs. Bardell fervently.

‘And of them Dodson and Foggs, as does these sort o’ things on spec,’ continued Mr. Weller, ‘as vell as for the other kind and gen’rous people o’ the same purfession, as sets people by the ears, free gratis for nothin’, and sets their clerks to work to find out little disputes among their neighbours and acquaintances as vants settlin’ by means of lawsuits—all I can say o’ them is, that I vish they had the reward I’d give ‘em.’

‘Ah, I wish they had the reward that every kind and generous heart would be inclined to bestow upon them!’ said the gratified Mrs. Bardell.

‘Amen to that,’ replied Sam, ‘and a fat and happy liven’ they’d get out of it! Wish you good-night, ladies.’

To the great relief of Mrs. Sanders, Sam was allowed to depart without any reference, on the part of the hostess, to the pettitoes and toasted cheese; to which the ladies, with such juvenile assistance as Master Bardell could afford, soon afterwards rendered the amplest justice— indeed they wholly vanished before their strenuous exertions.

Mr. Weller wended his way back to the George and Vulture, and faithfully recounted to his master, such indications of the sharp practice of Dodson & Fogg, as he had contrived to pick up in his visit to Mrs. Bardell’s. An interview with Mr. Perker, next day, more than confirmed Mr. Weller’s statement; and Mr. Pickwick was fain to prepare for his Christmas visit to Dingley Dell, with the pleasant anticipation that some two or three months afterwards, an action brought against him for damages sustained by reason of a breach of promise of marriage, would be publicly tried in the Court of Common Pleas; the plaintiff having all the advantages derivable, not only from the force of circumstances, but from the sharp practice of Dodson & Fogg to boot.

CHAPTER XXVII. SAMUEL WELLER MAKES A PILGRIMAGE TO DORKING, AND BEHOLDS HIS MOTHER-IN-LAW

There still remaining an interval of two days before the time agreed upon for the departure of the Pickwickians to Dingley Dell, Mr. Weller sat himself down in a back room at the George and Vulture, after eating an early dinner, to muse on the best way of disposing of his time. It was a remarkably fine day; and he had not turned the matter over in his mind ten minutes, when he was suddenly stricken filial and affectionate; and it occurred to him so strongly that he ought to go down and see his father, and pay his duty to his mother-in-law, that he was lost in astonishment at his own remissness in never thinking of this moral obligation before. Anxious to atone for his past neglect without another hour’s delay, he straightway walked upstairs to Mr. Pickwick, and requested leave of absence for this laudable purpose.

‘Certainly, Sam, certainly,’ said Mr. Pickwick, his eyes glistening with delight at this manifestation of filial feeling on the part of his attendant; ‘certainly, Sam.’

Mr. Weller made a grateful bow.

‘I am very glad to see that you have so high a sense of your duties as a son, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘I always had, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘That’s a very gratifying reflection, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick approvingly.

‘Wery, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘if ever I wanted anythin’ o’ my father, I always asked for it in a wery ‘spectful and obligin’ manner. If he didn’t give it me, I took it, for fear I should be led to do anythin’ wrong, through not havin’ it. I saved him a world o’ trouble this vay, Sir.’

‘That’s not precisely what I meant, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, shaking his head, with a slight smile.

‘All good feelin’, sir—the wery best intentions, as the gen’l’m’n said ven he run away from his wife ‘cos she seemed unhappy with him,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘You may go, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Thank’ee, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller; and having made his best bow, and put on his best clothes, Sam planted himself on the top of the Arundel coach, and journeyed on to Dorking.

The Marquis of Granby, in Mrs. Weller’s time, was quite a model of a roadside public-house of the better class—just large enough to be convenient, and small enough to be snug. On the opposite side of the road was a large sign-board on a high post, representing the head and shoulders of a gentleman with an apoplectic countenance, in a red coat with deep blue facings, and a touch of the same blue over his three- cornered hat, for a sky. Over that again were a pair of flags; beneath the last button of his coat were a couple of cannon; and the whole formed an expressive and undoubted likeness of the Marquis of Granby of glorious memory. The bar window displayed a choice collection of geranium plants, and a well-dusted row of spirit phials. The open shutters bore a variety of golden inscriptions, eulogistic of good beds and neat wines; and the choice group of countrymen and hostlers lounging about the stable door and horse-trough, afforded presumptive proof of the excellent quality of the ale and spirits which were sold within. Sam Weller paused, when he dismounted from the coach, to note all these little indications of a thriving business, with the eye of an experienced traveller; and having done so, stepped in at once, highly satisfied with everything he had observed.

‘Now, then!’ said a shrill female voice the instant Sam thrust his head in at the door, ‘what do you want, young man?’

Sam looked round in the direction whence the voice proceeded. It came from a rather stout lady of comfortable appearance, who was seated beside the fireplace in the bar, blowing the fire to make the kettle boil for tea. She was not alone; for on the other side of the fireplace, sitting bolt upright in a high-backed chair, was a man in threadbare black clothes, with a back almost as long and stiff as that of the chair itself, who caught Sam’s most particular and especial attention at once.

He was a prim-faced, red-nosed man, with a long, thin countenance, and a semi-rattlesnake sort of eye—rather sharp, but decidedly bad. He wore very short trousers, and black cotton stockings, which, like the rest of his apparel, were particularly rusty. His looks were starched, but his white neckerchief was not, and its long limp ends straggled over his closely-buttoned waistcoat in a very uncouth and unpicturesque fashion. A pair of old, worn, beaver gloves, a broad-brimmed hat, and a faded green umbrella, with plenty of whalebone sticking through the bottom, as if to counterbalance the want of a handle at the top, lay on a chair beside him; and, being disposed in a very tidy and careful manner, seemed to imply that the red-nosed man, whoever he was, had no intention of going away in a hurry.

To do the red-nosed man justice, he would have been very far from wise if he had entertained any such intention; for, to judge from all appearances, he must have been possessed of a most desirable circle of acquaintance, if he could have reasonably expected to be more comfortable anywhere else. The fire was blazing brightly under the influence of the bellows, and the kettle was singing gaily under the influence of both. A small tray of tea-things was arranged on the table; a plate of hot buttered toast was gently simmering before the fire; and the red-nosed man himself was busily engaged in converting a large slice of bread into the same agreeable edible, through the instrumentality of a long brass toasting-fork. Beside him stood a glass of reeking hot pine-apple rum-and-water, with a slice of lemon in it; and every time the red-nosed man stopped to bring the round of toast to his eye, with the view of ascertaining how it got on, he imbibed a drop or two of the hot pine-apple rum-and-water, and smiled upon the rather stout lady, as she blew the fire.

Sam was so lost in the contemplation of this comfortable scene, that he suffered the first inquiry of the rather stout lady to pass unheeded. It was not until it had been twice repeated, each time in a shriller tone, that he became conscious of the impropriety of his behaviour.

‘Governor in?’ inquired Sam, in reply to the question.

‘No, he isn’t,’ replied Mrs. Weller; for the rather stout lady was no other than the quondam relict and sole executrix of the dead-and-gone Mr. Clarke; ‘no, he isn’t, and I don’t expect him, either.’

‘I suppose he’s drivin’ up to-day?’ said Sam.

‘He may be, or he may not,’ replied Mrs. Weller, buttering the round of toast which the red-nosed man had just finished. ‘I don’t know, and, what’s more, I don’t care.—Ask a blessin’, Mr. Stiggins.’

The red-nosed man did as he was desired, and instantly commenced on the toast with fierce voracity.

The appearance of the red-nosed man had induced Sam, at first sight, to more than half suspect that he was the deputy-shepherd of whom his estimable parent had spoken. The moment he saw him eat, all doubt on the subject was removed, and he perceived at once that if he purposed to take up his temporary quarters where he was, he must make his footing good without delay. He therefore commenced proceedings by putting his arm over the half-door of the bar, coolly unbolting it, and leisurely walking in.

‘Mother-in-law,’ said Sam, ‘how are you?’

‘Why, I do believe he is a Weller!’ said Mrs. W., raising her eyes to Sam’s face, with no very gratified expression of countenance.

‘I rayther think he is,’ said the imperturbable Sam; ‘and I hope this here reverend gen’l’m’n ‘ll excuse me saying that I wish I was _the _Weller as owns you, mother-in-law.’

This was a double-barrelled compliment. It implied that Mrs. Weller was a most agreeable female, and also that Mr. Stiggins had a clerical appearance. It made a visible impression at once; and Sam followed up his advantage by kissing his mother-in-law.

‘Get along with you!’ said Mrs. Weller, pushing him away.

‘For shame, young man!’ said the gentleman with the red nose.

‘No offence, sir, no offence,’ replied Sam; ‘you’re wery right, though; it ain’t the right sort o’ thing, ven mothers-in-law is young and good- looking, is it, Sir?’

‘It’s all vanity,’ said Mr. Stiggins.

‘Ah, so it is,’ said Mrs. Weller, setting her cap to rights.

Sam thought it was, too, but he held his peace.

The deputy-shepherd seemed by no means best pleased with Sam’s arrival; and when the first effervescence of the compliment had subsided, even Mrs. Weller looked as if she could have spared him without the smallest inconvenience. However, there he was; and as he couldn’t be decently turned out, they all three sat down to tea.

‘And how’s father?’ said Sam.

At this inquiry, Mrs. Weller raised her hands, and turned up her eyes, as if the subject were too painful to be alluded to.

Mr. Stiggins groaned.

‘What’s the matter with that ‘ere gen’l’m’n?’ inquired Sam.

‘He’s shocked at the way your father goes on in,’ replied Mrs. Weller.

‘Oh, he is, is he?’ said Sam.

‘And with too good reason,’ added Mrs. Weller gravely.

Mr. Stiggins took up a fresh piece of toast, and groaned heavily.

‘He is a dreadful reprobate,’ said Mrs. Weller.

‘A man of wrath!’ exclaimed Mr. Stiggins. He took a large semi-circular bite out of the toast, and groaned again.

Sam felt very strongly disposed to give the reverend Mr. Stiggins something to groan for, but he repressed his inclination, and merely asked, ‘What’s the old ‘un up to now?’

‘Up to, indeed!’ said Mrs. Weller, ‘Oh, he has a hard heart. Night after night does this excellent man—don’t frown, Mr. Stiggins; I _will _say you _are _an excellent man—come and sit here, for hours together, and it has not the least effect upon him.’

Well, that is odd,’ said Sam; ‘it ‘ud have a wery considerable effect upon me, if I wos in his place; I know that.’

‘The fact is, my young friend,’ said Mr. Stiggins solemnly, ‘he has an obderrate bosom. Oh, my young friend, who else could have resisted the pleading of sixteen of our fairest sisters, and withstood their exhortations to subscribe to our noble society for providing the infant negroes in the West Indies with flannel waistcoats and moral pocket- handkerchiefs?’

‘What’s a moral pocket-ankercher?’ said Sam; ‘I never see one o’ them articles o’ furniter.’

‘Those which combine amusement With instruction, my young friend,’ replied Mr. Stiggins, ‘blending select tales with wood-cuts.’

‘Oh, I know,’ said Sam; ‘them as hangs up in the linen-drapers’ shops, with beggars’ petitions and all that ‘ere upon ‘em?’

Mr. Stiggins began a third round of toast, and nodded assent.

‘And he wouldn’t be persuaded by the ladies, wouldn’t he?’ said Sam.

‘Sat and smoked his pipe, and said the infant negroes were—what did he say the infant negroes were?’ said Mrs. Weller.

‘Little humbugs,’ replied Mr. Stiggins, deeply affected.

‘Said the infant negroes were little humbugs,’ repeated Mrs. Weller. And they both groaned at the atrocious conduct of the elder Mr. Weller.

A great many more iniquities of a similar nature might have been disclosed, only the toast being all eaten, the tea having got very weak, and Sam holding out no indications of meaning to go, Mr. Stiggins suddenly recollected that he had a most pressing appointment with the shepherd, and took himself off accordingly.

The tea-things had been scarcely put away, and the hearth swept up, when the London coach deposited Mr. Weller, senior, at the door; his legs deposited him in the bar; and his eyes showed him his son.

‘What, Sammy!’ exclaimed the father.

‘What, old Nobs!’ ejaculated the son. And they shook hands heartily.

‘Wery glad to see you, Sammy,’ said the elder Mr. Weller, ‘though how you’ve managed to get over your mother-in-law, is a mystery to me. I only vish you’d write me out the receipt, that’s all.’

‘Hush!’ said Sam, ‘she’s at home, old feller.’

She ain’t vithin hearin’,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘she always goes and blows up, downstairs, for a couple of hours arter tea; so we’ll just give ourselves a damp, Sammy.’

Saying this, Mr. Weller mixed two glasses of spirits-and-water, and produced a couple of pipes. The father and son sitting down opposite each other; Sam on one side of the fire, in the high-backed chair, and Mr. Weller, senior, on the other, in an easy ditto, they proceeded to enjoy themselves with all due gravity.

‘Anybody been here, Sammy?’ asked Mr. Weller, senior, dryly, after a long silence.

Sam nodded an expressive assent.

‘Red-nosed chap?’ inquired Mr. Weller.

Sam nodded again.

‘Amiable man that ‘ere, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, smoking violently.

‘Seems so,’ observed Sam.

‘Good hand at accounts,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Is he?’ said Sam.

‘Borrows eighteenpence on Monday, and comes on Tuesday for a shillin’ to make it up half-a-crown; calls again on Vensday for another half-crown to make it five shillin’s; and goes on, doubling, till he gets it up to a five pund note in no time, like them sums in the ‘rithmetic book ‘bout the nails in the horse’s shoes, Sammy.’

Sam intimated by a nod that he recollected the problem alluded to by his parent.

‘So you vouldn’t subscribe to the flannel veskits?’ said Sam, after another interval of smoking.

‘Cert’nly not,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘what’s the good o’ flannel veskits to the young niggers abroad? But I’ll tell you what it is, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, lowering his voice, and bending across the fireplace; ‘I’d come down wery handsome towards strait veskits for some people at home.’

As Mr. Weller said this, he slowly recovered his former position, and winked at his first-born, in a profound manner.

‘It cert’nly seems a queer start to send out pocket-’ankerchers to people as don’t know the use on ‘em,’ observed Sam.

‘They’re alvays a-doin’ some gammon of that sort, Sammy,’ replied his father. ‘T’other Sunday I wos walkin’ up the road, wen who should I see, a-standin’ at a chapel door, with a blue soup-plate in her hand, but your mother-in-law! I werily believe there was change for a couple o’ suv’rins in it, then, Sammy, all in ha’pence; and as the people come out, they rattled the pennies in it, till you’d ha’ thought that no mortal plate as ever was baked, could ha’ stood the wear and tear. What d’ye think it was all for?’

‘For another tea-drinkin’, perhaps,’ said Sam.

‘Not a bit on it,’ replied the father; ‘for the shepherd’s water-rate, Sammy.’

‘The shepherd’s water-rate!’ said Sam.

‘Ay,’ replied Mr. Weller, ‘there was three quarters owin’, and the shepherd hadn’t paid a farden, not he—perhaps it might be on account that the water warn’t o’ much use to him, for it’s wery little o’ that tap he drinks, Sammy, wery; he knows a trick worth a good half-dozen of that, he does. Hows’ever, it warn’t paid, and so they cuts the water off. Down goes the shepherd to chapel, gives out as he’s a persecuted saint, and says he hopes the heart of the turncock as cut the water off, ‘ll be softened, and turned in the right vay, but he rayther thinks he’s booked for somethin’ uncomfortable. Upon this, the women calls a meetin’, sings a hymn, wotes your mother-in-law into the chair, wolunteers a collection next Sunday, and hands it all over to the shepherd. And if he ain’t got enough out on ‘em, Sammy, to make him free of the water company for life,’ said Mr. Weller, in conclusion, ‘I’m one Dutchman, and you’re another, and that’s all about it.’

Mr. Weller smoked for some minutes in silence, and then resumed—

‘The worst o’ these here shepherds is, my boy, that they reg’larly turns the heads of all the young ladies, about here. Lord bless their little hearts, they thinks it’s all right, and don’t know no better; but they’re the wictims o’ gammon, Samivel, they’re the wictims o’ gammon.’

‘I s’pose they are,’ said Sam.

‘Nothin’ else,’ said Mr. Weller, shaking his head gravely; ‘and wot aggrawates me, Samivel, is to see ‘em a-wastin’ all their time and labour in making clothes for copper-coloured people as don’t want ‘em, and taking no notice of flesh-coloured Christians as do. If I’d my vay, Samivel, I’d just stick some o’ these here lazy shepherds behind a heavy wheelbarrow, and run ‘em up and down a fourteen-inch-wide plank all day. That ‘ud shake the nonsense out of ‘em, if anythin’ vould.’

Mr. Weller, having delivered this gentle recipe with strong emphasis, eked out by a variety of nods and contortions of the eye, emptied his glass at a draught, and knocked the ashes out of his pipe, with native dignity.

He was engaged in this operation, when a shrill voice was heard in the passage.

‘Here’s your dear relation, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller; and Mrs. W. hurried into the room.

‘Oh, you’ve come back, have you!’ said Mrs. Weller.

‘Yes, my dear,’ replied Mr. Weller, filling a fresh pipe.

‘Has Mr. Stiggins been back?’ said Mrs. Weller.

‘No, my dear, he hasn’t,’ replied Mr. Weller, lighting the pipe by the ingenious process of holding to the bowl thereof, between the tongs, a red-hot coal from the adjacent fire; and what’s more, my dear, I shall manage to surwive it, if he don’t come back at all.’

‘Ugh, you wretch!’ said Mrs. Weller.

‘Thank’ee, my love,’ said Mr. Weller.

‘Come, come, father,’ said Sam, ‘none o’ these little lovin’s afore strangers. Here’s the reverend gen’l’m’n a-comin’ in now.’

At this announcement, Mrs. Weller hastily wiped off the tears which she had just begun to force on; and Mr. W. drew his chair sullenly into the chimney-corner.

Mr. Stiggins was easily prevailed on to take another glass of the hot pine-apple rum-and-water, and a second, and a third, and then to refresh himself with a slight supper, previous to beginning again. He sat on the same side as Mr. Weller, senior; and every time he could contrive to do so, unseen by his wife, that gentleman indicated to his son the hidden emotions of his bosom, by shaking his fist over the deputy-shepherd’s head; a process which afforded his son the most unmingled delight and satisfaction, the more especially as Mr. Stiggins went on, quietly drinking the hot pine-apple rum-and-water, wholly unconscious of what was going forward.

The major part of the conversation was confined to Mrs. Weller and the reverend Mr. Stiggins; and the topics principally descanted on, were the virtues of the shepherd, the worthiness of his flock, and the high crimes and misdemeanours of everybody beside—dissertations which the elder Mr. Weller occasionally interrupted by half-suppressed references to a gentleman of the name of Walker, and other running commentaries of the same kind.

At length Mr. Stiggins, with several most indubitable symptoms of having quite as much pine-apple rum-and-water about him as he could comfortably accommodate, took his hat, and his leave; and Sam was, immediately afterwards, shown to bed by his father. The respectable old gentleman wrung his hand fervently, and seemed disposed to address some observation to his son; but on Mrs. Weller advancing towards him, he appeared to relinquish that intention, and abruptly bade him good-night.

Sam was up betimes next day, and having partaken of a hasty breakfast, prepared to return to London. He had scarcely set foot without the house, when his father stood before him.

‘Goin’, Sammy?’ inquired Mr. Weller.

‘Off at once,’ replied Sam.

‘I vish you could muffle that ‘ere Stiggins, and take him vith you,’ said Mr. Weller.

‘I am ashamed on you!’ said Sam reproachfully; ‘what do you let him show his red nose in the Markis o’ Granby at all, for?’

Mr. Weller the elder fixed on his son an earnest look, and replied, ‘’Cause I’m a married man, Samivel, ‘cause I’m a married man. Ven you’re a married man, Samivel, you’ll understand a good many things as you don’t understand now; but vether it’s worth while goin’ through so much, to learn so little, as the charity-boy said ven he got to the end of the alphabet, is a matter o’ taste. I rayther think it isn’t.’

Well,’ said Sam, ‘good-bye.’

‘Tar, tar, Sammy,’ replied his father.

‘I’ve only got to say this here,’ said Sam, stopping short, ‘that if I was the properiator o’ the Markis o’ Granby, and that ‘ere Stiggins came and made toast in my bar, I’d—’

‘What?’ interposed Mr. Weller, with great anxiety. ‘What?’

‘Pison his rum-and-water,’ said Sam.

‘No!’ said Mr. Weller, shaking his son eagerly by the hand, ‘would you raly, Sammy-would you, though?’

‘I would,’ said Sam. ‘I wouldn’t be too hard upon him at first. I’d drop him in the water-butt, and put the lid on; and if I found he was insensible to kindness, I’d try the other persvasion.’

The elder Mr. Weller bestowed a look of deep, unspeakable admiration on his son, and, having once more grasped his hand, walked slowly away, revolving in his mind the numerous reflections to which his advice had given rise.

Sam looked after him, until he turned a corner of the road; and then set forward on his walk to London. He meditated at first, on the probable consequences of his own advice, and the likelihood of his father’s adopting it. He dismissed the subject from his mind, however, with the consolatory reflection that time alone would show; and this is the reflection we would impress upon the reader.

CHAPTER XXVIII. A GOOD-HUMOURED CHRISTMAS CHAPTER, CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF A WEDDING, AND SOME OTHER SPORTS BESIDE: WHICH ALTHOUGH IN THEIR WAY, EVEN AS GOOD CUSTOMS AS MARRIAGE ITSELF, ARE NOT QUITE SO RELIGIOUSLY KEPT UP, IN THESE DEGENERATE TIMES

As brisk as bees, if not altogether as light as fairies, did the four Pickwickians assemble on the morning of the twenty-second day of December, in the year of grace in which these, their faithfully-recorded adventures, were undertaken and accomplished. Christmas was close at hand, in all his bluff and hearty honesty; it was the season of hospitality, merriment, and open-heartedness; the old year was preparing, like an ancient philosopher, to call his friends around him, and amidst the sound of feasting and revelry to pass gently and calmly away. Gay and merry was the time; and right gay and merry were at least four of the numerous hearts that were gladdened by its coming.

And numerous indeed are the hearts to which Christmas brings a brief season of happiness and enjoyment. How many families, whose members have been dispersed and scattered far and wide, in the restless struggles of life, are then reunited, and meet once again in that happy state of companionship and mutual goodwill, which is a source of such pure and unalloyed delight; and one so incompatible with the cares and sorrows of the world, that the religious belief of the most civilised nations, and the rude traditions of the roughest savages, alike number it among the first joys of a future condition of existence, provided for the blessed and happy! How many old recollections, and how many dormant sympathies, does Christmas time awaken!

We write these words now, many miles distant from the spot at which, year after year, we met on that day, a merry and joyous circle. Many of the hearts that throbbed so gaily then, have ceased to beat; many of the looks that shone so brightly then, have ceased to glow; the hands we grasped, have grown cold; the eyes we sought, have hid their lustre in the grave; and yet the old house, the room, the merry voices and smiling faces, the jest, the laugh, the most minute and trivial circumstances connected with those happy meetings, crowd upon our mind at each recurrence of the season, as if the last assemblage had been but yesterday! Happy, happy Christmas, that can win us back to the delusions of our childish days; that can recall to the old man the pleasures of his youth; that can transport the sailor and the traveller, thousands of miles away, back to his own fireside and his quiet home!

But we are so taken up and occupied with the good qualities of this saint Christmas, that we are keeping Mr. Pickwick and his friends waiting in the cold on the outside of the Muggleton coach, which they have just attained, well wrapped up in great-coats, shawls, and comforters. The portmanteaus and carpet-bags have been stowed away, and Mr. Weller and the guard are endeavouring to insinuate into the fore- boot a huge cod-fish several sizes too large for it—which is snugly packed up, in a long brown basket, with a layer of straw over the top, and which has been left to the last, in order that he may repose in safety on the half-dozen barrels of real native oysters, all the property of Mr. Pickwick, which have been arranged in regular order at the bottom of the receptacle. The interest displayed in Mr. Pickwick’s countenance is most intense, as Mr. Weller and the guard try to squeeze the cod-fish into the boot, first head first, and then tail first, and then top upward, and then bottom upward, and then side-ways, and then long-ways, all of which artifices the implacable cod-fish sturdily resists, until the guard accidentally hits him in the very middle of the basket, whereupon he suddenly disappears into the boot, and with him, the head and shoulders of the guard himself, who, not calculating upon so sudden a cessation of the passive resistance of the cod-fish, experiences a very unexpected shock, to the unsmotherable delight of all the porters and bystanders. Upon this, Mr. Pickwick smiles with great good-humour, and drawing a shilling from his waistcoat pocket, begs the guard, as he picks himself out of the boot, to drink his health in a glass of hot brandy-and-water; at which the guard smiles too, and Messrs. Snodgrass, Winkle, and Tupman, all smile in company. The guard and Mr. Weller disappear for five minutes, most probably to get the hot brandy-and-water, for they smell very strongly of it, when they return, the coachman mounts to the box, Mr. Weller jumps up behind, the Pickwickians pull their coats round their legs and their shawls over their noses, the helpers pull the horse-cloths off, the coachman shouts out a cheery ‘All right,’ and away they go.

They have rumbled through the streets, and jolted over the stones, and at length reach the wide and open country. The wheels skim over the hard and frosty ground; and the horses, bursting into a canter at a smart crack of the whip, step along the road as if the load behind them— coach, passengers, cod-fish, oyster-barrels, and all—were but a feather at their heels. They have descended a gentle slope, and enter upon a level, as compact and dry as a solid block of marble, two miles long. Another crack of the whip, and on they speed, at a smart gallop, the horses tossing their heads and rattling the harness, as if in exhilaration at the rapidity of the motion; while the coachman, holding whip and reins in one hand, takes off his hat with the other, and resting it on his knees, pulls out his handkerchief, and wipes his forehead, partly because he has a habit of doing it, and partly because it’s as well to show the passengers how cool he is, and what an easy thing it is to drive four-in-hand, when you have had as much practice as he has. Having done this very leisurely (otherwise the effect would be materially impaired), he replaces his handkerchief, pulls on his hat, adjusts his gloves, squares his elbows, cracks the whip again, and on they speed, more merrily than before.

A few small houses, scattered on either side of the road, betoken the entrance to some town or village. The lively notes of the guard’s key- bugle vibrate in the clear cold air, and wake up the old gentleman inside, who, carefully letting down the window-sash half-way, and standing sentry over the air, takes a short peep out, and then carefully pulling it up again, informs the other inside that they’re going to change directly; on which the other inside wakes himself up, and determines to postpone his next nap until after the stoppage. Again the bugle sounds lustily forth, and rouses the cottager’s wife and children, who peep out at the house door, and watch the coach till it turns the corner, when they once more crouch round the blazing fire, and throw on another log of wood against father comes home; while father himself, a full mile off, has just exchanged a friendly nod with the coachman, and turned round to take a good long stare at the vehicle as it whirls away.

And now the bugle plays a lively air as the coach rattles through the ill-paved streets of a country town; and the coachman, undoing the buckle which keeps his ribands together, prepares to throw them off the moment he stops. Mr. Pickwick emerges from his coat collar, and looks about him with great curiosity; perceiving which, the coachman informs Mr. Pickwick of the name of the town, and tells him it was market-day yesterday, both of which pieces of information Mr. Pickwick retails to his fellow-passengers; whereupon they emerge from their coat collars too, and look about them also. Mr. Winkle, who sits at the extreme edge, with one leg dangling in the air, is nearly precipitated into the street, as the coach twists round the sharp corner by the cheesemonger’s shop, and turns into the market-place; and before Mr. Snodgrass, who sits next to him, has recovered from his alarm, they pull up at the inn yard where the fresh horses, with cloths on, are already waiting. The coachman throws down the reins and gets down himself, and the other outside passengers drop down also; except those who have no great confidence in their ability to get up again; and they remain where they are, and stamp their feet against the coach to warm them—looking, with longing eyes and red noses, at the bright fire in the inn bar, and the sprigs of holly with red berries which ornament the window.

But the guard has delivered at the corn-dealer’s shop, the brown paper packet he took out of the little pouch which hangs over his shoulder by a leathern strap; and has seen the horses carefully put to; and has thrown on the pavement the saddle which was brought from London on the coach roof; and has assisted in the conference between the coachman and the hostler about the gray mare that hurt her off fore-leg last Tuesday; and he and Mr. Weller are all right behind, and the coachman is all right in front, and the old gentleman inside, who has kept the window down full two inches all this time, has pulled it up again, and the cloths are off, and they are all ready for starting, except the ‘two stout gentlemen,’ whom the coachman inquires after with some impatience. Hereupon the coachman, and the guard, and Sam Weller, and Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass, and all the hostlers, and every one of the idlers, who are more in number than all the others put together, shout for the missing gentlemen as loud as they can bawl. A distant response is heard from the yard, and Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman come running down it, quite out of breath, for they have been having a glass of ale a-piece, and Mr. Pickwick’s fingers are so cold that he has been full five minutes before he could find the sixpence to pay for it. The coachman shouts an admonitory ‘Now then, gen’l’m’n,’ the guard re-echoes it; the old gentleman inside thinks it a very extraordinary thing that people _will _get down when they know there isn’t time for it; Mr. Pickwick struggles up on one side, Mr. Tupman on the other; Mr. Winkle cries ‘All right’; and off they start. Shawls are pulled up, coat collars are readjusted, the pavement ceases, the houses disappear; and they are once again dashing along the open road, with the fresh clear air blowing in their faces, and gladdening their very hearts within them.

Such was the progress of Mr. Pickwick and his friends by the Muggleton Telegraph, on their way to Dingley Dell; and at three o’clock that afternoon they all stood high and dry, safe and sound, hale and hearty, upon the steps of the Blue Lion, having taken on the road quite enough of ale and brandy, to enable them to bid defiance to the frost that was binding up the earth in its iron fetters, and weaving its beautiful network upon the trees and hedges. Mr. Pickwick was busily engaged in counting the barrels of oysters and superintending the disinterment of the cod-fish, when he felt himself gently pulled by the skirts of the coat. Looking round, he discovered that the individual who resorted to this mode of catching his attention was no other than Mr. Wardle’s favourite page, better known to the readers of this unvarnished history, by the distinguishing appellation of the fat boy.

‘Aha!’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Aha!’ said the fat boy.

As he said it, he glanced from the cod-fish to the oyster-barrels, and chuckled joyously. He was fatter than ever.

‘Well, you look rosy enough, my young friend,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘I’ve been asleep, right in front of the taproom fire,’ replied the fat boy, who had heated himself to the colour of a new chimney-pot, in the course of an hour’s nap. ‘Master sent me over with the chay-cart, to carry your luggage up to the house. He’d ha’ sent some saddle-horses, but he thought you’d rather walk, being a cold day.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Mr. Pickwick hastily, for he remembered how they had travelled over nearly the same ground on a previous occasion. ‘Yes, we would rather walk. Here, Sam!’

‘Sir,’ said Mr. Weller.

‘Help Mr. Wardle’s servant to put the packages into the cart, and then ride on with him. We will walk forward at once.’

Having given this direction, and settled with the coachman, Mr. Pickwick and his three friends struck into the footpath across the fields, and walked briskly away, leaving Mr. Weller and the fat boy confronted together for the first time. Sam looked at the fat boy with great astonishment, but without saying a word; and began to stow the luggage rapidly away in the cart, while the fat boy stood quietly by, and seemed to think it a very interesting sort of thing to see Mr. Weller working by himself.

‘There,’ said Sam, throwing in the last carpet-bag, ‘there they are!’

‘Yes,’ said the fat boy, in a very satisfied tone, ‘there they are.’

‘Vell, young twenty stun,’ said Sam, ‘you’re a nice specimen of a prize boy, you are!’

Thank’ee,’ said the fat boy.

‘You ain’t got nothin’ on your mind as makes you fret yourself, have you?’ inquired Sam.

‘Not as I knows on,’ replied the fat boy.

‘I should rayther ha’ thought, to look at you, that you was a-labourin’ under an unrequited attachment to some young ‘ooman,’ said Sam.

The fat boy shook his head.

‘Vell,’ said Sam, ‘I am glad to hear it. Do you ever drink anythin’?’

‘I likes eating better,’ replied the boy.

‘Ah,’ said Sam, ‘I should ha’ s’posed that; but what I mean is, should you like a drop of anythin’ as’d warm you? but I s’pose you never was cold, with all them elastic fixtures, was you?’

‘Sometimes,’ replied the boy; ‘and I likes a drop of something, when it’s good.’

‘Oh, you do, do you?’ said Sam, ‘come this way, then!’

The Blue Lion tap was soon gained, and the fat boy swallowed a glass of liquor without so much as winking—a feat which considerably advanced him in Mr. Weller’s good opinion. Mr. Weller having transacted a similar piece of business on his own account, they got into the cart.

‘Can you drive?’ said the fat boy.

‘I should rayther think so,’ replied Sam.

‘There, then,’ said the fat boy, putting the reins in his hand, and pointing up a lane, ‘it’s as straight as you can go; you can’t miss it.’

With these words, the fat boy laid himself affectionately down by the side of the cod-fish, and, placing an oyster-barrel under his head for a pillow, fell asleep instantaneously.

‘Well,’ said Sam, ‘of all the cool boys ever I set my eyes on, this here young gen’l’m’n is the coolest. Come, wake up, young dropsy!’

But as young dropsy evinced no symptoms of returning animation, Sam Weller sat himself down in front of the cart, and starting the old horse with a jerk of the rein, jogged steadily on, towards the Manor Farm.

Meanwhile, Mr. Pickwick and his friends having walked their blood into active circulation, proceeded cheerfully on. The paths were hard; the grass was crisp and frosty; the air had a fine, dry, bracing coldness; and the rapid approach of the gray twilight (slate-coloured is a better term in frosty weather) made them look forward with pleasant anticipation to the comforts which awaited them at their hospitable entertainer’s. It was the sort of afternoon that might induce a couple of elderly gentlemen, in a lonely field, to take off their greatcoats and play at leap-frog in pure lightness of heart and gaiety; and we firmly believe that had Mr. Tupman at that moment proffered ‘a back,’ Mr. Pickwick would have accepted his offer with the utmost avidity.

However, Mr. Tupman did not volunteer any such accommodation, and the friends walked on, conversing merrily. As they turned into a lane they had to cross, the sound of many voices burst upon their ears; and before they had even had time to form a guess to whom they belonged, they walked into the very centre of the party who were expecting their arrival—a fact which was first notified to the Pickwickians, by the loud ‘Hurrah,’ which burst from old Wardle’s lips, when they appeared in sight.

First, there was Wardle himself, looking, if that were possible, more jolly than ever; then there were Bella and her faithful Trundle; and, lastly, there were Emily and some eight or ten young ladies, who had all come down to the wedding, which was to take place next day, and who were in as happy and important a state as young ladies usually are, on such momentous occasions; and they were, one and all, startling the fields and lanes, far and wide, with their frolic and laughter.

The ceremony of introduction, under such circumstances, was very soon performed, or we should rather say that the introduction was soon over, without any ceremony at all. In two minutes thereafter, Mr. Pickwick was joking with the young ladies who wouldn’t come over the stile while he looked—or who, having pretty feet and unexceptionable ankles, preferred standing on the top rail for five minutes or so, declaring that they were too frightened to move—with as much ease and absence of reserve or constraint, as if he had known them for life. It is worthy of remark, too, that Mr. Snodgrass offered Emily far more assistance than the absolute terrors of the stile (although it was full three feet high, and had only a couple of stepping-stones) would seem to require; while one black-eyed young lady in a very nice little pair of boots with fur round the top, was observed to scream very loudly, when Mr. Winkle offered to help her over.

All this was very snug and pleasant. And when the difficulties of the stile were at last surmounted, and they once more entered on the open field, old Wardle informed Mr. Pickwick how they had all been down in a body to inspect the furniture and fittings-up of the house, which the young couple were to tenant, after the Christmas holidays; at which communication Bella and Trundle both coloured up, as red as the fat boy after the taproom fire; and the young lady with the black eyes and the fur round the boots, whispered something in Emily’s ear, and then glanced archly at Mr. Snodgrass; to which Emily responded that she was a foolish girl, but turned very red, notwithstanding; and Mr. Snodgrass, who was as modest as all great geniuses usually are, felt the crimson rising to the crown of his head, and devoutly wished, in the inmost recesses of his own heart, that the young lady aforesaid, with her black eyes, and her archness, and her boots with the fur round the top, were all comfortably deposited in the adjacent county.

But if they were social and happy outside the house, what was the warmth and cordiality of their reception when they reached the farm! The very servants grinned with pleasure at sight of Mr. Pickwick; and Emma bestowed a half-demure, half-impudent, and all-pretty look of recognition, on Mr. Tupman, which was enough to make the statue of Bonaparte in the passage, unfold his arms, and clasp her within them.

The old lady was seated with customary state in the front parlour, but she was rather cross, and, by consequence, most particularly deaf. She never went out herself, and like a great many other old ladies of the same stamp, she was apt to consider it an act of domestic treason, if anybody else took the liberty of doing what she couldn’t. So, bless her old soul, she sat as upright as she could, in her great chair, and looked as fierce as might be—and that was benevolent after all.

‘Mother,’ said Wardle, ‘Mr. Pickwick. You recollect him?’

‘Never mind,’ replied the old lady, with great dignity. ‘Don’t trouble Mr. Pickwick about an old creetur like me. Nobody cares about me now, and it’s very nat’ral they shouldn’t.’ Here the old lady tossed her head, and smoothed down her lavender-coloured silk dress with trembling hands.

‘Come, come, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I can’t let you cut an old friend in this way. I have come down expressly to have a long talk, and another rubber with you; and we’ll show these boys and girls how to dance a minuet, before they’re eight-and-forty hours older.’

The old lady was rapidly giving way, but she did not like to do it all at once; so she only said, ‘Ah! I can’t hear him!’

‘Nonsense, mother,’ said Wardle. ‘Come, come, don’t be cross, there’s a good soul. Recollect Bella; come, you must keep her spirits up, poor girl.’

The good old lady heard this, for her lip quivered as her son said it. But age has its little infirmities of temper, and she was not quite brought round yet. So, she smoothed down the lavender-coloured dress again, and turning to Mr. Pickwick said, ‘Ah, Mr. Pickwick, young people was very different, when I was a girl.’

‘No doubt of that, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘and that’s the reason why I would make much of the few that have any traces of the old stock’—and saying this, Mr. Pickwick gently pulled Bella towards him, and bestowing a kiss upon her forehead, bade her sit down on the little stool at her grandmother’s feet. Whether the expression of her countenance, as it was raised towards the old lady’s face, called up a thought of old times, or whether the old lady was touched by Mr. Pickwick’s affectionate good- nature, or whatever was the cause, she was fairly melted; so she threw herself on her granddaughter’s neck, and all the little ill-humour evaporated in a gush of silent tears.

A happy party they were, that night. Sedate and solemn were the score of rubbers in which Mr. Pickwick and the old lady played together; uproarious was the mirth of the round table. Long after the ladies had retired, did the hot elder wine, well qualified with brandy and spice, go round, and round, and round again; and sound was the sleep and pleasant were the dreams that followed. It is a remarkable fact that those of Mr. Snodgrass bore constant reference to Emily Wardle; and that the principal figure in Mr. Winkle’s visions was a young lady with black eyes, and arch smile, and a pair of remarkably nice boots with fur round the tops.

Mr. Pickwick was awakened early in the morning, by a hum of voices and a pattering of feet, sufficient to rouse even the fat boy from his heavy slumbers. He sat up in bed and listened. The female servants and female visitors were running constantly to and fro; and there were such multitudinous demands for hot water, such repeated outcries for needles and thread, and so many half-suppressed entreaties of ‘Oh, do come and tie me, there’s a dear!’ that Mr. Pickwick in his innocence began to imagine that something dreadful must have occurred—when he grew more awake, and remembered the wedding. The occasion being an important one, he dressed himself with peculiar care, and descended to the breakfast- room.

There were all the female servants in a bran new uniform of pink muslin gowns with white bows in their caps, running about the house in a state of excitement and agitation which it would be impossible to describe. The old lady was dressed out in a brocaded gown, which had not seen the light for twenty years, saving and excepting such truant rays as had stolen through the chinks in the box in which it had been laid by, during the whole time. Mr. Trundle was in high feather and spirits, but a little nervous withal. The hearty old landlord was trying to look very cheerful and unconcerned, but failing signally in the attempt. All the girls were in tears and white muslin, except a select two or three, who were being honoured with a private view of the bride and bridesmaids, upstairs. All the Pickwickians were in most blooming array; and there was a terrific roaring on the grass in front of the house, occasioned by all the men, boys, and hobbledehoys attached to the farm, each of whom had got a white bow in his button-hole, and all of whom were cheering with might and main; being incited thereto, and stimulated therein by the precept and example of Mr. Samuel Weller, who had managed to become mighty popular already, and was as much at home as if he had been born on the land.

A wedding is a licensed subject to joke upon, but there really is no great joke in the matter after all;—we speak merely of the ceremony, and beg it to be distinctly understood that we indulge in no hidden sarcasm upon a married life. Mixed up with the pleasure and joy of the occasion, are the many regrets at quitting home, the tears of parting between parent and child, the consciousness of leaving the dearest and kindest friends of the happiest portion of human life, to encounter its cares and troubles with others still untried and little known—natural feelings which we would not render this chapter mournful by describing, and which we should be still more unwilling to be supposed to ridicule.

Let us briefly say, then, that the ceremony was performed by the old clergyman, in the parish church of Dingley Dell, and that Mr. Pickwick’s name is attached to the register, still preserved in the vestry thereof; that the young lady with the black eyes signed her name in a very unsteady and tremulous manner; that Emily’s signature, as the other bridesmaid, is nearly illegible; that it all went off in very admirable style; that the young ladies generally thought it far less shocking than they had expected; and that although the owner of the black eyes and the arch smile informed Mr. Wardle that she was sure she could never submit to anything so dreadful, we have the very best reasons for thinking she was mistaken. To all this, we may add, that Mr. Pickwick was the first who saluted the bride, and that in so doing he threw over her neck a rich gold watch and chain, which no mortal eyes but the jeweller’s had ever beheld before. Then, the old church bell rang as gaily as it could, and they all returned to breakfast.

‘Vere does the mince-pies go, young opium-eater?’ said Mr. Weller to the fat boy, as he assisted in laying out such articles of consumption as had not been duly arranged on the previous night.

The fat boy pointed to the destination of the pies.

‘Wery good,’ said Sam, ‘stick a bit o’ Christmas in ‘em. T’other dish opposite. There; now we look compact and comfortable, as the father said ven he cut his little boy’s head off, to cure him o’ squintin’.’

As Mr. Weller made the comparison, he fell back a step or two, to give full effect to it, and surveyed the preparations with the utmost satisfaction.

‘Wardle,’ said Mr. Pickwick, almost as soon as they were all seated, ‘a glass of wine in honour of this happy occasion!’

‘I shall be delighted, my boy,’ said Wardle. ‘Joe—damn that boy, he’s gone to sleep.’

No, I ain’t, sir,’ replied the fat boy, starting up from a remote corner, where, like the patron saint of fat boys—the immortal Horner— he had been devouring a Christmas pie, though not with the coolness and deliberation which characterised that young gentleman’s proceedings.

‘Fill Mr. Pickwick’s glass.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The fat boy filled Mr. Pickwick’s glass, and then retired behind his master’s chair, from whence he watched the play of the knives and forks, and the progress of the choice morsels from the dishes to the mouths of the company, with a kind of dark and gloomy joy that was most impressive.

‘God bless you, old fellow!’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Same to you, my boy,’ replied Wardle; and they pledged each other, heartily.

‘Mrs. Wardle,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘we old folks must have a glass of wine together, in honour of this joyful event.’

The old lady was in a state of great grandeur just then, for she was sitting at the top of the table in the brocaded gown, with her newly- married granddaughter on one side, and Mr. Pickwick on the other, to do the carving. Mr. Pickwick had not spoken in a very loud tone, but she understood him at once, and drank off a full glass of wine to his long life and happiness; after which the worthy old soul launched forth into a minute and particular account of her own wedding, with a dissertation on the fashion of wearing high-heeled shoes, and some particulars concerning the life and adventures of the beautiful Lady Tollimglower, deceased; at all of which the old lady herself laughed very heartily indeed, and so did the young ladies too, for they were wondering among themselves what on earth grandma was talking about. When they laughed, the old lady laughed ten times more heartily, and said that these always had been considered capital stories, which caused them all to laugh again, and put the old lady into the very best of humours. Then the cake was cut, and passed through the ring; the young ladies saved pieces to put under their pillows to dream of their future husbands on; and a great deal of blushing and merriment was thereby occasioned.

‘Mr. Miller,’ said Mr. Pickwick to his old acquaintance, the hard-headed gentleman, ‘a glass of wine?’

‘With great satisfaction, Mr. Pickwick,’ replied the hard-headed gentleman solemnly.

‘You’ll take me in?’ said the benevolent old clergyman.

‘And me,’ interposed his wife.

‘And me, and me,’ said a couple of poor relations at the bottom of the table, who had eaten and drunk very heartily, and laughed at everything.

Mr. Pickwick expressed his heartfelt delight at every additional suggestion; and his eyes beamed with hilarity and cheerfulness.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Mr. Pickwick, suddenly rising.

‘Hear, hear! Hear, hear! Hear, hear!’ cried Mr. Weller, in the excitement of his feelings.

‘Call in all the servants,’ cried old Wardle, interposing to prevent the public rebuke which Mr. Weller would otherwise most indubitably have received from his master. ‘Give them a glass of wine each to drink the toast in. Now, Pickwick.’

Amidst the silence of the company, the whispering of the women-servants, and the awkward embarrassment of the men, Mr. Pickwick proceeded—

‘Ladies and gentlemen—no, I won’t say ladies and gentlemen, I’ll call you my friends, my dear friends, if the ladies will allow me to take so great a liberty—’

Here Mr. Pickwick was interrupted by immense applause from the ladies, echoed by the gentlemen, during which the owner of the eyes was distinctly heard to state that she could kiss that dear Mr. Pickwick. Whereupon Mr. Winkle gallantly inquired if it couldn’t be done by deputy: to which the young lady with the black eyes replied ‘Go away,’ and accompanied the request with a look which said as plainly as a look could do, ‘if you can.’

‘My dear friends,’ resumed Mr. Pickwick, ‘I am going to propose the health of the bride and bridegroom—God bless ‘em (cheers and tears). My young friend, Trundle, I believe to be a very excellent and manly fellow; and his wife I know to be a very amiable and lovely girl, well qualified to transfer to another sphere of action the happiness which for twenty years she has diffused around her, in her father’s house. (Here, the fat boy burst forth into stentorian blubberings, and was led forth by the coat collar, by Mr. Weller.) I wish,’ added Mr. Pickwick— ‘I wish I was young enough to be her sister’s husband (cheers), but, failing that, I am happy to be old enough to be her father; for, being so, I shall not be suspected of any latent designs when I say, that I admire, esteem, and love them both (cheers and sobs). The bride’s father, our good friend there, is a noble person, and I am proud to know him (great uproar). He is a kind, excellent, independent-spirited, fine- hearted, hospitable, liberal man (enthusiastic shouts from the poor relations, at all the adjectives; and especially at the two last). That his daughter may enjoy all the happiness, even he can desire; and that he may derive from the contemplation of her felicity all the gratification of heart and peace of mind which he so well deserves, is, I am persuaded, our united wish. So, let us drink their healths, and wish them prolonged life, and every blessing!’

Mr. Pickwick concluded amidst a whirlwind of applause; and once more were the lungs of the supernumeraries, under Mr. Weller’s command, brought into active and efficient operation. Mr. Wardle proposed Mr. Pickwick; Mr. Pickwick proposed the old lady. Mr. Snodgrass proposed Mr. Wardle; Mr. Wardle proposed Mr. Snodgrass. One of the poor relations proposed Mr. Tupman, and the other poor relation proposed Mr. Winkle; all was happiness and festivity, until the mysterious disappearance of both the poor relations beneath the table, warned the party that it was time to adjourn.

At dinner they met again, after a five-and-twenty mile walk, undertaken by the males at Wardle’s recommendation, to get rid of the effects of the wine at breakfast. The poor relations had kept in bed all day, with the view of attaining the same happy consummation, but, as they had been unsuccessful, they stopped there. Mr. Weller kept the domestics in a state of perpetual hilarity; and the fat boy divided his time into small alternate allotments of eating and sleeping.

The dinner was as hearty an affair as the breakfast, and was quite as noisy, without the tears. Then came the dessert and some more toasts. Then came the tea and coffee; and then, the ball.

The best sitting-room at Manor Farm was a good, long, dark-panelled room with a high chimney-piece, and a capacious chimney, up which you could have driven one of the new patent cabs, wheels and all. At the upper end of the room, seated in a shady bower of holly and evergreens were the two best fiddlers, and the only harp, in all Muggleton. In all sorts of recesses, and on all kinds of brackets, stood massive old silver candlesticks with four branches each. The carpet was up, the candles burned bright, the fire blazed and crackled on the hearth, and merry voices and light-hearted laughter rang through the room. If any of the old English yeomen had turned into fairies when they died, it was just the place in which they would have held their revels.

If anything could have added to the interest of this agreeable scene, it would have been the remarkable fact of Mr. Pickwick’s appearing without his gaiters, for the first time within the memory of his oldest friends.

‘You mean to dance?’ said Wardle.

‘Of course I do,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘Don’t you see I am dressed for the purpose?’ Mr. Pickwick called attention to his speckled silk stockings, and smartly tied pumps.

‘_You _in silk stockings!’ exclaimed Mr. Tupman jocosely.

‘And why not, sir—why not?’ said Mr. Pickwick, turning warmly upon him.

‘Oh, of course there is no reason why you shouldn’t wear them,’ responded Mr. Tupman.

‘I imagine not, sir—I imagine not,’ said Mr. Pickwick, in a very peremptory tone.

Mr. Tupman had contemplated a laugh, but he found it was a serious matter; so he looked grave, and said they were a pretty pattern.

‘I hope they are,’ said Mr. Pickwick, fixing his eyes upon his friend. ‘You see nothing extraordinary in the stockings, as stockings, I trust, Sir?’

‘Certainly not. Oh, certainly not,’ replied Mr. Tupman. He walked away; and Mr. Pickwick’s countenance resumed its customary benign expression.

‘We are all ready, I believe,’ said Mr. Pickwick, who was stationed with the old lady at the top of the dance, and had already made four false starts, in his excessive anxiety to commence.

‘Then begin at once,’ said Wardle. ‘Now!’

Up struck the two fiddles and the one harp, and off went Mr. Pickwick into hands across, when there was a general clapping of hands, and a cry of ‘Stop, stop!’

‘What’s the matter?’ said Mr. Pickwick, who was only brought to, by the fiddles and harp desisting, and could have been stopped by no other earthly power, if the house had been on fire.

‘Where’s Arabella Allen?’ cried a dozen voices.

‘And Winkle?’ added Mr. Tupman.

‘Here we are!’ exclaimed that gentleman, emerging with his pretty companion from the corner; as he did so, it would have been hard to tell which was the redder in the face, he or the young lady with the black eyes.

‘What an extraordinary thing it is, Winkle,’ said Mr. Pickwick, rather pettishly, ‘that you couldn’t have taken your place before.’

‘Not at all extraordinary,’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘Well,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with a very expressive smile, as his eyes rested on Arabella, ‘well, I don’t know that it _was _extraordinary, either, after all.’

However, there was no time to think more about the matter, for the fiddles and harp began in real earnest. Away went Mr. Pickwick—hands across—down the middle to the very end of the room, and half-way up the chimney, back again to the door—poussette everywhere—loud stamp on the ground—ready for the next couple—off again—all the figure over once more—another stamp to beat out the time—next couple, and the next, and the next again—never was such going; at last, after they had reached the bottom of the dance, and full fourteen couple after the old lady had retired in an exhausted state, and the clergyman’s wife had been substituted in her stead, did that gentleman, when there was no demand whatever on his exertions, keep perpetually dancing in his place, to keep time to the music, smiling on his partner all the while with a blandness of demeanour which baffles all description.

Long before Mr. Pickwick was weary of dancing, the newly-married couple had retired from the scene. There was a glorious supper downstairs, notwithstanding, and a good long sitting after it; and when Mr. Pickwick awoke, late the next morning, he had a confused recollection of having, severally and confidentially, invited somewhere about five-and-forty people to dine with him at the George and Vulture, the very first time they came to London; which Mr. Pickwick rightly considered a pretty certain indication of his having taken something besides exercise, on the previous night.

‘And so your family has games in the kitchen to-night, my dear, has they?’ inquired Sam of Emma.

‘Yes, Mr. Weller,’ replied Emma; ‘we always have on Christmas Eve. Master wouldn’t neglect to keep it up on any account.’

‘Your master’s a wery pretty notion of keeping anythin’ up, my dear,’ said Mr. Weller; ‘I never see such a sensible sort of man as he is, or such a reg’lar gen’l’m’n.’

Oh, that he is!’ said the fat boy, joining in the conversation; ‘don’t he breed nice pork!’ The fat youth gave a semi-cannibalic leer at Mr. Weller, as he thought of the roast legs and gravy.

‘Oh, you’ve woke up, at last, have you?’ said Sam.

The fat boy nodded.

‘I’ll tell you what it is, young boa-constructer,’ said Mr. Weller impressively; ‘if you don’t sleep a little less, and exercise a little more, wen you comes to be a man you’ll lay yourself open to the same sort of personal inconwenience as was inflicted on the old gen’l’m’n as wore the pigtail.’

‘What did they do to him?’ inquired the fat boy, in a faltering voice.

‘I’m a-going to tell you,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘he was one o’ the largest patterns as was ever turned out—reg’lar fat man, as hadn’t caught a glimpse of his own shoes for five-and-forty year.’

‘Lor!’ exclaimed Emma.

‘No, that he hadn’t, my dear,’ said Mr. Weller; ‘and if you’d put an exact model of his own legs on the dinin’-table afore him, he wouldn’t ha’ known ‘em. Well, he always walks to his office with a wery handsome gold watch-chain hanging out, about a foot and a quarter, and a gold watch in his fob pocket as was worth—I’m afraid to say how much, but as much as a watch can be—a large, heavy, round manufacter, as stout for a watch, as he was for a man, and with a big face in proportion. “You’d better not carry that ‘ere watch,” says the old gen’l’m’n’s friends, “you’ll be robbed on it,” says they. “Shall I?” says he. “Yes, you will,” says they. “Well,” says he, “I should like to see the thief as could get this here watch out, for I’m blessed if I ever can, it’s such a tight fit,” says he, “and wenever I vants to know what’s o’clock, I’m obliged to stare into the bakers’ shops,” he says. Well, then he laughs as hearty as if he was a-goin’ to pieces, and out he walks agin with his powdered head and pigtail, and rolls down the Strand with the chain hangin’ out furder than ever, and the great round watch almost bustin’ through his gray kersey smalls. There warn’t a pickpocket in all London as didn’t take a pull at that chain, but the chain ‘ud never break, and the watch ‘ud never come out, so they soon got tired of dragging such a heavy old gen’l’m’n along the pavement, and he’d go home and laugh till the pigtail wibrated like the penderlum of a Dutch clock. At last, one day the old gen’l’m’n was a-rollin’ along, and he sees a pickpocket as he know’d by sight, a-coming up, arm in arm with a little boy with a wery large head. “Here’s a game,” says the old gen’l’m’n to himself, “they’re a-goin’ to have another try, but it won’t do!” So he begins a- chucklin’ wery hearty, wen, all of a sudden, the little boy leaves hold of the pickpocket’s arm, and rushes head foremost straight into the old gen’l’m’n’s stomach, and for a moment doubles him right up with the pain. “Murder!” says the old gen’l’m’n. “All right, Sir,” says the pickpocket, a-wisperin’ in his ear. And wen he come straight agin, the watch and chain was gone, and what’s worse than that, the old gen’l’m’n’s digestion was all wrong ever afterwards, to the wery last day of his life; so just you look about you, young feller, and take care you don’t get too fat.’

As Mr. Weller concluded this moral tale, with which the fat boy appeared much affected, they all three repaired to the large kitchen, in which the family were by this time assembled, according to annual custom on Christmas Eve, observed by old Wardle’s forefathers from time immemorial.

From the centre of the ceiling of this kitchen, old Wardle had just suspended, with his own hands, a huge branch of mistletoe, and this same branch of mistletoe instantaneously gave rise to a scene of general and most delightful struggling and confusion; in the midst of which, Mr. Pickwick, with a gallantry that would have done honour to a descendant of Lady Tollimglower herself, took the old lady by the hand, led her beneath the mystic branch, and saluted her in all courtesy and decorum. The old lady submitted to this piece of practical politeness with all the dignity which befitted so important and serious a solemnity, but the younger ladies, not being so thoroughly imbued with a superstitious veneration for the custom, or imagining that the value of a salute is very much enhanced if it cost a little trouble to obtain it, screamed and struggled, and ran into corners, and threatened and remonstrated, and did everything but leave the room, until some of the less adventurous gentlemen were on the point of desisting, when they all at once found it useless to resist any longer, and submitted to be kissed with a good grace. Mr. Winkle kissed the young lady with the black eyes, and Mr. Snodgrass kissed Emily; and Mr. Weller, not being particular about the form of being under the mistletoe, kissed Emma and the other female servants, just as he caught them. As to the poor relations, they kissed everybody, not even excepting the plainer portions of the young lady visitors, who, in their excessive confusion, ran right under the mistletoe, as soon as it was hung up, without knowing it! Wardle stood with his back to the fire, surveying the whole scene, with the utmost satisfaction; and the fat boy took the opportunity of appropriating to his own use, and summarily devouring, a particularly fine mince-pie, that had been carefully put by, for somebody else.

Now, the screaming had subsided, and faces were in a glow, and curls in a tangle, and Mr. Pickwick, after kissing the old lady as before mentioned, was standing under the mistletoe, looking with a very pleased countenance on all that was passing around him, when the young lady with the black eyes, after a little whispering with the other young ladies, made a sudden dart forward, and, putting her arm round Mr. Pickwick’s neck, saluted him affectionately on the left cheek; and before Mr. Pickwick distinctly knew what was the matter, he was surrounded by the whole body, and kissed by every one of them.

It was a pleasant thing to see Mr. Pickwick in the centre of the group, now pulled this way, and then that, and first kissed on the chin, and then on the nose, and then on the spectacles, and to hear the peals of laughter which were raised on every side; but it was a still more pleasant thing to see Mr. Pickwick, blinded shortly afterwards with a silk handkerchief, falling up against the wall, and scrambling into corners, and going through all the mysteries of blind-man’s buff, with the utmost relish for the game, until at last he caught one of the poor relations, and then had to evade the blind-man himself, which he did with a nimbleness and agility that elicited the admiration and applause of all beholders. The poor relations caught the people who they thought would like it, and, when the game flagged, got caught themselves. When they all tired of blind-man’s buff, there was a great game at snap- dragon, and when fingers enough were burned with that, and all the raisins were gone, they sat down by the huge fire of blazing logs to a substantial supper, and a mighty bowl of wassail, something smaller than an ordinary wash-house copper, in which the hot apples were hissing and bubbling with a rich look, and a jolly sound, that were perfectly irresistible.

‘This,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking round him, ‘this is, indeed, comfort.’ ‘Our invariable custom,’ replied Mr. Wardle. ‘Everybody sits down with us on Christmas Eve, as you see them now—servants and all; and here we wait, until the clock strikes twelve, to usher Christmas in, and beguile the time with forfeits and old stories. Trundle, my boy, rake up the fire.’

Up flew the bright sparks in myriads as the logs were stirred. The deep red blaze sent forth a rich glow, that penetrated into the farthest corner of the room, and cast its cheerful tint on every face.

‘Come,’ said Wardle, ‘a song—a Christmas song! I’ll give you one, in default of a better.’

‘Bravo!’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Fill up,’ cried Wardle. ‘It will be two hours, good, before you see the bottom of the bowl through the deep rich colour of the wassail; fill up all round, and now for the song.’

Thus saying, the merry old gentleman, in a good, round, sturdy voice, commenced without more ado—

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

‘I care not for Spring; on his fickle wing Let the blossoms and buds be borne; He woos them amain with his treacherous rain, And he scatters them ere the morn. An inconstant elf, he knows not himself, Nor his own changing mind an hour, He’ll smile in your face, and, with wry grimace, He’ll wither your youngest flower.

‘Let the Summer sun to his bright home run, He shall never be sought by me; When he’s dimmed by a cloud I can laugh aloud And care not how sulky he be! For his darling child is the madness wild That sports in fierce fever’s train; And when love is too strong, it don’t last long, As many have found to their pain.

‘A mild harvest night, by the tranquil light Of the modest and gentle moon, Has a far sweeter sheen for me, I ween, Than the broad and unblushing noon. But every leaf awakens my grief, As it lieth beneath the tree; So let Autumn air be never so fair, It by no means agrees with me.

‘But my song I troll out, for _Christmas _Stout, The hearty, the true, and the bold; A bumper I drain, and with might and main Give three cheers for this Christmas old! We’ll usher him in with a merry din That shall gladden his joyous heart, And we’ll keep him up, while there’s bite or sup, And in fellowship good, we’ll part. ‘In his fine honest pride, he scorns to hide One jot of his hard-weather scars; They’re no disgrace, for there’s much the same trace On the cheeks of our bravest tars. Then again I sing till the roof doth ring And it echoes from wall to wall—To the stout old wight, fair welcome to-night, As the King of the Seasons all!’

This song was tumultuously applauded—for friends and dependents make a capital audience—and the poor relations, especially, were in perfect ecstasies of rapture. Again was the fire replenished, and again went the wassail round.

‘How it snows!’ said one of the men, in a low tone.

‘Snows, does it?’ said Wardle.

‘Rough, cold night, Sir,’ replied the man; ‘and there’s a wind got up, that drifts it across the fields, in a thick white cloud.’

‘What does Jem say?’ inquired the old lady. ‘There ain’t anything the matter, is there?’

‘No, no, mother,’ replied Wardle; ‘he says there’s a snowdrift, and a wind that’s piercing cold. I should know that, by the way it rumbles in the chimney.’

‘Ah!’ said the old lady, ‘there was just such a wind, and just such a fall of snow, a good many years back, I recollect—just five years before your poor father died. It was a Christmas Eve, too; and I remember that on that very night he told us the story about the goblins that carried away old Gabriel Grub.’

‘The story about what?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Oh, nothing, nothing,’ replied Wardle. ‘About an old sexton, that the good people down here suppose to have been carried away by goblins.’

‘Suppose!’ ejaculated the old lady. ‘Is there anybody hardy enough to disbelieve it? Suppose! Haven’t you heard ever since you were a child, that he _was _carried away by the goblins, and don’t you know he was?’

‘Very well, mother, he was, if you like,’ said Wardle laughing. ‘He was carried away by goblins, Pickwick; and there’s an end of the matter.’

‘No, no,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘not an end of it, I assure you; for I must hear how, and why, and all about it.’

Wardle smiled, as every head was bent forward to hear, and filling out the wassail with no stinted hand, nodded a health to Mr. Pickwick, and began as follows—

But bless our editorial heart, what a long chapter we have been betrayed into! We had quite forgotten all such petty restrictions as chapters, we solemnly declare. So here goes, to give the goblin a fair start in a new one. A clear stage and no favour for the goblins, ladies and gentlemen, if you please.

CHAPTER XXIX. THE STORY OF THE GOBLINS WHO STOLE A SEXTON

‘In an old abbey town, down in this part of the country, a long, long while ago—so long, that the story must be a true one, because our great-grandfathers implicitly believed it—there officiated as sexton and grave-digger in the churchyard, one Gabriel Grub. It by no means follows that because a man is a sexton, and constantly surrounded by the emblems of mortality, therefore he should be a morose and melancholy man; your undertakers are the merriest fellows in the world; and I once had the honour of being on intimate terms with a mute, who in private life, and off duty, was as comical and jocose a little fellow as ever chirped out a devil-may-care song, without a hitch in his memory, or drained off a good stiff glass without stopping for breath. But notwithstanding these precedents to the contrary, Gabriel Grub was an ill-conditioned, cross-grained, surly fellow—a morose and lonely man, who consorted with nobody but himself, and an old wicker bottle which fitted into his large deep waistcoat pocket—and who eyed each merry face, as it passed him by, with such a deep scowl of malice and ill- humour, as it was difficult to meet without feeling something the worse for.

‘A little before twilight, one Christmas Eve, Gabriel shouldered his spade, lighted his lantern, and betook himself towards the old churchyard; for he had got a grave to finish by next morning, and, feeling very low, he thought it might raise his spirits, perhaps, if he went on with his work at once. As he went his way, up the ancient street, he saw the cheerful light of the blazing fires gleam through the old casements, and heard the loud laugh and the cheerful shouts of those who were assembled around them; he marked the bustling preparations for next day’s cheer, and smelled the numerous savoury odours consequent thereupon, as they steamed up from the kitchen windows in clouds. All this was gall and wormwood to the heart of Gabriel Grub; and when groups of children bounded out of the houses, tripped across the road, and were met, before they could knock at the opposite door, by half a dozen curly-headed little rascals who crowded round them as they flocked upstairs to spend the evening in their Christmas games, Gabriel smiled grimly, and clutched the handle of his spade with a firmer grasp, as he thought of measles, scarlet fever, thrush, whooping-cough, and a good many other sources of consolation besides.

‘In this happy frame of mind, Gabriel strode along, returning a short, sullen growl to the good-humoured greetings of such of his neighbours as now and then passed him, until he turned into the dark lane which led to the churchyard. Now, Gabriel had been looking forward to reaching the dark lane, because it was, generally speaking, a nice, gloomy, mournful place, into which the townspeople did not much care to go, except in broad daylight, and when the sun was shining; consequently, he was not a little indignant to hear a young urchin roaring out some jolly song about a merry Christmas, in this very sanctuary which had been called Coffin Lane ever since the days of the old abbey, and the time of the shaven-headed monks. As Gabriel walked on, and the voice drew nearer, he found it proceeded from a small boy, who was hurrying along, to join one of the little parties in the old street, and who, partly to keep himself company, and partly to prepare himself for the occasion, was shouting out the song at the highest pitch of his lungs. So Gabriel waited until the boy came up, and then dodged him into a corner, and rapped him over the head with his lantern five or six times, just to teach him to modulate his voice. And as the boy hurried away with his hand to his head, singing quite a different sort of tune, Gabriel Grub chuckled very heartily to himself, and entered the churchyard, locking the gate behind him.

‘He took off his coat, set down his lantern, and getting into the unfinished grave, worked at it for an hour or so with right good-will. But the earth was hardened with the frost, and it was no very easy matter to break it up, and shovel it out; and although there was a moon, it was a very young one, and shed little light upon the grave, which was in the shadow of the church. At any other time, these obstacles would have made Gabriel Grub very moody and miserable, but he was so well pleased with having stopped the small boy’s singing, that he took little heed of the scanty progress he had made, and looked down into the grave, when he had finished work for the night, with grim satisfaction, murmuring as he gathered up his things—

Brave lodgings for one, brave lodgings for one, A few feet of cold earth, when life is done; A stone at the head, a stone at the feet, A rich, juicy meal for the worms to eat; Rank grass overhead, and damp clay around, Brave lodgings for one, these, in holy ground!

‘“Ho! ho!” laughed Gabriel Grub, as he sat himself down on a flat tombstone which was a favourite resting-place of his, and drew forth his wicker bottle. “A coffin at Christmas! A Christmas box! Ho! ho! ho!”

‘“Ho! ho! ho!” repeated a voice which sounded close behind him.

‘Gabriel paused, in some alarm, in the act of raising the wicker bottle to his lips, and looked round. The bottom of the oldest grave about him was not more still and quiet than the churchyard in the pale moonlight. The cold hoar frost glistened on the tombstones, and sparkled like rows of gems, among the stone carvings of the old church. The snow lay hard and crisp upon the ground; and spread over the thickly-strewn mounds of earth, so white and smooth a cover that it seemed as if corpses lay there, hidden only by their winding sheets. Not the faintest rustle broke the profound tranquillity of the solemn scene. Sound itself appeared to be frozen up, all was so cold and still.

‘“It was the echoes,” said Gabriel Grub, raising the bottle to his lips again.

‘“It was not,” said a deep voice.

‘Gabriel started up, and stood rooted to the spot with astonishment and terror; for his eyes rested on a form that made his blood run cold.

‘Seated on an upright tombstone, close to him, was a strange, unearthly figure, whom Gabriel felt at once, was no being of this world. His long, fantastic legs which might have reached the ground, were cocked up, and crossed after a quaint, fantastic fashion; his sinewy arms were bare; and his hands rested on his knees. On his short, round body, he wore a close covering, ornamented with small slashes; a short cloak dangled at his back; the collar was cut into curious peaks, which served the goblin in lieu of ruff or neckerchief; and his shoes curled up at his toes into long points. On his head, he wore a broad-brimmed sugar-loaf hat, garnished with a single feather. The hat was covered with the white frost; and the goblin looked as if he had sat on the same tombstone very comfortably, for two or three hundred years. He was sitting perfectly still; his tongue was put out, as if in derision; and he was grinning at Gabriel Grub with such a grin as only a goblin could call up.

‘“It was _not _the echoes,” said the goblin.

‘Gabriel Grub was paralysed, and could make no reply.

‘“What do you do here on Christmas Eve?” said the goblin sternly.

‘“I came to dig a grave, Sir,” stammered Gabriel Grub.

‘“What man wanders among graves and churchyards on such a night as this?” cried the goblin.

‘“Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub!” screamed a wild chorus of voices that seemed to fill the churchyard. Gabriel looked fearfully round—nothing was to be seen.

‘“What have you got in that bottle?” said the goblin.

‘“Hollands, sir,” replied the sexton, trembling more than ever; for he had bought it of the smugglers, and he thought that perhaps his questioner might be in the excise department of the goblins.

‘“Who drinks Hollands alone, and in a churchyard, on such a night as this?” said the goblin.

‘“Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub!” exclaimed the wild voices again.

‘The goblin leered maliciously at the terrified sexton, and then raising his voice, exclaimed—

‘“And who, then, is our fair and lawful prize?”

‘To this inquiry the invisible chorus replied, in a strain that sounded like the voices of many choristers singing to the mighty swell of the old church organ—a strain that seemed borne to the sexton’s ears upon a wild wind, and to die away as it passed onward; but the burden of the reply was still the same, “Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub!”

‘The goblin grinned a broader grin than before, as he said, “Well, Gabriel, what do you say to this?”

‘The sexton gasped for breath.

‘“What do you think of this, Gabriel?” said the goblin, kicking up his feet in the air on either side of the tombstone, and looking at the turned-up points with as much complacency as if he had been contemplating the most fashionable pair of Wellingtons in all Bond Street.

‘“It’s—it’s—very curious, Sir,” replied the sexton, half dead with fright; “very curious, and very pretty, but I think I’ll go back and finish my work, Sir, if you please.”

‘“Work!” said the goblin, “what work?”

‘“The grave, Sir; making the grave,” stammered the sexton.

‘“Oh, the grave, eh?” said the goblin; “who makes graves at a time when all other men are merry, and takes a pleasure in it?”

‘Again the mysterious voices replied, “Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub!”

‘“I am afraid my friends want you, Gabriel,” said the goblin, thrusting his tongue farther into his cheek than ever—and a most astonishing tongue it was—“I’m afraid my friends want you, Gabriel,” said the goblin.

‘“Under favour, Sir,” replied the horror-stricken sexton, “I don’t think they can, Sir; they don’t know me, Sir; I don’t think the gentlemen have ever seen me, Sir.”

‘“Oh, yes, they have,” replied the goblin; “we know the man with the sulky face and grim scowl, that came down the street to-night, throwing his evil looks at the children, and grasping his burying-spade the tighter. We know the man who struck the boy in the envious malice of his heart, because the boy could be merry, and he could not. We know him, we know him.”

‘Here, the goblin gave a loud, shrill laugh, which the echoes returned twentyfold; and throwing his legs up in the air, stood upon his head, or rather upon the very point of his sugar-loaf hat, on the narrow edge of the tombstone, whence he threw a Somerset with extraordinary agility, right to the sexton’s feet, at which he planted himself in the attitude in which tailors generally sit upon the shop-board.

‘“I—I—am afraid I must leave you, Sir,” said the sexton, making an effort to move.

‘“Leave us!” said the goblin, “Gabriel Grub going to leave us. Ho! ho! ho!”

‘As the goblin laughed, the sexton observed, for one instant, a brilliant illumination within the windows of the church, as if the whole building were lighted up; it disappeared, the organ pealed forth a lively air, and whole troops of goblins, the very counterpart of the first one, poured into the churchyard, and began playing at leap-frog with the tombstones, never stopping for an instant to take breath, but “overing” the highest among them, one after the other, with the most marvellous dexterity. The first goblin was a most astonishing leaper, and none of the others could come near him; even in the extremity of his terror the sexton could not help observing, that while his friends were content to leap over the common-sized gravestones, the first one took the family vaults, iron railings and all, with as much ease as if they had been so many street-posts.

‘At last the game reached to a most exciting pitch; the organ played quicker and quicker, and the goblins leaped faster and faster, coiling themselves up, rolling head over heels upon the ground, and bounding over the tombstones like footballs. The sexton’s brain whirled round with the rapidity of the motion he beheld, and his legs reeled beneath him, as the spirits flew before his eyes; when the goblin king, suddenly darting towards him, laid his hand upon his collar, and sank with him through the earth.

‘When Gabriel Grub had had time to fetch his breath, which the rapidity of his descent had for the moment taken away, he found himself in what appeared to be a large cavern, surrounded on all sides by crowds of goblins, ugly and grim; in the centre of the room, on an elevated seat, was stationed his friend of the churchyard; and close behind him stood Gabriel Grub himself, without power of motion.

‘“Cold to-night,” said the king of the goblins, “very cold. A glass of something warm here!”

‘At this command, half a dozen officious goblins, with a perpetual smile upon their faces, whom Gabriel Grub imagined to be courtiers, on that account, hastily disappeared, and presently returned with a goblet of liquid fire, which they presented to the king.

‘“Ah!” cried the goblin, whose cheeks and throat were transparent, as he tossed down the flame, “this warms one, indeed! Bring a bumper of the same, for Mr. Grub.”

‘It was in vain for the unfortunate sexton to protest that he was not in the habit of taking anything warm at night; one of the goblins held him while another poured the blazing liquid down his throat; the whole assembly screeched with laughter, as he coughed and choked, and wiped away the tears which gushed plentifully from his eyes, after swallowing the burning draught.

‘“And now,” said the king, fantastically poking the taper corner of his sugar-loaf hat into the sexton’s eye, and thereby occasioning him the most exquisite pain; “and now, show the man of misery and gloom, a few of the pictures from our own great storehouse!”

‘As the goblin said this, a thick cloud which obscured the remoter end of the cavern rolled gradually away, and disclosed, apparently at a great distance, a small and scantily furnished, but neat and clean apartment. A crowd of little children were gathered round a bright fire, clinging to their mother’s gown, and gambolling around her chair. The mother occasionally rose, and drew aside the window-curtain, as if to look for some expected object; a frugal meal was ready spread upon the table; and an elbow chair was placed near the fire. A knock was heard at the door; the mother opened it, and the children crowded round her, and clapped their hands for joy, as their father entered. He was wet and weary, and shook the snow from his garments, as the children crowded round him, and seizing his cloak, hat, stick, and gloves, with busy zeal, ran with them from the room. Then, as he sat down to his meal before the fire, the children climbed about his knee, and the mother sat by his side, and all seemed happiness and comfort.

‘But a change came upon the view, almost imperceptibly. The scene was altered to a small bedroom, where the fairest and youngest child lay dying; the roses had fled from his cheek, and the light from his eye; and even as the sexton looked upon him with an interest he had never felt or known before, he died. His young brothers and sisters crowded round his little bed, and seized his tiny hand, so cold and heavy; but they shrank back from its touch, and looked with awe on his infant face; for calm and tranquil as it was, and sleeping in rest and peace as the beautiful child seemed to be, they saw that he was dead, and they knew that he was an angel looking down upon, and blessing them, from a bright and happy Heaven.

‘Again the light cloud passed across the picture, and again the subject changed. The father and mother were old and helpless now, and the number of those about them was diminished more than half; but content and cheerfulness sat on every face, and beamed in every eye, as they crowded round the fireside, and told and listened to old stories of earlier and bygone days. Slowly and peacefully, the father sank into the grave, and, soon after, the sharer of all his cares and troubles followed him to a place of rest. The few who yet survived them, kneeled by their tomb, and watered the green turf which covered it with their tears; then rose, and turned away, sadly and mournfully, but not with bitter cries, or despairing lamentations, for they knew that they should one day meet again; and once more they mixed with the busy world, and their content and cheerfulness were restored. The cloud settled upon the picture, and concealed it from the sexton’s view.

‘“What do you think of that?” said the goblin, turning his large face towards Gabriel Grub.

‘Gabriel murmured out something about its being very pretty, and looked somewhat ashamed, as the goblin bent his fiery eyes upon him.

‘“You a miserable man!” said the goblin, in a tone of excessive contempt. “You!” He appeared disposed to add more, but indignation choked his utterance, so he lifted up one of his very pliable legs, and, flourishing it above his head a little, to insure his aim, administered a good sound kick to Gabriel Grub; immediately after which, all the goblins in waiting crowded round the wretched sexton, and kicked him without mercy, according to the established and invariable custom of courtiers upon earth, who kick whom royalty kicks, and hug whom royalty hugs.

‘“Show him some more!” said the king of the goblins.

‘At these words, the cloud was dispelled, and a rich and beautiful landscape was disclosed to view—there is just such another, to this day, within half a mile of the old abbey town. The sun shone from out the clear blue sky, the water sparkled beneath his rays, and the trees looked greener, and the flowers more gay, beneath its cheering influence. The water rippled on with a pleasant sound, the trees rustled in the light wind that murmured among their leaves, the birds sang upon the boughs, and the lark carolled on high her welcome to the morning. Yes, it was morning; the bright, balmy morning of summer; the minutest leaf, the smallest blade of grass, was instinct with life. The ant crept forth to her daily toil, the butterfly fluttered and basked in the warm rays of the sun; myriads of insects spread their transparent wings, and revelled in their brief but happy existence. Man walked forth, elated with the scene; and all was brightness and splendour.

’”_You _a miserable man!” said the king of the goblins, in a more contemptuous tone than before. And again the king of the goblins gave his leg a flourish; again it descended on the shoulders of the sexton; and again the attendant goblins imitated the example of their chief.

‘Many a time the cloud went and came, and many a lesson it taught to Gabriel Grub, who, although his shoulders smarted with pain from the frequent applications of the goblins’ feet thereunto, looked on with an interest that nothing could diminish. He saw that men who worked hard, and earned their scanty bread with lives of labour, were cheerful and happy; and that to the most ignorant, the sweet face of Nature was a never-failing source of cheerfulness and joy. He saw those who had been delicately nurtured, and tenderly brought up, cheerful under privations, and superior to suffering, that would have crushed many of a rougher grain, because they bore within their own bosoms the materials of happiness, contentment, and peace. He saw that women, the tenderest and most fragile of all God’s creatures, were the oftenest superior to sorrow, adversity, and distress; and he saw that it was because they bore, in their own hearts, an inexhaustible well-spring of affection and devotion. Above all, he saw that men like himself, who snarled at the mirth and cheerfulness of others, were the foulest weeds on the fair surface of the earth; and setting all the good of the world against the evil, he came to the conclusion that it was a very decent and respectable sort of world after all. No sooner had he formed it, than the cloud which had closed over the last picture, seemed to settle on his senses, and lull him to repose. One by one, the goblins faded from his sight; and, as the last one disappeared, he sank to sleep.

‘The day had broken when Gabriel Grub awoke, and found himself lying at full length on the flat gravestone in the churchyard, with the wicker bottle lying empty by his side, and his coat, spade, and lantern, all well whitened by the last night’s frost, scattered on the ground. The stone on which he had first seen the goblin seated, stood bolt upright before him, and the grave at which he had worked, the night before, was not far off. At first, he began to doubt the reality of his adventures, but the acute pain in his shoulders when he attempted to rise, assured him that the kicking of the goblins was certainly not ideal. He was staggered again, by observing no traces of footsteps in the snow on which the goblins had played at leap-frog with the gravestones, but he speedily accounted for this circumstance when he remembered that, being spirits, they would leave no visible impression behind them. So, Gabriel Grub got on his feet as well as he could, for the pain in his back; and, brushing the frost off his coat, put it on, and turned his face towards the town.

‘But he was an altered man, and he could not bear the thought of returning to a place where his repentance would be scoffed at, and his reformation disbelieved. He hesitated for a few moments; and then turned away to wander where he might, and seek his bread elsewhere.

‘The lantern, the spade, and the wicker bottle were found, that day, in the churchyard. There were a great many speculations about the sexton’s fate, at first, but it was speedily determined that he had been carried away by the goblins; and there were not wanting some very credible witnesses who had distinctly seen him whisked through the air on the back of a chestnut horse blind of one eye, with the hind-quarters of a lion, and the tail of a bear. At length all this was devoutly believed; and the new sexton used to exhibit to the curious, for a trifling emolument, a good-sized piece of the church weathercock which had been accidentally kicked off by the aforesaid horse in his aerial flight, and picked up by himself in the churchyard, a year or two afterwards.

‘Unfortunately, these stories were somewhat disturbed by the unlooked- for reappearance of Gabriel Grub himself, some ten years afterwards, a ragged, contented, rheumatic old man. He told his story to the clergyman, and also to the mayor; and in course of time it began to be received as a matter of history, in which form it has continued down to this very day. The believers in the weathercock tale, having misplaced their confidence once, were not easily prevailed upon to part with it again, so they looked as wise as they could, shrugged their shoulders, touched their foreheads, and murmured something about Gabriel Grub having drunk all the Hollands, and then fallen asleep on the flat tombstone; and they affected to explain what he supposed he had witnessed in the goblin’s cavern, by saying that he had seen the world, and grown wiser. But this opinion, which was by no means a popular one at any time, gradually died off; and be the matter how it may, as Gabriel Grub was afflicted with rheumatism to the end of his days, this story has at least one moral, if it teach no better one—and that is, that if a man turn sulky and drink by himself at Christmas time, he may make up his mind to be not a bit the better for it: let the spirits be never so good, or let them be even as many degrees beyond proof, as those which Gabriel Grub saw in the goblin’s cavern.’

CHAPTER XXX. HOW THE PICKWICKIANS MADE AND CULTIVATED THE ACQUAINTANCE OF A COUPLE OF NICE YOUNG MEN BELONGING TO ONE OF THE LIBERAL PROFESSIONS; HOW THEY DISPORTED THEMSELVES ON THE ICE; AND HOW THEIR VISIT CAME TO A CONCLUSION

Well, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as that favoured servitor entered his bed-chamber, with his warm water, on the morning of Christmas Day, ‘still frosty?’

‘Water in the wash-hand basin’s a mask o’ ice, Sir,’ responded Sam.

‘Severe weather, Sam,’ observed Mr. Pickwick.

‘Fine time for them as is well wropped up, as the Polar bear said to himself, ven he was practising his skating,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘I shall be down in a quarter of an hour, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, untying his nightcap.

‘Wery good, sir,’ replied Sam. ‘There’s a couple o’ sawbones downstairs.’

‘A couple of what!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, sitting up in bed.

‘A couple o’ sawbones,’ said Sam.

‘What’s a sawbones?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, not quite certain whether it was a live animal, or something to eat.

‘What! Don’t you know what a sawbones is, sir?’ inquired Mr. Weller. ‘I thought everybody know’d as a sawbones was a surgeon.’

‘Oh, a surgeon, eh?’ said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile.

‘Just that, sir,’ replied Sam. ‘These here ones as is below, though, ain’t reg’lar thoroughbred sawbones; they’re only in trainin’.’

In other words they’re medical students, I suppose?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

Sam Weller nodded assent.

‘I am glad of it,’ said Mr. Pickwick, casting his nightcap energetically on the counterpane. ‘They are fine fellows—very fine fellows; with judgments matured by observation and reflection; and tastes refined by reading and study. I am very glad of it.’

‘They’re a-smokin’ cigars by the kitchen fire,’ said Sam.

‘Ah!’ observed Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his hands, ‘overflowing with kindly feelings and animal spirits. Just what I like to see.’

And one on ‘em,’ said Sam, not noticing his master’s interruption, ‘one on ‘em’s got his legs on the table, and is a-drinking brandy neat, vile the t’other one—him in the barnacles—has got a barrel o’ oysters atween his knees, which he’s a-openin’ like steam, and as fast as he eats ‘em, he takes a aim vith the shells at young dropsy, who’s a sittin’ down fast asleep, in the chimbley corner.’

‘Eccentricities of genius, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘You may retire.’

Sam did retire accordingly. Mr. Pickwick at the expiration of the quarter of an hour, went down to breakfast.

‘Here he is at last!’ said old Mr. Wardle. ‘Pickwick, this is Miss Allen’s brother, Mr. Benjamin Allen. Ben we call him, and so may you, if you like. This gentleman is his very particular friend, Mr.—’

‘Mr. Bob Sawyer,’ interposed Mr. Benjamin Allen; whereupon Mr. Bob Sawyer and Mr. Benjamin Allen laughed in concert.

Mr. Pickwick bowed to Bob Sawyer, and Bob Sawyer bowed to Mr. Pickwick. Bob and his very particular friend then applied themselves most assiduously to the eatables before them; and Mr. Pickwick had an opportunity of glancing at them both.

Mr. Benjamin Allen was a coarse, stout, thick-set young man, with black hair cut rather short, and a white face cut rather long. He was embellished with spectacles, and wore a white neckerchief. Below his single-breasted black surtout, which was buttoned up to his chin, appeared the usual number of pepper-and-salt coloured legs, terminating in a pair of imperfectly polished boots. Although his coat was short in the sleeves, it disclosed no vestige of a linen wristband; and although there was quite enough of his face to admit of the encroachment of a shirt collar, it was not graced by the smallest approach to that appendage. He presented, altogether, rather a mildewy appearance, and emitted a fragrant odour of full-flavoured Cubas.

Mr. Bob Sawyer, who was habited in a coarse, blue coat, which, without being either a greatcoat or a surtout, partook of the nature and qualities of both, had about him that sort of slovenly smartness, and swaggering gait, which is peculiar to young gentlemen who smoke in the streets by day, shout and scream in the same by night, call waiters by their Christian names, and do various other acts and deeds of an equally facetious description. He wore a pair of plaid trousers, and a large, rough, double-breasted waistcoat; out of doors, he carried a thick stick with a big top. He eschewed gloves, and looked, upon the whole, something like a dissipated Robinson Crusoe.

Such were the two worthies to whom Mr. Pickwick was introduced, as he took his seat at the breakfast-table on Christmas morning.

‘Splendid morning, gentlemen,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

Mr. Bob Sawyer slightly nodded his assent to the proposition, and asked Mr. Benjamin Allen for the mustard.

‘Have you come far this morning, gentlemen?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Blue Lion at Muggleton,’ briefly responded Mr. Allen.

‘You should have joined us last night,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘So we should,’ replied Bob Sawyer, ‘but the brandy was too good to leave in a hurry; wasn’t it, Ben?’

‘Certainly,’ said Mr. Benjamin Allen; ‘and the cigars were not bad, or the pork-chops either; were they, Bob?’

‘Decidedly not,’ said Bob. The particular friends resumed their attack upon the breakfast, more freely than before, as if the recollection of last night’s supper had imparted a new relish to the meal.

‘Peg away, Bob,’ said Mr. Allen, to his companion, encouragingly.

‘So I do,’ replied Bob Sawyer. And so, to do him justice, he did.

‘Nothing like dissecting, to give one an appetite,’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer, looking round the table.

Mr. Pickwick slightly shuddered.

‘By the bye, Bob,’ said Mr. Allen, ‘have you finished that leg yet?’

‘Nearly,’ replied Sawyer, helping himself to half a fowl as he spoke. ‘It’s a very muscular one for a child’s.’

Is it?’ inquired Mr. Allen carelessly.

‘Very,’ said Bob Sawyer, with his mouth full.

‘I’ve put my name down for an arm at our place,’ said Mr. Allen. ‘We’re clubbing for a subject, and the list is nearly full, only we can’t get hold of any fellow that wants a head. I wish you’d take it.’

‘No,’ replied ‘Bob Sawyer; ‘can’t afford expensive luxuries.’

‘Nonsense!’ said Allen.

‘Can’t, indeed,’ rejoined Bob Sawyer, ‘I wouldn’t mind a brain, but I couldn’t stand a whole head.’

Hush, hush, gentlemen, pray,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I hear the ladies.’

As Mr. Pickwick spoke, the ladies, gallantly escorted by Messrs. Snodgrass, Winkle, and Tupman, returned from an early walk.

‘Why, Ben!’ said Arabella, in a tone which expressed more surprise than pleasure at the sight of her brother.

‘Come to take you home to-morrow,’ replied Benjamin.

Mr. Winkle turned pale.

‘Don’t you see Bob Sawyer, Arabella?’ inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, somewhat reproachfully. Arabella gracefully held out her hand, in acknowledgment of Bob Sawyer’s presence. A thrill of hatred struck to Mr. Winkle’s heart, as Bob Sawyer inflicted on the proffered hand a perceptible squeeze.

‘Ben, dear!’ said Arabella, blushing; ‘have—have—you been introduced to Mr. Winkle?’

‘I have not been, but I shall be very happy to be, Arabella,’ replied her brother gravely. Here Mr. Allen bowed grimly to Mr. Winkle, while Mr. Winkle and Mr. Bob Sawyer glanced mutual distrust out of the corners of their eyes.

The arrival of the two new visitors, and the consequent check upon Mr. Winkle and the young lady with the fur round her boots, would in all probability have proved a very unpleasant interruption to the hilarity of the party, had not the cheerfulness of Mr. Pickwick, and the good humour of the host, been exerted to the very utmost for the common weal. Mr. Winkle gradually insinuated himself into the good graces of Mr. Benjamin Allen, and even joined in a friendly conversation with Mr. Bob Sawyer; who, enlivened with the brandy, and the breakfast, and the talking, gradually ripened into a state of extreme facetiousness, and related with much glee an agreeable anecdote, about the removal of a tumour on some gentleman’s head, which he illustrated by means of an oyster-knife and a half-quartern loaf, to the great edification of the assembled company. Then the whole train went to church, where Mr. Benjamin Allen fell fast asleep; while Mr. Bob Sawyer abstracted his thoughts from worldly matters, by the ingenious process of carving his name on the seat of the pew, in corpulent letters of four inches long.

‘Now,’ said Wardle, after a substantial lunch, with the agreeable items of strong beer and cherry-brandy, had been done ample justice to, ‘what say you to an hour on the ice? We shall have plenty of time.’

‘Capital!’ said Mr. Benjamin Allen.

‘Prime!’ ejaculated Mr. Bob Sawyer.

‘You skate, of course, Winkle?’ said Wardle.

‘Ye-yes; oh, yes,’ replied Mr. Winkle. ‘I—I—am _rather _out of practice.’

‘Oh, do skate, Mr. Winkle,’ said Arabella. ‘I like to see it so much.’

‘Oh, it is so graceful,’ said another young lady.

A third young lady said it was elegant, and a fourth expressed her opinion that it was ‘swan-like.’

‘I should be very happy, I’m sure,’ said Mr. Winkle, reddening; ‘but I have no skates.’

This objection was at once overruled. Trundle had a couple of pair, and the fat boy announced that there were half a dozen more downstairs; whereat Mr. Winkle expressed exquisite delight, and looked exquisitely uncomfortable.

Old Wardle led the way to a pretty large sheet of ice; and the fat boy and Mr. Weller, having shovelled and swept away the snow which had fallen on it during the night, Mr. Bob Sawyer adjusted his skates with a dexterity which to Mr. Winkle was perfectly marvellous, and described circles with his left leg, and cut figures of eight, and inscribed upon the ice, without once stopping for breath, a great many other pleasant and astonishing devices, to the excessive satisfaction of Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Tupman, and the ladies; which reached a pitch of positive enthusiasm, when old Wardle and Benjamin Allen, assisted by the aforesaid Bob Sawyer, performed some mystic evolutions, which they called a reel.

All this time, Mr. Winkle, with his face and hands blue with the cold, had been forcing a gimlet into the sole of his feet, and putting his skates on, with the points behind, and getting the straps into a very complicated and entangled state, with the assistance of Mr. Snodgrass, who knew rather less about skates than a Hindoo. At length, however, with the assistance of Mr. Weller, the unfortunate skates were firmly screwed and buckled on, and Mr. Winkle was raised to his feet.

‘Now, then, Sir,’ said Sam, in an encouraging tone; ‘off vith you, and show ‘em how to do it.’

‘Stop, Sam, stop!’ said Mr. Winkle, trembling violently, and clutching hold of Sam’s arms with the grasp of a drowning man. ‘How slippery it is, Sam!’

‘Not an uncommon thing upon ice, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Hold up, Sir!’

This last observation of Mr. Weller’s bore reference to a demonstration Mr. Winkle made at the instant, of a frantic desire to throw his feet in the air, and dash the back of his head on the ice.

‘These—these—are very awkward skates; ain’t they, Sam?’ inquired Mr. Winkle, staggering.

‘I’m afeerd there’s a orkard gen’l’m’n in ‘em, Sir,’ replied Sam.

‘Now, Winkle,’ cried Mr. Pickwick, quite unconscious that there was anything the matter. ‘Come; the ladies are all anxiety.’

‘Yes, yes,’ replied Mr. Winkle, with a ghastly smile. ‘I’m coming.’

‘Just a-goin’ to begin,’ said Sam, endeavouring to disengage himself. ‘Now, Sir, start off!’

‘Stop an instant, Sam,’ gasped Mr. Winkle, clinging most affectionately to Mr. Weller. ‘I find I’ve got a couple of coats at home that I don’t want, Sam. You may have them, Sam.’

‘Thank’ee, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘Never mind touching your hat, Sam,’ said Mr. Winkle hastily. ‘You needn’t take your hand away to do that. I meant to have given you five shillings this morning for a Christmas box, Sam. I’ll give it you this afternoon, Sam.’

‘You’re wery good, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘Just hold me at first, Sam; will you?’ said Mr. Winkle. ‘There—that’s right. I shall soon get in the way of it, Sam. Not too fast, Sam; not too fast.’

Mr. Winkle, stooping forward, with his body half doubled up, was being assisted over the ice by Mr. Weller, in a very singular and un-swan-like manner, when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the opposite bank—

‘Sam!’

‘Sir?’

‘Here. I want you.’

‘Let go, Sir,’ said Sam. ‘Don’t you hear the governor a-callin’? Let go, sir.’

With a violent effort, Mr. Weller disengaged himself from the grasp of the agonised Pickwickian, and, in so doing, administered a considerable impetus to the unhappy Mr. Winkle. With an accuracy which no degree of dexterity or practice could have insured, that unfortunate gentleman bore swiftly down into the centre of the reel, at the very moment when Mr. Bob Sawyer was performing a flourish of unparalleled beauty. Mr. Winkle struck wildly against him, and with a loud crash they both fell heavily down. Mr. Pickwick ran to the spot. Bob Sawyer had risen to his feet, but Mr. Winkle was far too wise to do anything of the kind, in skates. He was seated on the ice, making spasmodic efforts to smile; but anguish was depicted on every lineament of his countenance.

‘Are you hurt?’ inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, with great anxiety.

‘Not much,’ said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back very hard.

‘I wish you’d let me bleed you,’ said Mr. Benjamin, with great eagerness.

‘No, thank you,’ replied Mr. Winkle hurriedly.

‘I really think you had better,’ said Allen.

‘Thank you,’ replied Mr. Winkle; ‘I’d rather not.’

‘What do _you _think, Mr. Pickwick?’ inquired Bob Sawyer.

Mr. Pickwick was excited and indignant. He beckoned to Mr. Weller, and said in a stern voice, ‘Take his skates off.’

‘No; but really I had scarcely begun,’ remonstrated Mr. Winkle.

‘Take his skates off,’ repeated Mr. Pickwick firmly.

The command was not to be resisted. Mr. Winkle allowed Sam to obey it, in silence.

‘Lift him up,’ said Mr. Pickwick. Sam assisted him to rise.

Mr. Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the bystanders; and, beckoning his friend to approach, fixed a searching look upon him, and uttered in a low, but distinct and emphatic tone, these remarkable words—

‘You’re a humbug, sir.’

A what?’ said Mr. Winkle, starting.

‘A humbug, Sir. I will speak plainer, if you wish it. An impostor, sir.’

With those words, Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on his heel, and rejoined his friends.

While Mr. Pickwick was delivering himself of the sentiment just recorded, Mr. Weller and the fat boy, having by their joint endeavours cut out a slide, were exercising themselves thereupon, in a very masterly and brilliant manner. Sam Weller, in particular, was displaying that beautiful feat of fancy-sliding which is currently denominated ‘knocking at the cobbler’s door,’ and which is achieved by skimming over the ice on one foot, and occasionally giving a postman’s knock upon it with the other. It was a good long slide, and there was something in the motion which Mr. Pickwick, who was very cold with standing still, could not help envying.

‘It looks a nice warm exercise that, doesn’t it?’ he inquired of Wardle, when that gentleman was thoroughly out of breath, by reason of the indefatigable manner in which he had converted his legs into a pair of compasses, and drawn complicated problems on the ice.

‘Ah, it does, indeed,’ replied Wardle. ‘Do you slide?’

‘I used to do so, on the gutters, when I was a boy,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Try it now,’ said Wardle.

‘Oh, do, please, Mr. Pickwick!’ cried all the ladies.

‘I should be very happy to afford you any amusement,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘but I haven’t done such a thing these thirty years.’

‘Pooh! pooh! Nonsense!’ said Wardle, dragging off his skates with the impetuosity which characterised all his proceedings. ‘Here; I’ll keep you company; come along!’ And away went the good-tempered old fellow down the slide, with a rapidity which came very close upon Mr. Weller, and beat the fat boy all to nothing.

Mr. Pickwick paused, considered, pulled off his gloves and put them in his hat; took two or three short runs, baulked himself as often, and at last took another run, and went slowly and gravely down the slide, with his feet about a yard and a quarter apart, amidst the gratified shouts of all the spectators.

‘Keep the pot a-bilin’, Sir!’ said Sam; and down went Wardle again, and then Mr. Pickwick, and then Sam, and then Mr. Winkle, and then Mr. Bob Sawyer, and then the fat boy, and then Mr. Snodgrass, following closely upon each other’s heels, and running after each other with as much eagerness as if their future prospects in life depended on their expedition.

It was the most intensely interesting thing, to observe the manner in which Mr. Pickwick performed his share in the ceremony; to watch the torture of anxiety with which he viewed the person behind, gaining upon him at the imminent hazard of tripping him up; to see him gradually expend the painful force he had put on at first, and turn slowly round on the slide, with his face towards the point from which he had started; to contemplate the playful smile which mantled on his face when he had accomplished the distance, and the eagerness with which he turned round when he had done so, and ran after his predecessor, his black gaiters tripping pleasantly through the snow, and his eyes beaming cheerfulness and gladness through his spectacles. And when he was knocked down (which happened upon the average every third round), it was the most invigorating sight that can possibly be imagined, to behold him gather up his hat, gloves, and handkerchief, with a glowing countenance, and resume his station in the rank, with an ardour and enthusiasm that nothing Could abate.

The sport was at its height, the sliding was at the quickest, the laughter was at the loudest, when a sharp smart crack was heard. There was a quick rush towards the bank, a wild scream from the ladies, and a shout from Mr. Tupman. A large mass of ice disappeared; the water bubbled up over it; Mr. Pickwick’s hat, gloves, and handkerchief were floating on the surface; and this was all of Mr. Pickwick that anybody could see.

Dismay and anguish were depicted on every countenance; the males turned pale, and the females fainted; Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle grasped each other by the hand, and gazed at the spot where their leader had gone down, with frenzied eagerness; while Mr. Tupman, by way of rendering the promptest assistance, and at the same time conveying to any persons who might be within hearing, the clearest possible notion of the catastrophe, ran off across the country at his utmost speed, screaming ‘Fire!’ with all his might.

It was at this moment, when old Wardle and Sam Weller were approaching the hole with cautious steps, and Mr. Benjamin Allen was holding a hurried consultation with Mr. Bob Sawyer on the advisability of bleeding the company generally, as an improving little bit of professional practice—it was at this very moment, that a face, head, and shoulders, emerged from beneath the water, and disclosed the features and spectacles of Mr. Pickwick.

‘Keep yourself up for an instant—for only one instant!’ bawled Mr. Snodgrass.

‘Yes, do; let me implore you—for my sake!’ roared Mr. Winkle, deeply affected. The adjuration was rather unnecessary; the probability being, that if Mr. Pickwick had declined to keep himself up for anybody else’s sake, it would have occurred to him that he might as well do so, for his own.

‘Do you feel the bottom there, old fellow?’ said Wardle.

‘Yes, certainly,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, wringing the water from his head and face, and gasping for breath. ‘I fell upon my back. I couldn’t get on my feet at first.’

The clay upon so much of Mr. Pickwick’s coat as was yet visible, bore testimony to the accuracy of this statement; and as the fears of the spectators were still further relieved by the fat boy’s suddenly recollecting that the water was nowhere more than five feet deep, prodigies of valour were performed to get him out. After a vast quantity of splashing, and cracking, and struggling, Mr. Pickwick was at length fairly extricated from his unpleasant position, and once more stood on dry land.

‘Oh, he’ll catch his death of cold,’ said Emily.

‘Dear old thing!’ said Arabella. ‘Let me wrap this shawl round you, Mr. Pickwick.’

‘Ah, that’s the best thing you can do,’ said Wardle; ‘and when you’ve got it on, run home as fast as your legs can carry you, and jump into bed directly.’

A dozen shawls were offered on the instant. Three or four of the thickest having been selected, Mr. Pickwick was wrapped up, and started off, under the guidance of Mr. Weller; presenting the singular phenomenon of an elderly gentleman, dripping wet, and without a hat, with his arms bound down to his sides, skimming over the ground, without any clearly-defined purpose, at the rate of six good English miles an hour.

But Mr. Pickwick cared not for appearances in such an extreme case, and urged on by Sam Weller, he kept at the very top of his speed until he reached the door of Manor Farm, where Mr. Tupman had arrived some five minutes before, and had frightened the old lady into palpitations of the heart by impressing her with the unalterable conviction that the kitchen chimney was on fire—a calamity which always presented itself in glowing colours to the old lady’s mind, when anybody about her evinced the smallest agitation.

Mr. Pickwick paused not an instant until he was snug in bed. Sam Weller lighted a blazing fire in the room, and took up his dinner; a bowl of punch was carried up afterwards, and a grand carouse held in honour of his safety. Old Wardle would not hear of his rising, so they made the bed the chair, and Mr. Pickwick presided. A second and a third bowl were ordered in; and when Mr. Pickwick awoke next morning, there was not a symptom of rheumatism about him; which proves, as Mr. Bob Sawyer very justly observed, that there is nothing like hot punch in such cases; and that if ever hot punch did fail to act as a preventive, it was merely because the patient fell into the vulgar error of not taking enough of it.

The jovial party broke up next morning. Breakings-up are capital things in our school-days, but in after life they are painful enough. Death, self-interest, and fortune’s changes, are every day breaking up many a happy group, and scattering them far and wide; and the boys and girls never come back again. We do not mean to say that it was exactly the case in this particular instance; all we wish to inform the reader is, that the different members of the party dispersed to their several homes; that Mr. Pickwick and his friends once more took their seats on the top of the Muggleton coach; and that Arabella Allen repaired to her place of destination, wherever it might have been—we dare say Mr. Winkle knew, but we confess we don’t—under the care and guardianship of her brother Benjamin, and his most intimate and particular friend, Mr. Bob Sawyer.

Before they separated, however, that gentleman and Mr. Benjamin Allen drew Mr. Pickwick aside with an air of some mystery; and Mr. Bob Sawyer, thrusting his forefinger between two of Mr. Pickwick’s ribs, and thereby displaying his native drollery, and his knowledge of the anatomy of the human frame, at one and the same time, inquired—

‘I say, old boy, where do you hang out?’ Mr. Pickwick replied that he was at present suspended at the George and Vulture.

‘I wish you’d come and see me,’ said Bob Sawyer.

‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘There’s my lodgings,’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer, producing a card. ‘Lant Street, Borough; it’s near Guy’s, and handy for me, you know. Little distance after you’ve passed St. George’s Church—turns out of the High Street on the right hand side the way.’

‘I shall find it,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Come on Thursday fortnight, and bring the other chaps with you,’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer; ‘I’m going to have a few medical fellows that night.’

Mr. Pickwick expressed the pleasure it would afford him to meet the medical fellows; and after Mr. Bob Sawyer had informed him that he meant to be very cosy, and that his friend Ben was to be one of the party, they shook hands and separated.

We feel that in this place we lay ourself open to the inquiry whether Mr. Winkle was whispering, during this brief conversation, to Arabella Allen; and if so, what he said; and furthermore, whether Mr. Snodgrass was conversing apart with Emily Wardle; and if so, what he said. To this, we reply, that whatever they might have said to the ladies, they said nothing at all to Mr. Pickwick or Mr. Tupman for eight-and-twenty miles, and that they sighed very often, refused ale and brandy, and looked gloomy. If our observant lady readers can deduce any satisfactory inferences from these facts, we beg them by all means to do so.

CHAPTER XXXI. WHICH IS ALL ABOUT THE LAW, AND SUNDRY GREAT AUTHORITIES LEARNED THEREIN

Scattered about, in various holes and corners of the Temple, are certain dark and dirty chambers, in and out of which, all the morning in vacation, and half the evening too in term time, there may be seen constantly hurrying with bundles of papers under their arms, and protruding from their pockets, an almost uninterrupted succession of lawyers’ clerks. There are several grades of lawyers’ clerks. There is the articled clerk, who has paid a premium, and is an attorney in perspective, who runs a tailor’s bill, receives invitations to parties, knows a family in Gower Street, and another in Tavistock Square; who goes out of town every long vacation to see his father, who keeps live horses innumerable; and who is, in short, the very aristocrat of clerks. There is the salaried clerk—out of door, or in door, as the case may be—who devotes the major part of his thirty shillings a week to his Personal pleasure and adornments, repairs half-price to the Adelphi Theatre at least three times a week, dissipates majestically at the cider cellars afterwards, and is a dirty caricature of the fashion which expired six months ago. There is the middle-aged copying clerk, with a large family, who is always shabby, and often drunk. And there are the office lads in their first surtouts, who feel a befitting contempt for boys at day-schools, club as they go home at night, for saveloys and porter, and think there’s nothing like ‘life.’ There are varieties of the genus, too numerous to recapitulate, but however numerous they may be, they are all to be seen, at certain regulated business hours, hurrying to and from the places we have just mentioned.

These sequestered nooks are the public offices of the legal profession, where writs are issued, judgments signed, declarations filed, and numerous other ingenious machines put in motion for the torture and torment of His Majesty’s liege subjects, and the comfort and emolument of the practitioners of the law. They are, for the most part, low- roofed, mouldy rooms, where innumerable rolls of parchment, which have been perspiring in secret for the last century, send forth an agreeable odour, which is mingled by day with the scent of the dry-rot, and by night with the various exhalations which arise from damp cloaks, festering umbrellas, and the coarsest tallow candles.

About half-past seven o’clock in the evening, some ten days or a fortnight after Mr. Pickwick and his friends returned to London, there hurried into one of these offices, an individual in a brown coat and brass buttons, whose long hair was scrupulously twisted round the rim of his napless hat, and whose soiled drab trousers were so tightly strapped over his Blucher boots, that his knees threatened every moment to start from their concealment. He produced from his coat pockets a long and narrow strip of parchment, on which the presiding functionary impressed an illegible black stamp. He then drew forth four scraps of paper, of similar dimensions, each containing a printed copy of the strip of parchment with blanks for a name; and having filled up the blanks, put all the five documents in his pocket, and hurried away.

The man in the brown coat, with the cabalistic documents in his pocket, was no other than our old acquaintance Mr. Jackson, of the house of Dodson & Fogg, Freeman’s Court, Cornhill. Instead of returning to the office whence he came, however, he bent his steps direct to Sun Court, and walking straight into the George and Vulture, demanded to know whether one Mr. Pickwick was within.

‘Call Mr. Pickwick’s servant, Tom,’ said the barmaid of the George and Vulture.

‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ said Mr. Jackson. ‘I’ve come on business. If you’ll show me Mr. Pickwick’s room I’ll step up myself.’

‘What name, Sir?’ said the waiter.

‘Jackson,’ replied the clerk.

The waiter stepped upstairs to announce Mr. Jackson; but Mr. Jackson saved him the trouble by following close at his heels, and walking into the apartment before he could articulate a syllable.

Mr. Pickwick had, that day, invited his three friends to dinner; they were all seated round the fire, drinking their wine, when Mr. Jackson presented himself, as above described.

‘How de do, sir?’ said Mr. Jackson, nodding to Mr. Pickwick.

That gentleman bowed, and looked somewhat surprised, for the physiognomy of Mr. Jackson dwelt not in his recollection.

‘I have called from Dodson and Fogg’s,’ said Mr. Jackson, in an explanatory tone.

Mr. Pickwick roused at the name. ‘I refer you to my attorney, Sir; Mr. Perker, of Gray’s Inn,’ said he. ‘Waiter, show this gentleman out.’

‘Beg your pardon, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Jackson, deliberately depositing his hat on the floor, and drawing from his pocket the strip of parchment. ‘But personal service, by clerk or agent, in these cases, you know, Mr. Pickwick—nothing like caution, sir, in all legal forms—eh?’

Here Mr. Jackson cast his eye on the parchment; and, resting his hands on the table, and looking round with a winning and persuasive smile, said, ‘Now, come; don’t let’s have no words about such a little matter as this. Which of you gentlemen’s name’s Snodgrass?’

At this inquiry, Mr. Snodgrass gave such a very undisguised and palpable start, that no further reply was needed.

‘Ah! I thought so,’ said Mr. Jackson, more affably than before. ‘I’ve a little something to trouble you with, Sir.’

‘Me!’ exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass.

‘It’s only a subpoena in Bardell and Pickwick on behalf of the plaintiff,’ replied Jackson, singling out one of the slips of paper, and producing a shilling from his waistcoat pocket. ‘It’ll come on, in the settens after Term: fourteenth of Febooary, we expect; we’ve marked it a special jury cause, and it’s only ten down the paper. That’s yours, Mr. Snodgrass.’ As Jackson said this, he presented the parchment before the eyes of Mr. Snodgrass, and slipped the paper and the shilling into his hand.

Mr. Tupman had witnessed this process in silent astonishment, when Jackson, turning sharply upon him, said—

‘I think I ain’t mistaken when I say your name’s Tupman, am I?’

Mr. Tupman looked at Mr. Pickwick; but, perceiving no encouragement in that gentleman’s widely-opened eyes to deny his name, said—

‘Yes, my name is Tupman, Sir.’

‘And that other gentleman’s Mr. Winkle, I think?’ said Jackson. Mr. Winkle faltered out a reply in the affirmative; and both gentlemen were forthwith invested with a slip of paper, and a shilling each, by the dexterous Mr. Jackson.

‘Now,’ said Jackson, ‘I’m afraid you’ll think me rather troublesome, but I want somebody else, if it ain’t inconvenient. I have Samuel Weller’s name here, Mr. Pickwick.’

‘Send my servant here, waiter,’ said Mr. Pickwick. The waiter retired, considerably astonished, and Mr. Pickwick motioned Jackson to a seat.

There was a painful pause, which was at length broken by the innocent defendant.

‘I suppose, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, his indignation rising while he spoke—‘I suppose, Sir, that it is the intention of your employers to seek to criminate me upon the testimony of my own friends?’

Mr. Jackson struck his forefinger several times against the left side of his nose, to intimate that he was not there to disclose the secrets of the prison house, and playfully rejoined—

‘Not knowin’, can’t say.’

‘For what other reason, Sir,’ pursued Mr. Pickwick, ‘are these subpoenas served upon them, if not for this?’

‘Very good plant, Mr. Pickwick,’ replied Jackson, slowly shaking his head. ‘But it won’t do. No harm in trying, but there’s little to be got out of me.’

Here Mr. Jackson smiled once more upon the company, and, applying his left thumb to the tip of his nose, worked a visionary coffee-mill with his right hand, thereby performing a very graceful piece of pantomime (then much in vogue, but now, unhappily, almost obsolete) which was familiarly denominated ‘taking a grinder.’

‘No, no, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Jackson, in conclusion; ‘Perker’s people must guess what we’ve served these subpoenas for. If they can’t, they must wait till the action comes on, and then they’ll find out.’

Mr. Pickwick bestowed a look of excessive disgust on his unwelcome visitor, and would probably have hurled some tremendous anathema at the heads of Messrs. Dodson & Fogg, had not Sam’s entrance at the instant interrupted him.

‘Samuel Weller?’ said Mr. Jackson, inquiringly.

‘Vun o’ the truest things as you’ve said for many a long year,’ replied Sam, in a most composed manner.

‘Here’s a subpoena for you, Mr. Weller,’ said Jackson.

‘What’s that in English?’ inquired Sam.

‘Here’s the original,’ said Jackson, declining the required explanation.

‘Which?’ said Sam.

‘This,’ replied Jackson, shaking the parchment.

‘Oh, that’s the ‘rig’nal, is it?’ said Sam. ‘Well, I’m wery glad I’ve seen the ‘rig’nal, ‘cos it’s a gratifyin’ sort o’ thing, and eases vun’s mind so much.’

‘And here’s the shilling,’ said Jackson. ‘It’s from Dodson and Fogg’s.’

‘And it’s uncommon handsome o’ Dodson and Fogg, as knows so little of me, to come down vith a present,’ said Sam. ‘I feel it as a wery high compliment, sir; it’s a wery honorable thing to them, as they knows how to reward merit werever they meets it. Besides which, it’s affectin’ to one’s feelin’s.’

As Mr. Weller said this, he inflicted a little friction on his right eyelid, with the sleeve of his coat, after the most approved manner of actors when they are in domestic pathetics.

Mr. Jackson seemed rather puzzled by Sam’s proceedings; but, as he had served the subpoenas, and had nothing more to say, he made a feint of putting on the one glove which he usually carried in his hand, for the sake of appearances; and returned to the office to report progress.

Mr. Pickwick slept little that night; his memory had received a very disagreeable refresher on the subject of Mrs. Bardell’s action. He breakfasted betimes next morning, and, desiring Sam to accompany him, set forth towards Gray’s Inn Square.

‘Sam!’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking round, when they got to the end of Cheapside.

‘Sir?’ said Sam, stepping up to his master.

‘Which way?’

Up Newgate Street.’

Mr. Pickwick did not turn round immediately, but looked vacantly in Sam’s face for a few seconds, and heaved a deep sigh.

‘What’s the matter, sir?’ inquired Sam.

‘This action, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘is expected to come on, on the fourteenth of next month.’

Remarkable coincidence that ‘ere, sir,’ replied Sam.

‘Why remarkable, Sam?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Walentine’s day, sir,’ responded Sam; ‘reg’lar good day for a breach o’ promise trial.’

Mr. Weller’s smile awakened no gleam of mirth in his master’s countenance. Mr. Pickwick turned abruptly round, and led the way in silence.

They had walked some distance, Mr. Pickwick trotting on before, plunged in profound meditation, and Sam following behind, with a countenance expressive of the most enviable and easy defiance of everything and everybody, when the latter, who was always especially anxious to impart to his master any exclusive information he possessed, quickened his pace until he was close at Mr. Pickwick’s heels; and, pointing up at a house they were passing, said—

‘Wery nice pork-shop that ‘ere, sir.’

‘Yes, it seems so,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Celebrated sassage factory,’ said Sam.

‘Is it?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Is it!’ reiterated Sam, with some indignation; ‘I should rayther think it was. Why, sir, bless your innocent eyebrows, that’s where the mysterious disappearance of a ‘spectable tradesman took place four years ago.’

‘You don’t mean to say he was burked, Sam?’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking hastily round.

‘No, I don’t indeed, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, ‘I wish I did; far worse than that. He was the master o’ that ‘ere shop, sir, and the inwentor o’ the patent-never-leavin’-off sassage steam-ingin, as ‘ud swaller up a pavin’ stone if you put it too near, and grind it into sassages as easy as if it was a tender young babby. Wery proud o’ that machine he was, as it was nat’ral he should be, and he’d stand down in the celler a-lookin’ at it wen it was in full play, till he got quite melancholy with joy. A wery happy man he’d ha’ been, Sir, in the procession o’ that ‘ere ingin and two more lovely hinfants besides, if it hadn’t been for his wife, who was a most owdacious wixin. She was always a-follerin’ him about, and dinnin’ in his ears, till at last he couldn’t stand it no longer. “I’ll tell you what it is, my dear,” he says one day; “if you persewere in this here sort of amusement,” he says, “I’m blessed if I don’t go away to ‘Merriker; and that’s all about it.” “You’re a idle willin,” says she, “and I wish the ‘Merrikins joy of their bargain.” Arter which she keeps on abusin’ of him for half an hour, and then runs into the little parlour behind the shop, sets to a-screamin’, says he’ll be the death on her, and falls in a fit, which lasts for three good hours—one o’ them fits wich is all screamin’ and kickin’. Well, next mornin’, the husband was missin’. He hadn’t taken nothin’ from the till—hadn’t even put on his greatcoat—so it was quite clear he warn’t gone to ‘Merriker. Didn’t come back next day; didn’t come back next week; missis had bills printed, sayin’ that, if he’d come back, he should be forgiven everythin’ (which was very liberal, seein’ that he hadn’t done nothin’ at all); the canals was dragged, and for two months arterwards, wenever a body turned up, it was carried, as a reg’lar thing, straight off to the sassage shop. Hows’ever, none on ‘em answered; so they gave out that he’d run away, and she kep’ on the bis’ness. One Saturday night, a little, thin, old gen’l’m’n comes into the shop in a great passion and says, “Are you the missis o’ this here shop?” “Yes, I am,” says she. “Well, ma’am,” says he, “then I’ve just looked in to say that me and my family ain’t a-goin’ to be choked for nothin’; and more than that, ma’am,” he says, “you’ll allow me to observe that as you don’t use the primest parts of the meat in the manafacter o’ sassages, I’d think you’d find beef come nearly as cheap as buttons.” “As buttons, Sir!” says she. “Buttons, ma’am,” says the little, old gentleman, unfolding a bit of paper, and showin’ twenty or thirty halves o’ buttons. “Nice seasonin’ for sassages, is trousers’ buttons, ma’am.” “They’re my husband’s buttons!” says the widder beginnin’ to faint, “What!” screams the little old gen’l’m’n, turnin’ wery pale. “I see it all,” says the widder; “in a fit of temporary insanity he rashly converted hisself into sassages!” And so he had, Sir,’ said Mr. Weller, looking steadily into Mr. Pickwick’s horror-stricken countenance, ‘or else he’d been draw’d into the ingin; but however that might ha’ been, the little, old gen’l’m’n, who had been remarkably partial to sassages all his life, rushed out o’ the shop in a wild state, and was never heerd on arterwards!’

The relation of this affecting incident of private life brought master and man to Mr. Perker’s chambers. Lowten, holding the door half open, was in conversation with a rustily-clad, miserable-looking man, in boots without toes and gloves without fingers. There were traces of privation and suffering—almost of despair—in his lank and care-worn countenance; he felt his poverty, for he shrank to the dark side of the staircase as Mr. Pickwick approached.

‘It’s very unfortunate,’ said the stranger, with a sigh.

‘Very,’ said Lowten, scribbling his name on the doorpost with his pen, and rubbing it out again with the feather. ‘Will you leave a message for him?’

‘When do you think he’ll be back?’ inquired the stranger.

‘Quite uncertain,’ replied Lowten, winking at Mr. Pickwick, as the stranger cast his eyes towards the ground.

‘You don’t think it would be of any use my waiting for him?’ said the stranger, looking wistfully into the office.

‘Oh, no, I’m sure it wouldn’t,’ replied the clerk, moving a little more into the centre of the doorway. ‘He’s certain not to be back this week, and it’s a chance whether he will be next; for when Perker once gets out of town, he’s never in a hurry to come back again.’

‘Out of town!’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘dear me, how unfortunate!’

‘Don’t go away, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Lowten, ‘I’ve got a letter for you.’ The stranger, seeming to hesitate, once more looked towards the ground, and the clerk winked slyly at Mr. Pickwick, as if to intimate that some exquisite piece of humour was going forward, though what it was Mr. Pickwick could not for the life of him divine.

‘Step in, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Lowten. ‘Well, will you leave a message, Mr. Watty, or will you call again?’

‘Ask him to be so kind as to leave out word what has been done in my business,’ said the man; ‘for God’s sake don’t neglect it, Mr. Lowten.’

‘No, no; I won’t forget it,’ replied the clerk. ‘Walk in, Mr. Pickwick. Good-morning, Mr. Watty; it’s a fine day for walking, isn’t it?’ Seeing that the stranger still lingered, he beckoned Sam Weller to follow his master in, and shut the door in his face.

‘There never was such a pestering bankrupt as that since the world began, I do believe!’ said Lowten, throwing down his pen with the air of an injured man. ‘His affairs haven’t been in Chancery quite four years yet, and I’m d----d if he don’t come worrying here twice a week. Step this way, Mr. Pickwick. Perker is in, and he’ll see you, I know. Devilish cold,’ he added pettishly, ‘standing at that door, wasting one’s time with such seedy vagabonds!’ Having very vehemently stirred a particularly large fire with a particularly small poker, the clerk led the way to his principal’s private room, and announced Mr. Pickwick.

‘Ah, my dear Sir,’ said little Mr. Perker, bustling up from his chair. ‘Well, my dear sir, and what’s the news about your matter, eh? Anything more about our friends in Freeman’s Court? They’ve not been sleeping, I know that. Ah, they’re very smart fellows; very smart, indeed.’

As the little man concluded, he took an emphatic pinch of snuff, as a tribute to the smartness of Messrs. Dodson and Fogg.

‘They are great scoundrels,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Aye, aye,’ said the little man; ‘that’s a matter of opinion, you know, and we won’t dispute about terms; because of course you can’t be expected to view these subjects with a professional eye. Well, we’ve done everything that’s necessary. I have retained Serjeant Snubbin.’

‘Is he a good man?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Good man!’ replied Perker; ‘bless your heart and soul, my dear Sir, Serjeant Snubbin is at the very top of his profession. Gets treble the business of any man in court—engaged in every case. You needn’t mention it abroad; but we say—we of the profession—that Serjeant Snubbin leads the court by the nose.’

The little man took another pinch of snuff as he made this communication, and nodded mysteriously to Mr. Pickwick.

‘They have subpoenaed my three friends,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Ah! of course they would,’ replied Perker. ‘Important witnesses; saw you in a delicate situation.’

‘But she fainted of her own accord,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘She threw herself into my arms.’

‘Very likely, my dear Sir,’ replied Perker; ‘very likely and very natural. Nothing more so, my dear Sir, nothing. But who’s to prove it?’

‘They have subpoenaed my servant, too,’ said Mr. Pickwick, quitting the other point; for there Mr. Perker’s question had somewhat staggered him.

‘Sam?’ said Perker.

Mr. Pickwick replied in the affirmative.

‘Of course, my dear Sir; of course. I knew they would. I could have told you that, a month ago. You know, my dear Sir, if you _will _take the management of your affairs into your own hands after entrusting them to your solicitor, you must also take the consequences.’ Here Mr. Perker drew himself up with conscious dignity, and brushed some stray grains of snuff from his shirt frill.

‘And what do they want him to prove?’ asked Mr. Pickwick, after two or three minutes’ silence.

‘That you sent him up to the plaintiff ‘s to make some offer of a compromise, I suppose,’ replied Perker. ‘It don’t matter much, though; I don’t think many counsel could get a great deal out of him.’

‘I don’t think they could,’ said Mr. Pickwick, smiling, despite his vexation, at the idea of Sam’s appearance as a witness. ‘What course do we pursue?’

‘We have only one to adopt, my dear Sir,’ replied Perker; ‘cross-examine the witnesses; trust to Snubbin’s eloquence; throw dust in the eyes of the judge; throw ourselves on the jury.’

‘And suppose the verdict is against me?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

Mr. Perker smiled, took a very long pinch of snuff, stirred the fire, shrugged his shoulders, and remained expressively silent.

‘You mean that in that case I must pay the damages?’ said Mr. Pickwick, who had watched this telegraphic answer with considerable sternness.

Perker gave the fire another very unnecessary poke, and said, ‘I am afraid so.’

‘Then I beg to announce to you my unalterable determination to pay no damages whatever,’ said Mr. Pickwick, most emphatically. ‘None, Perker. Not a pound, not a penny of my money, shall find its way into the pockets of Dodson and Fogg. That is my deliberate and irrevocable determination.’ Mr. Pickwick gave a heavy blow on the table before him, in confirmation of the irrevocability of his intention.

‘Very well, my dear Sir, very well,’ said Perker. ‘You know best, of course.’

‘Of course,’ replied Mr. Pickwick hastily. ‘Where does Serjeant Snubbin live?’

In Lincoln’s Inn Old Square,’ replied Perker.

‘I should like to see him,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘See Serjeant Snubbin, my dear Sir!’ rejoined Perker, in utter amazement. ‘Pooh, pooh, my dear Sir, impossible. See Serjeant Snubbin! Bless you, my dear Sir, such a thing was never heard of, without a consultation fee being previously paid, and a consultation fixed. It couldn’t be done, my dear Sir; it couldn’t be done.’

Mr. Pickwick, however, had made up his mind not only that it could be done, but that it should be done; and the consequence was, that within ten minutes after he had received the assurance that the thing was impossible, he was conducted by his solicitor into the outer office of the great Serjeant Snubbin himself.

It was an uncarpeted room of tolerable dimensions, with a large writing- table drawn up near the fire, the baize top of which had long since lost all claim to its original hue of green, and had gradually grown gray with dust and age, except where all traces of its natural colour were obliterated by ink-stains. Upon the table were numerous little bundles of papers tied with red tape; and behind it, sat an elderly clerk, whose sleek appearance and heavy gold watch-chain presented imposing indications of the extensive and lucrative practice of Mr. Serjeant Snubbin.

‘Is the Serjeant in his room, Mr. Mallard?’ inquired Perker, offering his box with all imaginable courtesy.

‘Yes, he is,’ was the reply, ‘but he’s very busy. Look here; not an opinion given yet, on any one of these cases; and an expedition fee paid with all of ‘em.’ The clerk smiled as he said this, and inhaled the pinch of snuff with a zest which seemed to be compounded of a fondness for snuff and a relish for fees.

‘Something like practice that,’ said Perker.

‘Yes,’ said the barrister’s clerk, producing his own box, and offering it with the greatest cordiality; ‘and the best of it is, that as nobody alive except myself can read the serjeant’s writing, they are obliged to wait for the opinions, when he has given them, till I have copied ‘em, ha-ha-ha!’

‘Which makes good for we know who, besides the serjeant, and draws a little more out of the clients, eh?’ said Perker; ‘Ha, ha, ha!’ At this the serjeant’s clerk laughed again—not a noisy boisterous laugh, but a silent, internal chuckle, which Mr. Pickwick disliked to hear. When a man bleeds inwardly, it is a dangerous thing for himself; but when he laughs inwardly, it bodes no good to other people.

‘You haven’t made me out that little list of the fees that I’m in your debt, have you?’ said Perker.

‘No, I have not,’ replied the clerk.

‘I wish you would,’ said Perker. ‘Let me have them, and I’ll send you a cheque. But I suppose you’re too busy pocketing the ready money, to think of the debtors, eh? ha, ha, ha!’ This sally seemed to tickle the clerk amazingly, and he once more enjoyed a little quiet laugh to himself.

‘But, Mr. Mallard, my dear friend,’ said Perker, suddenly recovering his gravity, and drawing the great man’s great man into a Corner, by the lappel of his coat; ‘you must persuade the Serjeant to see me, and my client here.’

‘Come, come,’ said the clerk, ‘that’s not bad either. See the Serjeant! come, that’s too absurd.’ Notwithstanding the absurdity of the proposal, however, the clerk allowed himself to be gently drawn beyond the hearing of Mr. Pickwick; and after a short conversation conducted in whispers, walked softly down a little dark passage, and disappeared into the legal luminary’s sanctum, whence he shortly returned on tiptoe, and informed Mr. Perker and Mr. Pickwick that the Serjeant had been prevailed upon, in violation of all established rules and customs, to admit them at once.

Mr. Serjeant Snubbins was a lantern-faced, sallow-complexioned man, of about five-and-forty, or—as the novels say—he might be fifty. He had that dull-looking, boiled eye which is often to be seen in the heads of people who have applied themselves during many years to a weary and laborious course of study; and which would have been sufficient, without the additional eyeglass which dangled from a broad black riband round his neck, to warn a stranger that he was very near-sighted. His hair was thin and weak, which was partly attributable to his having never devoted much time to its arrangement, and partly to his having worn for five- and-twenty years the forensic wig which hung on a block beside him. The marks of hairpowder on his coat-collar, and the ill-washed and worse tied white neckerchief round his throat, showed that he had not found leisure since he left the court to make any alteration in his dress; while the slovenly style of the remainder of his costume warranted the inference that his personal appearance would not have been very much improved if he had. Books of practice, heaps of papers, and opened letters, were scattered over the table, without any attempt at order or arrangement; the furniture of the room was old and rickety; the doors of the book-case were rotting in their hinges; the dust flew out from the carpet in little clouds at every step; the blinds were yellow with age and dirt; the state of everything in the room showed, with a clearness not to be mistaken, that Mr. Serjeant Snubbin was far too much occupied with his professional pursuits to take any great heed or regard of his personal comforts.

The Serjeant was writing when his clients entered; he bowed abstractedly when Mr. Pickwick was introduced by his solicitor; and then, motioning them to a seat, put his pen carefully in the inkstand, nursed his left leg, and waited to be spoken to.

‘Mr. Pickwick is the defendant in Bardell and Pickwick, Serjeant Snubbin,’ said Perker.

‘I am retained in that, am I?’ said the Serjeant.

‘You are, Sir,’ replied Perker.

The Serjeant nodded his head, and waited for something else.

‘Mr. Pickwick was anxious to call upon you, Serjeant Snubbin,’ said Perker, ‘to state to you, before you entered upon the case, that he denies there being any ground or pretence whatever for the action against him; and that unless he came into court with clean hands, and without the most conscientious conviction that he was right in resisting the plaintiff’s demand, he would not be there at all. I believe I state your views correctly; do I not, my dear Sir?’ said the little man, turning to Mr. Pickwick.

‘Quite so,’ replied that gentleman.

Mr. Serjeant Snubbin unfolded his glasses, raised them to his eyes; and, after looking at Mr. Pickwick for a few seconds with great curiosity, turned to Mr. Perker, and said, smiling slightly as he spoke—

‘Has Mr. Pickwick a strong case?’

The attorney shrugged his shoulders.

‘Do you propose calling witnesses?’

‘No.’

The smile on the Serjeant’s countenance became more defined; he rocked his leg with increased violence; and, throwing himself back in his easy- chair, coughed dubiously.

These tokens of the Serjeant’s presentiments on the subject, slight as they were, were not lost on Mr. Pickwick. He settled the spectacles, through which he had attentively regarded such demonstrations of the barrister’s feelings as he had permitted himself to exhibit, more firmly on his nose; and said with great energy, and in utter disregard of all Mr. Perker’s admonitory winkings and frownings—

‘My wishing to wait upon you, for such a purpose as this, Sir, appears, I have no doubt, to a gentleman who sees so much of these matters as you must necessarily do, a very extraordinary circumstance.’

The Serjeant tried to look gravely at the fire, but the smile came back again.

‘Gentlemen of your profession, Sir,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, ‘see the worst side of human nature. All its disputes, all its ill-will and bad blood, rise up before you. You know from your experience of juries (I mean no disparagement to you, or them) how much depends upon effect; and you are apt to attribute to others, a desire to use, for purposes of deception and self-interest, the very instruments which you, in pure honesty and honour of purpose, and with a laudable desire to do your utmost for your client, know the temper and worth of so well, from constantly employing them yourselves. I really believe that to this circumstance may be attributed the vulgar but very general notion of your being, as a body, suspicious, distrustful, and over-cautious. Conscious as I am, sir, of the disadvantage of making such a declaration to you, under such circumstances, I have come here, because I wish you distinctly to understand, as my friend Mr. Perker has said, that I am innocent of the falsehood laid to my charge; and although I am very well aware of the inestimable value of your assistance, Sir, I must beg to add, that unless you sincerely believe this, I would rather be deprived of the aid of your talents than have the advantage of them.’

Long before the close of this address, which we are bound to say was of a very prosy character for Mr. Pickwick, the Serjeant had relapsed into a state of abstraction. After some minutes, however, during which he had reassumed his pen, he appeared to be again aware of the presence of his clients; raising his head from the paper, he said, rather snappishly—

‘Who is with me in this case?’

‘Mr. Phunky, Serjeant Snubbin,’ replied the attorney.

‘Phunky—Phunky,’ said the Serjeant, ‘I never heard the name before. He must be a very young man.’

‘Yes, he is a very young man,’ replied the attorney. ‘He was only called the other day. Let me see—he has not been at the Bar eight years yet.’

‘Ah, I thought not,’ said the Serjeant, in that sort of pitying tone in which ordinary folks would speak of a very helpless little child. ‘Mr. Mallard, send round to Mr.—Mr.—’

Phunky’s—Holborn Court, Gray’s Inn,’ interposed Perker. (Holborn Court, by the bye, is South Square now.)—‘Mr. Phunky, and say I should be glad if he’d step here, a moment.’

Mr. Mallard departed to execute his commission; and Serjeant Snubbin relapsed into abstraction until Mr. Phunky himself was introduced.

Although an infant barrister, he was a full-grown man. He had a very nervous manner, and a painful hesitation in his speech; it did not appear to be a natural defect, but seemed rather the result of timidity, arising from the consciousness of being ‘kept down’ by want of means, or interest, or connection, or impudence, as the case might be. He was overawed by the Serjeant, and profoundly courteous to the attorney.

‘I have not had the pleasure of seeing you before, Mr. Phunky,’ said Serjeant Snubbin, with haughty condescension.

Mr. Phunky bowed. He _had _had the pleasure of seeing the Serjeant, and of envying him too, with all a poor man’s envy, for eight years and a quarter.

‘You are with me in this case, I understand?’ said the Serjeant.

If Mr. Phunky had been a rich man, he would have instantly sent for his clerk to remind him; if he had been a wise one, he would have applied his forefinger to his forehead, and endeavoured to recollect, whether, in the multiplicity of his engagements, he had undertaken this one or not; but as he was neither rich nor wise (in this sense, at all events) he turned red, and bowed.

‘Have you read the papers, Mr. Phunky?’ inquired the Serjeant.

Here again, Mr. Phunky should have professed to have forgotten all about the merits of the case; but as he had read such papers as had been laid before him in the course of the action, and had thought of nothing else, waking or sleeping, throughout the two months during which he had been retained as Mr. Serjeant Snubbin’s junior, he turned a deeper red and bowed again.

‘This is Mr. Pickwick,’ said the Serjeant, waving his pen in the direction in which that gentleman was standing.

Mr. Phunky bowed to Mr. Pickwick, with a reverence which a first client must ever awaken; and again inclined his head towards his leader.

‘Perhaps you will take Mr. Pickwick away,’ said the Serjeant, ‘and—and- -and—hear anything Mr. Pickwick may wish to communicate. We shall have a consultation, of course.’ With that hint that he had been interrupted quite long enough, Mr. Serjeant Snubbin, who had been gradually growing more and more abstracted, applied his glass to his eyes for an instant, bowed slightly round, and was once more deeply immersed in the case before him, which arose out of an interminable lawsuit, originating in the act of an individual, deceased a century or so ago, who had stopped up a pathway leading from some place which nobody ever came from, to some other place which nobody ever went to.

Mr. Phunky would not hear of passing through any door until Mr. Pickwick and his solicitor had passed through before him, so it was some time before they got into the Square; and when they did reach it, they walked up and down, and held a long conference, the result of which was, that it was a very difficult matter to say how the verdict would go; that nobody could presume to calculate on the issue of an action; that it was very lucky they had prevented the other party from getting Serjeant Snubbin; and other topics of doubt and consolation, common in such a position of affairs.

Mr. Weller was then roused by his master from a sweet sleep of an hour’s duration; and, bidding adieu to Lowten, they returned to the city.

CHAPTER XXXII. DESCRIBES, FAR MORE FULLY THAN THE COURT NEWSMAN EVER DID, A BACHELOR’S PARTY, GIVEN BY MR. BOB SAWYER AT HIS LODGINGS IN THE BOROUGH

There is a repose about Lant Street, in the Borough, which sheds a gentle melancholy upon the soul. There are always a good many houses to let in the street: it is a by-street too, and its dulness is soothing. A house in Lant Street would not come within the denomination of a first- rate residence, in the strict acceptation of the term; but it is a most desirable spot nevertheless. If a man wished to abstract himself from the world—to remove himself from within the reach of temptation—to place himself beyond the possibility of any inducement to look out of the window—we should recommend him by all means go to Lant Street.

In this happy retreat are colonised a few clear-starchers, a sprinkling of journeymen bookbinders, one or two prison agents for the Insolvent Court, several small housekeepers who are employed in the Docks, a handful of mantua-makers, and a seasoning of jobbing tailors. The majority of the inhabitants either direct their energies to the letting of furnished apartments, or devote themselves to the healthful and invigorating pursuit of mangling. The chief features in the still life of the street are green shutters, lodging-bills, brass door-plates, and bell-handles; the principal specimens of animated nature, the pot-boy, the muffin youth, and the baked-potato man. The population is migratory, usually disappearing on the verge of quarter-day, and generally by night. His Majesty’s revenues are seldom collected in this happy valley; the rents are dubious; and the water communication is very frequently cut off.

Mr. Bob Sawyer embellished one side of the fire, in his first-floor front, early on the evening for which he had invited Mr. Pickwick, and Mr. Ben Allen the other. The preparations for the reception of visitors appeared to be completed. The umbrellas in the passage had been heaped into the little corner outside the back-parlour door; the bonnet and shawl of the landlady’s servant had been removed from the bannisters; there were not more than two pairs of pattens on the street-door mat; and a kitchen candle, with a very long snuff, burned cheerfully on the ledge of the staircase window. Mr. Bob Sawyer had himself purchased the spirits at a wine vaults in High Street, and had returned home preceding the bearer thereof, to preclude the possibility of their delivery at the wrong house. The punch was ready-made in a red pan in the bedroom; a little table, covered with a green baize cloth, had been borrowed from the parlour, to play at cards on; and the glasses of the establishment, together with those which had been borrowed for the occasion from the public-house, were all drawn up in a tray, which was deposited on the landing outside the door.

Notwithstanding the highly satisfactory nature of all these arrangements, there was a cloud on the countenance of Mr. Bob Sawyer, as he sat by the fireside. There was a sympathising expression, too, in the features of Mr. Ben Allen, as he gazed intently on the coals, and a tone of melancholy in his voice, as he said, after a long silence—

‘Well, it is unlucky she should have taken it in her head to turn sour, just on this occasion. She might at least have waited till to-morrow.’

‘That’s her malevolence—that’s her malevolence,’ returned Mr. Bob Sawyer vehemently. ‘She says that if I can afford to give a party I ought to be able to pay her confounded “little bill.”’

How long has it been running?’ inquired Mr. Ben Allen. A bill, by the bye, is the most extraordinary locomotive engine that the genius of man ever produced. It would keep on running during the longest lifetime, without ever once stopping of its own accord.

‘Only a quarter, and a month or so,’ replied Mr. Bob Sawyer.

Ben Allen coughed hopelessly, and directed a searching look between the two top bars of the stove.

‘It’ll be a deuced unpleasant thing if she takes it into her head to let out, when those fellows are here, won’t it?’ said Mr. Ben Allen at length.

‘Horrible,’ replied Bob Sawyer, ‘horrible.’

A low tap was heard at the room door. Mr. Bob Sawyer looked expressively at his friend, and bade the tapper come in; whereupon a dirty, slipshod girl in black cotton stockings, who might have passed for the neglected daughter of a superannuated dustman in very reduced circumstances, thrust in her head, and said—

‘Please, Mister Sawyer, Missis Raddle wants to speak to you.’

Before Mr. Bob Sawyer could return any answer, the girl suddenly disappeared with a jerk, as if somebody had given her a violent pull behind; this mysterious exit was no sooner accomplished, than there was another tap at the door—a smart, pointed tap, which seemed to say, ‘Here I am, and in I’m coming.’

Mr. Bob Sawyer glanced at his friend with a look of abject apprehension, and once more cried, ‘Come in.’

The permission was not at all necessary, for, before Mr. Bob Sawyer had uttered the words, a little, fierce woman bounced into the room, all in a tremble with passion, and pale with rage.

‘Now, Mr. Sawyer,’ said the little, fierce woman, trying to appear very calm, ‘if you’ll have the kindness to settle that little bill of mine I’ll thank you, because I’ve got my rent to pay this afternoon, and my landlord’s a-waiting below now.’ Here the little woman rubbed her hands, and looked steadily over Mr. Bob Sawyer’s head, at the wall behind him.

‘I am very sorry to put you to any inconvenience, Mrs. Raddle,’ said Bob Sawyer deferentially, ‘but—’

‘Oh, it isn’t any inconvenience,’ replied the little woman, with a shrill titter. ‘I didn’t want it particular before to-day; leastways, as it has to go to my landlord directly, it was as well for you to keep it as me. You promised me this afternoon, Mr. Sawyer, and every gentleman as has ever lived here, has kept his word, Sir, as of course anybody as calls himself a gentleman does.’ Mrs. Raddle tossed her head, bit her lips, rubbed her hands harder, and looked at the wall more steadily than ever. It was plain to see, as Mr. Bob Sawyer remarked in a style of Eastern allegory on a subsequent occasion, that she was ‘getting the steam up.’

‘I am very sorry, Mrs. Raddle,’ said Bob Sawyer, with all imaginable humility, ‘but the fact is, that I have been disappointed in the City to-day.’—Extraordinary place that City. An astonishing number of men always _are _getting disappointed there.

‘Well, Mr. Sawyer,’ said Mrs. Raddle, planting herself firmly on a purple cauliflower in the Kidderminster carpet, ‘and what’s that to me, Sir?’

‘I—I—have no doubt, Mrs. Raddle,’ said Bob Sawyer, blinking this last question, ‘that before the middle of next week we shall be able to set ourselves quite square, and go on, on a better system, afterwards.’

This was all Mrs. Raddle wanted. She had bustled up to the apartment of the unlucky Bob Sawyer, so bent upon going into a passion, that, in all probability, payment would have rather disappointed her than otherwise. She was in excellent order for a little relaxation of the kind, having just exchanged a few introductory compliments with Mr. R. in the front kitchen.

‘Do you suppose, Mr. Sawyer,’ said Mrs. Raddle, elevating her voice for the information of the neighbours—‘do you suppose that I’m a-going day after day to let a fellar occupy my lodgings as never thinks of paying his rent, nor even the very money laid out for the fresh butter and lump sugar that’s bought for his breakfast, and the very milk that’s took in, at the street door? Do you suppose a hard-working and industrious woman as has lived in this street for twenty year (ten year over the way, and nine year and three-quarters in this very house) has nothing else to do but to work herself to death after a parcel of lazy idle fellars, that are always smoking and drinking, and lounging, when they ought to be glad to turn their hands to anything that would help ‘em to pay their bills? Do you—’

‘My good soul,’ interposed Mr. Benjamin Allen soothingly.

‘Have the goodness to keep your observashuns to yourself, Sir, I beg,’ said Mrs. Raddle, suddenly arresting the rapid torrent of her speech, and addressing the third party with impressive slowness and solemnity. ‘I am not aweer, Sir, that you have any right to address your conversation to me. I don’t think I let these apartments to you, Sir.’

‘No, you certainly did not,’ said Mr. Benjamin Allen.

‘Very good, Sir,’ responded Mrs. Raddle, with lofty politeness. ‘Then p’raps, Sir, you’ll confine yourself to breaking the arms and legs of the poor people in the hospitals, and keep yourself to yourself, Sir, or there may be some persons here as will make you, Sir.’

‘But you are such an unreasonable woman,’ remonstrated Mr. Benjamin Allen.

‘I beg your parding, young man,’ said Mrs. Raddle, in a cold perspiration of anger. ‘But will you have the goodness just to call me that again, sir?’

‘I didn’t make use of the word in any invidious sense, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Benjamin Allen, growing somewhat uneasy on his own account.

‘I beg your parding, young man,’ demanded Mrs. Raddle, in a louder and more imperative tone. ‘But who do you call a woman? Did you make that remark to me, sir?’

‘Why, bless my heart!’ said Mr. Benjamin Allen.

‘Did you apply that name to me, I ask of you, sir?’ interrupted Mrs. Raddle, with intense fierceness, throwing the door wide open.

‘Why, of course I did,’ replied Mr. Benjamin Allen.

‘Yes, of course you did,’ said Mrs. Raddle, backing gradually to the door, and raising her voice to its loudest pitch, for the special behoof of Mr. Raddle in the kitchen. ‘Yes, of course you did! And everybody knows that they may safely insult me in my own ‘ouse while my husband sits sleeping downstairs, and taking no more notice than if I was a dog in the streets. He ought to be ashamed of himself (here Mrs. Raddle sobbed) to allow his wife to be treated in this way by a parcel of young cutters and carvers of live people’s bodies, that disgraces the lodgings (another sob), and leaving her exposed to all manner of abuse; a base, faint-hearted, timorous wretch, that’s afraid to come upstairs, and face the ruffinly creatures—that’s afraid—that’s afraid to come!’ Mrs. Raddle paused to listen whether the repetition of the taunt had roused her better half; and finding that it had not been successful, proceeded to descend the stairs with sobs innumerable; when there came a loud double knock at the street door; whereupon she burst into an hysterical fit of weeping, accompanied with dismal moans, which was prolonged until the knock had been repeated six times, when, in an uncontrollable burst of mental agony, she threw down all the umbrellas, and disappeared into the back parlour, closing the door after her with an awful crash.

‘Does Mr. Sawyer live here?’ said Mr. Pickwick, when the door was opened.

‘Yes,’ said the girl, ‘first floor. It’s the door straight afore you, when you gets to the top of the stairs.’ Having given this instruction, the handmaid, who had been brought up among the aboriginal inhabitants of Southwark, disappeared, with the candle in her hand, down the kitchen stairs, perfectly satisfied that she had done everything that could possibly be required of her under the circumstances.

Mr. Snodgrass, who entered last, secured the street door, after several ineffectual efforts, by putting up the chain; and the friends stumbled upstairs, where they were received by Mr. Bob Sawyer, who had been afraid to go down, lest he should be waylaid by Mrs. Raddle.

‘How are you?’ said the discomfited student. ‘Glad to see you—take care of the glasses.’ This caution was addressed to Mr. Pickwick, who had put his hat in the tray.

‘Dear me,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I beg your pardon.’

‘Don’t mention it, don’t mention it,’ said Bob Sawyer. ‘I’m rather confined for room here, but you must put up with all that, when you come to see a young bachelor. Walk in. You’ve seen this gentleman before, I think?’ Mr. Pickwick shook hands with Mr. Benjamin Allen, and his friends followed his example. They had scarcely taken their seats when there was another double knock.

‘I hope that’s Jack Hopkins!’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer. ‘Hush. Yes, it is. Come up, Jack; come up.’

A heavy footstep was heard upon the stairs, and Jack Hopkins presented himself. He wore a black velvet waistcoat, with thunder-and-lightning buttons; and a blue striped shirt, with a white false collar.

‘You’re late, Jack?’ said Mr. Benjamin Allen.

‘Been detained at Bartholomew’s,’ replied Hopkins.

‘Anything new?’

‘No, nothing particular. Rather a good accident brought into the casualty ward.’

‘What was that, sir?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Only a man fallen out of a four pair of stairs’ window; but it’s a very fair case indeed.’

‘Do you mean that the patient is in a fair way to recover?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘No,’ replied Mr. Hopkins carelessly. ‘No, I should rather say he wouldn’t. There must be a splendid operation, though, to-morrow— magnificent sight if Slasher does it.’

‘You consider Mr. Slasher a good operator?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Best alive,’ replied Hopkins. ‘Took a boy’s leg out of the socket last week—boy ate five apples and a gingerbread cake—exactly two minutes after it was all over, boy said he wouldn’t lie there to be made game of, and he’d tell his mother if they didn’t begin.’

‘Dear me!’ said Mr. Pickwick, astonished.

‘Pooh! That’s nothing, that ain’t,’ said Jack Hopkins. ‘Is it, Bob?’

‘Nothing at all,’ replied Mr. Bob Sawyer.

‘By the bye, Bob,’ said Hopkins, with a scarcely perceptible glance at Mr. Pickwick’s attentive face, ‘we had a curious accident last night. A child was brought in, who had swallowed a necklace.’

‘Swallowed what, Sir?’ interrupted Mr. Pickwick.

‘A necklace,’ replied Jack Hopkins. ‘Not all at once, you know, that would be too much—you couldn’t swallow that, if the child did—eh, Mr. Pickwick? ha, ha!’ Mr. Hopkins appeared highly gratified with his own pleasantry, and continued—‘No, the way was this. Child’s parents were poor people who lived in a court. Child’s eldest sister bought a necklace—common necklace, made of large black wooden beads. Child being fond of toys, cribbed the necklace, hid it, played with it, cut the string, and swallowed a bead. Child thought it capital fun, went back next day, and swallowed another bead.’

‘Bless my heart,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘what a dreadful thing! I beg your pardon, Sir. Go on.’

‘Next day, child swallowed two beads; the day after that, he treated himself to three, and so on, till in a week’s time he had got through the necklace—five-and-twenty beads in all. The sister, who was an industrious girl, and seldom treated herself to a bit of finery, cried her eyes out, at the loss of the necklace; looked high and low for it; but, I needn’t say, didn’t find it. A few days afterwards, the family were at dinner—baked shoulder of mutton, and potatoes under it—the child, who wasn’t hungry, was playing about the room, when suddenly there was heard a devil of a noise, like a small hailstorm. “Don’t do that, my boy,” said the father. “I ain’t a-doin’ nothing,” said the child. “Well, don’t do it again,” said the father. There was a short silence, and then the noise began again, worse than ever. “If you don’t mind what I say, my boy,” said the father, “you’ll find yourself in bed, in something less than a pig’s whisper.” He gave the child a shake to make him obedient, and such a rattling ensued as nobody ever heard before. “Why, damme, it’s in the child!” said the father, “he’s got the croup in the wrong place!” “No, I haven’t, father,” said the child, beginning to cry, “it’s the necklace; I swallowed it, father.”—The father caught the child up, and ran with him to the hospital; the beads in the boy’s stomach rattling all the way with the jolting; and the people looking up in the air, and down in the cellars, to see where the unusual sound came from. He’s in the hospital now,’ said Jack Hopkins, ‘and he makes such a devil of a noise when he walks about, that they’re obliged to muffle him in a watchman’s coat, for fear he should wake the patients.’

‘That’s the most extraordinary case I ever heard of,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with an emphatic blow on the table.

‘Oh, that’s nothing,’ said Jack Hopkins. ‘Is it, Bob?’

‘Certainly not,’ replied Bob Sawyer.

‘Very singular things occur in our profession, I can assure you, Sir,’ said Hopkins.

‘So I should be disposed to imagine,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

Another knock at the door announced a large-headed young man in a black wig, who brought with him a scorbutic youth in a long stock. The next comer was a gentleman in a shirt emblazoned with pink anchors, who was closely followed by a pale youth with a plated watchguard. The arrival of a prim personage in clean linen and cloth boots rendered the party complete. The little table with the green baize cover was wheeled out; the first instalment of punch was brought in, in a white jug; and the succeeding three hours were devoted to Vingt-et-un at sixpence a dozen, which was only once interrupted by a slight dispute between the scorbutic youth and the gentleman with the pink anchors; in the course of which, the scorbutic youth intimated a burning desire to pull the nose of the gentleman with the emblems of hope; in reply to which, that individual expressed his decided unwillingness to accept of any ‘sauce’ on gratuitous terms, either from the irascible young gentleman with the scorbutic countenance, or any other person who was ornamented with a head.

When the last ‘natural’ had been declared, and the profit and loss account of fish and sixpences adjusted, to the satisfaction of all parties, Mr. Bob Sawyer rang for supper, and the visitors squeezed themselves into corners while it was getting ready.

It was not so easily got ready as some people may imagine. First of all, it was necessary to awaken the girl, who had fallen asleep with her face on the kitchen table; this took a little time, and, even when she did answer the bell, another quarter of an hour was consumed in fruitless endeavours to impart to her a faint and distant glimmering of reason. The man to whom the order for the oysters had been sent, had not been told to open them; it is a very difficult thing to open an oyster with a limp knife and a two-pronged fork; and very little was done in this way. Very little of the beef was done either; and the ham (which was also from the German-sausage shop round the corner) was in a similar predicament. However, there was plenty of porter in a tin can; and the cheese went a great way, for it was very strong. So upon the whole, perhaps, the supper was quite as good as such matters usually are.

After supper, another jug of punch was put upon the table, together with a paper of cigars, and a couple of bottles of spirits. Then there was an awful pause; and this awful pause was occasioned by a very common occurrence in this sort of place, but a very embarrassing one notwithstanding.

The fact is, the girl was washing the glasses. The establishment boasted four: we do not record the circumstance as at all derogatory to Mrs. Raddle, for there never was a lodging-house yet, that was not short of glasses. The landlady’s glasses were little, thin, blown-glass tumblers, and those which had been borrowed from the public-house were great, dropsical, bloated articles, each supported on a huge gouty leg. This would have been in itself sufficient to have possessed the company with the real state of affairs; but the young woman of all work had prevented the possibility of any misconception arising in the mind of any gentleman upon the subject, by forcibly dragging every man’s glass away, long before he had finished his beer, and audibly stating, despite the winks and interruptions of Mr. Bob Sawyer, that it was to be conveyed downstairs, and washed forthwith.

It is a very ill wind that blows nobody any good. The prim man in the cloth boots, who had been unsuccessfully attempting to make a joke during the whole time the round game lasted, saw his opportunity, and availed himself of it. The instant the glasses disappeared, he commenced a long story about a great public character, whose name he had forgotten, making a particularly happy reply to another eminent and illustrious individual whom he had never been able to identify. He enlarged at some length and with great minuteness upon divers collateral circumstances, distantly connected with the anecdote in hand, but for the life of him he couldn’t recollect at that precise moment what the anecdote was, although he had been in the habit of telling the story with great applause for the last ten years.

‘Dear me,’ said the prim man in the cloth boots, ‘it is a very extraordinary circumstance.’

‘I am sorry you have forgotten it,’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer, glancing eagerly at the door, as he thought he heard the noise of glasses jingling; ‘very sorry.’

‘So am I,’ responded the prim man, ‘because I know it would have afforded so much amusement. Never mind; I dare say I shall manage to recollect it, in the course of half an hour or so.’

The prim man arrived at this point just as the glasses came back, when Mr. Bob Sawyer, who had been absorbed in attention during the whole time, said he should very much like to hear the end of it, for, so far as it went, it was, without exception, the very best story he had ever heard.

The sight of the tumblers restored Bob Sawyer to a degree of equanimity which he had not possessed since his interview with his landlady. His face brightened up, and he began to feel quite convivial.

‘Now, Betsy,’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer, with great suavity, and dispersing, at the same time, the tumultuous little mob of glasses the girl had collected in the centre of the table—‘now, Betsy, the warm water; be brisk, there’s a good girl.’

‘You can’t have no warm water,’ replied Betsy.

‘No warm water!’ exclaimed Mr. Bob Sawyer.

‘No,’ said the girl, with a shake of the head which expressed a more decided negative than the most copious language could have conveyed. ‘Missis Raddle said you warn’t to have none.’

The surprise depicted on the countenances of his guests imparted new courage to the host.

‘Bring up the warm water instantly—instantly!’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer, with desperate sternness.

‘No. I can’t,’ replied the girl; ‘Missis Raddle raked out the kitchen fire afore she went to bed, and locked up the kittle.’

‘Oh, never mind; never mind. Pray don’t disturb yourself about such a trifle,’ said Mr. Pickwick, observing the conflict of Bob Sawyer’s passions, as depicted in his countenance, ‘cold water will do very well.’

‘Oh, admirably,’ said Mr. Benjamin Allen.

‘My landlady is subject to some slight attacks of mental derangement,’ remarked Bob Sawyer, with a ghastly smile; ‘I fear I must give her warning.’

‘No, don’t,’ said Ben Allen.

‘I fear I must,’ said Bob, with heroic firmness. ‘I’ll pay her what I owe her, and give her warning to-morrow morning.’ Poor fellow! how devoutly he wished he could!

Mr. Bob Sawyer’s heart-sickening attempts to rally under this last blow, communicated a dispiriting influence to the company, the greater part of whom, with the view of raising their spirits, attached themselves with extra cordiality to the cold brandy-and-water, the first perceptible effects of which were displayed in a renewal of hostilities between the scorbutic youth and the gentleman in the shirt. The belligerents vented their feelings of mutual contempt, for some time, in a variety of frownings and snortings, until at last the scorbutic youth felt it necessary to come to a more explicit understanding on the matter; when the following clear understanding took place.

‘Sawyer,’ said the scorbutic youth, in a loud voice.

‘Well, Noddy,’ replied Mr. Bob Sawyer.

‘I should be very sorry, Sawyer,’ said Mr. Noddy, ‘to create any unpleasantness at any friend’s table, and much less at yours, Sawyer— very; but I must take this opportunity of informing Mr. Gunter that he is no gentleman.’

‘And I should be very sorry, Sawyer, to create any disturbance in the street in which you reside,’ said Mr. Gunter, ‘but I’m afraid I shall be under the necessity of alarming the neighbours by throwing the person who has just spoken, out o’ window.’

‘What do you mean by that, sir?’ inquired Mr. Noddy.

‘What I say, Sir,’ replied Mr. Gunter.

‘I should like to see you do it, Sir,’ said Mr. Noddy.

‘You shall _feel _me do it in half a minute, Sir,’ replied Mr. Gunter.

‘I request that you’ll favour me with your card, Sir,’ said Mr. Noddy.

‘I’ll do nothing of the kind, Sir,’ replied Mr. Gunter.

‘Why not, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Noddy.

‘Because you’ll stick it up over your chimney-piece, and delude your visitors into the false belief that a gentleman has been to see you, Sir,’ replied Mr. Gunter.

‘Sir, a friend of mine shall wait on you in the morning,’ said Mr. Noddy.

‘Sir, I’m very much obliged to you for the caution, and I’ll leave particular directions with the servant to lock up the spoons,’ replied Mr. Gunter.

At this point the remainder of the guests interposed, and remonstrated with both parties on the impropriety of their conduct; on which Mr. Noddy begged to state that his father was quite as respectable as Mr. Gunter’s father; to which Mr. Gunter replied that his father was to the full as respectable as Mr. Noddy’s father, and that his father’s son was as good a man as Mr. Noddy, any day in the week. As this announcement seemed the prelude to a recommencement of the dispute, there was another interference on the part of the company; and a vast quantity of talking and clamouring ensued, in the course of which Mr. Noddy gradually allowed his feelings to overpower him, and professed that he had ever entertained a devoted personal attachment towards Mr. Gunter. To this Mr. Gunter replied that, upon the whole, he rather preferred Mr. Noddy to his own brother; on hearing which admission, Mr. Noddy magnanimously rose from his seat, and proffered his hand to Mr. Gunter. Mr. Gunter grasped it with affecting fervour; and everybody said that the whole dispute had been conducted in a manner which was highly honourable to both parties concerned.

‘Now,’ said Jack Hopkins, ‘just to set us going again, Bob, I don’t mind singing a song.’ And Hopkins, incited thereto by tumultuous applause, plunged himself at once into ‘The King, God bless him,’ which he sang as loud as he could, to a novel air, compounded of the ‘Bay of Biscay,’ and ‘A Frog he would.’ The chorus was the essence of the song; and, as each gentleman sang it to the tune he knew best, the effect was very striking indeed.

It was at the end of the chorus to the first verse, that Mr. Pickwick held up his hand in a listening attitude, and said, as soon as silence was restored—

‘Hush! I beg your pardon. I thought I heard somebody calling from upstairs.’

A profound silence immediately ensued; and Mr. Bob Sawyer was observed to turn pale.

‘I think I hear it now,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Have the goodness to open the door.’

The door was no sooner opened than all doubt on the subject was removed.

‘Mr. Sawyer! Mr. Sawyer!’ screamed a voice from the two-pair landing.

‘It’s my landlady,’ said Bob Sawyer, looking round him with great dismay. ‘Yes, Mrs. Raddle.’

‘What do you mean by this, Mr. Sawyer?’ replied the voice, with great shrillness and rapidity of utterance. ‘Ain’t it enough to be swindled out of one’s rent, and money lent out of pocket besides, and abused and insulted by your friends that dares to call themselves men, without having the house turned out of the window, and noise enough made to bring the fire-engines here, at two o’clock in the morning?—Turn them wretches away.’

‘You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,’ said the voice of Mr. Raddle, which appeared to proceed from beneath some distant bed-clothes.

‘Ashamed of themselves!’ said Mrs. Raddle. ‘Why don’t you go down and knock ‘em every one downstairs? You would if you was a man.’

I should if I was a dozen men, my dear,’ replied Mr. Raddle pacifically, ‘but they have the advantage of me in numbers, my dear.’

‘Ugh, you coward!’ replied Mrs. Raddle, with supreme contempt. ‘Do you mean to turn them wretches out, or not, Mr. Sawyer?’

‘They’re going, Mrs. Raddle, they’re going,’ said the miserable Bob. ‘I am afraid you’d better go,’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer to his friends. ‘I thought you were making too much noise.’

‘It’s a very unfortunate thing,’ said the prim man. ‘Just as we were getting so comfortable too!’ The prim man was just beginning to have a dawning recollection of the story he had forgotten.

‘It’s hardly to be borne,’ said the prim man, looking round. ‘Hardly to be borne, is it?’

‘Not to be endured,’ replied Jack Hopkins; ‘let’s have the other verse, Bob. Come, here goes!’

‘No, no, Jack, don’t,’ interposed Bob Sawyer; ‘it’s a capital song, but I am afraid we had better not have the other verse. They are very violent people, the people of the house.’

‘Shall I step upstairs, and pitch into the landlord?’ inquired Hopkins, ‘or keep on ringing the bell, or go and groan on the staircase? You may command me, Bob.’

‘I am very much indebted to you for your friendship and good-nature, Hopkins,’ said the wretched Mr. Bob Sawyer, ‘but I think the best plan to avoid any further dispute is for us to break up at once.’

‘Now, Mr. Sawyer,’ screamed the shrill voice of Mrs. Raddle, ‘are them brutes going?’

‘They’re only looking for their hats, Mrs. Raddle,’ said Bob; ‘they are going directly.’

‘Going!’ said Mrs. Raddle, thrusting her nightcap over the banisters just as Mr. Pickwick, followed by Mr. Tupman, emerged from the sitting- room. ‘Going! what did they ever come for?’

‘My dear ma’am,’ remonstrated Mr. Pickwick, looking up.

‘Get along with you, old wretch!’ replied Mrs. Raddle, hastily withdrawing the nightcap. ‘Old enough to be his grandfather, you willin! You’re worse than any of ‘em.’

Mr. Pickwick found it in vain to protest his innocence, so hurried downstairs into the street, whither he was closely followed by Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass. Mr. Ben Allen, who was dismally depressed with spirits and agitation, accompanied them as far as London Bridge, and in the course of the walk confided to Mr. Winkle, as an especially eligible person to intrust the secret to, that he was resolved to cut the throat of any gentleman, except Mr. Bob Sawyer, who should aspire to the affections of his sister Arabella. Having expressed his determination to perform this painful duty of a brother with proper firmness, he burst into tears, knocked his hat over his eyes, and, making the best of his way back, knocked double knocks at the door of the Borough Market office, and took short naps on the steps alternately, until daybreak, under the firm impression that he lived there, and had forgotten the key.

The visitors having all departed, in compliance with the rather pressing request of Mrs. Raddle, the luckless Mr. Bob Sawyer was left alone, to meditate on the probable events of to-morrow, and the pleasures of the evening.

CHAPTER XXXIII. MR. WELLER THE ELDER DELIVERS SOME CRITICAL SENTIMENTS RESPECTING LITERARY COMPOSITION; AND, ASSISTED BY HIS SON SAMUEL, PAYS A SMALL INSTALMENT OF RETALIATION TO THE ACCOUNT OF THE REVEREND GENTLEMAN WITH THE RED NOSE

The morning of the thirteenth of February, which the readers of this authentic narrative know, as well as we do, to have been the day immediately preceding that which was appointed for the trial of Mrs. Bardell’s action, was a busy time for Mr. Samuel Weller, who was perpetually engaged in travelling from the George and Vulture to Mr. Perker’s chambers and back again, from and between the hours of nine o’clock in the morning and two in the afternoon, both inclusive. Not that there was anything whatever to be done, for the consultation had taken place, and the course of proceeding to be adopted, had been finally determined on; but Mr. Pickwick being in a most extreme state of excitement, persevered in constantly sending small notes to his attorney, merely containing the inquiry, ‘Dear Perker. Is all going on well?’ to which Mr. Perker invariably forwarded the reply, ‘Dear Pickwick. As well as possible’; the fact being, as we have already hinted, that there was nothing whatever to go on, either well or ill, until the sitting of the court on the following morning.

But people who go voluntarily to law, or are taken forcibly there, for the first time, may be allowed to labour under some temporary irritation and anxiety; and Sam, with a due allowance for the frailties of human nature, obeyed all his master’s behests with that imperturbable good- humour and unruffable composure which formed one of his most striking and amiable characteristics.

Sam had solaced himself with a most agreeable little dinner, and was waiting at the bar for the glass of warm mixture in which Mr. Pickwick had requested him to drown the fatigues of his morning’s walks, when a young boy of about three feet high, or thereabouts, in a hairy cap and fustian overalls, whose garb bespoke a laudable ambition to attain in time the elevation of an hostler, entered the passage of the George and Vulture, and looked first up the stairs, and then along the passage, and then into the bar, as if in search of somebody to whom he bore a commission; whereupon the barmaid, conceiving it not improbable that the said commission might be directed to the tea or table spoons of the establishment, accosted the boy with—

‘Now, young man, what do you want?’

‘Is there anybody here, named Sam?’ inquired the youth, in a loud voice of treble quality.

‘What’s the t’other name?’ said Sam Weller, looking round.

‘How should I know?’ briskly replied the young gentleman below the hairy cap.

‘You’re a sharp boy, you are,’ said Mr. Weller; ‘only I wouldn’t show that wery fine edge too much, if I was you, in case anybody took it off. What do you mean by comin’ to a hot-el, and asking arter Sam, vith as much politeness as a vild Indian?’

‘’Cos an old gen’l’m’n told me to,’ replied the boy.

‘What old gen’l’m’n?’ inquired Sam, with deep disdain.

‘Him as drives a Ipswich coach, and uses our parlour,’ rejoined the boy. ‘He told me yesterday mornin’ to come to the George and Wultur this arternoon, and ask for Sam.’

‘It’s my father, my dear,’ said Mr. Weller, turning with an explanatory air to the young lady in the bar; ‘blessed if I think he hardly knows wot my other name is. Well, young brockiley sprout, wot then?’

‘Why then,’ said the boy, ‘you was to come to him at six o’clock to our ‘ouse, ‘cos he wants to see you—Blue Boar, Leaden’all Markit. Shall I say you’re comin’?’

‘You may wenture on that ‘ere statement, Sir,’ replied Sam. And thus empowered, the young gentleman walked away, awakening all the echoes in George Yard as he did so, with several chaste and extremely correct imitations of a drover’s whistle, delivered in a tone of peculiar richness and volume.

Mr. Weller having obtained leave of absence from Mr. Pickwick, who, in his then state of excitement and worry, was by no means displeased at being left alone, set forth, long before the appointed hour, and having plenty of time at his disposal, sauntered down as far as the Mansion House, where he paused and contemplated, with a face of great calmness and philosophy, the numerous cads and drivers of short stages who assemble near that famous place of resort, to the great terror and confusion of the old-lady population of these realms. Having loitered here, for half an hour or so, Mr. Weller turned, and began wending his way towards Leadenhall Market, through a variety of by-streets and courts. As he was sauntering away his spare time, and stopped to look at almost every object that met his gaze, it is by no means surprising that Mr. Weller should have paused before a small stationer’s and print- seller’s window; but without further explanation it does appear surprising that his eyes should have no sooner rested on certain pictures which were exposed for sale therein, than he gave a sudden start, smote his right leg with great vehemence, and exclaimed, with energy, ‘if it hadn’t been for this, I should ha’ forgot all about it, till it was too late!’

The particular picture on which Sam Weller’s eyes were fixed, as he said this, was a highly-coloured representation of a couple of human hearts skewered together with an arrow, cooking before a cheerful fire, while a male and female cannibal in modern attire, the gentleman being clad in a blue coat and white trousers, and the lady in a deep red pelisse with a parasol of the same, were approaching the meal with hungry eyes, up a serpentine gravel path leading thereunto. A decidedly indelicate young gentleman, in a pair of wings and nothing else, was depicted as superintending the cooking; a representation of the spire of the church in Langham Place, London, appeared in the distance; and the whole formed a ‘valentine,’ of which, as a written inscription in the window testified, there was a large assortment within, which the shopkeeper pledged himself to dispose of, to his countrymen generally, at the reduced rate of one-and-sixpence each.

‘I should ha’ forgot it; I should certainly ha’ forgot it!’ said Sam; so saying, he at once stepped into the stationer’s shop, and requested to be served with a sheet of the best gilt-edged letter-paper, and a hard- nibbed pen which could be warranted not to splutter. These articles having been promptly supplied, he walked on direct towards Leadenhall Market at a good round pace, very different from his recent lingering one. Looking round him, he there beheld a signboard on which the painter’s art had delineated something remotely resembling a cerulean elephant with an aquiline nose in lieu of trunk. Rightly conjecturing that this was the Blue Boar himself, he stepped into the house, and inquired concerning his parent.

‘He won’t be here this three-quarters of an hour or more,’ said the young lady who superintended the domestic arrangements of the Blue Boar.

‘Wery good, my dear,’ replied Sam. ‘Let me have nine-penn’oth o’ brandy- and-water luke, and the inkstand, will you, miss?’

The brandy-and-water luke, and the inkstand, having been carried into the little parlour, and the young lady having carefully flattened down the coals to prevent their blazing, and carried away the poker to preclude the possibility of the fire being stirred, without the full privity and concurrence of the Blue Boar being first had and obtained, Sam Weller sat himself down in a box near the stove, and pulled out the sheet of gilt-edged letter-paper, and the hard-nibbed pen. Then looking carefully at the pen to see that there were no hairs in it, and dusting down the table, so that there might be no crumbs of bread under the paper, Sam tucked up the cuffs of his coat, squared his elbows, and composed himself to write.

To ladies and gentlemen who are not in the habit of devoting themselves practically to the science of penmanship, writing a letter is no very easy task; it being always considered necessary in such cases for the writer to recline his head on his left arm, so as to place his eyes as nearly as possible on a level with the paper, and, while glancing sideways at the letters he is constructing, to form with his tongue imaginary characters to correspond. These motions, although unquestionably of the greatest assistance to original composition, retard in some degree the progress of the writer; and Sam had unconsciously been a full hour and a half writing words in small text, smearing out wrong letters with his little finger, and putting in new ones which required going over very often to render them visible through the old blots, when he was roused by the opening of the door and the entrance of his parent.

‘Vell, Sammy,’ said the father.

‘Vell, my Prooshan Blue,’ responded the son, laying down his pen. ‘What’s the last bulletin about mother-in-law?’

‘Mrs. Veller passed a very good night, but is uncommon perwerse, and unpleasant this mornin’. Signed upon oath, Tony Veller, Esquire. That’s the last vun as was issued, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller, untying his shawl.

‘No better yet?’ inquired Sam.

‘All the symptoms aggerawated,’ replied Mr. Weller, shaking his head. ‘But wot’s that, you’re a-doin’ of? Pursuit of knowledge under difficulties, Sammy?’

‘I’ve done now,’ said Sam, with slight embarrassment; ‘I’ve been a- writin’.’

‘So I see,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Not to any young ‘ooman, I hope, Sammy?’

‘Why, it’s no use a-sayin’ it ain’t,’ replied Sam; ‘it’s a walentine.’

‘A what!’ exclaimed Mr. Weller, apparently horror-stricken by the word.

‘A walentine,’ replied Sam.

‘Samivel, Samivel,’ said Mr. Weller, in reproachful accents, ‘I didn’t think you’d ha’ done it. Arter the warnin’ you’ve had o’ your father’s wicious propensities; arter all I’ve said to you upon this here wery subject; arter actiwally seein’ and bein’ in the company o’ your own mother-in-law, vich I should ha’ thought wos a moral lesson as no man could never ha’ forgotten to his dyin’ day! I didn’t think you’d ha’ done it, Sammy, I didn’t think you’d ha’ done it!’ These reflections were too much for the good old man. He raised Sam’s tumbler to his lips and drank off its contents.

‘Wot’s the matter now?’ said Sam.

‘Nev’r mind, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller, ‘it’ll be a wery agonisin’ trial to me at my time of life, but I’m pretty tough, that’s vun consolation, as the wery old turkey remarked wen the farmer said he wos afeerd he should be obliged to kill him for the London market.’

‘Wot’ll be a trial?’ inquired Sam.

‘To see you married, Sammy—to see you a dilluded wictim, and thinkin’ in your innocence that it’s all wery capital,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘It’s a dreadful trial to a father’s feelin’s, that ‘ere, Sammy—’

‘Nonsense,’ said Sam. ‘I ain’t a-goin’ to get married, don’t you fret yourself about that; I know you’re a judge of these things. Order in your pipe and I’ll read you the letter. There!’

We cannot distinctly say whether it was the prospect of the pipe, or the consolatory reflection that a fatal disposition to get married ran in the family, and couldn’t be helped, which calmed Mr. Weller’s feelings, and caused his grief to subside. We should be rather disposed to say that the result was attained by combining the two sources of consolation, for he repeated the second in a low tone, very frequently; ringing the bell meanwhile, to order in the first. He then divested himself of his upper coat; and lighting the pipe and placing himself in front of the fire with his back towards it, so that he could feel its full heat, and recline against the mantel-piece at the same time, turned towards Sam, and, with a countenance greatly mollified by the softening influence of tobacco, requested him to ‘fire away.’

Sam dipped his pen into the ink to be ready for any corrections, and began with a very theatrical air—

‘“Lovely—“’

‘Stop,’ said Mr. Weller, ringing the bell. ‘A double glass o’ the inwariable, my dear.’

‘Very well, Sir,’ replied the girl; who with great quickness appeared, vanished, returned, and disappeared.

‘They seem to know your ways here,’ observed Sam.

‘Yes,’ replied his father, ‘I’ve been here before, in my time. Go on, Sammy.’

‘“Lovely creetur,”’ repeated Sam.

‘’Tain’t in poetry, is it?’ interposed his father.

‘No, no,’ replied Sam.

‘Wery glad to hear it,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Poetry’s unnat’ral; no man ever talked poetry ‘cept a beadle on boxin’-day, or Warren’s blackin’, or Rowland’s oil, or some of them low fellows; never you let yourself down to talk poetry, my boy. Begin agin, Sammy.’

Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with critical solemnity, and Sam once more commenced, and read as follows:

‘“Lovely creetur I feel myself a damned—“’

That ain’t proper,’ said Mr. Weller, taking his pipe from his mouth.

‘No; it ain’t “damned,”’ observed Sam, holding the letter up to the light, ‘it’s “shamed,” there’s a blot there—“I feel myself ashamed.”’

‘Wery good,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Go on.’

‘Feel myself ashamed, and completely cir—’ I forget what this here word is,’ said Sam, scratching his head with the pen, in vain attempts to remember.

‘Why don’t you look at it, then?’ inquired Mr. Weller.

‘So I am a-lookin’ at it,’ replied Sam, ‘but there’s another blot. Here’s a “c,” and a “i,” and a “d.”’

‘Circumwented, p’raps,’ suggested Mr. Weller.

‘No, it ain’t that,’ said Sam, ‘“circumscribed”; that’s it.’

‘That ain’t as good a word as “circumwented,” Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller gravely.

‘Think not?’ said Sam.

‘Nothin’ like it,’ replied his father.

‘But don’t you think it means more?’ inquired Sam.

‘Vell p’raps it’s a more tenderer word,’ said Mr. Weller, after a few moments’ reflection. ‘Go on, Sammy.’

‘“Feel myself ashamed and completely circumscribed in a-dressin’ of you, for you are a nice gal and nothin’ but it.”’

‘That’s a wery pretty sentiment,’ said the elder Mr. Weller, removing his pipe to make way for the remark.

‘Yes, I think it is rayther good,’ observed Sam, highly flattered.

‘Wot I like in that ‘ere style of writin’,’ said the elder Mr. Weller, ‘is, that there ain’t no callin’ names in it—no Wenuses, nor nothin’ o’ that kind. Wot’s the good o’ callin’ a young ‘ooman a Wenus or a angel, Sammy?’

‘Ah! what, indeed?’ replied Sam.

‘You might jist as well call her a griffin, or a unicorn, or a king’s arms at once, which is wery well known to be a collection o’ fabulous animals,’ added Mr. Weller.

‘Just as well,’ replied Sam.

‘Drive on, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller.

Sam complied with the request, and proceeded as follows; his father continuing to smoke, with a mixed expression of wisdom and complacency, which was particularly edifying.

‘“Afore I see you, I thought all women was alike.”’

‘So they are,’ observed the elder Mr. Weller parenthetically.

‘“But now,”’ continued Sam, ‘“now I find what a reg’lar soft-headed, inkred’lous turnip I must ha’ been; for there ain’t nobody like you, though I like you better than nothin’ at all.” I thought it best to make that rayther strong,’ said Sam, looking up.

Mr. Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam resumed.

‘“So I take the privilidge of the day, Mary, my dear—as the gen’l’m’n in difficulties did, ven he valked out of a Sunday—to tell you that the first and only time I see you, your likeness was took on my hart in much quicker time and brighter colours than ever a likeness was took by the profeel macheen (wich p’raps you may have heerd on Mary my dear) altho it _does _finish a portrait and put the frame and glass on complete, with a hook at the end to hang it up by, and all in two minutes and a quarter.”’

‘I am afeerd that werges on the poetical, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller dubiously.

‘No, it don’t,’ replied Sam, reading on very quickly, to avoid contesting the point—

‘“Except of me Mary my dear as your walentine and think over what I’ve said.—My dear Mary I will now conclude.” That’s all,’ said Sam.

‘That’s rather a Sudden pull-up, ain’t it, Sammy?’ inquired Mr. Weller.

‘Not a bit on it,’ said Sam; ‘she’ll vish there wos more, and that’s the great art o’ letter-writin’.’

‘Well,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘there’s somethin’ in that; and I wish your mother-in-law ‘ud only conduct her conwersation on the same gen-teel principle. Ain’t you a-goin’ to sign it?’

‘That’s the difficulty,’ said Sam; ‘I don’t know what to sign it.’

‘Sign it—“Veller”,’ said the oldest surviving proprietor of that name.

‘Won’t do,’ said Sam. ‘Never sign a walentine with your own name.’

‘Sign it “Pickwick,” then,’ said Mr. Weller; ‘it’s a wery good name, and a easy one to spell.’

The wery thing,’ said Sam. ‘I _could _end with a werse; what do you think?’

‘I don’t like it, Sam,’ rejoined Mr. Weller. ‘I never know’d a respectable coachman as wrote poetry, ‘cept one, as made an affectin’ copy o’ werses the night afore he was hung for a highway robbery; and he wos only a Cambervell man, so even that’s no rule.’

But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical idea that had occurred to him, so he signed the letter—

‘Your love-sick Pickwick.’

And having folded it, in a very intricate manner, squeezed a downhill direction in one corner: ‘To Mary, Housemaid, at Mr. Nupkins’s, Mayor’s, Ipswich, Suffolk’; and put it into his pocket, wafered, and ready for the general post. This important business having been transacted, Mr. Weller the elder proceeded to open that, on which he had summoned his son.

‘The first matter relates to your governor, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘He’s a-goin’ to be tried to-morrow, ain’t he?’

‘The trial’s a-comin’ on,’ replied Sam.

‘Vell,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘Now I s’pose he’ll want to call some witnesses to speak to his character, or p’rhaps to prove a alleybi. I’ve been a- turnin’ the bis’ness over in my mind, and he may make his-self easy, Sammy. I’ve got some friends as’ll do either for him, but my adwice ‘ud be this here—never mind the character, and stick to the alleybi. Nothing like a alleybi, Sammy, nothing.’ Mr. Weller looked very profound as he delivered this legal opinion; and burying his nose in his tumbler, winked over the top thereof, at his astonished son.

‘Why, what do you mean?’ said Sam; ‘you don’t think he’s a-goin’ to be tried at the Old Bailey, do you?’

‘That ain’t no part of the present consideration, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Verever he’s a-goin’ to be tried, my boy, a alleybi’s the thing to get him off. Ve got Tom Vildspark off that ‘ere manslaughter, with a alleybi, ven all the big vigs to a man said as nothing couldn’t save him. And my ‘pinion is, Sammy, that if your governor don’t prove a alleybi, he’ll be what the Italians call reg’larly flummoxed, and that’s all about it.’

As the elder Mr. Weller entertained a firm and unalterable conviction that the Old Bailey was the supreme court of judicature in this country, and that its rules and forms of proceeding regulated and controlled the practice of all other courts of justice whatsoever, he totally disregarded the assurances and arguments of his son, tending to show that the alibi was inadmissible; and vehemently protested that Mr. Pickwick was being ‘wictimised.’ Finding that it was of no use to discuss the matter further, Sam changed the subject, and inquired what the second topic was, on which his revered parent wished to consult him.

‘That’s a pint o’ domestic policy, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘This here Stiggins—’

‘Red-nosed man?’ inquired Sam.

‘The wery same,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘This here red-nosed man, Sammy, wisits your mother-in-law vith a kindness and constancy I never see equalled. He’s sitch a friend o’ the family, Sammy, that wen he’s avay from us, he can’t be comfortable unless he has somethin’ to remember us by.’

‘And I’d give him somethin’ as ‘ud turpentine and beeswax his memory for the next ten years or so, if I wos you,’ interposed Sam.

‘Stop a minute,’ said Mr. Weller; ‘I wos a-going to say, he always brings now, a flat bottle as holds about a pint and a half, and fills it vith the pine-apple rum afore he goes avay.’

‘And empties it afore he comes back, I s’pose?’ said Sam.

‘Clean!’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘never leaves nothin’ in it but the cork and the smell; trust him for that, Sammy. Now, these here fellows, my boy, are a-goin’ to-night to get up the monthly meetin’ o’ the Brick Lane Branch o’ the United Grand Junction Ebenezer Temperance Association. Your mother-in-law wos a-goin’, Sammy, but she’s got the rheumatics, and can’t; and I, Sammy—I’ve got the two tickets as wos sent her.’ Mr. Weller communicated this secret with great glee, and winked so indefatigably after doing so, that Sam began to think he must have got the Tic Doloureux in his right eyelid.

‘Well?’ said that young gentleman.

‘Well,’ continued his progenitor, looking round him very cautiously, ‘you and I’ll go, punctiwal to the time. The deputy-shepherd won’t, Sammy; the deputy-shepherd won’t.’ Here Mr. Weller was seized with a paroxysm of chuckles, which gradually terminated in as near an approach to a choke as an elderly gentleman can, with safety, sustain.

‘Well, I never see sitch an old ghost in all my born days,’ exclaimed Sam, rubbing the old gentleman’s back, hard enough to set him on fire with the friction. ‘What are you a-laughin’ at, corpilence?’

‘Hush! Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, looking round him with increased caution, and speaking in a whisper. ‘Two friends o’ mine, as works the Oxford Road, and is up to all kinds o’ games, has got the deputy- shepherd safe in tow, Sammy; and ven he does come to the Ebenezer Junction (vich he’s sure to do: for they’ll see him to the door, and shove him in, if necessary), he’ll be as far gone in rum-and-water, as ever he wos at the Markis o’ Granby, Dorkin’, and that’s not sayin’ a little neither.’ And with this, Mr. Weller once more laughed immoderately, and once more relapsed into a state of partial suffocation, in consequence.

Nothing could have been more in accordance with Sam Weller’s feelings than the projected exposure of the real propensities and qualities of the red-nosed man; and it being very near the appointed hour of meeting, the father and son took their way at once to Brick Lane, Sam not forgetting to drop his letter into a general post-office as they walked along.

The monthly meetings of the Brick Lane Branch of the United Grand Junction Ebenezer Temperance Association were held in a large room, pleasantly and airily situated at the top of a safe and commodious ladder. The president was the straight-walking Mr. Anthony Humm, a converted fireman, now a schoolmaster, and occasionally an itinerant preacher; and the secretary was Mr. Jonas Mudge, chandler’s shopkeeper, an enthusiastic and disinterested vessel, who sold tea to the members. Previous to the commencement of business, the ladies sat upon forms, and drank tea, till such time as they considered it expedient to leave off; and a large wooden money-box was conspicuously placed upon the green baize cloth of the business-table, behind which the secretary stood, and acknowledged, with a gracious smile, every addition to the rich vein of copper which lay concealed within.

On this particular occasion the women drank tea to a most alarming extent; greatly to the horror of Mr. Weller, senior, who, utterly regardless of all Sam’s admonitory nudgings, stared about him in every direction with the most undisguised astonishment.

‘Sammy,’ whispered Mr. Weller, ‘if some o’ these here people don’t want tappin’ to-morrow mornin’, I ain’t your father, and that’s wot it is. Why, this here old lady next me is a-drowndin’ herself in tea.’

Be quiet, can’t you?’ murmured Sam.

‘Sam,’ whispered Mr. Weller, a moment afterwards, in a tone of deep agitation, ‘mark my vords, my boy. If that ‘ere secretary fellow keeps on for only five minutes more, he’ll blow hisself up with toast and water.’

‘Well, let him, if he likes,’ replied Sam; ‘it ain’t no bis’ness o’ yourn.’

‘If this here lasts much longer, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, in the same low voice, ‘I shall feel it my duty, as a human bein’, to rise and address the cheer. There’s a young ‘ooman on the next form but two, as has drunk nine breakfast cups and a half; and she’s a-swellin’ wisibly before my wery eyes.’

There is little doubt that Mr. Weller would have carried his benevolent intention into immediate execution, if a great noise, occasioned by putting up the cups and saucers, had not very fortunately announced that the tea-drinking was over. The crockery having been removed, the table with the green baize cover was carried out into the centre of the room, and the business of the evening was commenced by a little emphatic man, with a bald head and drab shorts, who suddenly rushed up the ladder, at the imminent peril of snapping the two little legs incased in the drab shorts, and said—

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I move our excellent brother, Mr. Anthony Humm, into the chair.’

The ladies waved a choice selection of pocket-handkerchiefs at this proposition; and the impetuous little man literally moved Mr. Humm into the chair, by taking him by the shoulders and thrusting him into a mahogany-frame which had once represented that article of furniture. The waving of handkerchiefs was renewed; and Mr. Humm, who was a sleek, white-faced man, in a perpetual perspiration, bowed meekly, to the great admiration of the females, and formally took his seat. Silence was then proclaimed by the little man in the drab shorts, and Mr. Humm rose and said—That, with the permission of his Brick Lane Branch brothers and sisters, then and there present, the secretary would read the report of the Brick Lane Branch committee; a proposition which was again received with a demonstration of pocket-handkerchiefs.

The secretary having sneezed in a very impressive manner, and the cough which always seizes an assembly, when anything particular is going to be done, having been duly performed, the following document was read:

‘REPORT OF THE COMMITTEE OF THE BRICK LANE BRANCH OF THE UNITED GRAND JUNCTION EBENEZER TEMPERANCE ASSOCIATION

‘Your committee have pursued their grateful labours during the past month, and have the unspeakable pleasure of reporting the following additional cases of converts to Temperance.

‘H. Walker, tailor, wife, and two children. When in better circumstances, owns to having been in the constant habit of drinking ale and beer; says he is not certain whether he did not twice a week, for twenty years, taste “dog’s nose,” which your committee find upon inquiry, to be compounded of warm porter, moist sugar, gin, and nutmeg (a groan, and ‘So it is!’ from an elderly female). Is now out of work and penniless; thinks it must be the porter (cheers) or the loss of the use of his right hand; is not certain which, but thinks it very likely that, if he had drunk nothing but water all his life, his fellow-workman would never have stuck a rusty needle in him, and thereby occasioned his accident (tremendous cheering). Has nothing but cold water to drink, and never feels thirsty (great applause).

‘Betsy Martin, widow, one child, and one eye. Goes out charing and washing, by the day; never had more than one eye, but knows her mother drank bottled stout, and shouldn’t wonder if that caused it (immense cheering). Thinks it not impossible that if she had always abstained from spirits she might have had two eyes by this time (tremendous applause). Used, at every place she went to, to have eighteen-pence a day, a pint of porter, and a glass of spirits; but since she became a member of the Brick Lane Branch, has always demanded three-and-sixpence (the announcement of this most interesting fact was received with deafening enthusiasm).

‘Henry Beller was for many years toast-master at various corporation dinners, during which time he drank a great deal of foreign wine; may sometimes have carried a bottle or two home with him; is not quite certain of that, but is sure if he did, that he drank the contents. Feels very low and melancholy, is very feverish, and has a constant thirst upon him; thinks it must be the wine he used to drink (cheers). Is out of employ now; and never touches a drop of foreign wine by any chance (tremendous plaudits).

‘Thomas Burton is purveyor of cat’s meat to the Lord Mayor and Sheriffs, and several members of the Common Council (the announcement of this gentleman’s name was received with breathless interest). Has a wooden leg; finds a wooden leg expensive, going over the stones; used to wear second-hand wooden legs, and drink a glass of hot gin-and-water regularly every night—sometimes two (deep sighs). Found the second-hand wooden legs split and rot very quickly; is firmly persuaded that their constitution was undermined by the gin-and-water (prolonged cheering). Buys new wooden legs now, and drinks nothing but water and weak tea. The new legs last twice as long as the others used to do, and he attributes this solely to his temperate habits (triumphant cheers).’

Anthony Humm now moved that the assembly do regale itself with a song. With a view to their rational and moral enjoyment, Brother Mordlin had adapted the beautiful words of ‘Who hasn’t heard of a Jolly Young Waterman?’ to the tune of the Old Hundredth, which he would request them to join him in singing (great applause). He might take that opportunity of expressing his firm persuasion that the late Mr. Dibdin, seeing the errors of his former life, had written that song to show the advantages of abstinence. It was a temperance song (whirlwinds of cheers). The neatness of the young man’s attire, the dexterity of his feathering, the enviable state of mind which enabled him in the beautiful words of the poet, to

‘Row along, thinking of nothing at all,’

all combined to prove that he must have been a water-drinker (cheers). Oh, what a state of virtuous jollity! (rapturous cheering). And what was the young man’s reward? Let all young men present mark this:

‘The maidens all flocked to his boat so readily.’

(Loud cheers, in which the ladies joined.) What a bright example! The sisterhood, the maidens, flocking round the young waterman, and urging him along the stream of duty and of temperance. But, was it the maidens of humble life only, who soothed, consoled, and supported him? No!

‘He was always first oars with the fine city ladies.’

(Immense cheering.) The soft sex to a man—he begged pardon, to a female—rallied round the young waterman, and turned with disgust from the drinker of spirits (cheers). The Brick Lane Branch brothers were watermen (cheers and laughter). That room was their boat; that audience were the maidens; and he (Mr. Anthony Humm), however unworthily, was ‘first oars’ (unbounded applause).

‘Wot does he mean by the soft sex, Sammy?’ inquired Mr. Weller, in a whisper.

‘The womin,’ said Sam, in the same tone.

‘He ain’t far out there, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘they _must _be a soft sex—a wery soft sex, indeed—if they let themselves be gammoned by such fellers as him.’

Any further observations from the indignant old gentleman were cut short by the announcement of the song, which Mr. Anthony Humm gave out two lines at a time, for the information of such of his hearers as were unacquainted with the legend. While it was being sung, the little man with the drab shorts disappeared; he returned immediately on its conclusion, and whispered Mr. Anthony Humm, with a face of the deepest importance.

‘My friends,’ said Mr. Humm, holding up his hand in a deprecatory manner, to bespeak the silence of such of the stout old ladies as were yet a line or two behind; ‘my friends, a delegate from the Dorking Branch of our society, Brother Stiggins, attends below.’

Out came the pocket-handkerchiefs again, in greater force than ever; for Mr. Stiggins was excessively popular among the female constituency of Brick Lane.

‘He may approach, I think,’ said Mr. Humm, looking round him, with a fat smile. ‘Brother Tadger, let him come forth and greet us.’

The little man in the drab shorts who answered to the name of Brother Tadger, bustled down the ladder with great speed, and was immediately afterwards heard tumbling up with the Reverend Mr. Stiggins.

‘He’s a-comin’, Sammy,’ whispered Mr. Weller, purple in the countenance with suppressed laughter.

‘Don’t say nothin’ to me,’ replied Sam, ‘for I can’t bear it. He’s close to the door. I hear him a-knockin’ his head again the lath and plaster now.’

As Sam Weller spoke, the little door flew open, and Brother Tadger appeared, closely followed by the Reverend Mr. Stiggins, who no sooner entered, than there was a great clapping of hands, and stamping of feet, and flourishing of handkerchiefs; to all of which manifestations of delight, Brother Stiggins returned no other acknowledgment than staring with a wild eye, and a fixed smile, at the extreme top of the wick of the candle on the table, swaying his body to and fro, meanwhile, in a very unsteady and uncertain manner.

‘Are you unwell, Brother Stiggins?’ whispered Mr. Anthony Humm.

‘I am all right, Sir,’ replied Mr. Stiggins, in a tone in which ferocity was blended with an extreme thickness of utterance; ‘I am all right, Sir.’

‘Oh, very well,’ rejoined Mr. Anthony Humm, retreating a few paces.

‘I believe no man here has ventured to say that I am not all right, Sir?’ said Mr. Stiggins.

‘Oh, certainly not,’ said Mr. Humm.

‘I should advise him not to, Sir; I should advise him not,’ said Mr. Stiggins.

By this time the audience were perfectly silent, and waited with some anxiety for the resumption of business.

‘Will you address the meeting, brother?’ said Mr. Humm, with a smile of invitation.

‘No, sir,’ rejoined Mr. Stiggins; ‘No, sir. I will not, sir.’

The meeting looked at each other with raised eyelids; and a murmur of astonishment ran through the room.

‘It’s my opinion, sir,’ said Mr. Stiggins, unbuttoning his coat, and speaking very loudly—‘it’s my opinion, sir, that this meeting is drunk, sir. Brother Tadger, sir!’ said Mr. Stiggins, suddenly increasing in ferocity, and turning sharp round on the little man in the drab shorts, ‘_you _are drunk, sir!’ With this, Mr. Stiggins, entertaining a praiseworthy desire to promote the sobriety of the meeting, and to exclude therefrom all improper characters, hit Brother Tadger on the summit of the nose with such unerring aim, that the drab shorts disappeared like a flash of lightning. Brother Tadger had been knocked, head first, down the ladder.

Upon this, the women set up a loud and dismal screaming; and rushing in small parties before their favourite brothers, flung their arms around them to preserve them from danger. An instance of affection, which had nearly proved fatal to Humm, who, being extremely popular, was all but suffocated, by the crowd of female devotees that hung about his neck, and heaped caresses upon him. The greater part of the lights were quickly put out, and nothing but noise and confusion resounded on all sides.

‘Now, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, taking off his greatcoat with much deliberation, ‘just you step out, and fetch in a watchman.’

‘And wot are you a-goin’ to do, the while?’ inquired Sam.

‘Never you mind me, Sammy,’ replied the old gentleman; ‘I shall ockipy myself in havin’ a small settlement with that ‘ere Stiggins.’ Before Sam could interfere to prevent it, his heroic parent had penetrated into a remote corner of the room, and attacked the Reverend Mr. Stiggins with manual dexterity.

‘Come off!’ said Sam.

‘Come on!’ cried Mr. Weller; and without further invitation he gave the Reverend Mr. Stiggins a preliminary tap on the head, and began dancing round him in a buoyant and cork-like manner, which in a gentleman at his time of life was a perfect marvel to behold.

Finding all remonstrances unavailing, Sam pulled his hat firmly on, threw his father’s coat over his arm, and taking the old man round the waist, forcibly dragged him down the ladder, and into the street; never releasing his hold, or permitting him to stop, until they reached the corner. As they gained it, they could hear the shouts of the populace, who were witnessing the removal of the Reverend Mr. Stiggins to strong lodgings for the night, and could hear the noise occasioned by the dispersion in various directions of the members of the Brick Lane Branch of the United Grand Junction Ebenezer Temperance Association.

CHAPTER XXXIV. IS WHOLLY DEVOTED TO A FULL AND FAITHFUL REPORT OF THE MEMORABLE TRIAL OF BARDELL AGAINST PICKWICK

I wonder what the foreman of the jury, whoever he’ll be, has got for breakfast,’ said Mr. Snodgrass, by way of keeping up a conversation on the eventful morning of the fourteenth of February.

‘Ah!’ said Perker, ‘I hope he’s got a good one.’

Why so?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Highly important—very important, my dear Sir,’ replied Perker. ‘A good, contented, well-breakfasted juryman is a capital thing to get hold of. Discontented or hungry jurymen, my dear sir, always find for the plaintiff.’

‘Bless my heart,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking very blank, ‘what do they do that for?’

‘Why, I don’t know,’ replied the little man coolly; ‘saves time, I suppose. If it’s near dinner-time, the foreman takes out his watch when the jury has retired, and says, “Dear me, gentlemen, ten minutes to five, I declare! I dine at five, gentlemen.” “So do I,” says everybody else, except two men who ought to have dined at three and seem more than half disposed to stand out in consequence. The foreman smiles, and puts up his watch:—“Well, gentlemen, what do we say, plaintiff or defendant, gentlemen? I rather think, so far as I am concerned, gentlemen,—I say, I rather think—but don’t let that influence you—I rather think the plaintiff’s the man.” Upon this, two or three other men are sure to say that they think so too—as of course they do; and then they get on very unanimously and comfortably. Ten minutes past nine!’ said the little man, looking at his watch. ‘Time we were off, my dear sir; breach of promise trial-court is generally full in such cases. You had better ring for a coach, my dear sir, or we shall be rather late.’

Mr. Pickwick immediately rang the bell, and a coach having been procured, the four Pickwickians and Mr. Perker ensconced themselves therein, and drove to Guildhall; Sam Weller, Mr. Lowten, and the blue bag, following in a cab.

‘Lowten,’ said Perker, when they reached the outer hall of the court, ‘put Mr. Pickwick’s friends in the students’ box; Mr. Pickwick himself had better sit by me. This way, my dear sir, this way.’ Taking Mr. Pickwick by the coat sleeve, the little man led him to the low seat just beneath the desks of the King’s Counsel, which is constructed for the convenience of attorneys, who from that spot can whisper into the ear of the leading counsel in the case, any instructions that may be necessary during the progress of the trial. The occupants of this seat are invisible to the great body of spectators, inasmuch as they sit on a much lower level than either the barristers or the audience, whose seats are raised above the floor. Of course they have their backs to both, and their faces towards the judge.

‘That’s the witness-box, I suppose?’ said Mr. Pickwick, pointing to a kind of pulpit, with a brass rail, on his left hand.

‘That’s the witness-box, my dear sir,’ replied Perker, disinterring a quantity of papers from the blue bag, which Lowten had just deposited at his feet.

‘And that,’ said Mr. Pickwick, pointing to a couple of enclosed seats on his right, ‘that’s where the jurymen sit, is it not?’

‘The identical place, my dear Sir,’ replied Perker, tapping the lid of his snuff-box.

Mr. Pickwick stood up in a state of great agitation, and took a glance at the court. There were already a pretty large sprinkling of spectators in the gallery, and a numerous muster of gentlemen in wigs, in the barristers’ seats, who presented, as a body, all that pleasing and extensive variety of nose and whisker for which the Bar of England is so justly celebrated. Such of the gentlemen as had a brief to carry, carried it in as conspicuous a manner as possible, and occasionally scratched their noses therewith, to impress the fact more strongly on the observation of the spectators. Other gentlemen, who had no briefs to show, carried under their arms goodly octavos, with a red label behind, and that under-done-pie-crust-coloured cover, which is technically known as ‘law calf.’ Others, who had neither briefs nor books, thrust their hands into their pockets, and looked as wise as they conveniently could; others, again, moved here and there with great restlessness and earnestness of manner, content to awaken thereby the admiration and astonishment of the uninitiated strangers. The whole, to the great wonderment of Mr. Pickwick, were divided into little groups, who were chatting and discussing the news of the day in the most unfeeling manner possible—just as if no trial at all were coming on.

A bow from Mr. Phunky, as he entered, and took his seat behind the row appropriated to the King’s Counsel, attracted Mr. Pickwick’s attention; and he had scarcely returned it, when Mr. Serjeant Snubbin appeared, followed by Mr. Mallard, who half hid the Serjeant behind a large crimson bag, which he placed on his table, and, after shaking hands with Perker, withdrew. Then there entered two or three more Serjeants; and among them, one with a fat body and a red face, who nodded in a friendly manner to Mr. Serjeant Snubbin, and said it was a fine morning.

‘Who’s that red-faced man, who said it was a fine morning, and nodded to our counsel?’ whispered Mr. Pickwick.

‘Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz,’ replied Perker. ‘He’s opposed to us; he leads on the other side. That gentleman behind him is Mr. Skimpin, his junior.’

Mr. Pickwick was on the point of inquiring, with great abhorrence of the man’s cold-blooded villainy, how Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz, who was counsel for the opposite party, dared to presume to tell Mr. Serjeant Snubbin, who was counsel for him, that it was a fine morning, when he was interrupted by a general rising of the barristers, and a loud cry of ‘Silence!’ from the officers of the court. Looking round, he found that this was caused by the entrance of the judge.

Mr. Justice Stareleigh (who sat in the absence of the Chief Justice, occasioned by indisposition) was a most particularly short man, and so fat, that he seemed all face and waistcoat. He rolled in, upon two little turned legs, and having bobbed gravely to the Bar, who bobbed gravely to him, put his little legs underneath his table, and his little three-cornered hat upon it; and when Mr. Justice Stareleigh had done this, all you could see of him was two queer little eyes, one broad pink face, and somewhere about half of a big and very comical-looking wig.

The judge had no sooner taken his seat, than the officer on the floor of the court called out ‘Silence!’ in a commanding tone, upon which another officer in the gallery cried ‘Silence!’ in an angry manner, whereupon three or four more ushers shouted ‘Silence!’ in a voice of indignant remonstrance. This being done, a gentleman in black, who sat below the judge, proceeded to call over the names of the jury; and after a great deal of bawling, it was discovered that only ten special jurymen were present. Upon this, Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz prayed a tales; the gentleman in black then proceeded to press into the special jury, two of the common jurymen; and a greengrocer and a chemist were caught directly.

‘Answer to your names, gentlemen, that you may be sworn,’ said the gentleman in black. ‘Richard Upwitch.’

‘Here,’ said the greengrocer.

‘Thomas Groffin.’

‘Here,’ said the chemist.

‘Take the book, gentlemen. You shall well and truly try—’

‘I beg this court’s pardon,’ said the chemist, who was a tall, thin, yellow-visaged man, ‘but I hope this court will excuse my attendance.’

‘On what grounds, Sir?’ said Mr. Justice Stareleigh.

‘I have no assistant, my Lord,’ said the chemist.

‘I can’t help that, Sir,’ replied Mr. Justice Stareleigh. ‘You should hire one.’

‘I can’t afford it, my Lord,’ rejoined the chemist.

‘Then you ought to be able to afford it, Sir,’ said the judge, reddening; for Mr. Justice Stareleigh’s temper bordered on the irritable, and brooked not contradiction.

‘I know I _ought _to do, if I got on as well as I deserved; but I don’t, my Lord,’ answered the chemist.

‘Swear the gentleman,’ said the judge peremptorily.

The officer had got no further than the ‘You shall well and truly try,’ when he was again interrupted by the chemist.

‘I am to be sworn, my Lord, am I?’ said the chemist.

‘Certainly, sir,’ replied the testy little judge.

‘Very well, my Lord,’ replied the chemist, in a resigned manner. ‘Then there’ll be murder before this trial’s over; that’s all. Swear me, if you please, Sir;’ and sworn the chemist was, before the judge could find words to utter.

‘I merely wanted to observe, my Lord,’ said the chemist, taking his seat with great deliberation, ‘that I’ve left nobody but an errand-boy in my shop. He is a very nice boy, my Lord, but he is not acquainted with drugs; and I know that the prevailing impression on his mind is, that Epsom salts means oxalic acid; and syrup of senna, laudanum. That’s all, my Lord.’ With this, the tall chemist composed himself into a comfortable attitude, and, assuming a pleasant expression of countenance, appeared to have prepared himself for the worst.

Mr. Pickwick was regarding the chemist with feelings of the deepest horror, when a slight sensation was perceptible in the body of the court; and immediately afterwards Mrs. Bardell, supported by Mrs. Cluppins, was led in, and placed, in a drooping state, at the other end of the seat on which Mr. Pickwick sat. An extra-sized umbrella was then handed in by Mr. Dodson, and a pair of pattens by Mr. Fogg, each of whom had prepared a most sympathising and melancholy face for the occasion. Mrs. Sanders then appeared, leading in Master Bardell. At sight of her child, Mrs. Bardell started; suddenly recollecting herself, she kissed him in a frantic manner; then relapsing into a state of hysterical imbecility, the good lady requested to be informed where she was. In reply to this, Mrs. Cluppins and Mrs. Sanders turned their heads away and wept, while Messrs. Dodson and Fogg entreated the plaintiff to compose herself. Serjeant Buzfuz rubbed his eyes very hard with a large white handkerchief, and gave an appealing look towards the jury, while the judge was visibly affected, and several of the beholders tried to cough down their emotion.

‘Very good notion that indeed,’ whispered Perker to Mr. Pickwick. ‘Capital fellows those Dodson and Fogg; excellent ideas of effect, my dear Sir, excellent.’

As Perker spoke, Mrs. Bardell began to recover by slow degrees, while Mrs. Cluppins, after a careful survey of Master Bardell’s buttons and the button-holes to which they severally belonged, placed him on the floor of the court in front of his mother—a commanding position in which he could not fail to awaken the full commiseration and sympathy of both judge and jury. This was not done without considerable opposition, and many tears, on the part of the young gentleman himself, who had certain inward misgivings that the placing him within the full glare of the judge’s eye was only a formal prelude to his being immediately ordered away for instant execution, or for transportation beyond the seas, during the whole term of his natural life, at the very least.

‘Bardell and Pickwick,’ cried the gentleman in black, calling on the case, which stood first on the list.

‘I am for the plaintiff, my Lord,’ said Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz.

‘Who is with you, Brother Buzfuz?’ said the judge. Mr. Skimpin bowed, to intimate that he was.

‘I appear for the defendant, my Lord,’ said Mr. Serjeant Snubbin.

‘Anybody with you, Brother Snubbin?’ inquired the court.

‘Mr. Phunky, my Lord,’ replied Serjeant Snubbin.

‘Serjeant Buzfuz and Mr. Skimpin for the plaintiff,’ said the judge, writing down the names in his note-book, and reading as he wrote; ‘for the defendant, Serjeant Snubbin and Mr. Monkey.’

‘Beg your Lordship’s pardon, Phunky.’

‘Oh, very good,’ said the judge; ‘I never had the pleasure of hearing the gentleman’s name before.’ Here Mr. Phunky bowed and smiled, and the judge bowed and smiled too, and then Mr. Phunky, blushing into the very whites of his eyes, tried to look as if he didn’t know that everybody was gazing at him, a thing which no man ever succeeded in doing yet, or in all reasonable probability, ever will.

‘Go on,’ said the judge.

The ushers again called silence, and Mr. Skimpin proceeded to ‘open the case’; and the case appeared to have very little inside it when he had opened it, for he kept such particulars as he knew, completely to himself, and sat down, after a lapse of three minutes, leaving the jury in precisely the same advanced stage of wisdom as they were in before.

Serjeant Buzfuz then rose with all the majesty and dignity which the grave nature of the proceedings demanded, and having whispered to Dodson, and conferred briefly with Fogg, pulled his gown over his shoulders, settled his wig, and addressed the jury.

Serjeant Buzfuz began by saying, that never, in the whole course of his professional experience—never, from the very first moment of his applying himself to the study and practice of the law—had he approached a case with feelings of such deep emotion, or with such a heavy sense of the responsibility imposed upon him—a responsibility, he would say, which he could never have supported, were he not buoyed up and sustained by a conviction so strong, that it amounted to positive certainty that the cause of truth and justice, or, in other words, the cause of his much-injured and most oppressed client, must prevail with the high- minded and intelligent dozen of men whom he now saw in that box before him.

Counsel usually begin in this way, because it puts the jury on the very best terms with themselves, and makes them think what sharp fellows they must be. A visible effect was produced immediately, several jurymen beginning to take voluminous notes with the utmost eagerness.

‘You have heard from my learned friend, gentlemen,’ continued Serjeant Buzfuz, well knowing that, from the learned friend alluded to, the gentlemen of the jury had heard just nothing at all—‘you have heard from my learned friend, gentlemen, that this is an action for a breach of promise of marriage, in which the damages are laid at £1,500. But you have not heard from my learned friend, inasmuch as it did not come within my learned friend’s province to tell you, what are the facts and circumstances of the case. Those facts and circumstances, gentlemen, you shall hear detailed by me, and proved by the unimpeachable female whom I will place in that box before you.’

Here, Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz, with a tremendous emphasis on the word ‘box,’ smote his table with a mighty sound, and glanced at Dodson and Fogg, who nodded admiration of the Serjeant, and indignant defiance of the defendant.

‘The plaintiff, gentlemen,’ continued Serjeant Buzfuz, in a soft and melancholy voice, ‘the plaintiff is a widow; yes, gentlemen, a widow. The late Mr. Bardell, after enjoying, for many years, the esteem and confidence of his sovereign, as one of the guardians of his royal revenues, glided almost imperceptibly from the world, to seek elsewhere for that repose and peace which a custom-house can never afford.’

At this pathetic description of the decease of Mr. Bardell, who had been knocked on the head with a quart-pot in a public-house cellar, the learned serjeant’s voice faltered, and he proceeded, with emotion—

‘Some time before his death, he had stamped his likeness upon a little boy. With this little boy, the only pledge of her departed exciseman, Mrs. Bardell shrank from the world, and courted the retirement and tranquillity of Goswell Street; and here she placed in her front parlour window a written placard, bearing this inscription—“Apartments furnished for a single gentleman. Inquire within.”’ Here Serjeant Buzfuz paused, while several gentlemen of the jury took a note of the document.

‘There is no date to that, is there?’ inquired a juror.

‘There is no date, gentlemen,’ replied Serjeant Buzfuz; ‘but I am instructed to say that it was put in the plaintiff’s parlour window just this time three years. I entreat the attention of the jury to the wording of this document—“Apartments furnished for a single gentleman”! Mrs. Bardell’s opinions of the opposite sex, gentlemen, were derived from a long contemplation of the inestimable qualities of her lost husband. She had no fear, she had no distrust, she had no suspicion; all was confidence and reliance. “Mr. Bardell,” said the widow—“Mr. Bardell was a man of honour, Mr. Bardell was a man of his word, Mr. Bardell was no deceiver, Mr. Bardell was once a single gentleman himself; to single gentlemen I look for protection, for assistance, for comfort, and for consolation; in single gentlemen I shall perpetually see something to remind me of what Mr. Bardell was when he first won my young and untried affections; to a single gentleman, then, shall my lodgings be let.” Actuated by this beautiful and touching impulse (among the best impulses of our imperfect nature, gentlemen), the lonely and desolate widow dried her tears, furnished her first floor, caught her innocent boy to her maternal bosom, and put the bill up in her parlour window. Did it remain there long? No. The serpent was on the watch, the train was laid, the mine was preparing, the sapper and miner was at work. Before the bill had been in the parlour window three days—three days, gentlemen—a being, erect upon two legs, and bearing all the outward semblance of a man, and not of a monster, knocked at the door of Mrs. Bardell’s house. He inquired within—he took the lodgings; and on the very next day he entered into possession of them. This man was Pickwick—Pickwick, the defendant.’

Serjeant Buzfuz, who had proceeded with such volubility that his face was perfectly crimson, here paused for breath. The silence awoke Mr. Justice Stareleigh, who immediately wrote down something with a pen without any ink in it, and looked unusually profound, to impress the jury with the belief that he always thought most deeply with his eyes shut. Serjeant Buzfuz proceeded—

‘Of this man Pickwick I will say little; the subject presents but few attractions; and I, gentlemen, am not the man, nor are you, gentlemen, the men, to delight in the contemplation of revolting heartlessness, and of systematic villainy.’

Here Mr. Pickwick, who had been writhing in silence for some time, gave a violent start, as if some vague idea of assaulting Serjeant Buzfuz, in the august presence of justice and law, suggested itself to his mind. An admonitory gesture from Perker restrained him, and he listened to the learned gentleman’s continuation with a look of indignation, which contrasted forcibly with the admiring faces of Mrs. Cluppins and Mrs. Sanders.

‘I say systematic villainy, gentlemen,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, looking through Mr. Pickwick, and talking at him; ‘and when I say systematic villainy, let me tell the defendant Pickwick, if he be in court, as I am informed he is, that it would have been more decent in him, more becoming, in better judgment, and in better taste, if he had stopped away. Let me tell him, gentlemen, that any gestures of dissent or disapprobation in which he may indulge in this court will not go down with you; that you will know how to value and how to appreciate them; and let me tell him further, as my Lord will tell you, gentlemen, that a counsel, in the discharge of his duty to his client, is neither to be intimidated nor bullied, nor put down; and that any attempt to do either the one or the other, or the first, or the last, will recoil on the head of the attempter, be he plaintiff or be he defendant, be his name Pickwick, or Noakes, or Stoakes, or Stiles, or Brown, or Thompson.’

This little divergence from the subject in hand, had, of course, the intended effect of turning all eyes to Mr. Pickwick. Serjeant Buzfuz, having partially recovered from the state of moral elevation into which he had lashed himself, resumed—

‘I shall show you, gentlemen, that for two years, Pickwick continued to reside constantly, and without interruption or intermission, at Mrs. Bardell’s house. I shall show you that Mrs. Bardell, during the whole of that time, waited on him, attended to his comforts, cooked his meals, looked out his linen for the washerwoman when it went abroad, darned, aired, and prepared it for wear, when it came home, and, in short, enjoyed his fullest trust and confidence. I shall show you that, on many occasions, he gave halfpence, and on some occasions even sixpences, to her little boy; and I shall prove to you, by a witness whose testimony it will be impossible for my learned friend to weaken or controvert, that on one occasion he patted the boy on the head, and, after inquiring whether he had won any “alley tors” or “commoneys” lately (both of which I understand to be a particular species of marbles much prized by the youth of this town), made use of this remarkable expression, “How should you like to have another father?” I shall prove to you, gentlemen, that about a year ago, Pickwick suddenly began to absent himself from home, during long intervals, as if with the intention of gradually breaking off from my client; but I shall show you also, that his resolution was not at that time sufficiently strong, or that his better feelings conquered, if better feelings he has, or that the charms and accomplishments of my client prevailed against his unmanly intentions, by proving to you, that on one occasion, when he returned from the country, he distinctly and in terms, offered her marriage: previously, however, taking special care that there would be no witness to their solemn contract; and I am in a situation to prove to you, on the testimony of three of his own friends—most unwilling witnesses, gentlemen—most unwilling witnesses—that on that morning he was discovered by them holding the plaintiff in his arms, and soothing her agitation by his caresses and endearments.’

A visible impression was produced upon the auditors by this part of the learned Serjeant’s address. Drawing forth two very small scraps of paper, he proceeded—

‘And now, gentlemen, but one word more. Two letters have passed between these parties, letters which are admitted to be in the handwriting of the defendant, and which speak volumes, indeed. The letters, too, bespeak the character of the man. They are not open, fervent, eloquent epistles, breathing nothing but the language of affectionate attachment. They are covert, sly, underhanded communications, but, fortunately, far more conclusive than if couched in the most glowing language and the most poetic imagery—letters that must be viewed with a cautious and suspicious eye—letters that were evidently intended at the time, by Pickwick, to mislead and delude any third parties into whose hands they might fall. Let me read the first: “Garraways, twelve o’clock. Dear Mrs. B.—Chops and tomato sauce. Yours, Pickwick.” Gentlemen, what does this mean? Chops and tomato sauce. Yours, Pickwick! Chops! Gracious heavens! and tomato sauce! Gentlemen, is the happiness of a sensitive and confiding female to be trifled away, by such shallow artifices as these? The next has no date whatever, which is in itself suspicious. “Dear Mrs. B., I shall not be at home till to-morrow. Slow coach.” And then follows this very remarkable expression. “Don’t trouble yourself about the warming-pan.” The warming-pan! Why, gentlemen, who _does _trouble himself about a warming-pan? When was the peace of mind of man or woman broken or disturbed by a warming-pan, which is in itself a harmless, a useful, and I will add, gentlemen, a comforting article of domestic furniture? Why is Mrs. Bardell so earnestly entreated not to agitate herself about this warming-pan, unless (as is no doubt the case) it is a mere cover for hidden fire—a mere substitute for some endearing word or promise, agreeably to a preconcerted system of correspondence, artfully contrived by Pickwick with a view to his contemplated desertion, and which I am not in a condition to explain? And what does this allusion to the slow coach mean? For aught I know, it may be a reference to Pickwick himself, who has most unquestionably been a criminally slow coach during the whole of this transaction, but whose speed will now be very unexpectedly accelerated, and whose wheels, gentlemen, as he will find to his cost, will very soon be greased by you!’

Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz paused in this place, to see whether the jury smiled at his joke; but as nobody took it but the greengrocer, whose sensitiveness on the subject was very probably occasioned by his having subjected a chaise-cart to the process in question on that identical morning, the learned Serjeant considered it advisable to undergo a slight relapse into the dismals before he concluded.

‘But enough of this, gentlemen,’ said Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz, ‘it is difficult to smile with an aching heart; it is ill jesting when our deepest sympathies are awakened. My client’s hopes and prospects are ruined, and it is no figure of speech to say that her occupation is gone indeed. The bill is down—but there is no tenant. Eligible single gentlemen pass and repass—but there is no invitation for to inquire within or without. All is gloom and silence in the house; even the voice of the child is hushed; his infant sports are disregarded when his mother weeps; his “alley tors” and his “commoneys” are alike neglected; he forgets the long familiar cry of “knuckle down,” and at tip-cheese, or odd and even, his hand is out. But Pickwick, gentlemen, Pickwick, the ruthless destroyer of this domestic oasis in the desert of Goswell Street—Pickwick who has choked up the well, and thrown ashes on the sward—Pickwick, who comes before you to-day with his heartless tomato sauce and warming-pans—Pickwick still rears his head with unblushing effrontery, and gazes without a sigh on the ruin he has made. Damages, gentlemen—heavy damages is the only punishment with which you can visit him; the only recompense you can award to my client. And for those damages she now appeals to an enlightened, a high-minded, a right- feeling, a conscientious, a dispassionate, a sympathising, a contemplative jury of her civilised countrymen.’ With this beautiful peroration, Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz sat down, and Mr. Justice Stareleigh woke up.

‘Call Elizabeth Cluppins,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, rising a minute afterwards, with renewed vigour.

The nearest usher called for Elizabeth Tuppins; another one, at a little distance off, demanded Elizabeth Jupkins; and a third rushed in a breathless state into King Street, and screamed for Elizabeth Muffins till he was hoarse.

Meanwhile Mrs. Cluppins, with the combined assistance of Mrs. Bardell, Mrs. Sanders, Mr. Dodson, and Mr. Fogg, was hoisted into the witness- box; and when she was safely perched on the top step, Mrs. Bardell stood on the bottom one, with the pocket-handkerchief and pattens in one hand, and a glass bottle that might hold about a quarter of a pint of smelling-salts in the other, ready for any emergency. Mrs. Sanders, whose eyes were intently fixed on the judge’s face, planted herself close by, with the large umbrella, keeping her right thumb pressed on the spring with an earnest countenance, as if she were fully prepared to put it up at a moment’s notice.

‘Mrs. Cluppins,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, ‘pray compose yourself, ma’am.’ Of course, directly Mrs. Cluppins was desired to compose herself, she sobbed with increased vehemence, and gave divers alarming manifestations of an approaching fainting fit, or, as she afterwards said, of her feelings being too many for her.

‘Do you recollect, Mrs. Cluppins,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, after a few unimportant questions—‘do you recollect being in Mrs. Bardell’s back one pair of stairs, on one particular morning in July last, when she was dusting Pickwick’s apartment?’

‘Yes, my Lord and jury, I do,’ replied Mrs. Cluppins.

‘Mr. Pickwick’s sitting-room was the first-floor front, I believe?’

‘Yes, it were, Sir,’ replied Mrs. Cluppins.

‘What were you doing in the back room, ma’am?’ inquired the little judge.

‘My Lord and jury,’ said Mrs. Cluppins, with interesting agitation, ‘I will not deceive you.’

‘You had better not, ma’am,’ said the little judge.

‘I was there,’ resumed Mrs. Cluppins, ‘unbeknown to Mrs. Bardell; I had been out with a little basket, gentlemen, to buy three pound of red kidney pertaties, which was three pound tuppence ha’penny, when I see Mrs. Bardell’s street door on the jar.’

‘On the what?’ exclaimed the little judge.

‘Partly open, my Lord,’ said Serjeant Snubbin.

‘She said on the jar,’ said the little judge, with a cunning look.

‘It’s all the same, my Lord,’ said Serjeant Snubbin. The little judge looked doubtful, and said he’d make a note of it. Mrs. Cluppins then resumed—

‘I walked in, gentlemen, just to say good-mornin’, and went, in a permiscuous manner, upstairs, and into the back room. Gentlemen, there was the sound of voices in the front room, and—’

‘And you listened, I believe, Mrs. Cluppins?’ said Serjeant Buzfuz.

‘Beggin’ your pardon, Sir,’ replied Mrs. Cluppins, in a majestic manner, ‘I would scorn the haction. The voices was very loud, Sir, and forced themselves upon my ear.’

‘Well, Mrs. Cluppins, you were not listening, but you heard the voices. Was one of those voices Pickwick’s?’

‘Yes, it were, Sir.’ And Mrs. Cluppins, after distinctly stating that Mr. Pickwick addressed himself to Mrs. Bardell, repeated by slow degrees, and by dint of many questions, the conversation with which our readers are already acquainted.

The jury looked suspicious, and Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz smiled as he sat down. They looked positively awful when Serjeant Snubbin intimated that he should not cross-examine the witness, for Mr. Pickwick wished it to be distinctly stated that it was due to her to say, that her account was in substance correct.

Mrs. Cluppins having once broken the ice, thought it a favourable opportunity for entering into a short dissertation on her own domestic affairs; so she straightway proceeded to inform the court that she was the mother of eight children at that present speaking, and that she entertained confident expectations of presenting Mr. Cluppins with a ninth, somewhere about that day six months. At this interesting point, the little judge interposed most irascibly; and the effect of the interposition was, that both the worthy lady and Mrs. Sanders were politely taken out of court, under the escort of Mr. Jackson, without further parley.

‘Nathaniel Winkle!’ said Mr. Skimpin.

‘Here!’ replied a feeble voice. Mr. Winkle entered the witness-box, and having been duly sworn, bowed to the judge with considerable deference.

‘Don’t look at me, Sir,’ said the judge sharply, in acknowledgment of the salute; ‘look at the jury.’

Mr. Winkle obeyed the mandate, and looked at the place where he thought it most probable the jury might be; for seeing anything in his then state of intellectual complication was wholly out of the question.

Mr. Winkle was then examined by Mr. Skimpin, who, being a promising young man of two or three-and-forty, was of course anxious to confuse a witness who was notoriously predisposed in favour of the other side, as much as he could.

‘Now, Sir,’ said Mr. Skimpin, ‘have the goodness to let his Lordship know what your name is, will you?’ and Mr. Skimpin inclined his head on one side to listen with great sharpness to the answer, and glanced at the jury meanwhile, as if to imply that he rather expected Mr. Winkle’s natural taste for perjury would induce him to give some name which did not belong to him.

‘Winkle,’ replied the witness.

‘What’s your Christian name, Sir?’ angrily inquired the little judge.

‘Nathaniel, Sir.’

‘Daniel—any other name?’

‘Nathaniel, sir—my Lord, I mean.’

‘Nathaniel Daniel, or Daniel Nathaniel?’

‘No, my Lord, only Nathaniel—not Daniel at all.’

‘What did you tell me it was Daniel for, then, sir?’ inquired the judge.

‘I didn’t, my Lord,’ replied Mr. Winkle.

‘You did, Sir,’ replied the judge, with a severe frown. ‘How could I have got Daniel on my notes, unless you told me so, Sir?’

This argument was, of course, unanswerable.

‘Mr. Winkle has rather a short memory, my Lord,’ interposed Mr. Skimpin, with another glance at the jury. ‘We shall find means to refresh it before we have quite done with him, I dare say.’

‘You had better be careful, Sir,’ said the little judge, with a sinister look at the witness.

Poor Mr. Winkle bowed, and endeavoured to feign an easiness of manner, which, in his then state of confusion, gave him rather the air of a disconcerted pickpocket.

‘Now, Mr. Winkle,’ said Mr. Skimpin, ‘attend to me, if you please, Sir; and let me recommend you, for your own sake, to bear in mind his Lordship’s injunctions to be careful. I believe you are a particular friend of Mr. Pickwick, the defendant, are you not?’

‘I have known Mr. Pickwick now, as well as I recollect at this moment, nearly—’

‘Pray, Mr. Winkle, do not evade the question. Are you, or are you not, a particular friend of the defendant’s?’

‘I was just about to say, that—’

‘Will you, or will you not, answer my question, Sir?’

If you don’t answer the question, you’ll be committed, Sir,’ interposed the little judge, looking over his note-book.

‘Come, Sir,’ said Mr. Skimpin, ‘yes or no, if you please.’

‘Yes, I am,’ replied Mr. Winkle.

‘Yes, you are. And why couldn’t you say that at once, Sir? Perhaps you know the plaintiff too? Eh, Mr. Winkle?’

‘I don’t know her; I’ve seen her.’

‘Oh, you don’t know her, but you’ve seen her? Now, have the goodness to tell the gentlemen of the jury what you mean by that, Mr. Winkle.’

‘I mean that I am not intimate with her, but I have seen her when I went to call on Mr. Pickwick, in Goswell Street.’

‘How often have you seen her, Sir?’

‘How often?’

‘Yes, Mr. Winkle, how often? I’ll repeat the question for you a dozen times, if you require it, Sir.’ And the learned gentleman, with a firm and steady frown, placed his hands on his hips, and smiled suspiciously to the jury.

On this question there arose the edifying brow-beating, customary on such points. First of all, Mr. Winkle said it was quite impossible for him to say how many times he had seen Mrs. Bardell. Then he was asked if he had seen her twenty times, to which he replied, ‘Certainly—more than that.’ Then he was asked whether he hadn’t seen her a hundred times— whether he couldn’t swear that he had seen her more than fifty times— whether he didn’t know that he had seen her at least seventy-five times, and so forth; the satisfactory conclusion which was arrived at, at last, being, that he had better take care of himself, and mind what he was about. The witness having been by these means reduced to the requisite ebb of nervous perplexity, the examination was continued as follows—

‘Pray, Mr. Winkle, do you remember calling on the defendant Pickwick at these apartments in the plaintiff’s house in Goswell Street, on one particular morning, in the month of July last?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Were you accompanied on that occasion by a friend of the name of Tupman, and another by the name of Snodgrass?’

‘Yes, I was.’

‘Are they here?’

Yes, they are,’ replied Mr. Winkle, looking very earnestly towards the spot where his friends were stationed.

‘Pray attend to me, Mr. Winkle, and never mind your friends,’ said Mr. Skimpin, with another expressive look at the jury. ‘They must tell their stories without any previous consultation with you, if none has yet taken place (another look at the jury). Now, Sir, tell the gentlemen of the jury what you saw on entering the defendant’s room, on this particular morning. Come; out with it, Sir; we must have it, sooner or later.’

‘The defendant, Mr. Pickwick, was holding the plaintiff in his arms, with his hands clasping her waist,’ replied Mr. Winkle with natural hesitation, ‘and the plaintiff appeared to have fainted away.’

‘Did you hear the defendant say anything?’

‘I heard him call Mrs. Bardell a good creature, and I heard him ask her to compose herself, for what a situation it was, if anybody should come, or words to that effect.’

‘Now, Mr. Winkle, I have only one more question to ask you, and I beg you to bear in mind his Lordship’s caution. Will you undertake to swear that Pickwick, the defendant, did not say on the occasion in question— “My dear Mrs. Bardell, you’re a good creature; compose yourself to this situation, for to this situation you must come,” or words to that effect?’

‘I—I didn’t understand him so, certainly,’ said Mr. Winkle, astounded on this ingenious dove-tailing of the few words he had heard. ‘I was on the staircase, and couldn’t hear distinctly; the impression on my mind is—’

‘The gentlemen of the jury want none of the impressions on your mind, Mr. Winkle, which I fear would be of little service to honest, straightforward men,’ interposed Mr. Skimpin. ‘You were on the staircase, and didn’t distinctly hear; but you will not swear that Pickwick did not make use of the expressions I have quoted? Do I understand that?’

‘No, I will not,’ replied Mr. Winkle; and down sat Mr. Skimpin with a triumphant countenance.

Mr. Pickwick’s case had not gone off in so particularly happy a manner, up to this point, that it could very well afford to have any additional suspicion cast upon it. But as it could afford to be placed in a rather better light, if possible, Mr. Phunky rose for the purpose of getting something important out of Mr. Winkle in cross-examination. Whether he did get anything important out of him, will immediately appear.

‘I believe, Mr. Winkle,’ said Mr. Phunky, ‘that Mr. Pickwick is not a young man?’

‘Oh, no,’ replied Mr. Winkle; ‘old enough to be my father.’

‘You have told my learned friend that you have known Mr. Pickwick a long time. Had you ever any reason to suppose or believe that he was about to be married?’

‘Oh, no; certainly not;’ replied Mr. Winkle with so much eagerness, that Mr. Phunky ought to have got him out of the box with all possible dispatch. Lawyers hold that there are two kinds of particularly bad witnesses—a reluctant witness, and a too-willing witness; it was Mr. Winkle’s fate to figure in both characters.

‘I will even go further than this, Mr. Winkle,’ continued Mr. Phunky, in a most smooth and complacent manner. ‘Did you ever see anything in Mr. Pickwick’s manner and conduct towards the opposite sex, to induce you to believe that he ever contemplated matrimony of late years, in any case?’

‘Oh, no; certainly not,’ replied Mr. Winkle.

‘Has his behaviour, when females have been in the case, always been that of a man, who, having attained a pretty advanced period of life, content with his own occupations and amusements, treats them only as a father might his daughters?’

‘Not the least doubt of it,’ replied Mr. Winkle, in the fulness of his heart. ‘That is—yes—oh, yes—certainly.’

‘You have never known anything in his behaviour towards Mrs. Bardell, or any other female, in the least degree suspicious?’ said Mr. Phunky, preparing to sit down; for Serjeant Snubbin was winking at him.

‘N-n-no,’ replied Mr. Winkle, ‘except on one trifling occasion, which, I have no doubt, might be easily explained.’

Now, if the unfortunate Mr. Phunky had sat down when Serjeant Snubbin had winked at him, or if Serjeant Buzfuz had stopped this irregular cross-examination at the outset (which he knew better than to do; observing Mr. Winkle’s anxiety, and well knowing it would, in all probability, lead to something serviceable to him), this unfortunate admission would not have been elicited. The moment the words fell from Mr. Winkle’s lips, Mr. Phunky sat down, and Serjeant Snubbin rather hastily told him he might leave the box, which Mr. Winkle prepared to do with great readiness, when Serjeant Buzfuz stopped him.

‘Stay, Mr. Winkle, stay!’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, ‘will your Lordship have the goodness to ask him, what this one instance of suspicious behaviour towards females on the part of this gentleman, who is old enough to be his father, was?’

‘You hear what the learned counsel says, Sir,’ observed the judge, turning to the miserable and agonised Mr. Winkle. ‘Describe the occasion to which you refer.’

‘My Lord,’ said Mr. Winkle, trembling with anxiety, ‘I—I’d rather not.’

‘Perhaps so,’ said the little judge; ‘but you must.’

Amid the profound silence of the whole court, Mr. Winkle faltered out, that the trifling circumstance of suspicion was Mr. Pickwick’s being found in a lady’s sleeping-apartment at midnight; which had terminated, he believed, in the breaking off of the projected marriage of the lady in question, and had led, he knew, to the whole party being forcibly carried before George Nupkins, Esq., magistrate and justice of the peace, for the borough of Ipswich!

‘You may leave the box, Sir,’ said Serjeant Snubbin. Mr. Winkle did leave the box, and rushed with delirious haste to the George and Vulture, where he was discovered some hours after, by the waiter, groaning in a hollow and dismal manner, with his head buried beneath the sofa cushions.

Tracy Tupman, and Augustus Snodgrass, were severally called into the box; both corroborated the testimony of their unhappy friend; and each was driven to the verge of desperation by excessive badgering.

Susannah Sanders was then called, and examined by Serjeant Buzfuz, and cross-examined by Serjeant Snubbin. Had always said and believed that Pickwick would marry Mrs. Bardell; knew that Mrs. Bardell’s being engaged to Pickwick was the current topic of conversation in the neighbourhood, after the fainting in July; had been told it herself by Mrs. Mudberry which kept a mangle, and Mrs. Bunkin which clear-starched, but did not see either Mrs. Mudberry or Mrs. Bunkin in court. Had heard Pickwick ask the little boy how he should like to have another father. Did not know that Mrs. Bardell was at that time keeping company with the baker, but did know that the baker was then a single man and is now married. Couldn’t swear that Mrs. Bardell was not very fond of the baker, but should think that the baker was not very fond of Mrs. Bardell, or he wouldn’t have married somebody else. Thought Mrs. Bardell fainted away on the morning in July, because Pickwick asked her to name the day: knew that she (witness) fainted away stone dead when Mr. Sanders asked her to name the day, and believed that everybody as called herself a lady would do the same, under similar circumstances. Heard Pickwick ask the boy the question about the marbles, but upon her oath did not know the difference between an ‘alley tor’ and a ‘commoney.’

By the court.—During the period of her keeping company with Mr. Sanders, had received love letters, like other ladies. In the course of their correspondence Mr. Sanders had often called her a ‘duck,’ but never ‘chops,’ nor yet ‘tomato sauce.’ He was particularly fond of ducks. Perhaps if he had been as fond of chops and tomato sauce, he might have called her that, as a term of affection.

Serjeant Buzfuz now rose with more importance than he had yet exhibited, if that were possible, and vociferated; ‘Call Samuel Weller.’

It was quite unnecessary to call Samuel Weller; for Samuel Weller stepped briskly into the box the instant his name was pronounced; and placing his hat on the floor, and his arms on the rail, took a bird’s- eye view of the Bar, and a comprehensive survey of the Bench, with a remarkably cheerful and lively aspect.

‘What’s your name, sir?’ inquired the judge.

‘Sam Weller, my Lord,’ replied that gentleman.

‘Do you spell it with a “V” or a “W”?’ inquired the judge.

‘That depends upon the taste and fancy of the speller, my Lord,’ replied Sam; ‘I never had occasion to spell it more than once or twice in my life, but I spells it with a “V.”’

Here a voice in the gallery exclaimed aloud, ‘Quite right too, Samivel, quite right. Put it down a “we,” my Lord, put it down a “we.”’

Who is that, who dares address the court?’ said the little judge, looking up. ‘Usher.’

‘Yes, my Lord.’

‘Bring that person here instantly.’

‘Yes, my Lord.’

But as the usher didn’t find the person, he didn’t bring him; and, after a great commotion, all the people who had got up to look for the culprit, sat down again. The little judge turned to the witness as soon as his indignation would allow him to speak, and said—

‘Do you know who that was, sir?’

‘I rayther suspect it was my father, my lord,’ replied Sam.

‘Do you see him here now?’ said the judge.

‘No, I don’t, my Lord,’ replied Sam, staring right up into the lantern at the roof of the court.

‘If you could have pointed him out, I would have committed him instantly,’ said the judge. Sam bowed his acknowledgments and turned, with unimpaired cheerfulness of countenance, towards Serjeant Buzfuz.

‘Now, Mr. Weller,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz.

‘Now, sir,’ replied Sam.

‘I believe you are in the service of Mr. Pickwick, the defendant in this case? Speak up, if you please, Mr. Weller.’

‘I mean to speak up, Sir,’ replied Sam; ‘I am in the service o’ that ‘ere gen’l’man, and a wery good service it is.’

‘Little to do, and plenty to get, I suppose?’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, with jocularity.

‘Oh, quite enough to get, Sir, as the soldier said ven they ordered him three hundred and fifty lashes,’ replied Sam.

‘You must not tell us what the soldier, or any other man, said, Sir,’ interposed the judge; ‘it’s not evidence.’

‘Wery good, my Lord,’ replied Sam.

‘Do you recollect anything particular happening on the morning when you were first engaged by the defendant; eh, Mr. Weller?’ said Serjeant Buzfuz.

‘Yes, I do, sir,’ replied Sam.

‘Have the goodness to tell the jury what it was.’

‘I had a reg’lar new fit out o’ clothes that mornin’, gen’l’men of the jury,’ said Sam, ‘and that was a wery partickler and uncommon circumstance vith me in those days.’

Hereupon there was a general laugh; and the little judge, looking with an angry countenance over his desk, said, ‘You had better be careful, Sir.’

‘So Mr. Pickwick said at the time, my Lord,’ replied Sam; ‘and I was wery careful o’ that ‘ere suit o’ clothes; wery careful indeed, my Lord.’

The judge looked sternly at Sam for full two minutes, but Sam’s features were so perfectly calm and serene that the judge said nothing, and motioned Serjeant Buzfuz to proceed.

‘Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Weller,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, folding his arms emphatically, and turning half-round to the jury, as if in mute assurance that he would bother the witness yet—‘do you mean to tell me, Mr. Weller, that you saw nothing of this fainting on the part of the plaintiff in the arms of the defendant, which you have heard described by the witnesses?’

Certainly not,’ replied Sam; ‘I was in the passage till they called me up, and then the old lady was not there.’

‘Now, attend, Mr. Weller,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, dipping a large pen into the inkstand before him, for the purpose of frightening Sam with a show of taking down his answer. ‘You were in the passage, and yet saw nothing of what was going forward. Have you a pair of eyes, Mr. Weller?’

‘Yes, I have a pair of eyes,’ replied Sam, ‘and that’s just it. If they wos a pair o’ patent double million magnifyin’ gas microscopes of hextra power, p’raps I might be able to see through a flight o’ stairs and a deal door; but bein’ only eyes, you see, my wision ‘s limited.’

At this answer, which was delivered without the slightest appearance of irritation, and with the most complete simplicity and equanimity of manner, the spectators tittered, the little judge smiled, and Serjeant Buzfuz looked particularly foolish. After a short consultation with Dodson & Fogg, the learned Serjeant again turned towards Sam, and said, with a painful effort to conceal his vexation, ‘Now, Mr. Weller, I’ll ask you a question on another point, if you please.’

‘If you please, Sir,’ rejoined Sam, with the utmost good-humour.

‘Do you remember going up to Mrs. Bardell’s house, one night in November last?’

Oh, yes, wery well.’

‘Oh, you do remember that, Mr. Weller,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, recovering his spirits; ‘I thought we should get at something at last.’

‘I rayther thought that, too, sir,’ replied Sam; and at this the spectators tittered again.

‘Well; I suppose you went up to have a little talk about this trial—eh, Mr. Weller?’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, looking knowingly at the jury.

‘I went up to pay the rent; but we did get a-talkin’ about the trial,’ replied Sam.

‘Oh, you did get a-talking about the trial,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, brightening up with the anticipation of some important discovery. ‘Now, what passed about the trial; will you have the goodness to tell us, Mr. Weller’?’

‘Vith all the pleasure in life, sir,’ replied Sam. ‘Arter a few unimportant obserwations from the two wirtuous females as has been examined here to-day, the ladies gets into a very great state o’ admiration at the honourable conduct of Mr. Dodson and Fogg—them two gen’l’men as is settin’ near you now.’ This, of course, drew general attention to Dodson & Fogg, who looked as virtuous as possible.

‘The attorneys for the plaintiff,’ said Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz. ‘Well! They spoke in high praise of the honourable conduct of Messrs. Dodson and Fogg, the attorneys for the plaintiff, did they?’

‘Yes,’ said Sam, ‘they said what a wery gen’rous thing it was o’ them to have taken up the case on spec, and to charge nothing at all for costs, unless they got ‘em out of Mr. Pickwick.’

At this very unexpected reply, the spectators tittered again, and Dodson & Fogg, turning very red, leaned over to Serjeant Buzfuz, and in a hurried manner whispered something in his ear.

‘You are quite right,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz aloud, with affected composure. ‘It’s perfectly useless, my Lord, attempting to get at any evidence through the impenetrable stupidity of this witness. I will not trouble the court by asking him any more questions. Stand down, sir.’

‘Would any other gen’l’man like to ask me anythin’?’ inquired Sam, taking up his hat, and looking round most deliberately.

‘Not I, Mr. Weller, thank you,’ said Serjeant Snubbin, laughing.

‘You may go down, sir,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, waving his hand impatiently. Sam went down accordingly, after doing Messrs. Dodson & Fogg’s case as much harm as he conveniently could, and saying just as little respecting Mr. Pickwick as might be, which was precisely the object he had had in view all along.

‘I have no objection to admit, my Lord,’ said Serjeant Snubbin, ‘if it will save the examination of another witness, that Mr. Pickwick has retired from business, and is a gentleman of considerable independent property.’

‘Very well,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, putting in the two letters to be read, ‘then that’s my case, my Lord.’

Serjeant Snubbin then addressed the jury on behalf of the defendant; and a very long and a very emphatic address he delivered, in which he bestowed the highest possible eulogiums on the conduct and character of Mr. Pickwick; but inasmuch as our readers are far better able to form a correct estimate of that gentleman’s merits and deserts, than Serjeant Snubbin could possibly be, we do not feel called upon to enter at any length into the learned gentleman’s observations. He attempted to show that the letters which had been exhibited, merely related to Mr. Pickwick’s dinner, or to the preparations for receiving him in his apartments on his return from some country excursion. It is sufficient to add in general terms, that he did the best he could for Mr. Pickwick; and the best, as everybody knows, on the infallible authority of the old adage, could do no more.

Mr. Justice Stareleigh summed up, in the old-established and most approved form. He read as much of his notes to the jury as he could decipher on so short a notice, and made running-comments on the evidence as he went along. If Mrs. Bardell were right, it was perfectly clear that Mr. Pickwick was wrong, and if they thought the evidence of Mrs. Cluppins worthy of credence they would believe it, and, if they didn’t, why, they wouldn’t. If they were satisfied that a breach of promise of marriage had been committed they would find for the plaintiff with such damages as they thought proper; and if, on the other hand, it appeared to them that no promise of marriage had ever been given, they would find for the defendant with no damages at all. The jury then retired to their private room to talk the matter over, and the judge retired to _his _private room, to refresh himself with a mutton chop and a glass of sherry.

An anxious quarter of a hour elapsed; the jury came back; the judge was fetched in. Mr. Pickwick put on his spectacles, and gazed at the foreman with an agitated countenance and a quickly-beating heart.

‘Gentlemen,’ said the individual in black, ‘are you all agreed upon your verdict?’

‘We are,’ replied the foreman.

‘Do you find for the plaintiff, gentlemen, or for the defendant?’

For the plaintiff.’

‘With what damages, gentlemen?’

‘Seven hundred and fifty pounds.’

Mr. Pickwick took off his spectacles, carefully wiped the glasses, folded them into their case, and put them in his pocket; then, having drawn on his gloves with great nicety, and stared at the foreman all the while, he mechanically followed Mr. Perker and the blue bag out of court.

They stopped in a side room while Perker paid the court fees; and here, Mr. Pickwick was joined by his friends. Here, too, he encountered Messrs. Dodson & Fogg, rubbing their hands with every token of outward satisfaction.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Well, Sir,’ said Dodson, for self and partner.

‘You imagine you’ll get your costs, don’t you, gentlemen?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

Fogg said they thought it rather probable. Dodson smiled, and said they’d try.

‘You may try, and try, and try again, Messrs. Dodson and Fogg,’ said Mr. Pickwick vehemently, ‘but not one farthing of costs or damages do you ever get from me, if I spend the rest of my existence in a debtor’s prison.’

‘Ha! ha!’ laughed Dodson. ‘You’ll think better of that, before next term, Mr. Pickwick.’

‘He, he, he! We’ll soon see about that, Mr. Pickwick,’ grinned Fogg.

Speechless with indignation, Mr. Pickwick allowed himself to be led by his solicitor and friends to the door, and there assisted into a hackney-coach, which had been fetched for the purpose, by the ever- watchful Sam Weller.

Sam had put up the steps, and was preparing to jump upon the box, when he felt himself gently touched on the shoulder; and, looking round, his father stood before him. The old gentleman’s countenance wore a mournful expression, as he shook his head gravely, and said, in warning accents—

‘I know’d what ‘ud come o’ this here mode o’ doin’ bisness. Oh, Sammy, Sammy, vy worn’t there a alleybi!’

CHAPTER XXXV. IN WHICH MR. PICKWICK THINKS HE HAD BETTER GO TO BATH; AND GOES ACCORDINGLY

But surely, my dear sir,’ said little Perker, as he stood in Mr. Pickwick’s apartment on the morning after the trial, ‘surely you don’t really mean—really and seriously now, and irritation apart—that you won’t pay these costs and damages?’

‘Not one halfpenny,’ said Mr. Pickwick firmly; ‘not one halfpenny.’

‘Hooroar for the principle, as the money-lender said ven he vouldn’t renew the bill,’ observed Mr. Weller, who was clearing away the breakfast-things.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘have the goodness to step downstairs.’

‘Cert’nly, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller; and acting on Mr. Pickwick’s gentle hint, Sam retired.

‘No, Perker,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with great seriousness of manner, ‘my friends here have endeavoured to dissuade me from this determination, but without avail. I shall employ myself as usual, until the opposite party have the power of issuing a legal process of execution against me; and if they are vile enough to avail themselves of it, and to arrest my person, I shall yield myself up with perfect cheerfulness and content of heart. When can they do this?’

‘They can issue execution, my dear Sir, for the amount of the damages and taxed costs, next term,’ replied Perker, ‘just two months hence, my dear sir.’

‘Very good,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Until that time, my dear fellow, let me hear no more of the matter. And now,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, looking round on his friends with a good-humoured smile, and a sparkle in the eye which no spectacles could dim or conceal, ‘the only question is, Where shall we go next?’

Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass were too much affected by their friend’s heroism to offer any reply. Mr. Winkle had not yet sufficiently recovered the recollection of his evidence at the trial, to make any observation on any subject, so Mr. Pickwick paused in vain.

‘Well,’ said that gentleman, ‘if you leave me to suggest our destination, I say Bath. I think none of us have ever been there.’

Nobody had; and as the proposition was warmly seconded by Perker, who considered it extremely probable that if Mr. Pickwick saw a little change and gaiety he would be inclined to think better of his determination, and worse of a debtor’s prison, it was carried unanimously; and Sam was at once despatched to the White Horse Cellar, to take five places by the half-past seven o’clock coach, next morning.

There were just two places to be had inside, and just three to be had out; so Sam Weller booked for them all, and having exchanged a few compliments with the booking-office clerk on the subject of a pewter half-crown which was tendered him as a portion of his ‘change,’ walked back to the George and Vulture, where he was pretty busily employed until bed-time in reducing clothes and linen into the smallest possible compass, and exerting his mechanical genius in constructing a variety of ingenious devices for keeping the lids on boxes which had neither locks nor hinges.

The next was a very unpropitious morning for a journey—muggy, damp, and drizzly. The horses in the stages that were going out, and had come through the city, were smoking so, that the outside passengers were invisible. The newspaper-sellers looked moist, and smelled mouldy; the wet ran off the hats of the orange-vendors as they thrust their heads into the coach windows, and diluted the insides in a refreshing manner. The Jews with the fifty-bladed penknives shut them up in despair; the men with the pocket-books made pocket-books of them. Watch-guards and toasting-forks were alike at a discount, and pencil-cases and sponges were a drug in the market.

Leaving Sam Weller to rescue the luggage from the seven or eight porters who flung themselves savagely upon it, the moment the coach stopped, and finding that they were about twenty minutes too early, Mr. Pickwick and his friends went for shelter into the travellers’ room—the last resource of human dejection.

The travellers’ room at the White Horse Cellar is of course uncomfortable; it would be no travellers’ room if it were not. It is the right-hand parlour, into which an aspiring kitchen fireplace appears to have walked, accompanied by a rebellious poker, tongs, and shovel. It is divided into boxes, for the solitary confinement of travellers, and is furnished with a clock, a looking-glass, and a live waiter, which latter article is kept in a small kennel for washing glasses, in a corner of the apartment.

One of these boxes was occupied, on this particular occasion, by a stern-eyed man of about five-and-forty, who had a bald and glossy forehead, with a good deal of black hair at the sides and back of his head, and large black whiskers. He was buttoned up to the chin in a brown coat; and had a large sealskin travelling-cap, and a greatcoat and cloak, lying on the seat beside him. He looked up from his breakfast as Mr. Pickwick entered, with a fierce and peremptory air, which was very dignified; and, having scrutinised that gentleman and his companions to his entire satisfaction, hummed a tune, in a manner which seemed to say that he rather suspected somebody wanted to take advantage of him, but it wouldn’t do.

‘Waiter,’ said the gentleman with the whiskers.

‘Sir?’ replied a man with a dirty complexion, and a towel of the same, emerging from the kennel before mentioned.

‘Some more toast.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Buttered toast, mind,’ said the gentleman fiercely.

‘Directly, sir,’ replied the waiter.

The gentleman with the whiskers hummed a tune in the same manner as before, and pending the arrival of the toast, advanced to the front of the fire, and, taking his coat tails under his arms, looked at his boots and ruminated.

‘I wonder whereabouts in Bath this coach puts up,’ said Mr. Pickwick, mildly addressing Mr. Winkle.

‘Hum—eh—what’s that?’ said the strange man.

‘I made an observation to my friend, sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, always ready to enter into conversation. ‘I wondered at what house the Bath coach put up. Perhaps you can inform me.’

Are you going to Bath?’ said the strange man.

‘I am, sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘And those other gentlemen?’

‘They are going also,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Not inside—I’ll be damned if you’re going inside,’ said the strange man.

‘Not all of us,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘No, not all of you,’ said the strange man emphatically. ‘I’ve taken two places. If they try to squeeze six people into an infernal box that only holds four, I’ll take a post-chaise and bring an action. I’ve paid my fare. It won’t do; I told the clerk when I took my places that it wouldn’t do. I know these things have been done. I know they are done every day; but I never was done, and I never will be. Those who know me best, best know it; crush me!’ Here the fierce gentleman rang the bell with great violence, and told the waiter he’d better bring the toast in five seconds, or he’d know the reason why.

‘My good sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘you will allow me to observe that this is a very unnecessary display of excitement. I have only taken places inside for two.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said the fierce man. ‘I withdraw my expressions. I tender an apology. There’s my card. Give me your acquaintance.’

‘With great pleasure, Sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘We are to be fellow- travellers, and I hope we shall find each other’s society mutually agreeable.’

‘I hope we shall,’ said the fierce gentleman. ‘I know we shall. I like your looks; they please me. Gentlemen, your hands and names. Know me.’

Of course, an interchange of friendly salutations followed this gracious speech; and the fierce gentleman immediately proceeded to inform the friends, in the same short, abrupt, jerking sentences, that his name was Dowler; that he was going to Bath on pleasure; that he was formerly in the army; that he had now set up in business as a gentleman; that he lived upon the profits; and that the individual for whom the second place was taken, was a personage no less illustrious than Mrs. Dowler, his lady wife.

‘She’s a fine woman,’ said Mr. Dowler. ‘I am proud of her. I have reason.’

‘I hope I shall have the pleasure of judging,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile.

‘You shall,’ replied Dowler. ‘She shall know you. She shall esteem you. I courted her under singular circumstances. I won her through a rash vow. Thus. I saw her; I loved her; I proposed; she refused me.—“You love another?”—“Spare my blushes.”—“I know him.”—“You do.”—“Very good; if he remains here, I’ll skin him.”’

‘Lord bless me!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick involuntarily.

‘Did you skin the gentleman, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Winkle, with a very pale face.

‘I wrote him a note, I said it was a painful thing. And so it was.’

‘Certainly,’ interposed Mr. Winkle.

‘I said I had pledged my word as a gentleman to skin him. My character was at stake. I had no alternative. As an officer in His Majesty’s service, I was bound to skin him. I regretted the necessity, but it must be done. He was open to conviction. He saw that the rules of the service were imperative. He fled. I married her. Here’s the coach. That’s her head.’

As Mr. Dowler concluded, he pointed to a stage which had just driven up, from the open window of which a rather pretty face in a bright blue bonnet was looking among the crowd on the pavement, most probably for the rash man himself. Mr. Dowler paid his bill, and hurried out with his travelling cap, coat, and cloak; and Mr. Pickwick and his friends followed to secure their places.

Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass had seated themselves at the back part of the coach; Mr. Winkle had got inside; and Mr. Pickwick was preparing to follow him, when Sam Weller came up to his master, and whispering in his ear, begged to speak to him, with an air of the deepest mystery.

‘Well, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘what’s the matter now?’

‘Here’s rayther a rum go, sir,’ replied Sam.

‘What?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘This here, Sir,’ rejoined Sam. ‘I’m wery much afeerd, sir, that the properiator o’ this here coach is a playin’ some imperence vith us.’

‘How is that, Sam?’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘aren’t the names down on the way-bill?’

‘The names is not only down on the vay-bill, Sir,’ replied Sam, ‘but they’ve painted vun on ‘em up, on the door o’ the coach.’ As Sam spoke, he pointed to that part of the coach door on which the proprietor’s name usually appears; and there, sure enough, in gilt letters of a goodly size, was the magic name of Pickwick!

‘Dear me,’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, quite staggered by the coincidence; ‘what a very extraordinary thing!’

‘Yes, but that ain’t all,’ said Sam, again directing his master’s attention to the coach door; ‘not content vith writin’ up “Pick-wick,” they puts “Moses” afore it, vich I call addin’ insult to injury, as the parrot said ven they not only took him from his native land, but made him talk the English langwidge arterwards.’

‘It’s odd enough, certainly, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘but if we stand talking here, we shall lose our places.’

‘Wot, ain’t nothin’ to be done in consequence, sir?’ exclaimed Sam, perfectly aghast at the coolness with which Mr. Pickwick prepared to ensconce himself inside.

‘Done!’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘What should be done?’

Ain’t nobody to be whopped for takin’ this here liberty, sir?’ said Mr. Weller, who had expected that at least he would have been commissioned to challenge the guard and the coachman to a pugilistic encounter on the spot.

‘Certainly not,’ replied Mr. Pickwick eagerly; ‘not on any account. Jump up to your seat directly.’

‘I am wery much afeered,’ muttered Sam to himself, as he turned away, ‘that somethin’ queer’s come over the governor, or he’d never ha’ stood this so quiet. I hope that ‘ere trial hasn’t broke his spirit, but it looks bad, wery bad.’ Mr. Weller shook his head gravely; and it is worthy of remark, as an illustration of the manner in which he took this circumstance to heart, that he did not speak another word until the coach reached the Kensington turnpike. Which was so long a time for him to remain taciturn, that the fact may be considered wholly unprecedented.

Nothing worthy of special mention occurred during the journey. Mr. Dowler related a variety of anecdotes, all illustrative of his own personal prowess and desperation, and appealed to Mrs. Dowler in corroboration thereof; when Mrs. Dowler invariably brought in, in the form of an appendix, some remarkable fact or circumstance which Mr. Dowler had forgotten, or had perhaps through modesty, omitted; for the addenda in every instance went to show that Mr. Dowler was even a more wonderful fellow than he made himself out to be. Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Winkle listened with great admiration, and at intervals conversed with Mrs. Dowler, who was a very agreeable and fascinating person. So, what between Mr. Dowler’s stories, and Mrs. Dowler’s charms, and Mr. Pickwick’s good-humour, and Mr. Winkle’s good listening, the insides contrived to be very companionable all the way.

The outsides did as outsides always do. They were very cheerful and talkative at the beginning of every stage, and very dismal and sleepy in the middle, and very bright and wakeful again towards the end. There was one young gentleman in an India-rubber cloak, who smoked cigars all day; and there was another young gentleman in a parody upon a greatcoat, who lighted a good many, and feeling obviously unsettled after the second whiff, threw them away when he thought nobody was looking at him. There was a third young man on the box who wished to be learned in cattle; and an old one behind, who was familiar with farming. There was a constant succession of Christian names in smock-frocks and white coats, who were invited to have a ‘lift’ by the guard, and who knew every horse and hostler on the road and off it; and there was a dinner which would have been cheap at half-a-crown a mouth, if any moderate number of mouths could have eaten it in the time. And at seven o’clock P.M. Mr. Pickwick and his friends, and Mr. Dowler and his wife, respectively retired to their private sitting-rooms at the White Hart Hotel, opposite the Great Pump Room, Bath, where the waiters, from their costume, might be mistaken for Westminster boys, only they destroy the illusion by behaving themselves much better.

Breakfast had scarcely been cleared away on the succeeding morning, when a waiter brought in Mr. Dowler’s card, with a request to be allowed permission to introduce a friend. Mr. Dowler at once followed up the delivery of the card, by bringing himself and the friend also.

The friend was a charming young man of not much more than fifty, dressed in a very bright blue coat with resplendent buttons, black trousers, and the thinnest possible pair of highly-polished boots. A gold eye-glass was suspended from his neck by a short, broad, black ribbon; a gold snuff-box was lightly clasped in his left hand; gold rings innumerable glittered on his fingers; and a large diamond pin set in gold glistened in his shirt frill. He had a gold watch, and a gold curb chain with large gold seals; and he carried a pliant ebony cane with a gold top. His linen was of the very whitest, finest, and stiffest; his wig of the glossiest, blackest, and curliest. His snuff was princes’ mixture; his scent bouquet du roi. His features were contracted into a perpetual smile; and his teeth were in such perfect order that it was difficult at a small distance to tell the real from the false.

‘Mr. Pickwick,’ said Mr. Dowler; ‘my friend, Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esquire, M.C.; Bantam; Mr. Pickwick. Know each other.’

‘Welcome to Ba—ath, Sir. This is indeed an acquisition. Most welcome to Ba—ath, sir. It is long—very long, Mr. Pickwick, since you drank the waters. It appears an age, Mr. Pickwick. Re-markable!’

Such were the expressions with which Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esquire, M.C., took Mr. Pickwick’s hand; retaining it in his, meantime, and shrugging up his shoulders with a constant succession of bows, as if he really could not make up his mind to the trial of letting it go again.

‘It is a very long time since I drank the waters, certainly,’ replied Mr. Pickwick; ‘for, to the best of my knowledge, I was never here before.’

‘Never in Ba—ath, Mr. Pickwick!’ exclaimed the Grand Master, letting the hand fall in astonishment. ‘Never in Ba—ath! He! he! Mr. Pickwick, you are a wag. Not bad, not bad. Good, good. He! he! he! Re-markable!’

‘To my shame, I must say that I am perfectly serious,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick. ‘I really never was here before.’

‘Oh, I see,’ exclaimed the Grand Master, looking extremely pleased; ‘yes, yes—good, good—better and better. You are the gentleman of whom we have heard. Yes; we know you, Mr. Pickwick; we know you.’

‘The reports of the trial in those confounded papers,’ thought Mr. Pickwick. ‘They have heard all about me.’

You are the gentleman residing on Clapham Green,’ resumed Bantam, ‘who lost the use of his limbs from imprudently taking cold after port wine; who could not be moved in consequence of acute suffering, and who had the water from the king’s bath bottled at one hundred and three degrees, and sent by wagon to his bedroom in town, where he bathed, sneezed, and the same day recovered. Very remarkable!’

Mr. Pickwick acknowledged the compliment which the supposition implied, but had the self-denial to repudiate it, notwithstanding; and taking advantage of a moment’s silence on the part of the M.C., begged to introduce his friends, Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass. An introduction which overwhelmed the M.C. with delight and honour.

‘Bantam,’ said Mr. Dowler, ‘Mr. Pickwick and his friends are strangers. They must put their names down. Where’s the book?’

‘The register of the distinguished visitors in Ba—ath will be at the Pump Room this morning at two o’clock,’ replied the M.C. ‘Will you guide our friends to that splendid building, and enable me to procure their autographs?’

‘I will,’ rejoined Dowler. ‘This is a long call. It’s time to go. I shall be here again in an hour. Come.’

‘This is a ball-night,’ said the M.C., again taking Mr. Pickwick’s hand, as he rose to go. ‘The ball-nights in Ba—ath are moments snatched from paradise; rendered bewitching by music, beauty, elegance, fashion, etiquette, and—and—above all, by the absence of tradespeople, who are quite inconsistent with paradise, and who have an amalgamation of themselves at the Guildhall every fortnight, which is, to say the least, remarkable. Good-bye, good-bye!’ and protesting all the way downstairs that he was most satisfied, and most delighted, and most overpowered, and most flattered, Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esquire, M.C., stepped into a very elegant chariot that waited at the door, and rattled off.

At the appointed hour, Mr. Pickwick and his friends, escorted by Dowler, repaired to the Assembly Rooms, and wrote their names down in the book— an instance of condescension at which Angelo Bantam was even more overpowered than before. Tickets of admission to that evening’s assembly were to have been prepared for the whole party, but as they were not ready, Mr. Pickwick undertook, despite all the protestations to the contrary of Angelo Bantam, to send Sam for them at four o’clock in the afternoon, to the M.C.’s house in Queen Square. Having taken a short walk through the city, and arrived at the unanimous conclusion that Park Street was very much like the perpendicular streets a man sees in a dream, which he cannot get up for the life of him, they returned to the White Hart, and despatched Sam on the errand to which his master had pledged him.

Sam Weller put on his hat in a very easy and graceful manner, and, thrusting his hands in his waistcoat pockets, walked with great deliberation to Queen Square, whistling as he went along, several of the most popular airs of the day, as arranged with entirely new movements for that noble instrument the organ, either mouth or barrel. Arriving at the number in Queen Square to which he had been directed, he left off whistling and gave a cheerful knock, which was instantaneously answered by a powdered-headed footman in gorgeous livery, and of symmetrical stature.

‘Is this here Mr. Bantam’s, old feller?’ inquired Sam Weller, nothing abashed by the blaze of splendour which burst upon his sight in the person of the powdered-headed footman with the gorgeous livery.

‘Why, young man?’ was the haughty inquiry of the powdered-headed footman.

‘’Cos if it is, jist you step in to him with that ‘ere card, and say Mr. Veller’s a-waitin’, will you?’ said Sam. And saying it, he very coolly walked into the hall, and sat down.

The powdered-headed footman slammed the door very hard, and scowled very grandly; but both the slam and the scowl were lost upon Sam, who was regarding a mahogany umbrella-stand with every outward token of critical approval.

Apparently his master’s reception of the card had impressed the powdered-headed footman in Sam’s favour, for when he came back from delivering it, he smiled in a friendly manner, and said that the answer would be ready directly.

‘Wery good,’ said Sam. ‘Tell the old gen’l’m’n not to put himself in a perspiration. No hurry, six-foot. I’ve had my dinner.’

‘You dine early, sir,’ said the powdered-headed footman.

‘I find I gets on better at supper when I does,’ replied Sam.

‘Have you been long in Bath, sir?’ inquired the powdered-headed footman. ‘I have not had the pleasure of hearing of you before.’

‘I haven’t created any wery surprisin’ sensation here, as yet,’ rejoined Sam, ‘for me and the other fash’nables only come last night.’

‘Nice place, Sir,’ said the powdered-headed footman.

‘Seems so,’ observed Sam.

‘Pleasant society, sir,’ remarked the powdered-headed footman. ‘Very agreeable servants, sir.’

‘I should think they wos,’ replied Sam. ‘Affable, unaffected, say- nothin’-to-nobody sorts o’ fellers.’

‘Oh, very much so, indeed, sir,’ said the powdered-headed footman, taking Sam’s remarks as a high compliment. ‘Very much so indeed. Do you do anything in this way, Sir?’ inquired the tall footman, producing a small snuff-box with a fox’s head on the top of it.

‘Not without sneezing,’ replied Sam.

‘Why, it is difficult, sir, I confess,’ said the tall footman. ‘It may be done by degrees, Sir. Coffee is the best practice. I carried coffee, Sir, for a long time. It looks very like rappee, sir.’

Here, a sharp peal at the bell reduced the powdered-headed footman to the ignominious necessity of putting the fox’s head in his pocket, and hastening with a humble countenance to Mr. Bantam’s ‘study.’ By the bye, who ever knew a man who never read or wrote either, who hadn’t got some small back parlour which he _would _call a study!

‘There is the answer, sir,’ said the powdered-headed footman. ‘I’m afraid you’ll find it inconveniently large.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ said Sam, taking a letter with a small enclosure. ‘It’s just possible as exhausted natur’ may manage to surwive it.’

‘I hope we shall meet again, Sir,’ said the powdered-headed footman, rubbing his hands, and following Sam out to the door-step.

‘You are wery obligin’, sir,’ replied Sam. ‘Now, don’t allow yourself to be fatigued beyond your powers; there’s a amiable bein’. Consider what you owe to society, and don’t let yourself be injured by too much work. For the sake o’ your feller-creeturs, keep yourself as quiet as you can; only think what a loss you would be!’ With these pathetic words, Sam Weller departed.

‘A very singular young man that,’ said the powdered-headed footman, looking after Mr. Weller, with a countenance which clearly showed he could make nothing of him.

Sam said nothing at all. He winked, shook his head, smiled, winked again; and, with an expression of countenance which seemed to denote that he was greatly amused with something or other, walked merrily away.

At precisely twenty minutes before eight o’clock that night, Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esq., the Master of the Ceremonies, emerged from his chariot at the door of the Assembly Rooms in the same wig, the same teeth, the same eye-glass, the same watch and seals, the same rings, the same shirt-pin, and the same cane. The only observable alterations in his appearance were, that he wore a brighter blue coat, with a white silk lining, black tights, black silk stockings, and pumps, and a white waistcoat, and was, if possible, just a thought more scented.

Thus attired, the Master of the Ceremonies, in strict discharge of the important duties of his all-important office, planted himself in the room to receive the company.

Bath being full, the company, and the sixpences for tea, poured in, in shoals. In the ballroom, the long card-room, the octagonal card-room, the staircases, and the passages, the hum of many voices, and the sound of many feet, were perfectly bewildering. Dresses rustled, feathers waved, lights shone, and jewels sparkled. There was the music—not of the quadrille band, for it had not yet commenced; but the music of soft, tiny footsteps, with now and then a clear, merry laugh—low and gentle, but very pleasant to hear in a female voice, whether in Bath or elsewhere. Brilliant eyes, lighted up with pleasurable expectation, gleamed from every side; and, look where you would, some exquisite form glided gracefully through the throng, and was no sooner lost, than it was replaced by another as dainty and bewitching.

In the tea-room, and hovering round the card-tables, were a vast number of queer old ladies, and decrepit old gentlemen, discussing all the small talk and scandal of the day, with a relish and gusto which sufficiently bespoke the intensity of the pleasure they derived from the occupation. Mingled with these groups, were three or four match-making mammas, appearing to be wholly absorbed by the conversation in which they were taking part, but failing not from time to time to cast an anxious sidelong glance upon their daughters, who, remembering the maternal injunction to make the best use of their youth, had already commenced incipient flirtations in the mislaying scarves, putting on gloves, setting down cups, and so forth; slight matters apparently, but which may be turned to surprisingly good account by expert practitioners.

Lounging near the doors, and in remote corners, were various knots of silly young men, displaying various varieties of puppyism and stupidity; amusing all sensible people near them with their folly and conceit; and happily thinking themselves the objects of general admiration—a wise and merciful dispensation which no good man will quarrel with.

And lastly, seated on some of the back benches, where they had already taken up their positions for the evening, were divers unmarried ladies past their grand climacteric, who, not dancing because there were no partners for them, and not playing cards lest they should be set down as irretrievably single, were in the favourable situation of being able to abuse everybody without reflecting on themselves. In short, they could abuse everybody, because everybody was there. It was a scene of gaiety, glitter, and show; of richly-dressed people, handsome mirrors, chalked floors, girandoles and wax-candles; and in all parts of the scene, gliding from spot to spot in silent softness, bowing obsequiously to this party, nodding familiarly to that, and smiling complacently on all, was the sprucely-attired person of Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esquire, the Master of the Ceremonies.

‘Stop in the tea-room. Take your sixpenn’orth. Then lay on hot water, and call it tea. Drink it,’ said Mr. Dowler, in a loud voice, directing Mr. Pickwick, who advanced at the head of the little party, with Mrs. Dowler on his arm. Into the tea-room Mr. Pickwick turned; and catching sight of him, Mr. Bantam corkscrewed his way through the crowd and welcomed him with ecstasy.

‘My dear Sir, I am highly honoured. Ba—ath is favoured. Mrs. Dowler, you embellish the rooms. I congratulate you on your feathers. Re- markable!’

‘Anybody here?’ inquired Dowler suspiciously.

‘Anybody! The _elite _of Ba—ath. Mr. Pickwick, do you see the old lady in the gauze turban?’

‘The fat old lady?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick innocently.

‘Hush, my dear sir—nobody’s fat or old in Ba—ath. That’s the Dowager Lady Snuphanuph.’

‘Is it, indeed?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘No less a person, I assure you,’ said the Master of the Ceremonies. ‘Hush. Draw a little nearer, Mr. Pickwick. You see the splendidly- dressed young man coming this way?’

‘The one with the long hair, and the particularly small forehead?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘The same. The richest young man in Ba—ath at this moment. Young Lord Mutanhed.’

‘You don’t say so?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes. You’ll hear his voice in a moment, Mr. Pickwick. He’ll speak to me. The other gentleman with him, in the red under-waistcoat and dark moustache, is the Honourable Mr. Crushton, his bosom friend. How do you do, my Lord?’

‘Veway hot, Bantam,’ said his Lordship.

‘It is very warm, my Lord,’ replied the M.C.

‘Confounded,’ assented the Honourable Mr. Crushton.

‘Have you seen his Lordship’s mail-cart, Bantam?’ inquired the Honourable Mr. Crushton, after a short pause, during which young Lord Mutanhed had been endeavouring to stare Mr. Pickwick out of countenance, and Mr. Crushton had been reflecting what subject his Lordship could talk about best.

‘Dear me, no,’ replied the M.C. ‘A mail-cart! What an excellent idea. Re-markable!’

‘Gwacious heavens!’ said his Lordship, ‘I thought evewebody had seen the new mail-cart; it’s the neatest, pwettiest, gwacefullest thing that ever wan upon wheels. Painted wed, with a cweam piebald.’

‘With a real box for the letters, and all complete,’ said the Honourable Mr. Crushton.

‘And a little seat in fwont, with an iwon wail, for the dwiver,’ added his Lordship. ‘I dwove it over to Bwistol the other morning, in a cwimson coat, with two servants widing a quarter of a mile behind; and confound me if the people didn’t wush out of their cottages, and awest my pwogwess, to know if I wasn’t the post. Glorwious—glorwious!’

At this anecdote his Lordship laughed very heartily, as did the listeners, of course. Then, drawing his arm through that of the obsequious Mr. Crushton, Lord Mutanhed walked away.

‘Delightful young man, his Lordship,’ said the Master of the Ceremonies.

‘So I should think,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick drily.

The dancing having commenced, the necessary introductions having been made, and all preliminaries arranged, Angelo Bantam rejoined Mr. Pickwick, and led him into the card-room.

Just at the very moment of their entrance, the Dowager Lady Snuphanuph and two other ladies of an ancient and whist-like appearance, were hovering over an unoccupied card-table; and they no sooner set eyes upon Mr. Pickwick under the convoy of Angelo Bantam, than they exchanged glances with each other, seeing that he was precisely the very person they wanted, to make up the rubber.

‘My dear Bantam,’ said the Dowager Lady Snuphanuph coaxingly, ‘find us some nice creature to make up this table; there’s a good soul.’ Mr. Pickwick happened to be looking another way at the moment, so her Ladyship nodded her head towards him, and frowned expressively.

‘My friend Mr. Pickwick, my Lady, will be most happy, I am sure, remarkably so,’ said the M.C., taking the hint. ‘Mr. Pickwick, Lady Snuphanuph—Mrs. Colonel Wugsby—Miss Bolo.’

Mr. Pickwick bowed to each of the ladies, and, finding escape impossible, cut. Mr. Pickwick and Miss Bolo against Lady Snuphanuph and Mrs. Colonel Wugsby.

As the trump card was turned up, at the commencement of the second deal, two young ladies hurried into the room, and took their stations on either side of Mrs. Colonel Wugsby’s chair, where they waited patiently until the hand was over.

‘Now, Jane,’ said Mrs. Colonel Wugsby, turning to one of the girls, ‘what is it?’

I came to ask, ma, whether I might dance with the youngest Mr. Crawley,’ whispered the prettier and younger of the two.

‘Good God, Jane, how can you think of such things?’ replied the mamma indignantly. ‘Haven’t you repeatedly heard that his father has eight hundred a year, which dies with him? I am ashamed of you. Not on any account.’

‘Ma,’ whispered the other, who was much older than her sister, and very insipid and artificial, ‘Lord Mutanhed has been introduced to me. I said I thought I wasn’t engaged, ma.’

‘You’re a sweet pet, my love,’ replied Mrs. Colonel Wugsby, tapping her daughter’s cheek with her fan, ‘and are always to be trusted. He’s immensely rich, my dear. Bless you!’ With these words Mrs. Colonel Wugsby kissed her eldest daughter most affectionately, and frowning in a warning manner upon the other, sorted her cards.

Poor Mr. Pickwick! he had never played with three thorough-paced female card-players before. They were so desperately sharp, that they quite frightened him. If he played a wrong card, Miss Bolo looked a small armoury of daggers; if he stopped to consider which was the right one, Lady Snuphanuph would throw herself back in her chair, and smile with a mingled glance of impatience and pity to Mrs. Colonel Wugsby, at which Mrs. Colonel Wugsby would shrug up her shoulders, and cough, as much as to say she wondered whether he ever would begin. Then, at the end of every hand, Miss Bolo would inquire with a dismal countenance and reproachful sigh, why Mr. Pickwick had not returned that diamond, or led the club, or roughed the spade, or finessed the heart, or led through the honour, or brought out the ace, or played up to the king, or some such thing; and in reply to all these grave charges, Mr. Pickwick would be wholly unable to plead any justification whatever, having by this time forgotten all about the game. People came and looked on, too, which made Mr. Pickwick nervous. Besides all this, there was a great deal of distracting conversation near the table, between Angelo Bantam and the two Misses Matinter, who, being single and singular, paid great court to the Master of the Ceremonies, in the hope of getting a stray partner now and then. All these things, combined with the noises and interruptions of constant comings in and goings out, made Mr. Pickwick play rather badly; the cards were against him, also; and when they left off at ten minutes past eleven, Miss Bolo rose from the table considerably agitated, and went straight home, in a flood of tears and a sedan-chair.

Being joined by his friends, who one and all protested that they had scarcely ever spent a more pleasant evening, Mr. Pickwick accompanied them to the White Hart, and having soothed his feelings with something hot, went to bed, and to sleep, almost simultaneously.

CHAPTER XXXVI. THE CHIEF FEATURES OF WHICH WILL BE FOUND TO BE AN AUTHENTIC VERSION OF THE LEGEND OF PRINCE BLADUD, AND A MOST EXTRAORDINARY CALAMITY THAT BEFELL MR. WINKLE

As Mr. Pickwick contemplated a stay of at least two months in Bath, he deemed it advisable to take private lodgings for himself and friends for that period; and as a favourable opportunity offered for their securing, on moderate terms, the upper portion of a house in the Royal Crescent, which was larger than they required, Mr. and Mrs. Dowler offered to relieve them of a bedroom and sitting-room. This proposition was at once accepted, and in three days’ time they were all located in their new abode, when Mr. Pickwick began to drink the waters with the utmost assiduity. Mr. Pickwick took them systematically. He drank a quarter of a pint before breakfast, and then walked up a hill; and another quarter of a pint after breakfast, and then walked down a hill; and, after every fresh quarter of a pint, Mr. Pickwick declared, in the most solemn and emphatic terms, that he felt a great deal better; whereat his friends were very much delighted, though they had not been previously aware that there was anything the matter with him.

The Great Pump Room is a spacious saloon, ornamented with Corinthian pillars, and a music-gallery, and a Tompion clock, and a statue of Nash, and a golden inscription, to which all the water-drinkers should attend, for it appeals to them in the cause of a deserving charity. There is a large bar with a marble vase, out of which the pumper gets the water; and there are a number of yellow-looking tumblers, out of which the company get it; and it is a most edifying and satisfactory sight to behold the perseverance and gravity with which they swallow it. There are baths near at hand, in which a part of the company wash themselves; and a band plays afterwards, to congratulate the remainder on their having done so. There is another pump room, into which infirm ladies and gentlemen are wheeled, in such an astonishing variety of chairs and chaises, that any adventurous individual who goes in with the regular number of toes, is in imminent danger of coming out without them; and there is a third, into which the quiet people go, for it is less noisy than either. There is an immensity of promenading, on crutches and off, with sticks and without, and a great deal of conversation, and liveliness, and pleasantry.

Every morning, the regular water-drinkers, Mr. Pickwick among the number, met each other in the pump room, took their quarter of a pint, and walked constitutionally. At the afternoon’s promenade, Lord Mutanhed, and the Honourable Mr. Crushton, the Dowager Lady Snuphanuph, Mrs. Colonel Wugsby, and all the great people, and all the morning water-drinkers, met in grand assemblage. After this, they walked out, or drove out, or were pushed out in bath-chairs, and met one another again. After this, the gentlemen went to the reading-rooms, and met divisions of the mass. After this, they went home. If it were theatre-night, perhaps they met at the theatre; if it were assembly-night, they met at the rooms; and if it were neither, they met the next day. A very pleasant routine, with perhaps a slight tinge of sameness.

Mr. Pickwick was sitting up by himself, after a day spent in this manner, making entries in his journal, his friends having retired to bed, when he was roused by a gentle tap at the room door.

‘Beg your pardon, Sir,’ said Mrs. Craddock, the landlady, peeping in; ‘but did you want anything more, sir?’

‘Nothing more, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘My young girl is gone to bed, Sir,’ said Mrs. Craddock; ‘and Mr. Dowler is good enough to say that he’ll sit up for Mrs. Dowler, as the party isn’t expected to be over till late; so I was thinking that if you wanted nothing more, Mr. Pickwick, I would go to bed.’

‘By all means, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Wish you good-night, Sir,’ said Mrs. Craddock.

‘Good-night, ma’am,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick.

Mrs. Craddock closed the door, and Mr. Pickwick resumed his writing.

In half an hour’s time the entries were concluded. Mr. Pickwick carefully rubbed the last page on the blotting-paper, shut up the book, wiped his pen on the bottom of the inside of his coat tail, and opened the drawer of the inkstand to put it carefully away. There were a couple of sheets of writing-paper, pretty closely written over, in the inkstand drawer, and they were folded so, that the title, which was in a good round hand, was fully disclosed to him. Seeing from this, that it was no private document; and as it seemed to relate to Bath, and was very short: Mr. Pick-wick unfolded it, lighted his bedroom candle that it might burn up well by the time he finished; and drawing his chair nearer the fire, read as follows—

THE TRUE LEGEND OF PRINCE BLADUD

‘Less than two hundred years ago, on one of the public baths in this city, there appeared an inscription in honour of its mighty founder, the renowned Prince Bladud. That inscription is now erased.

‘For many hundred years before that time, there had been handed down, from age to age, an old legend, that the illustrious prince being afflicted with leprosy, on his return from reaping a rich harvest of knowledge in Athens, shunned the court of his royal father, and consorted moodily with husbandman and pigs. Among the herd (so said the legend) was a pig of grave and solemn countenance, with whom the prince had a fellow-feeling—for he too was wise—a pig of thoughtful and reserved demeanour; an animal superior to his fellows, whose grunt was terrible, and whose bite was sharp. The young prince sighed deeply as he looked upon the countenance of the majestic swine; he thought of his royal father, and his eyes were bedewed with tears.

‘This sagacious pig was fond of bathing in rich, moist mud. Not in summer, as common pigs do now, to cool themselves, and did even in those distant ages (which is a proof that the light of civilisation had already begun to dawn, though feebly), but in the cold, sharp days of winter. His coat was ever so sleek, and his complexion so clear, that the prince resolved to essay the purifying qualities of the same water that his friend resorted to. He made the trial. Beneath that black mud, bubbled the hot springs of Bath. He washed, and was cured. Hastening to his father’s court, he paid his best respects, and returning quickly hither, founded this city and its famous baths.

‘He sought the pig with all the ardour of their early friendship—but, alas! the waters had been his death. He had imprudently taken a bath at too high a temperature, and the natural philosopher was no more! He was succeeded by Pliny, who also fell a victim to his thirst for knowledge.

‘This was the legend. Listen to the true one.

‘A great many centuries since, there flourished, in great state, the famous and renowned Lud Hudibras, king of Britain. He was a mighty monarch. The earth shook when he walked—he was so very stout. His people basked in the light of his countenance—it was so red and glowing. He was, indeed, every inch a king. And there were a good many inches of him, too, for although he was not very tall, he was a remarkable size round, and the inches that he wanted in height, he made up in circumference. If any degenerate monarch of modern times could be in any way compared with him, I should say the venerable King Cole would be that illustrious potentate.

‘This good king had a queen, who eighteen years before, had had a son, who was called Bladud. He was sent to a preparatory seminary in his father’s dominions until he was ten years old, and was then despatched, in charge of a trusty messenger, to a finishing school at Athens; and as there was no extra charge for remaining during the holidays, and no notice required previous to the removal of a pupil, there he remained for eight long years, at the expiration of which time, the king his father sent the lord chamberlain over, to settle the bill, and to bring him home; which, the lord chamberlain doing, was received with shouts, and pensioned immediately.

‘When King Lud saw the prince his son, and found he had grown up such a fine young man, he perceived what a grand thing it would be to have him married without delay, so that his children might be the means of perpetuating the glorious race of Lud, down to the very latest ages of the world. With this view, he sent a special embassy, composed of great noblemen who had nothing particular to do, and wanted lucrative employment, to a neighbouring king, and demanded his fair daughter in marriage for his son; stating at the same time that he was anxious to be on the most affectionate terms with his brother and friend, but that if they couldn’t agree in arranging this marriage, he should be under the unpleasant necessity of invading his kingdom and putting his eyes out. To this, the other king (who was the weaker of the two) replied that he was very much obliged to his friend and brother for all his goodness and magnanimity, and that his daughter was quite ready to be married, whenever Prince Bladud liked to come and fetch her.

‘This answer no sooner reached Britain, than the whole nation was transported with joy. Nothing was heard, on all sides, but the sounds of feasting and revelry—except the chinking of money as it was paid in by the people to the collector of the royal treasures, to defray the expenses of the happy ceremony. It was upon this occasion that King Lud, seated on the top of his throne in full council, rose, in the exuberance of his feelings, and commanded the lord chief justice to order in the richest wines and the court minstrels—an act of graciousness which has been, through the ignorance of traditionary historians, attributed to King Cole, in those celebrated lines in which his Majesty is represented as

Calling for his pipe, and calling for his pot, And calling for his fiddlers three.

Which is an obvious injustice to the memory of King Lud, and a dishonest exaltation of the virtues of King Cole.

‘But, in the midst of all this festivity and rejoicing, there was one individual present, who tasted not when the sparkling wines were poured forth, and who danced not, when the minstrels played. This was no other than Prince Bladud himself, in honour of whose happiness a whole people were, at that very moment, straining alike their throats and purse- strings. The truth was, that the prince, forgetting the undoubted right of the minister for foreign affairs to fall in love on his behalf, had, contrary to every precedent of policy and diplomacy, already fallen in love on his own account, and privately contracted himself unto the fair daughter of a noble Athenian.

‘Here we have a striking example of one of the manifold advantages of civilisation and refinement. If the prince had lived in later days, he might at once have married the object of his father’s choice, and then set himself seriously to work, to relieve himself of the burden which rested heavily upon him. He might have endeavoured to break her heart by a systematic course of insult and neglect; or, if the spirit of her sex, and a proud consciousness of her many wrongs had upheld her under this ill-treatment, he might have sought to take her life, and so get rid of her effectually. But neither mode of relief suggested itself to Prince Bladud; so he solicited a private audience, and told his father.

‘It is an old prerogative of kings to govern everything but their passions. King Lud flew into a frightful rage, tossed his crown up to the ceiling, and caught it again—for in those days kings kept their crowns on their heads, and not in the Tower—stamped the ground, rapped his forehead, wondered why his own flesh and blood rebelled against him, and, finally, calling in his guards, ordered the prince away to instant Confinement in a lofty turret; a course of treatment which the kings of old very generally pursued towards their sons, when their matrimonial inclinations did not happen to point to the same quarter as their own.

‘When Prince Bladud had been shut up in the lofty turret for the greater part of a year, with no better prospect before his bodily eyes than a stone wall, or before his mental vision than prolonged imprisonment, he naturally began to ruminate on a plan of escape, which, after months of preparation, he managed to accomplish; considerately leaving his dinner- knife in the heart of his jailer, lest the poor fellow (who had a family) should be considered privy to his flight, and punished accordingly by the infuriated king.

‘The monarch was frantic at the loss of his son. He knew not on whom to vent his grief and wrath, until fortunately bethinking himself of the lord chamberlain who had brought him home, he struck off his pension and his head together.

‘Meanwhile, the young prince, effectually disguised, wandered on foot through his father’s dominions, cheered and supported in all his hardships by sweet thoughts of the Athenian maid, who was the innocent cause of his weary trials. One day he stopped to rest in a country village; and seeing that there were gay dances going forward on the green, and gay faces passing to and fro, ventured to inquire of a reveller who stood near him, the reason for this rejoicing.

‘“Know you not, O stranger,” was the reply, “of the recent proclamation of our gracious king?”

‘“Proclamation! No. What proclamation?” rejoined the prince—for he had travelled along the by and little-frequented ways, and knew nothing of what had passed upon the public roads, such as they were.

‘“Why,” replied the peasant, “the foreign lady that our prince wished to wed, is married to a foreign noble of her own country, and the king proclaims the fact, and a great public festival besides; for now, of course, Prince Bladud will come back and marry the lady his father chose, who they say is as beautiful as the noonday sun. Your health, sir. God save the king!”

‘The prince remained to hear no more. He fled from the spot, and plunged into the thickest recesses of a neighbouring wood. On, on, he wandered, night and day; beneath the blazing sun, and the cold pale moon; through the dry heat of noon, and the damp cold of night; in the gray light of morn, and the red glare of eve. So heedless was he of time or object, that being bound for Athens, he wandered as far out of his way as Bath.

‘There was no city where Bath stands, then. There was no vestige of human habitation, or sign of man’s resort, to bear the name; but there was the same noble country, the same broad expanse of hill and dale, the same beautiful channel stealing on, far away, the same lofty mountains which, like the troubles of life, viewed at a distance, and partially obscured by the bright mist of its morning, lose their ruggedness and asperity, and seem all ease and softness. Moved by the gentle beauty of the scene, the prince sank upon the green turf, and bathed his swollen feet in his tears.

‘“Oh!” said the unhappy Bladud, clasping his hands, and mournfully raising his eyes towards the sky, “would that my wanderings might end here! Would that these grateful tears with which I now mourn hope misplaced, and love despised, might flow in peace for ever!”

‘The wish was heard. It was in the time of the heathen deities, who used occasionally to take people at their words, with a promptness, in some cases, extremely awkward. The ground opened beneath the prince’s feet; he sank into the chasm; and instantaneously it closed upon his head for ever, save where his hot tears welled up through the earth, and where they have continued to gush forth ever since.

‘It is observable that, to this day, large numbers of elderly ladies and gentlemen who have been disappointed in procuring partners, and almost as many young ones who are anxious to obtain them, repair annually to Bath to drink the waters, from which they derive much strength and comfort. This is most complimentary to the virtue of Prince Bladud’s tears, and strongly corroborative of the veracity of this legend.’

Mr. Pickwick yawned several times when he had arrived at the end of this little manuscript, carefully refolded, and replaced it in the inkstand drawer, and then, with a countenance expressive of the utmost weariness, lighted his chamber candle, and went upstairs to bed.

He stopped at Mr. Dowler’s door, according to custom, and knocked to say good-night.

‘Ah!’ said Dowler, ‘going to bed? I wish I was. Dismal night. Windy; isn’t it?’

‘Very,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Good-night.’

‘Good-night.’

Mr. Pickwick went to his bedchamber, and Mr. Dowler resumed his seat before the fire, in fulfilment of his rash promise to sit up till his wife came home.

There are few things more worrying than sitting up for somebody, especially if that somebody be at a party. You cannot help thinking how quickly the time passes with them, which drags so heavily with you; and the more you think of this, the more your hopes of their speedy arrival decline. Clocks tick so loud, too, when you are sitting up alone, and you seem as if you had an under-garment of cobwebs on. First, something tickles your right knee, and then the same sensation irritates your left. You have no sooner changed your position, than it comes again in the arms; when you have fidgeted your limbs into all sorts of queer shapes, you have a sudden relapse in the nose, which you rub as if to rub it off—as there is no doubt you would, if you could. Eyes, too, are mere personal inconveniences; and the wick of one candle gets an inch and a half long, while you are snuffing the other. These, and various other little nervous annoyances, render sitting up for a length of time after everybody else has gone to bed, anything but a cheerful amusement.

This was just Mr. Dowler’s opinion, as he sat before the fire, and felt honestly indignant with all the inhuman people at the party who were keeping him up. He was not put into better humour either, by the reflection that he had taken it into his head, early in the evening, to think he had got an ache there, and so stopped at home. At length, after several droppings asleep, and fallings forward towards the bars, and catchings backward soon enough to prevent being branded in the face, Mr. Dowler made up his mind that he would throw himself on the bed in the back room and think—not sleep, of course.

‘I’m a heavy sleeper,’ said Mr. Dowler, as he flung himself on the bed. ‘I must keep awake. I suppose I shall hear a knock here. Yes. I thought so. I can hear the watchman. There he goes. Fainter now, though. A little fainter. He’s turning the corner. Ah!’ When Mr. Dowler arrived at this point, he turned the corner at which he had been long hesitating, and fell fast asleep.

Just as the clock struck three, there was blown into the crescent a sedan-chair with Mrs. Dowler inside, borne by one short, fat chairman, and one long, thin one, who had had much ado to keep their bodies perpendicular: to say nothing of the chair. But on that high ground, and in the crescent, which the wind swept round and round as if it were going to tear the paving stones up, its fury was tremendous. They were very glad to set the chair down, and give a good round loud double-knock at the street door.

They waited some time, but nobody came.

‘Servants is in the arms o’ Porpus, I think,’ said the short chairman, warming his hands at the attendant link-boy’s torch.

‘I wish he’d give ‘em a squeeze and wake ‘em,’ observed the long one.

‘Knock again, will you, if you please,’ cried Mrs. Dowler from the chair. ‘Knock two or three times, if you please.’

The short man was quite willing to get the job over, as soon as possible; so he stood on the step, and gave four or five most startling double-knocks, of eight or ten knocks a-piece, while the long man went into the road, and looked up at the windows for a light.

Nobody came. It was all as silent and dark as ever.

‘Dear me!’ said Mrs. Dowler. ‘You must knock again, if you please.’

There ain’t a bell, is there, ma’am?’ said the short chairman.

‘Yes, there is,’ interposed the link-boy, ‘I’ve been a-ringing at it ever so long.’

‘It’s only a handle,’ said Mrs. Dowler, ‘the wire’s broken.’

‘I wish the servants’ heads wos,’ growled the long man.

‘I must trouble you to knock again, if you please,’ said Mrs. Dowler, with the utmost politeness.

The short man did knock again several times, without producing the smallest effect. The tall man, growing very impatient, then relieved him, and kept on perpetually knocking double-knocks of two loud knocks each, like an insane postman.

At length Mr. Winkle began to dream that he was at a club, and that the members being very refractory, the chairman was obliged to hammer the table a good deal to preserve order; then he had a confused notion of an auction room where there were no bidders, and the auctioneer was buying everything in; and ultimately he began to think it just within the bounds of possibility that somebody might be knocking at the street door. To make quite certain, however, he remained quiet in bed for ten minutes or so, and listened; and when he had counted two or three-and- thirty knocks, he felt quite satisfied, and gave himself a great deal of credit for being so wakeful.

‘Rap rap-rap rap-rap rap-ra, ra, ra, ra, ra, rap!’ went the knocker.

Mr. Winkle jumped out of bed, wondering very much what could possibly be the matter, and hastily putting on his stockings and slippers, folded his dressing-gown round him, lighted a flat candle from the rush-light that was burning in the fireplace, and hurried downstairs.

‘Here’s somebody comin’ at last, ma’am,’ said the short chairman.

‘I wish I wos behind him vith a bradawl,’ muttered the long one.

‘Who’s there?’ cried Mr. Winkle, undoing the chain.

‘Don’t stop to ask questions, cast-iron head,’ replied the long man, with great disgust, taking it for granted that the inquirer was a footman; ‘but open the door.’

‘Come, look sharp, timber eyelids,’ added the other encouragingly.

Mr. Winkle, being half asleep, obeyed the command mechanically, opened the door a little, and peeped out. The first thing he saw, was the red glare of the link-boy’s torch. Startled by the sudden fear that the house might be on fire, he hastily threw the door wide open, and holding the candle above his head, stared eagerly before him, not quite certain whether what he saw was a sedan-chair or a fire-engine. At this instant there came a violent gust of wind; the light was blown out; Mr. Winkle felt himself irresistibly impelled on to the steps; and the door blew to, with a loud crash.

‘Well, young man, now you _have _done it!’ said the short chairman.

Mr. Winkle, catching sight of a lady’s face at the window of the sedan, turned hastily round, plied the knocker with all his might and main, and called frantically upon the chairman to take the chair away again.

‘Take it away, take it away,’ cried Mr. Winkle. ‘Here’s somebody coming out of another house; put me into the chair. Hide me! Do something with me!’

All this time he was shivering with cold; and every time he raised his hand to the knocker, the wind took the dressing-gown in a most unpleasant manner.

‘The people are coming down the crescent now. There are ladies with ‘em; cover me up with something. Stand before me!’ roared Mr. Winkle. But the chairmen were too much exhausted with laughing to afford him the slightest assistance, and the ladies were every moment approaching nearer and nearer.

Mr. Winkle gave a last hopeless knock; the ladies were only a few doors off. He threw away the extinguished candle, which, all this time he had held above his head, and fairly bolted into the sedan-chair where Mrs. Dowler was.

Now, Mrs. Craddock had heard the knocking and the voices at last; and, only waiting to put something smarter on her head than her nightcap, ran down into the front drawing-room to make sure that it was the right party. Throwing up the window-sash as Mr. Winkle was rushing into the chair, she no sooner caught sight of what was going forward below, than she raised a vehement and dismal shriek, and implored Mr. Dowler to get up directly, for his wife was running away with another gentleman.

Upon this, Mr. Dowler bounced off the bed as abruptly as an India-rubber ball, and rushing into the front room, arrived at one window just as Mr. Pickwick threw up the other, when the first object that met the gaze of both, was Mr. Winkle bolting into the sedan-chair.

‘Watchman,’ shouted Dowler furiously, ‘stop him—hold him—keep him tight—shut him in, till I come down. I’ll cut his throat—give me a knife—from ear to ear, Mrs. Craddock—I will!’ And breaking from the shrieking landlady, and from Mr. Pickwick, the indignant husband seized a small supper-knife, and tore into the street.

But Mr. Winkle didn’t wait for him. He no sooner heard the horrible threat of the valorous Dowler, than he bounced out of the sedan, quite as quickly as he had bounced in, and throwing off his slippers into the road, took to his heels and tore round the crescent, hotly pursued by Dowler and the watchman. He kept ahead; the door was open as he came round the second time; he rushed in, slammed it in Dowler’s face, mounted to his bedroom, locked the door, piled a wash-hand-stand, chest of drawers, and a table against it, and packed up a few necessaries ready for flight with the first ray of morning.

Dowler came up to the outside of the door; avowed, through the keyhole, his steadfast determination of cutting Mr. Winkle’s throat next day; and, after a great confusion of voices in the drawing-room, amidst which that of Mr. Pickwick was distinctly heard endeavouring to make peace, the inmates dispersed to their several bed-chambers, and all was quiet once more.

It is not unlikely that the inquiry may be made, where Mr. Weller was, all this time? We will state where he was, in the next chapter.

CHAPTER XXXVII. HONOURABLY ACCOUNTS FOR MR. WELLER’S ABSENCE, BY DESCRIBING A SOIREE TO WHICH HE WAS INVITED AND WENT; ALSO RELATES HOW HE WAS ENTRUSTED BY MR. PICKWICK WITH A PRIVATE MISSION OF DELICACY AND IMPORTANCE

Mr. Weller,’ said Mrs. Craddock, upon the morning of this very eventful day, ‘here’s a letter for you.’

‘Wery odd that,’ said Sam; ‘I’m afeerd there must be somethin’ the matter, for I don’t recollect any gen’l’m’n in my circle of acquaintance as is capable o’ writin’ one.’

‘Perhaps something uncommon has taken place,’ observed Mrs. Craddock.

‘It must be somethin’ wery uncommon indeed, as could perduce a letter out o’ any friend o’ mine,’ replied Sam, shaking his head dubiously; ‘nothin’ less than a nat’ral conwulsion, as the young gen’l’m’n observed ven he wos took with fits. It can’t be from the gov’ner,’ said Sam, looking at the direction. ‘He always prints, I know, ‘cos he learnt writin’ from the large bills in the booking-offices. It’s a wery strange thing now, where this here letter can ha’ come from.’

As Sam said this, he did what a great many people do when they are uncertain about the writer of a note—looked at the seal, and then at the front, and then at the back, and then at the sides, and then at the superscription; and, as a last resource, thought perhaps he might as well look at the inside, and try to find out from that.

‘It’s wrote on gilt-edged paper,’ said Sam, as he unfolded it, ‘and sealed in bronze vax vith the top of a door key. Now for it.’ And, with a very grave face, Mr. Weller slowly read as follows—

‘A select company of the Bath footmen presents their compliments to Mr. Weller, and requests the pleasure of his company this evening, to a friendly swarry, consisting of a boiled leg of mutton with the usual trimmings. The swarry to be on table at half-past nine o’clock punctually.’

This was inclosed in another note, which ran thus—

‘Mr. John Smauker, the gentleman who had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Weller at the house of their mutual acquaintance, Mr. Bantam, a few days since, begs to inclose Mr. Weller the herewith invitation. If Mr. Weller will call on Mr. John Smauker at nine o’clock, Mr. John Smauker will have the pleasure of introducing Mr. Weller.

(Signed) ‘John Smauker.’

The envelope was directed to blank Weller, Esq., at Mr. Pickwick’s; and in a parenthesis, in the left hand corner, were the words ‘airy bell,’ as an instruction to the bearer.

‘Vell,’ said Sam, ‘this is comin’ it rayther powerful, this is. I never heerd a biled leg o’ mutton called a swarry afore. I wonder wot they’d call a roast one.’

However, without waiting to debate the point, Sam at once betook himself into the presence of Mr. Pickwick, and requested leave of absence for that evening, which was readily granted. With this permission and the street-door key, Sam Weller issued forth a little before the appointed time, and strolled leisurely towards Queen Square, which he no sooner gained than he had the satisfaction of beholding Mr. John Smauker leaning his powdered head against a lamp-post at a short distance off, smoking a cigar through an amber tube.

‘How do you do, Mr. Weller?’ said Mr. John Smauker, raising his hat gracefully with one hand, while he gently waved the other in a condescending manner. ‘How do you do, Sir?’

‘Why, reasonably conwalessent,’ replied Sam. ‘How do _you _find yourself, my dear feller?’

‘Only so so,’ said Mr. John Smauker.

‘Ah, you’ve been a-workin’ too hard,’ observed Sam. ‘I was fearful you would; it won’t do, you know; you must not give way to that ‘ere uncompromisin’ spirit o’ yourn.’

‘It’s not so much that, Mr. Weller,’ replied Mr. John Smauker, ‘as bad wine; I’m afraid I’ve been dissipating.’

‘Oh! that’s it, is it?’ said Sam; ‘that’s a wery bad complaint, that.’

‘And yet the temptation, you see, Mr. Weller,’ observed Mr. John Smauker.

‘Ah, to be sure,’ said Sam.

‘Plunged into the very vortex of society, you know, Mr. Weller,’ said Mr. John Smauker, with a sigh.

‘Dreadful, indeed!’ rejoined Sam.

‘But it’s always the way,’ said Mr. John Smauker; ‘if your destiny leads you into public life, and public station, you must expect to be subjected to temptations which other people is free from, Mr. Weller.’

‘Precisely what my uncle said, ven he vent into the public line,’ remarked Sam, ‘and wery right the old gen’l’m’n wos, for he drank hisself to death in somethin’ less than a quarter.’

Mr. John Smauker looked deeply indignant at any parallel being drawn between himself and the deceased gentleman in question; but, as Sam’s face was in the most immovable state of calmness, he thought better of it, and looked affable again.

‘Perhaps we had better be walking,’ said Mr. Smauker, consulting a copper timepiece which dwelt at the bottom of a deep watch-pocket, and was raised to the surface by means of a black string, with a copper key at the other end.

‘P’raps we had,’ replied Sam, ‘or they’ll overdo the swarry, and that’ll spile it.’

‘Have you drank the waters, Mr. Weller?’ inquired his companion, as they walked towards High Street.

‘Once,’ replied Sam.

‘What did you think of ‘em, Sir?’

‘I thought they was particklery unpleasant,’ replied Sam.

‘Ah,’ said Mr. John Smauker, ‘you disliked the killibeate taste, perhaps?’

‘I don’t know much about that ‘ere,’ said Sam. ‘I thought they’d a wery strong flavour o’ warm flat irons.’

‘That is the killibeate, Mr. Weller,’ observed Mr. John Smauker contemptuously.

‘Well, if it is, it’s a wery inexpressive word, that’s all,’ said Sam. ‘It may be, but I ain’t much in the chimical line myself, so I can’t say.’ And here, to the great horror of Mr. John Smauker, Sam Weller began to whistle.

‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Weller,’ said Mr. John Smauker, agonised at the exceeding ungenteel sound, ‘will you take my arm?’

‘Thank’ee, you’re wery good, but I won’t deprive you of it,’ replied Sam. ‘I’ve rayther a way o’ putting my hands in my pockets, if it’s all the same to you.’ As Sam said this, he suited the action to the word, and whistled far louder than before.

‘This way,’ said his new friend, apparently much relieved as they turned down a by-street; ‘we shall soon be there.’

‘Shall we?’ said Sam, quite unmoved by the announcement of his close vicinity to the select footmen of Bath.

‘Yes,’ said Mr. John Smauker. ‘Don’t be alarmed, Mr. Weller.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Sam.

‘You’ll see some very handsome uniforms, Mr. Weller,’ continued Mr. John Smauker; ‘and perhaps you’ll find some of the gentlemen rather high at first, you know, but they’ll soon come round.’

‘That’s wery kind on ‘em,’ replied Sam.

‘And you know,’ resumed Mr. John Smauker, with an air of sublime protection—‘you know, as you’re a stranger, perhaps, they’ll be rather hard upon you at first.’

‘They won’t be wery cruel, though, will they?’ inquired Sam.

‘No, no,’ replied Mr. John Smauker, pulling forth the fox’s head, and taking a gentlemanly pinch. ‘There are some funny dogs among us, and they will have their joke, you know; but you mustn’t mind ‘em, you mustn’t mind ‘em.’

‘I’ll try and bear up agin such a reg’lar knock down o’ talent,’ replied Sam.

‘That’s right,’ said Mr. John Smauker, putting forth his fox’s head, and elevating his own; ‘I’ll stand by you.’

By this time they had reached a small greengrocer’s shop, which Mr. John Smauker entered, followed by Sam, who, the moment he got behind him, relapsed into a series of the very broadest and most unmitigated grins, and manifested other demonstrations of being in a highly enviable state of inward merriment.

Crossing the greengrocer’s shop, and putting their hats on the stairs in the little passage behind it, they walked into a small parlour; and here the full splendour of the scene burst upon Mr. Weller’s view.

A couple of tables were put together in the middle of the parlour, covered with three or four cloths of different ages and dates of washing, arranged to look as much like one as the circumstances of the case would allow. Upon these were laid knives and forks for six or eight people. Some of the knife handles were green, others red, and a few yellow; and as all the forks were black, the combination of colours was exceedingly striking. Plates for a corresponding number of guests were warming behind the fender; and the guests themselves were warming before it: the chief and most important of whom appeared to be a stoutish gentleman in a bright crimson coat with long tails, vividly red breeches, and a cocked hat, who was standing with his back to the fire, and had apparently just entered, for besides retaining his cocked hat on his head, he carried in his hand a high stick, such as gentlemen of his profession usually elevate in a sloping position over the roofs of carriages.

‘Smauker, my lad, your fin,’ said the gentleman with the cocked hat.

Mr. Smauker dovetailed the top joint of his right-hand little finger into that of the gentleman with the cocked hat, and said he was charmed to see him looking so well.

‘Well, they tell me I am looking pretty blooming,’ said the man with the cocked hat, ‘and it’s a wonder, too. I’ve been following our old woman about, two hours a day, for the last fortnight; and if a constant contemplation of the manner in which she hooks-and-eyes that infernal lavender-coloured old gown of hers behind, isn’t enough to throw anybody into a low state of despondency for life, stop my quarter’s salary.’

At this, the assembled selections laughed very heartily; and one gentleman in a yellow waistcoat, with a coach-trimming border, whispered a neighbour in green-foil smalls, that Tuckle was in spirits to-night.

‘By the bye,’ said Mr. Tuckle, ‘Smauker, my boy, you—’ The remainder of the sentence was forwarded into Mr. John Smauker’s ear, by whisper.

‘Oh, dear me, I quite forgot,’ said Mr. John Smauker. ‘Gentlemen, my friend Mr. Weller.’

‘Sorry to keep the fire off you, Weller,’ said Mr. Tuckle, with a familiar nod. ‘Hope you’re not cold, Weller.’

‘Not by no means, Blazes,’ replied Sam. ‘It ‘ud be a wery chilly subject as felt cold wen you stood opposite. You’d save coals if they put you behind the fender in the waitin’-room at a public office, you would.’

As this retort appeared to convey rather a personal allusion to Mr. Tuckle’s crimson livery, that gentleman looked majestic for a few seconds, but gradually edging away from the fire, broke into a forced smile, and said it wasn’t bad.

‘Wery much obliged for your good opinion, sir,’ replied Sam. ‘We shall get on by degrees, I des-say. We’ll try a better one by and bye.’

At this point the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a gentleman in orange-coloured plush, accompanied by another selection in purple cloth, with a great extent of stocking. The new-comers having been welcomed by the old ones, Mr. Tuckle put the question that supper be ordered in, which was carried unanimously.

The greengrocer and his wife then arranged upon the table a boiled leg of mutton, hot, with caper sauce, turnips, and potatoes. Mr. Tuckle took the chair, and was supported at the other end of the board by the gentleman in orange plush. The greengrocer put on a pair of wash-leather gloves to hand the plates with, and stationed himself behind Mr. Tuckle’s chair.

‘Harris,’ said Mr. Tuckle, in a commanding tone.

‘Sir,’ said the greengrocer.

‘Have you got your gloves on?’

Yes, Sir.’

‘Then take the kiver off.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

The greengrocer did as he was told, with a show of great humility, and obsequiously handed Mr. Tuckle the carving-knife; in doing which, he accidentally gaped.

‘What do you mean by that, Sir?’ said Mr. Tuckle, with great asperity.

‘I beg your pardon, Sir,’ replied the crestfallen greengrocer, ‘I didn’t mean to do it, Sir; I was up very late last night, Sir.’

‘I tell you what my opinion of you is, Harris,’ said Mr. Tuckle, with a most impressive air, ‘you’re a wulgar beast.’

‘I hope, gentlemen,’ said Harris, ‘that you won’t be severe with me, gentlemen. I am very much obliged to you indeed, gentlemen, for your patronage, and also for your recommendations, gentlemen, whenever additional assistance in waiting is required. I hope, gentlemen, I give satisfaction.’

‘No, you don’t, Sir,’ said Mr. Tuckle. ‘Very far from it, Sir.’

‘We consider you an inattentive reskel,’ said the gentleman in the orange plush.

‘And a low thief,’ added the gentleman in the green-foil smalls.

‘And an unreclaimable blaygaird,’ added the gentleman in purple.

The poor greengrocer bowed very humbly while these little epithets were bestowed upon him, in the true spirit of the very smallest tyranny; and when everybody had said something to show his superiority, Mr. Tuckle proceeded to carve the leg of mutton, and to help the company.

This important business of the evening had hardly commenced, when the door was thrown briskly open, and another gentleman in a light-blue suit, and leaden buttons, made his appearance.

‘Against the rules,’ said Mr. Tuckle. ‘Too late, too late.’

‘No, no; positively I couldn’t help it,’ said the gentleman in blue. ‘I appeal to the company. An affair of gallantry now, an appointment at the theayter.’

‘Oh, that indeed,’ said the gentleman in the orange plush.

‘Yes; raly now, honour bright,’ said the man in blue. ‘I made a promese to fetch our youngest daughter at half-past ten, and she is such an uncauminly fine gal, that I raly hadn’t the ‘art to disappint her. No offence to the present company, Sir, but a petticut, sir—a petticut, Sir, is irrevokeable.’

‘I begin to suspect there’s something in that quarter,’ said Tuckle, as the new-comer took his seat next Sam, ‘I’ve remarked, once or twice, that she leans very heavy on your shoulder when she gets in and out of the carriage.’

‘Oh, raly, raly, Tuckle, you shouldn’t,’ said the man in blue. ‘It’s not fair. I may have said to one or two friends that she wos a very divine creechure, and had refused one or two offers without any hobvus cause, but—no, no, no, indeed, Tuckle—before strangers, too—it’s not right— you shouldn’t. Delicacy, my dear friend, delicacy!’ And the man in blue, pulling up his neckerchief, and adjusting his coat cuffs, nodded and frowned as if there were more behind, which he could say if he liked, but was bound in honour to suppress.

The man in blue being a light-haired, stiff-necked, free and easy sort of footman, with a swaggering air and pert face, had attracted Mr. Weller’s special attention at first, but when he began to come out in this way, Sam felt more than ever disposed to cultivate his acquaintance; so he launched himself into the conversation at once, with characteristic independence.

‘Your health, Sir,’ said Sam. ‘I like your conversation much. I think it’s wery pretty.’

At this the man in blue smiled, as if it were a compliment he was well used to; but looked approvingly on Sam at the same time, and said he hoped he should be better acquainted with him, for without any flattery at all he seemed to have the makings of a very nice fellow about him, and to be just the man after his own heart.

‘You’re wery good, sir,’ said Sam. ‘What a lucky feller you are!’

‘How do you mean?’ inquired the gentleman in blue.

‘That ‘ere young lady,’ replied Sam. ‘She knows wot’s wot, she does. Ah! I see.’ Mr. Weller closed one eye, and shook his head from side to side, in a manner which was highly gratifying to the personal vanity of the gentleman in blue.

‘I’m afraid you’re a cunning fellow, Mr. Weller,’ said that individual.

‘No, no,’ said Sam. ‘I leave all that ‘ere to you. It’s a great deal more in your way than mine, as the gen’l’m’n on the right side o’ the garden vall said to the man on the wrong un, ven the mad bull vos a- comin’ up the lane.’

‘Well, well, Mr. Weller,’ said the gentleman in blue, ‘I think she has remarked my air and manner, Mr. Weller.’

‘I should think she couldn’t wery well be off o’ that,’ said Sam.

‘Have you any little thing of that kind in hand, sir?’ inquired the favoured gentleman in blue, drawing a toothpick from his waistcoat pocket.

‘Not exactly,’ said Sam. ‘There’s no daughters at my place, else o’ course I should ha’ made up to vun on ‘em. As it is, I don’t think I can do with anythin’ under a female markis. I might keep up with a young ‘ooman o’ large property as hadn’t a title, if she made wery fierce love to me. Not else.’

‘Of course not, Mr. Weller,’ said the gentleman in blue, ‘one can’t be troubled, you know; and we know, Mr. Weller—we, who are men of the world—that a good uniform must work its way with the women, sooner or later. In fact, that’s the only thing, between you and me, that makes the service worth entering into.’

‘Just so,’ said Sam. ‘That’s it, o’ course.’

When this confidential dialogue had gone thus far, glasses were placed round, and every gentleman ordered what he liked best, before the public-house shut up. The gentleman in blue, and the man in orange, who were the chief exquisites of the party, ordered ‘cold shrub and water,’ but with the others, gin-and-water, sweet, appeared to be the favourite beverage. Sam called the greengrocer a ‘desp’rate willin,’ and ordered a large bowl of punch—two circumstances which seemed to raise him very much in the opinion of the selections.

‘Gentlemen,’ said the man in blue, with an air of the most consummate dandyism, ‘I’ll give you the ladies; come.’

‘Hear, hear!’ said Sam. ‘The young mississes.’

Here there was a loud cry of ‘Order,’ and Mr. John Smauker, as the gentleman who had introduced Mr. Weller into that company, begged to inform him that the word he had just made use of, was unparliamentary.

‘Which word was that ‘ere, Sir?’ inquired Sam.

‘Mississes, Sir,’ replied Mr. John Smauker, with an alarming frown. ‘We don’t recognise such distinctions here.’

‘Oh, wery good,’ said Sam; ‘then I’ll amend the obserwation and call ‘em the dear creeturs, if Blazes vill allow me.’

Some doubt appeared to exist in the mind of the gentleman in the green- foil smalls, whether the chairman could be legally appealed to, as ‘Blazes,’ but as the company seemed more disposed to stand upon their own rights than his, the question was not raised. The man with the cocked hat breathed short, and looked long at Sam, but apparently thought it as well to say nothing, in case he should get the worst of it. After a short silence, a gentleman in an embroidered coat reaching down to his heels, and a waistcoat of the same which kept one half of his legs warm, stirred his gin-and-water with great energy, and putting himself upon his feet, all at once by a violent effort, said he was desirous of offering a few remarks to the company, whereupon the person in the cocked hat had no doubt that the company would be very happy to hear any remarks that the man in the long coat might wish to offer.

‘I feel a great delicacy, gentlemen, in coming for’ard,’ said the man in the long coat, ‘having the misforchune to be a coachman, and being only admitted as a honorary member of these agreeable swarrys, but I do feel myself bound, gentlemen—drove into a corner, if I may use the expression—to make known an afflicting circumstance which has come to my knowledge; which has happened I may say within the soap of my everyday contemplation. Gentlemen, our friend Mr. Whiffers (everybody looked at the individual in orange), our friend Mr. Whiffers has resigned.’

Universal astonishment fell upon the hearers. Each gentleman looked in his neighbour’s face, and then transferred his glance to the upstanding coachman.

‘You may well be sapparised, gentlemen,’ said the coachman. ‘I will not wenchure to state the reasons of this irrepairabel loss to the service, but I will beg Mr. Whiffers to state them himself, for the improvement and imitation of his admiring friends.’

The suggestion being loudly approved of, Mr. Whiffers explained. He said he certainly could have wished to have continued to hold the appointment he had just resigned. The uniform was extremely rich and expensive, the females of the family was most agreeable, and the duties of the situation was not, he was bound to say, too heavy; the principal service that was required of him, being, that he should look out of the hall window as much as possible, in company with another gentleman, who had also resigned. He could have wished to have spared that company the painful and disgusting detail on which he was about to enter, but as the explanation had been demanded of him, he had no alternative but to state, boldly and distinctly, that he had been required to eat cold meat.

It is impossible to conceive the disgust which this avowal awakened in the bosoms of the hearers. Loud cries of ‘Shame,’ mingled with groans and hisses, prevailed for a quarter of an hour.

Mr. Whiffers then added that he feared a portion of this outrage might be traced to his own forbearing and accommodating disposition. He had a distinct recollection of having once consented to eat salt butter, and he had, moreover, on an occasion of sudden sickness in the house, so far forgotten himself as to carry a coal-scuttle up to the second floor. He trusted he had not lowered himself in the good opinion of his friends by this frank confession of his faults; and he hoped the promptness with which he had resented the last unmanly outrage on his feelings, to which he had referred, would reinstate him in their good opinion, if he had.

Mr. Whiffers’s address was responded to, with a shout of admiration, and the health of the interesting martyr was drunk in a most enthusiastic manner; for this, the martyr returned thanks, and proposed their visitor, Mr. Weller—a gentleman whom he had not the pleasure of an intimate acquaintance with, but who was the friend of Mr. John Smauker, which was a sufficient letter of recommendation to any society of gentlemen whatever, or wherever. On this account, he should have been disposed to have given Mr. Weller’s health with all the honours, if his friends had been drinking wine; but as they were taking spirits by way of a change, and as it might be inconvenient to empty a tumbler at every toast, he should propose that the honours be understood.

At the conclusion of this speech, everybody took a sip in honour of Sam; and Sam having ladled out, and drunk, two full glasses of punch in honour of himself, returned thanks in a neat speech.

‘Wery much obliged to you, old fellers,’ said Sam, ladling away at the punch in the most unembarrassed manner possible, ‘for this here compliment; which, comin’ from sich a quarter, is wery overvelmin’. I’ve heered a good deal on you as a body, but I will say, that I never thought you was sich uncommon nice men as I find you air. I only hope you’ll take care o’ yourselves, and not compromise nothin’ o’ your dignity, which is a wery charmin’ thing to see, when one’s out a- walkin’, and has always made me wery happy to look at, ever since I was a boy about half as high as the brass-headed stick o’ my wery respectable friend, Blazes, there. As to the wictim of oppression in the suit o’ brimstone, all I can say of him, is, that I hope he’ll get jist as good a berth as he deserves; in vitch case it’s wery little cold swarry as ever he’ll be troubled with agin.’

Here Sam sat down with a pleasant smile, and his speech having been vociferously applauded, the company broke up.

‘Wy, you don’t mean to say you’re a-goin’ old feller?’ said Sam Weller to his friend, Mr. John Smauker.

‘I must, indeed,’ said Mr. Smauker; ‘I promised Bantam.’

‘Oh, wery well,’ said Sam; ‘that’s another thing. P’raps he’d resign if you disappinted him. You ain’t a-goin’, Blazes?’

‘Yes, I am,’ said the man with the cocked hat.

‘Wot, and leave three-quarters of a bowl of punch behind you!’ said Sam; ‘nonsense, set down agin.’

Mr. Tuckle was not proof against this invitation. He laid aside the cocked hat and stick which he had just taken up, and said he would have one glass, for good fellowship’s sake.

As the gentleman in blue went home the same way as Mr. Tuckle, he was prevailed upon to stop too. When the punch was about half gone, Sam ordered in some oysters from the green-grocer’s shop; and the effect of both was so extremely exhilarating, that Mr. Tuckle, dressed out with the cocked hat and stick, danced the frog hornpipe among the shells on the table, while the gentleman in blue played an accompaniment upon an ingenious musical instrument formed of a hair-comb upon a curl-paper. At last, when the punch was all gone, and the night nearly so, they sallied forth to see each other home. Mr. Tuckle no sooner got into the open air, than he was seized with a sudden desire to lie on the curbstone; Sam thought it would be a pity to contradict him, and so let him have his own way. As the cocked hat would have been spoiled if left there, Sam very considerately flattened it down on the head of the gentleman in blue, and putting the big stick in his hand, propped him up against his own street-door, rang the bell, and walked quietly home.

At a much earlier hour next morning than his usual time of rising, Mr. Pickwick walked downstairs completely dressed, and rang the bell.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, when Mr. Weller appeared in reply to the summons, ‘shut the door.’

Mr. Weller did so.

‘There was an unfortunate occurrence here, last night, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘which gave Mr. Winkle some cause to apprehend violence from Mr. Dowler.’

‘So I’ve heerd from the old lady downstairs, Sir,’ replied Sam.

‘And I’m sorry to say, Sam,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, with a most perplexed countenance, ‘that in dread of this violence, Mr. Winkle has gone away.’

‘Gone avay!’ said Sam.

‘Left the house early this morning, without the slightest previous communication with me,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘And is gone, I know not where.’

‘He should ha’ stopped and fought it out, Sir,’ replied Sam contemptuously. ‘It wouldn’t take much to settle that ‘ere Dowler, Sir.’

‘Well, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I may have my doubts of his great bravery and determination also. But however that may be, Mr. Winkle is gone. He must be found, Sam. Found and brought back to me.’

And s’pose he won’t come back, Sir?’ said Sam.

‘He must be made, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Who’s to do it, Sir?’ inquired Sam, with a smile.

‘You,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Wery good, Sir.’

With these words Mr. Weller left the room, and immediately afterwards was heard to shut the street door. In two hours’ time he returned with so much coolness as if he had been despatched on the most ordinary message possible, and brought the information that an individual, in every respect answering Mr. Winkle’s description, had gone over to Bristol that morning, by the branch coach from the Royal Hotel.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, grasping his hand, ‘you’re a capital fellow; an invaluable fellow. You must follow him, Sam.’

‘Cert’nly, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘The instant you discover him, write to me immediately, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘If he attempts to run away from you, knock him down, or lock him up. You have my full authority, Sam.’

‘I’ll be wery careful, sir,’ rejoined Sam.

‘You’ll tell him,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘that I am highly excited, highly displeased, and naturally indignant, at the very extraordinary course he has thought proper to pursue.’

‘I will, Sir,’ replied Sam.

‘You’ll tell him,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘that if he does not come back to this very house, with you, he will come back with me, for I will come and fetch him.’

‘I’ll mention that ‘ere, Sir,’ rejoined Sam.

‘You think you can find him, Sam?’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking earnestly in his face.

‘Oh, I’ll find him if he’s anyvere,’ rejoined Sam, with great confidence.

‘Very well,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Then the sooner you go the better.’

With these instructions, Mr. Pickwick placed a sum of money in the hands of his faithful servitor, and ordered him to start for Bristol immediately, in pursuit of the fugitive.

Sam put a few necessaries in a carpet-bag, and was ready for starting. He stopped when he had got to the end of the passage, and walking quietly back, thrust his head in at the parlour door.

‘Sir,’ whispered Sam.

‘Well, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘I fully understands my instructions, do I, Sir?’ inquired Sam.

‘I hope so,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘It’s reg’larly understood about the knockin’ down, is it, Sir?’ inquired Sam.

‘Perfectly,’ replied Pickwick. ‘Thoroughly. Do what you think necessary. You have my orders.’

Sam gave a nod of intelligence, and withdrawing his head from the door, set forth on his pilgrimage with a light heart.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. HOW MR. WINKLE, WHEN HE STEPPED OUT OF THE FRYING-PAN, WALKED GENTLY AND COMFORTABLY INTO THE FIRE

The ill-starred gentleman who had been the unfortunate cause of the unusual noise and disturbance which alarmed the inhabitants of the Royal Crescent in manner and form already described, after passing a night of great confusion and anxiety, left the roof beneath which his friends still slumbered, bound he knew not whither. The excellent and considerate feelings which prompted Mr. Winkle to take this step can never be too highly appreciated or too warmly extolled. ‘If,’ reasoned Mr. Winkle with himself—‘if this Dowler attempts (as I have no doubt he will) to carry into execution his threat of personal violence against myself, it will be incumbent on me to call him out. He has a wife; that wife is attached to, and dependent on him. Heavens! If I should kill him in the blindness of my wrath, what would be my feelings ever afterwards!’ This painful consideration operated so powerfully on the feelings of the humane young man, as to cause his knees to knock together, and his countenance to exhibit alarming manifestations of inward emotion. Impelled by such reflections, he grasped his carpet-bag, and creeping stealthily downstairs, shut the detestable street door with as little noise as possible, and walked off. Bending his steps towards the Royal Hotel, he found a coach on the point of starting for Bristol, and, thinking Bristol as good a place for his purpose as any other he could go to, he mounted the box, and reached his place of destination in such time as the pair of horses, who went the whole stage and back again, twice a day or more, could be reasonably supposed to arrive there.

He took up his quarters at the Bush, and designing to postpone any communication by letter with Mr. Pickwick until it was probable that Mr. Dowler’s wrath might have in some degree evaporated, walked forth to view the city, which struck him as being a shade more dirty than any place he had ever seen. Having inspected the docks and shipping, and viewed the cathedral, he inquired his way to Clifton, and being directed thither, took the route which was pointed out to him. But as the pavements of Bristol are not the widest or cleanest upon earth, so its streets are not altogether the straightest or least intricate; and Mr. Winkle, being greatly puzzled by their manifold windings and twistings, looked about him for a decent shop in which he could apply afresh for counsel and instruction.

His eye fell upon a newly-painted tenement which had been recently converted into something between a shop and a private house, and which a red lamp, projecting over the fanlight of the street door, would have sufficiently announced as the residence of a medical practitioner, even if the word ‘Surgery’ had not been inscribed in golden characters on a wainscot ground, above the window of what, in times bygone, had been the front parlour. Thinking this an eligible place wherein to make his inquiries, Mr. Winkle stepped into the little shop where the gilt- labelled drawers and bottles were; and finding nobody there, knocked with a half-crown on the counter, to attract the attention of anybody who might happen to be in the back parlour, which he judged to be the innermost and peculiar sanctum of the establishment, from the repetition of the word surgery on the door—painted in white letters this time, by way of taking off the monotony.

At the first knock, a sound, as of persons fencing with fire-irons, which had until now been very audible, suddenly ceased; at the second, a studious-looking young gentleman in green spectacles, with a very large book in his hand, glided quietly into the shop, and stepping behind the counter, requested to know the visitor’s pleasure.

‘I am sorry to trouble you, Sir,’ said Mr. Winkle, ‘but will you have the goodness to direct me to—’

‘Ha! ha! ha!’ roared the studious young gentleman, throwing the large book up into the air, and catching it with great dexterity at the very moment when it threatened to smash to atoms all the bottles on the counter. ‘Here’s a start!’

There was, without doubt; for Mr. Winkle was so very much astonished at the extraordinary behaviour of the medical gentleman, that he involuntarily retreated towards the door, and looked very much disturbed at his strange reception.

‘What, don’t you know me?’ said the medical gentleman.

Mr. Winkle murmured, in reply, that he had not that pleasure.

‘Why, then,’ said the medical gentleman, ‘there are hopes for me yet; I may attend half the old women in Bristol, if I’ve decent luck. Get out, you mouldy old villain, get out!’ With this adjuration, which was addressed to the large book, the medical gentleman kicked the volume with remarkable agility to the farther end of the shop, and, pulling off his green spectacles, grinned the identical grin of Robert Sawyer, Esquire, formerly of Guy’s Hospital in the Borough, with a private residence in Lant Street.

‘You don’t mean to say you weren’t down upon me?’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer, shaking Mr. Winkle’s hand with friendly warmth.

‘Upon my word I was not,’ replied Mr. Winkle, returning his pressure.

‘I wonder you didn’t see the name,’ said Bob Sawyer, calling his friend’s attention to the outer door, on which, in the same white paint, were traced the words ‘Sawyer, late Nockemorf.’

‘It never caught my eye,’ returned Mr. Winkle.

‘Lord, if I had known who you were, I should have rushed out, and caught you in my arms,’ said Bob Sawyer; ‘but upon my life, I thought you were the King’s-taxes.’

‘No!’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘I did, indeed,’ responded Bob Sawyer, ‘and I was just going to say that I wasn’t at home, but if you’d leave a message I’d be sure to give it to myself; for he don’t know me; no more does the Lighting and Paving. I think the Church-rates guesses who I am, and I know the Water-works does, because I drew a tooth of his when I first came down here. But come in, come in!’ Chattering in this way, Mr. Bob Sawyer pushed Mr. Winkle into the back room, where, amusing himself by boring little circular caverns in the chimney-piece with a red-hot poker, sat no less a person than Mr. Benjamin Allen.

‘Well!’ said Mr. Winkle. ‘This is indeed a pleasure I did not expect. What a very nice place you have here!’

‘Pretty well, pretty well,’ replied Bob Sawyer. ‘I passed, soon after that precious party, and my friends came down with the needful for this business; so I put on a black suit of clothes, and a pair of spectacles, and came here to look as solemn as I could.’

‘And a very snug little business you have, no doubt?’ said Mr. Winkle knowingly.

‘Very,’ replied Bob Sawyer. ‘So snug, that at the end of a few years you might put all the profits in a wine-glass, and cover ‘em over with a gooseberry leaf.’

You cannot surely mean that?’ said Mr. Winkle. ‘The stock itself—’

Dummies, my dear boy,’ said Bob Sawyer; ‘half the drawers have nothing in ‘em, and the other half don’t open.’

‘Nonsense!’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘Fact—honour!’ returned Bob Sawyer, stepping out into the shop, and demonstrating the veracity of the assertion by divers hard pulls at the little gilt knobs on the counterfeit drawers. ‘Hardly anything real in the shop but the leeches, and _they _are second-hand.’

‘I shouldn’t have thought it!’ exclaimed Mr. Winkle, much surprised.

‘I hope not,’ replied Bob Sawyer, ‘else where’s the use of appearances, eh? But what will you take? Do as we do? That’s right. Ben, my fine fellow, put your hand into the cupboard, and bring out the patent digester.’

Mr. Benjamin Allen smiled his readiness, and produced from the closet at his elbow a black bottle half full of brandy.

‘You don’t take water, of course?’ said Bob Sawyer.

‘Thank you,’ replied Mr. Winkle. ‘It’s rather early. I should like to qualify it, if you have no objection.’

‘None in the least, if you can reconcile it to your conscience,’ replied Bob Sawyer, tossing off, as he spoke, a glass of the liquor with great relish. ‘Ben, the pipkin!’

Mr. Benjamin Allen drew forth, from the same hiding-place, a small brass pipkin, which Bob Sawyer observed he prided himself upon, particularly because it looked so business-like. The water in the professional pipkin having been made to boil, in course of time, by various little shovelfuls of coal, which Mr. Bob Sawyer took out of a practicable window-seat, labelled ‘Soda Water,’ Mr. Winkle adulterated his brandy; and the conversation was becoming general, when it was interrupted by the entrance into the shop of a boy, in a sober gray livery and a gold- laced hat, with a small covered basket under his arm, whom Mr. Bob Sawyer immediately hailed with, ‘Tom, you vagabond, come here.’

The boy presented himself accordingly.

‘You’ve been stopping to “over” all the posts in Bristol, you idle young scamp!’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer.

‘No, sir, I haven’t,’ replied the boy.

‘You had better not!’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer, with a threatening aspect. ‘Who do you suppose will ever employ a professional man, when they see his boy playing at marbles in the gutter, or flying the garter in the horse-road? Have you no feeling for your profession, you groveller? Did you leave all the medicine?’

Yes, Sir.’

‘The powders for the child, at the large house with the new family, and the pills to be taken four times a day at the ill-tempered old gentleman’s with the gouty leg?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then shut the door, and mind the shop.’

‘Come,’ said Mr. Winkle, as the boy retired, ‘things are not quite so bad as you would have me believe, either. There is _some _medicine to be sent out.’

Mr. Bob Sawyer peeped into the shop to see that no stranger was within hearing, and leaning forward to Mr. Winkle, said, in a low tone—

‘He leaves it all at the wrong houses.’

Mr. Winkle looked perplexed, and Bob Sawyer and his friend laughed.

‘Don’t you see?’ said Bob. ‘He goes up to a house, rings the area bell, pokes a packet of medicine without a direction into the servant’s hand, and walks off. Servant takes it into the dining-parlour; master opens it, and reads the label: “Draught to be taken at bedtime—pills as before—lotion as usual—the powder. From Sawyer’s, late Nockemorf’s. Physicians’ prescriptions carefully prepared,” and all the rest of it. Shows it to his wife—she reads the label; it goes down to the servants- -they read the label. Next day, boy calls: “Very sorry—his mistake— immense business—great many parcels to deliver—Mr. Sawyer’s compliments—late Nockemorf.” The name gets known, and that’s the thing, my boy, in the medical way. Bless your heart, old fellow, it’s better than all the advertising in the world. We have got one four-ounce bottle that’s been to half the houses in Bristol, and hasn’t done yet.’

‘Dear me, I see,’ observed Mr. Winkle; ‘what an excellent plan!’

‘Oh, Ben and I have hit upon a dozen such,’ replied Bob Sawyer, with great glee. ‘The lamplighter has eighteenpence a week to pull the night- bell for ten minutes every time he comes round; and my boy always rushes into the church just before the psalms, when the people have got nothing to do but look about ‘em, and calls me out, with horror and dismay depicted on his countenance. “Bless my soul,” everybody says, “somebody taken suddenly ill! Sawyer, late Nockemorf, sent for. What a business that young man has!”’

At the termination of this disclosure of some of the mysteries of medicine, Mr. Bob Sawyer and his friend, Ben Allen, threw themselves back in their respective chairs, and laughed boisterously. When they had enjoyed the joke to their heart’s content, the discourse changed to topics in which Mr. Winkle was more immediately interested.

We think we have hinted elsewhere, that Mr. Benjamin Allen had a way of becoming sentimental after brandy. The case is not a peculiar one, as we ourself can testify, having, on a few occasions, had to deal with patients who have been afflicted in a similar manner. At this precise period of his existence, Mr. Benjamin Allen had perhaps a greater predisposition to maudlinism than he had ever known before; the cause of which malady was briefly this. He had been staying nearly three weeks with Mr. Bob Sawyer; Mr. Bob Sawyer was not remarkable for temperance, nor was Mr. Benjamin Allen for the ownership of a very strong head; the consequence was that, during the whole space of time just mentioned, Mr. Benjamin Allen had been wavering between intoxication partial, and intoxication complete.

‘My dear friend,’ said Mr. Ben Allen, taking advantage of Mr. Bob Sawyer’s temporary absence behind the counter, whither he had retired to dispense some of the second-hand leeches, previously referred to; ‘my dear friend, I am very miserable.’

Mr. Winkle professed his heartfelt regret to hear it, and begged to know whether he could do anything to alleviate the sorrows of the suffering student.

‘Nothing, my dear boy, nothing,’ said Ben. ‘You recollect Arabella, Winkle? My sister Arabella—a little girl, Winkle, with black eyes—when we were down at Wardle’s? I don’t know whether you happened to notice her—a nice little girl, Winkle. Perhaps my features may recall her countenance to your recollection?’

Mr. Winkle required nothing to recall the charming Arabella to his mind; and it was rather fortunate he did not, for the features of her brother Benjamin would unquestionably have proved but an indifferent refresher to his memory. He answered, with as much calmness as he could assume, that he perfectly remembered the young lady referred to, and sincerely trusted she was in good health.

‘Our friend Bob is a delightful fellow, Winkle,’ was the only reply of Mr. Ben Allen.

‘Very,’ said Mr. Winkle, not much relishing this close connection of the two names.

‘I designed ‘em for each other; they were made for each other, sent into the world for each other, born for each other, Winkle,’ said Mr. Ben Allen, setting down his glass with emphasis. ‘There’s a special destiny in the matter, my dear sir; there’s only five years’ difference between ‘em, and both their birthdays are in August.’

Mr. Winkle was too anxious to hear what was to follow to express much wonderment at this extraordinary coincidence, marvellous as it was; so Mr. Ben Allen, after a tear or two, went on to say that, notwithstanding all his esteem and respect and veneration for his friend, Arabella had unaccountably and undutifully evinced the most determined antipathy to his person.

‘And I think,’ said Mr. Ben Allen, in conclusion. ‘I think there’s a prior attachment.’

‘Have you any idea who the object of it might be?’ asked Mr. Winkle, with great trepidation.

Mr. Ben Allen seized the poker, flourished it in a warlike manner above his head, inflicted a savage blow on an imaginary skull, and wound up by saying, in a very expressive manner, that he only wished he could guess; that was all.

‘I’d show him what I thought of him,’ said Mr. Ben Allen. And round went the poker again, more fiercely than before.

All this was, of course, very soothing to the feelings of Mr. Winkle, who remained silent for a few minutes; but at length mustered up resolution to inquire whether Miss Allen was in Kent.

‘No, no,’ said Mr. Ben Allen, laying aside the poker, and looking very cunning; ‘I didn’t think Wardle’s exactly the place for a headstrong girl; so, as I am her natural protector and guardian, our parents being dead, I have brought her down into this part of the country to spend a few months at an old aunt’s, in a nice, dull, close place. I think that will cure her, my boy. If it doesn’t, I’ll take her abroad for a little while, and see what that’ll do.’

‘Oh, the aunt’s is in Bristol, is it?’ faltered Mr. Winkle.

‘No, no, not in Bristol,’ replied Mr. Ben Allen, jerking his thumb over his right shoulder; ‘over that way—down there. But, hush, here’s Bob. Not a word, my dear friend, not a word.’

Short as this conversation was, it roused in Mr. Winkle the highest degree of excitement and anxiety. The suspected prior attachment rankled in his heart. Could he be the object of it? Could it be for him that the fair Arabella had looked scornfully on the sprightly Bob Sawyer, or had he a successful rival? He determined to see her, cost what it might; but here an insurmountable objection presented itself, for whether the explanatory ‘over that way,’ and ‘down there,’ of Mr. Ben Allen, meant three miles off, or thirty, or three hundred, he could in no wise guess.

But he had no opportunity of pondering over his love just then, for Bob Sawyer’s return was the immediate precursor of the arrival of a meat-pie from the baker’s, of which that gentleman insisted on his staying to partake. The cloth was laid by an occasional charwoman, who officiated in the capacity of Mr. Bob Sawyer’s housekeeper; and a third knife and fork having been borrowed from the mother of the boy in the gray livery (for Mr. Sawyer’s domestic arrangements were as yet conducted on a limited scale), they sat down to dinner; the beer being served up, as Mr. Sawyer remarked, ‘in its native pewter.’

After dinner, Mr. Bob Sawyer ordered in the largest mortar in the shop, and proceeded to brew a reeking jorum of rum-punch therein, stirring up and amalgamating the materials with a pestle in a very creditable and apothecary-like manner. Mr. Sawyer, being a bachelor, had only one tumbler in the house, which was assigned to Mr. Winkle as a compliment to the visitor, Mr. Ben Allen being accommodated with a funnel with a cork in the narrow end, and Bob Sawyer contented himself with one of those wide-lipped crystal vessels inscribed with a variety of cabalistic characters, in which chemists are wont to measure out their liquid drugs in compounding prescriptions. These preliminaries adjusted, the punch was tasted, and pronounced excellent; and it having been arranged that Bob Sawyer and Ben Allen should be considered at liberty to fill twice to Mr. Winkle’s once, they started fair, with great satisfaction and good-fellowship.

There was no singing, because Mr. Bob Sawyer said it wouldn’t look professional; but to make amends for this deprivation there was so much talking and laughing that it might have been heard, and very likely was, at the end of the street. Which conversation materially lightened the hours and improved the mind of Mr. Bob Sawyer’s boy, who, instead of devoting the evening to his ordinary occupation of writing his name on the counter, and rubbing it out again, peeped through the glass door, and thus listened and looked on at the same time.

The mirth of Mr. Bob Sawyer was rapidly ripening into the furious, Mr. Ben Allen was fast relapsing into the sentimental, and the punch had well-nigh disappeared altogether, when the boy hastily running in, announced that a young woman had just come over, to say that Sawyer late Nockemorf was wanted directly, a couple of streets off. This broke up the party. Mr. Bob Sawyer, understanding the message, after some twenty repetitions, tied a wet cloth round his head to sober himself, and, having partially succeeded, put on his green spectacles and issued forth. Resisting all entreaties to stay till he came back, and finding it quite impossible to engage Mr. Ben Allen in any intelligible conversation on the subject nearest his heart, or indeed on any other, Mr. Winkle took his departure, and returned to the Bush.

The anxiety of his mind, and the numerous meditations which Arabella had awakened, prevented his share of the mortar of punch producing that effect upon him which it would have had under other circumstances. So, after taking a glass of soda-water and brandy at the bar, he turned into the coffee-room, dispirited rather than elevated by the occurrences of the evening.

Sitting in front of the fire, with his back towards him, was a tallish gentleman in a greatcoat: the only other occupant of the room. It was rather a cool evening for the season of the year, and the gentleman drew his chair aside to afford the new-comer a sight of the fire. What were Mr. Winkle’s feelings when, in doing so, he disclosed to view the face and figure of the vindictive and sanguinary Dowler!

Mr. Winkle’s first impulse was to give a violent pull at the nearest bell-handle, but that unfortunately happened to be immediately behind Mr. Dowler’s head. He had made one step towards it, before he checked himself. As he did so, Mr. Dowler very hastily drew back.

‘Mr. Winkle, Sir. Be calm. Don’t strike me. I won’t bear it. A blow! Never!’ said Mr. Dowler, looking meeker than Mr. Winkle had expected in a gentleman of his ferocity.

‘A blow, Sir?’ stammered Mr. Winkle.

‘A blow, Sir,’ replied Dowler. ‘Compose your feelings. Sit down. Hear me.’

‘Sir,’ said Mr. Winkle, trembling from head to foot, ‘before I consent to sit down beside, or opposite you, without the presence of a waiter, I must be secured by some further understanding. You used a threat against me last night, Sir, a dreadful threat, Sir.’ Here Mr. Winkle turned very pale indeed, and stopped short.

‘I did,’ said Dowler, with a countenance almost as white as Mr. Winkle’s. ‘Circumstances were suspicious. They have been explained. I respect your bravery. Your feeling is upright. Conscious innocence. There’s my hand. Grasp it.’

‘Really, Sir,’ said Mr. Winkle, hesitating whether to give his hand or not, and almost fearing that it was demanded in order that he might be taken at an advantage, ‘really, Sir, I—’

‘I know what you mean,’ interposed Dowler. ‘You feel aggrieved. Very natural. So should I. I was wrong. I beg your pardon. Be friendly. Forgive me.’ With this, Dowler fairly forced his hand upon Mr. Winkle, and shaking it with the utmost vehemence, declared he was a fellow of extreme spirit, and he had a higher opinion of him than ever.

‘Now,’ said Dowler, ‘sit down. Relate it all. How did you find me? When did you follow? Be frank. Tell me.’

‘It’s quite accidental,’ replied Mr. Winkle, greatly perplexed by the curious and unexpected nature of the interview. ‘Quite.’

‘Glad of it,’ said Dowler. ‘I woke this morning. I had forgotten my threat. I laughed at the accident. I felt friendly. I said so.’

‘To whom?’ inquired Mr. Winkle.

‘To Mrs. Dowler. “You made a vow,” said she. “I did,” said I. “It was a rash one,” said she. “It was,” said I. “I’ll apologise. Where is he?”’

‘Who?’ inquired Mr. Winkle.

‘You,’ replied Dowler. ‘I went downstairs. You were not to be found. Pickwick looked gloomy. Shook his head. Hoped no violence would be committed. I saw it all. You felt yourself insulted. You had gone, for a friend perhaps. Possibly for pistols. “High spirit,” said I. “I admire him.”’

Mr. Winkle coughed, and beginning to see how the land lay, assumed a look of importance.

‘I left a note for you,’ resumed Dowler. ‘I said I was sorry. So I was. Pressing business called me here. You were not satisfied. You followed. You required a verbal explanation. You were right. It’s all over now. My business is finished. I go back to-morrow. Join me.’

As Dowler progressed in his explanation, Mr. Winkle’s countenance grew more and more dignified. The mysterious nature of the commencement of their conversation was explained; Mr. Dowler had as great an objection to duelling as himself; in short, this blustering and awful personage was one of the most egregious cowards in existence, and interpreting Mr. Winkle’s absence through the medium of his own fears, had taken the same step as himself, and prudently retired until all excitement of feeling should have subsided.

As the real state of the case dawned upon Mr. Winkle’s mind, he looked very terrible, and said he was perfectly satisfied; but at the same time, said so with an air that left Mr. Dowler no alternative but to infer that if he had not been, something most horrible and destructive must inevitably have occurred. Mr. Dowler appeared to be impressed with a becoming sense of Mr. Winkle’s magnanimity and condescension; and the two belligerents parted for the night, with many protestations of eternal friendship.

About half-past twelve o’clock, when Mr. Winkle had been revelling some twenty minutes in the full luxury of his first sleep, he was suddenly awakened by a loud knocking at his chamber door, which, being repeated with increased vehemence, caused him to start up in bed, and inquire who was there, and what the matter was.

‘Please, Sir, here’s a young man which says he must see you directly,’ responded the voice of the chambermaid.

‘A young man!’ exclaimed Mr. Winkle.

‘No mistake about that ‘ere, Sir,’ replied another voice through the keyhole; ‘and if that wery same interestin’ young creetur ain’t let in vithout delay, it’s wery possible as his legs vill enter afore his countenance.’ The young man gave a gentle kick at one of the lower panels of the door, after he had given utterance to this hint, as if to add force and point to the remark.

‘Is that you, Sam?’ inquired Mr. Winkle, springing out of bed.

‘Quite unpossible to identify any gen’l’m’n vith any degree o’ mental satisfaction, vithout lookin’ at him, Sir,’ replied the voice dogmatically.

Mr. Winkle, not much doubting who the young man was, unlocked the door; which he had no sooner done than Mr. Samuel Weller entered with great precipitation, and carefully relocking it on the inside, deliberately put the key in his waistcoat pocket; and, after surveying Mr. Winkle from head to foot, said—

‘You’re a wery humorous young gen’l’m’n, you air, Sir!’

‘What do you mean by this conduct, Sam?’ inquired Mr. Winkle indignantly. ‘Get out, sir, this instant. What do you mean, Sir?’

‘What do I mean,’ retorted Sam; ‘come, Sir, this is rayther too rich, as the young lady said when she remonstrated with the pastry-cook, arter he’d sold her a pork pie as had got nothin’ but fat inside. What do I mean! Well, that ain’t a bad ‘un, that ain’t.’

‘Unlock that door, and leave this room immediately, Sir,’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘I shall leave this here room, sir, just precisely at the wery same moment as you leaves it,’ responded Sam, speaking in a forcible manner, and seating himself with perfect gravity. ‘If I find it necessary to carry you away, pick-a-back, o’ course I shall leave it the least bit o’ time possible afore you; but allow me to express a hope as you won’t reduce me to extremities; in saying wich, I merely quote wot the nobleman said to the fractious pennywinkle, ven he vouldn’t come out of his shell by means of a pin, and he conseqvently began to be afeered that he should be obliged to crack him in the parlour door.’ At the end of this address, which was unusually lengthy for him, Mr. Weller planted his hands on his knees, and looked full in Mr. Winkle’s face, with an expression of countenance which showed that he had not the remotest intention of being trifled with.

‘You’re a amiably-disposed young man, Sir, I don’t think,’ resumed Mr. Weller, in a tone of moral reproof, ‘to go inwolving our precious governor in all sorts o’ fanteegs, wen he’s made up his mind to go through everythink for principle. You’re far worse nor Dodson, Sir; and as for Fogg, I consider him a born angel to you!’ Mr. Weller having accompanied this last sentiment with an emphatic slap on each knee, folded his arms with a look of great disgust, and threw himself back in his chair, as if awaiting the criminal’s defence.

‘My good fellow,’ said Mr. Winkle, extending his hand—his teeth chattering all the time he spoke, for he had been standing, during the whole of Mr. Weller’s lecture, in his night-gear—‘my good fellow, I respect your attachment to my excellent friend, and I am very sorry indeed to have added to his causes for disquiet. There, Sam, there!’

‘Well,’ said Sam, rather sulkily, but giving the proffered hand a respectful shake at the same time—‘well, so you ought to be, and I am very glad to find you air; for, if I can help it, I won’t have him put upon by nobody, and that’s all about it.’

‘Certainly not, Sam,’ said Mr. Winkle. ‘There! Now go to bed, Sam, and we’ll talk further about this in the morning.’

‘I’m wery sorry,’ said Sam, ‘but I can’t go to bed.’

‘Not go to bed!’ repeated Mr. Winkle.

‘No,’ said Sam, shaking his head. ‘Can’t be done.’

‘You don’t mean to say you’re going back to-night, Sam?’ urged Mr. Winkle, greatly surprised.

‘Not unless you particklerly wish it,’ replied Sam; ‘but I mustn’t leave this here room. The governor’s orders wos peremptory.’

‘Nonsense, Sam,’ said Mr. Winkle, ‘I must stop here two or three days; and more than that, Sam, you must stop here too, to assist me in gaining an interview with a young lady—Miss Allen, Sam; you remember her—whom I must and will see before I leave Bristol.’

But in reply to each of these positions, Sam shook his head with great firmness, and energetically replied, ‘It can’t be done.’

After a great deal of argument and representation on the part of Mr. Winkle, however, and a full disclosure of what had passed in the interview with Dowler, Sam began to waver; and at length a compromise was effected, of which the following were the main and principal conditions:—

That Sam should retire, and leave Mr. Winkle in the undisturbed possession of his apartment, on the condition that he had permission to lock the door on the outside, and carry off the key; provided always, that in the event of an alarm of fire, or other dangerous contingency, the door should be instantly unlocked. That a letter should be written to Mr. Pickwick early next morning, and forwarded per Dowler, requesting his consent to Sam and Mr. Winkle’s remaining at Bristol, for the purpose and with the object already assigned, and begging an answer by the next coach—, if favourable, the aforesaid parties to remain accordingly, and if not, to return to Bath immediately on the receipt thereof. And, lastly, that Mr. Winkle should be understood as distinctly pledging himself not to resort to the window, fireplace, or other surreptitious mode of escape in the meanwhile. These stipulations having been concluded, Sam locked the door and departed.

He had nearly got downstairs, when he stopped, and drew the key from his pocket.

‘I quite forgot about the knockin’ down,’ said Sam, half turning back. ‘The governor distinctly said it was to be done. Amazin’ stupid o’ me, that ‘ere! Never mind,’ said Sam, brightening up, ‘it’s easily done to- morrow, anyvays.’

Apparently much consoled by this reflection, Mr. Weller once more deposited the key in his pocket, and descending the remainder of the stairs without any fresh visitations of conscience, was soon, in common with the other inmates of the house, buried in profound repose.

CHAPTER XXXIX. MR. SAMUEL WELLER, BEING INTRUSTED WITH A MISSION OF LOVE, PROCEEDS TO EXECUTE IT; WITH WHAT SUCCESS WILL HEREINAFTER APPEAR

During the whole of next day, Sam kept Mr. Winkle steadily in sight, fully determined not to take his eyes off him for one instant, until he should receive express instructions from the fountain-head. However disagreeable Sam’s very close watch and great vigilance were to Mr. Winkle, he thought it better to bear with them, than, by any act of violent opposition, to hazard being carried away by force, which Mr. Weller more than once strongly hinted was the line of conduct that a strict sense of duty prompted him to pursue. There is little reason to doubt that Sam would very speedily have quieted his scruples, by bearing Mr. Winkle back to Bath, bound hand and foot, had not Mr. Pickwick’s prompt attention to the note, which Dowler had undertaken to deliver, forestalled any such proceeding. In short, at eight o’clock in the evening, Mr. Pickwick himself walked into the coffee-room of the Bush Tavern, and told Sam with a smile, to his very great relief, that he had done quite right, and it was unnecessary for him to mount guard any longer.

‘I thought it better to come myself,’ said Mr. Pickwick, addressing Mr. Winkle, as Sam disencumbered him of his great-coat and travelling-shawl, ‘to ascertain, before I gave my consent to Sam’s employment in this matter, that you are quite in earnest and serious, with respect to this young lady.’

‘Serious, from my heart—from my soul!’ returned Mr. Winkle, with great energy.

‘Remember,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with beaming eyes, ‘we met her at our excellent and hospitable friend’s, Winkle. It would be an ill return to tamper lightly, and without due consideration, with this young lady’s affections. I’ll not allow that, sir. I’ll not allow it.’

‘I have no such intention, indeed,’ exclaimed Mr. Winkle warmly. ‘I have considered the matter well, for a long time, and I feel that my happiness is bound up in her.’

‘That’s wot we call tying it up in a small parcel, sir,’ interposed Mr. Weller, with an agreeable smile.

Mr. Winkle looked somewhat stern at this interruption, and Mr. Pickwick angrily requested his attendant not to jest with one of the best feelings of our nature; to which Sam replied, ‘That he wouldn’t, if he was aware on it; but there were so many on ‘em, that he hardly know’d which was the best ones wen he heerd ‘em mentioned.’

Mr. Winkle then recounted what had passed between himself and Mr. Ben Allen, relative to Arabella; stated that his object was to gain an interview with the young lady, and make a formal disclosure of his passion; and declared his conviction, founded on certain dark hints and mutterings of the aforesaid Ben, that, wherever she was at present immured, it was somewhere near the Downs. And this was his whole stock of knowledge or suspicion on the subject.

With this very slight clue to guide him, it was determined that Mr. Weller should start next morning on an expedition of discovery; it was also arranged that Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Winkle, who were less confident of their powers, should parade the town meanwhile, and accidentally drop in upon Mr. Bob Sawyer in the course of the day, in the hope of seeing or hearing something of the young lady’s whereabouts.

Accordingly, next morning, Sam Weller issued forth upon his quest, in no way daunted by the very discouraging prospect before him; and away he walked, up one street and down another—we were going to say, up one hill and down another, only it’s all uphill at Clifton—without meeting with anything or anybody that tended to throw the faintest light on the matter in hand. Many were the colloquies into which Sam entered with grooms who were airing horses on roads, and nursemaids who were airing children in lanes; but nothing could Sam elicit from either the first- mentioned or the last, which bore the slightest reference to the object of his artfully-prosecuted inquiries. There were a great many young ladies in a great many houses, the greater part whereof were shrewdly suspected by the male and female domestics to be deeply attached to somebody, or perfectly ready to become so, if opportunity afforded. But as none among these young ladies was Miss Arabella Allen, the information left Sam at exactly the old point of wisdom at which he had stood before.

Sam struggled across the Downs against a good high wind, wondering whether it was always necessary to hold your hat on with both hands in that part of the country, and came to a shady by-place, about which were sprinkled several little villas of quiet and secluded appearance. Outside a stable door at the bottom of a long back lane without a thoroughfare, a groom in undress was idling about, apparently persuading himself that he was doing something with a spade and a wheel-barrow. We may remark, in this place, that we have scarcely ever seen a groom near a stable, in his lazy moments, who has not been, to a greater or less extent, the victim of this singular delusion.

Sam thought he might as well talk to this groom as to any one else, especially as he was very tired with walking, and there was a good large stone just opposite the wheel-barrow; so he strolled down the lane, and, seating himself on the stone, opened a conversation with the ease and freedom for which he was remarkable.

‘Mornin’, old friend,’ said Sam.

‘Arternoon, you mean,’ replied the groom, casting a surly look at Sam.

‘You’re wery right, old friend,’ said Sam; ‘I do mean arternoon. How are you?’

‘Why, I don’t find myself much the better for seeing of you,’ replied the ill-tempered groom.

‘That’s wery odd—that is,’ said Sam, ‘for you look so uncommon cheerful, and seem altogether so lively, that it does vun’s heart good to see you.’

The surly groom looked surlier still at this, but not sufficiently so to produce any effect upon Sam, who immediately inquired, with a countenance of great anxiety, whether his master’s name was not Walker.

‘No, it ain’t,’ said the groom.

‘Nor Brown, I s’pose?’ said Sam.

‘No, it ain’t.’

‘Nor Vilson?’

‘No; nor that either,’ said the groom.

‘Vell,’ replied Sam, ‘then I’m mistaken, and he hasn’t got the honour o’ my acquaintance, which I thought he had. Don’t wait here out o’ compliment to me,’ said Sam, as the groom wheeled in the barrow, and prepared to shut the gate. ‘Ease afore ceremony, old boy; I’ll excuse you.’

‘I’d knock your head off for half-a-crown,’ said the surly groom, bolting one half of the gate.

‘Couldn’t afford to have it done on those terms,’ rejoined Sam. ‘It ‘ud be worth a life’s board wages at least, to you, and ‘ud be cheap at that. Make my compliments indoors. Tell ‘em not to vait dinner for me, and say they needn’t mind puttin’ any by, for it’ll be cold afore I come in.’

In reply to this, the groom waxing very wroth, muttered a desire to damage somebody’s person; but disappeared without carrying it into execution, slamming the door angrily after him, and wholly unheeding Sam’s affectionate request, that he would leave him a lock of his hair before he went.

Sam continued to sit on the large stone, meditating upon what was best to be done, and revolving in his mind a plan for knocking at all the doors within five miles of Bristol, taking them at a hundred and fifty or two hundred a day, and endeavouring to find Miss Arabella by that expedient, when accident all of a sudden threw in his way what he might have sat there for a twelvemonth and yet not found without it.

Into the lane where he sat, there opened three or four garden gates, belonging to as many houses, which though detached from each other, were only separated by their gardens. As these were large and long, and well planted with trees, the houses were not only at some distance off, but the greater part of them were nearly concealed from view. Sam was sitting with his eyes fixed upon the dust-heap outside the next gate to that by which the groom had disappeared, profoundly turning over in his mind the difficulties of his present undertaking, when the gate opened, and a female servant came out into the lane to shake some bedside carpets.

Sam was so very busy with his own thoughts, that it is probable he would have taken no more notice of the young woman than just raising his head and remarking that she had a very neat and pretty figure, if his feelings of gallantry had not been most strongly roused by observing that she had no one to help her, and that the carpets seemed too heavy for her single strength. Mr. Weller was a gentleman of great gallantry in his own way, and he no sooner remarked this circumstance than he hastily rose from the large stone, and advanced towards her.

‘My dear,’ said Sam, sliding up with an air of great respect, ‘you’ll spile that wery pretty figure out o’ all perportion if you shake them carpets by yourself. Let me help you.’

The young lady, who had been coyly affecting not to know that a gentleman was so near, turned round as Sam spoke—no doubt (indeed she said so, afterwards) to decline this offer from a perfect stranger—when instead of speaking, she started back, and uttered a half-suppressed scream. Sam was scarcely less staggered, for in the countenance of the well-shaped female servant, he beheld the very features of his valentine, the pretty housemaid from Mr. Nupkins’s.

‘Wy, Mary, my dear!’ said Sam.

‘Lauk, Mr. Weller,’ said Mary, ‘how you do frighten one!’

Sam made no verbal answer to this complaint, nor can we precisely say what reply he did make. We merely know that after a short pause Mary said, ‘Lor, do adun, Mr. Weller!’ and that his hat had fallen off a few moments before—from both of which tokens we should be disposed to infer that one kiss, or more, had passed between the parties.

‘Why, how did you come here?’ said Mary, when the conversation to which this interruption had been offered, was resumed.

‘O’ course I came to look arter you, my darlin’,’ replied Mr. Weller; for once permitting his passion to get the better of his veracity.

‘And how did you know I was here?’ inquired Mary. ‘Who could have told you that I took another service at Ipswich, and that they afterwards moved all the way here? Who _could _have told you that, Mr. Weller?’

‘Ah, to be sure,’ said Sam, with a cunning look, ‘that’s the pint. Who could ha’ told me?’

‘It wasn’t Mr. Muzzle, was it?’ inquired Mary.

‘Oh, no.’ replied Sam, with a solemn shake of the head, ‘it warn’t him.’

‘It must have been the cook,’ said Mary.

‘O’ course it must,’ said Sam.

‘Well, I never heard the like of that!’ exclaimed Mary.

‘No more did I,’ said Sam. ‘But Mary, my dear’—here Sam’s manner grew extremely affectionate—‘Mary, my dear, I’ve got another affair in hand as is wery pressin’. There’s one o’ my governor’s friends—Mr. Winkle, you remember him?’

‘Him in the green coat?’ said Mary. ‘Oh, yes, I remember him.’

‘Well,’ said Sam, ‘he’s in a horrid state o’ love; reg’larly comfoozled, and done over vith it.’

‘Lor!’ interposed Mary.

‘Yes,’ said Sam; ‘but that’s nothin’ if we could find out the young ‘ooman;’ and here Sam, with many digressions upon the personal beauty of Mary, and the unspeakable tortures he had experienced since he last saw her, gave a faithful account of Mr. Winkle’s present predicament.

‘Well,’ said Mary, ‘I never did!’

‘O’ course not,’ said Sam, ‘and nobody never did, nor never vill neither; and here am I a-walkin’ about like the wandering Jew—a sportin’ character you have perhaps heerd on Mary, my dear, as vos alvays doin’ a match agin’ time, and never vent to sleep—looking arter this here Miss Arabella Allen.’

‘Miss who?’ said Mary, in great astonishment.

‘Miss Arabella Allen,’ said Sam.

‘Goodness gracious!’ said Mary, pointing to the garden door which the sulky groom had locked after him. ‘Why, it’s that very house; she’s been living there these six weeks. Their upper house-maid, which is lady’s- maid too, told me all about it over the wash-house palin’s before the family was out of bed, one mornin’.’

‘Wot, the wery next door to you?’ said Sam.

‘The very next,’ replied Mary.

Mr. Weller was so deeply overcome on receiving this intelligence that he found it absolutely necessary to cling to his fair informant for support; and divers little love passages had passed between them, before he was sufficiently collected to return to the subject.

‘Vell,’ said Sam at length, ‘if this don’t beat cock-fightin’ nothin’ never vill, as the lord mayor said, ven the chief secretary o’ state proposed his missis’s health arter dinner. That wery next house! Wy, I’ve got a message to her as I’ve been a-trying all day to deliver.’

‘Ah,’ said Mary, ‘but you can’t deliver it now, because she only walks in the garden in the evening, and then only for a very little time; she never goes out, without the old lady.’

Sam ruminated for a few moments, and finally hit upon the following plan of operations; that he should return just at dusk—the time at which Arabella invariably took her walk—and, being admitted by Mary into the garden of the house to which she belonged, would contrive to scramble up the wall, beneath the overhanging boughs of a large pear-tree, which would effectually screen him from observation; would there deliver his message, and arrange, if possible, an interview on behalf of Mr. Winkle for the ensuing evening at the same hour. Having made this arrangement with great despatch, he assisted Mary in the long-deferred occupation of shaking the carpets.

It is not half as innocent a thing as it looks, that shaking little pieces of carpet—at least, there may be no great harm in the shaking, but the folding is a very insidious process. So long as the shaking lasts, and the two parties are kept the carpet’s length apart, it is as innocent an amusement as can well be devised; but when the folding begins, and the distance between them gets gradually lessened from one half its former length to a quarter, and then to an eighth, and then to a sixteenth, and then to a thirty-second, if the carpet be long enough, it becomes dangerous. We do not know, to a nicety, how many pieces of carpet were folded in this instance, but we can venture to state that as many pieces as there were, so many times did Sam kiss the pretty housemaid.

Mr. Weller regaled himself with moderation at the nearest tavern until it was nearly dusk, and then returned to the lane without the thoroughfare. Having been admitted into the garden by Mary, and having received from that lady sundry admonitions concerning the safety of his limbs and neck, Sam mounted into the pear-tree, to wait until Arabella should come into sight.

He waited so long without this anxiously-expected event occurring, that he began to think it was not going to take place at all, when he heard light footsteps upon the gravel, and immediately afterwards beheld Arabella walking pensively down the garden. As soon as she came nearly below the tree, Sam began, by way of gently indicating his presence, to make sundry diabolical noises similar to those which would probably be natural to a person of middle age who had been afflicted with a combination of inflammatory sore throat, croup, and whooping-cough, from his earliest infancy.

Upon this, the young lady cast a hurried glance towards the spot whence the dreadful sounds proceeded; and her previous alarm being not at all diminished when she saw a man among the branches, she would most certainly have decamped, and alarmed the house, had not fear fortunately deprived her of the power of moving, and caused her to sink down on a garden seat, which happened by good luck to be near at hand.

‘She’s a-goin’ off,’ soliloquised Sam in great perplexity. ‘Wot a thing it is, as these here young creeturs will go a-faintin’ avay just ven they oughtn’t to. Here, young ‘ooman, Miss Sawbones, Mrs. Vinkle, don’t!’

Whether it was the magic of Mr. Winkle’s name, or the coolness of the open air, or some recollection of Mr. Weller’s voice, that revived Arabella, matters not. She raised her head and languidly inquired, ‘Who’s that, and what do you want?’

‘Hush,’ said Sam, swinging himself on to the wall, and crouching there in as small a compass as he could reduce himself to, ‘only me, miss, only me.’

‘Mr. Pickwick’s servant!’ said Arabella earnestly.

‘The wery same, miss,’ replied Sam. ‘Here’s Mr. Vinkle reg’larly sewed up vith desperation, miss.’

‘Ah!’ said Arabella, drawing nearer the wall.

‘Ah, indeed,’ said Sam. ‘Ve thought ve should ha’ been obliged to strait-veskit him last night; he’s been a-ravin’ all day; and he says if he can’t see you afore to-morrow night’s over, he vishes he may be somethin’ unpleasanted if he don’t drownd hisself.’

‘Oh, no, no, Mr. Weller!’ said Arabella, clasping her hands.

‘That’s wot he says, miss,’ replied Sam coolly. ‘He’s a man of his word, and it’s my opinion he’ll do it, miss. He’s heerd all about you from the sawbones in barnacles.’

‘From my brother!’ said Arabella, having some faint recognition of Sam’s description.

‘I don’t rightly know which is your brother, miss,’ replied Sam. ‘Is it the dirtiest vun o’ the two?’

‘Yes, yes, Mr. Weller,’ returned Arabella, ‘go on. Make haste, pray.’

‘Well, miss,’ said Sam, ‘he’s heerd all about it from him; and it’s the gov’nor’s opinion that if you don’t see him wery quick, the sawbones as we’ve been a-speakin’ on, ‘ull get as much extra lead in his head as’ll rayther damage the dewelopment o’ the orgins if they ever put it in spirits artervards.’

‘Oh, what can I do to prevent these dreadful quarrels!’ exclaimed Arabella.

‘It’s the suspicion of a priory ‘tachment as is the cause of it all,’ replied Sam. ‘You’d better see him, miss.’

‘But how?—where?’ cried Arabella. ‘I dare not leave the house alone. My brother is so unkind, so unreasonable! I know how strange my talking thus to you may appear, Mr. Weller, but I am very, very unhappy—’ and here poor Arabella wept so bitterly that Sam grew chivalrous.

‘It may seem wery strange talkin’ to me about these here affairs, miss,’ said Sam, with great vehemence; ‘but all I can say is, that I’m not only ready but villin’ to do anythin’ as’ll make matters agreeable; and if chuckin’ either o’ them sawboneses out o’ winder ‘ull do it, I’m the man.’ As Sam Weller said this, he tucked up his wristbands, at the imminent hazard of falling off the wall in so doing, to intimate his readiness to set to work immediately.

Flattering as these professions of good feeling were, Arabella resolutely declined (most unaccountably, as Sam thought) to avail herself of them. For some time she strenuously refused to grant Mr. Winkle the interview Sam had so pathetically requested; but at length, when the conversation threatened to be interrupted by the unwelcome arrival of a third party, she hurriedly gave him to understand, with many professions of gratitude, that it was barely possible she might be in the garden an hour later, next evening. Sam understood this perfectly well; and Arabella, bestowing upon him one of her sweetest smiles, tripped gracefully away, leaving Mr. Weller in a state of very great admiration of her charms, both personal and mental.

Having descended in safety from the wall, and not forgotten to devote a few moments to his own particular business in the same department, Mr. Weller then made the best of his way back to the Bush, where his prolonged absence had occasioned much speculation and some alarm.

‘We must be careful,’ said Mr. Pickwick, after listening attentively to Sam’s tale, ‘not for our sakes, but for that of the young lady. We must be very cautious.’

‘We!’ said Mr. Winkle, with marked emphasis.

Mr. Pickwick’s momentary look of indignation at the tone of this remark, subsided into his characteristic expression of benevolence, as he replied—

‘We, Sir! I shall accompany you.’

‘You!’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘I,’ replied Mr. Pickwick mildly. ‘In affording you this interview, the young lady has taken a natural, perhaps, but still a very imprudent step. If I am present at the meeting—a mutual friend, who is old enough to be the father of both parties—the voice of calumny can never be raised against her hereafter.’

Mr. Pickwick’s eyes lightened with honest exultation at his own foresight, as he spoke thus. Mr. Winkle was touched by this little trait of his delicate respect for the young _protegee _of his friend, and took his hand with a feeling of regard, akin to veneration.

‘You _SHALL _ go,’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘I will,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Sam, have my greatcoat and shawl ready, and order a conveyance to be at the door to-morrow evening, rather earlier than is absolutely necessary, in order that we may be in good time.’

Mr. Weller touched his hat, as an earnest of his obedience, and withdrew to make all needful preparations for the expedition.

The coach was punctual to the time appointed; and Mr. Weller, after duly installing Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Winkle inside, took his seat on the box by the driver. They alighted, as had been agreed on, about a quarter of a mile from the place of rendezvous, and desiring the coachman to await their return, proceeded the remaining distance on foot.

It was at this stage of the undertaking that Mr. Pickwick, with many smiles and various other indications of great self-satisfaction, produced from one of his coat pockets a dark lantern, with which he had specially provided himself for the occasion, and the great mechanical beauty of which he proceeded to explain to Mr. Winkle, as they walked along, to the no small surprise of the few stragglers they met.

‘I should have been the better for something of this kind, in my last garden expedition, at night; eh, Sam?’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking good- humouredly round at his follower, who was trudging behind.

‘Wery nice things, if they’re managed properly, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘but wen you don’t want to be seen, I think they’re more useful arter the candle’s gone out, than wen it’s alight.’

Mr. Pickwick appeared struck by Sam’s remarks, for he put the lantern into his pocket again, and they walked on in silence.

‘Down here, Sir,’ said Sam. ‘Let me lead the way. This is the lane, Sir.’

Down the lane they went, and dark enough it was. Mr. Pickwick brought out the lantern, once or twice, as they groped their way along, and threw a very brilliant little tunnel of light before them, about a foot in diameter. It was very pretty to look at, but seemed to have the effect of rendering surrounding objects rather darker than before.

At length they arrived at the large stone. Here Sam recommended his master and Mr. Winkle to seat themselves, while he reconnoitred, and ascertained whether Mary was yet in waiting.

After an absence of five or ten minutes, Sam returned to say that the gate was opened, and all quiet. Following him with stealthy tread, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Winkle soon found themselves in the garden. Here everybody said, ‘Hush!’ a good many times; and that being done, no one seemed to have any very distinct apprehension of what was to be done next.

‘Is Miss Allen in the garden yet, Mary?’ inquired Mr. Winkle, much agitated.

‘I don’t know, sir,’ replied the pretty housemaid. ‘The best thing to be done, sir, will be for Mr. Weller to give you a hoist up into the tree, and perhaps Mr. Pickwick will have the goodness to see that nobody comes up the lane, while I watch at the other end of the garden. Goodness gracious, what’s that?’

‘That ‘ere blessed lantern ‘ull be the death on us all,’ exclaimed Sam peevishly. ‘Take care wot you’re a-doin’ on, sir; you’re a-sendin’ a blaze o’ light, right into the back parlour winder.’

‘Dear me!’ said Mr. Pickwick, turning hastily aside, ‘I didn’t mean to do that.’

‘Now, it’s in the next house, sir,’ remonstrated Sam.

‘Bless my heart!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, turning round again.

‘Now, it’s in the stable, and they’ll think the place is afire,’ said Sam. ‘Shut it up, sir, can’t you?’

‘It’s the most extraordinary lantern I ever met with, in all my life!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, greatly bewildered by the effects he had so unintentionally produced. ‘I never saw such a powerful reflector.’

‘It’ll be vun too powerful for us, if you keep blazin’ avay in that manner, sir,’ replied Sam, as Mr. Pickwick, after various unsuccessful efforts, managed to close the slide. ‘There’s the young lady’s footsteps. Now, Mr. Winkle, sir, up vith you.’

‘Stop, stop!’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I must speak to her first. Help me up, Sam.’

‘Gently, Sir,’ said Sam, planting his head against the wall, and making a platform of his back. ‘Step atop o’ that ‘ere flower-pot, Sir. Now then, up vith you.’

‘I’m afraid I shall hurt you, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Never mind me, Sir,’ replied Sam. ‘Lend him a hand, Mr. Winkle, sir. Steady, sir, steady! That’s the time o’ day!’

As Sam spoke, Mr. Pickwick, by exertions almost supernatural in a gentleman of his years and weight, contrived to get upon Sam’s back; and Sam gently raising himself up, and Mr. Pickwick holding on fast by the top of the wall, while Mr. Winkle clasped him tight by the legs, they contrived by these means to bring his spectacles just above the level of the coping.

‘My dear,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking over the wall, and catching sight of Arabella, on the other side, ‘don’t be frightened, my dear, it’s only me.’ ‘Oh, pray go away, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Arabella. ‘Tell them all to go away. I am so dreadfully frightened. Dear, dear Mr. Pickwick, don’t stop there. You’ll fall down and kill yourself, I know you will.’

‘Now, pray don’t alarm yourself, my dear,’ said Mr. Pickwick soothingly. ‘There is not the least cause for fear, I assure you. Stand firm, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking down.

‘All right, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Don’t be longer than you can conweniently help, sir. You’re rayther heavy.’

‘Only another moment, Sam,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘I merely wished you to know, my dear, that I should not have allowed my young friend to see you in this clandestine way, if the situation in which you are placed had left him any alternative; and, lest the impropriety of this step should cause you any uneasiness, my love, it may be a satisfaction to you, to know that I am present. That’s all, my dear.’

‘Indeed, Mr. Pickwick, I am very much obliged to you for your kindness and consideration,’ replied Arabella, drying her tears with her handkerchief. She would probably have said much more, had not Mr. Pickwick’s head disappeared with great swiftness, in consequence of a false step on Sam’s shoulder which brought him suddenly to the ground. He was up again in an instant however; and bidding Mr. Winkle make haste and get the interview over, ran out into the lane to keep watch, with all the courage and ardour of youth. Mr. Winkle himself, inspired by the occasion, was on the wall in a moment, merely pausing to request Sam to be careful of his master.

‘I’ll take care on him, sir,’ replied Sam. ‘Leave him to me.’

‘Where is he? What’s he doing, Sam?’ inquired Mr. Winkle.

‘Bless his old gaiters,’ rejoined Sam, looking out at the garden door. ‘He’s a-keepin’ guard in the lane vith that ‘ere dark lantern, like a amiable Guy Fawkes! I never see such a fine creetur in my days. Blessed if I don’t think his heart must ha’ been born five-and-twenty year arter his body, at least!’

Mr. Winkle stayed not to hear the encomium upon his friend. He had dropped from the wall; thrown himself at Arabella’s feet; and by this time was pleading the sincerity of his passion with an eloquence worthy even of Mr. Pickwick himself.

While these things were going on in the open air, an elderly gentleman of scientific attainments was seated in his library, two or three houses off, writing a philosophical treatise, and ever and anon moistening his clay and his labours with a glass of claret from a venerable-looking bottle which stood by his side. In the agonies of composition, the elderly gentleman looked sometimes at the carpet, sometimes at the ceiling, and sometimes at the wall; and when neither carpet, ceiling, nor wall afforded the requisite degree of inspiration, he looked out of the window.

In one of these pauses of invention, the scientific gentleman was gazing abstractedly on the thick darkness outside, when he was very much surprised by observing a most brilliant light glide through the air, at a short distance above the ground, and almost instantaneously vanish. After a short time the phenomenon was repeated, not once or twice, but several times; at last the scientific gentleman, laying down his pen, began to consider to what natural causes these appearances were to be assigned.

They were not meteors; they were too low. They were not glow-worms; they were too high. They were not will-o’-the-wisps; they were not fireflies; they were not fireworks. What could they be? Some extraordinary and wonderful phenomenon of nature, which no philosopher had ever seen before; something which it had been reserved for him alone to discover, and which he should immortalise his name by chronicling for the benefit of posterity. Full of this idea, the scientific gentleman seized his pen again, and committed to paper sundry notes of these unparalleled appearances, with the date, day, hour, minute, and precise second at which they were visible: all of which were to form the data of a voluminous treatise of great research and deep learning, which should astonish all the atmospherical wiseacres that ever drew breath in any part of the civilised globe.

He threw himself back in his easy-chair, wrapped in contemplations of his future greatness. The mysterious light appeared more brilliantly than before, dancing, to all appearance, up and down the lane, crossing from side to side, and moving in an orbit as eccentric as comets themselves.

The scientific gentleman was a bachelor. He had no wife to call in and astonish, so he rang the bell for his servant.

‘Pruffle,’ said the scientific gentleman, ‘there is something very extraordinary in the air to-night? Did you see that?’ said the scientific gentleman, pointing out of the window, as the light again became visible.

‘Yes, I did, Sir.’

‘What do you think of it, Pruffle?’

‘Think of it, Sir?’

‘Yes. You have been bred up in this country. What should you say was the cause for those lights, now?’

The scientific gentleman smilingly anticipated Pruffle’s reply that he could assign no cause for them at all. Pruffle meditated.

‘I should say it was thieves, Sir,’ said Pruffle at length.

‘You’re a fool, and may go downstairs,’ said the scientific gentleman.

‘Thank you, Sir,’ said Pruffle. And down he went.

But the scientific gentleman could not rest under the idea of the ingenious treatise he had projected being lost to the world, which must inevitably be the case if the speculation of the ingenious Mr. Pruffle were not stifled in its birth. He put on his hat and walked quickly down the garden, determined to investigate the matter to the very bottom.

Now, shortly before the scientific gentleman walked out into the garden, Mr. Pickwick had run down the lane as fast as he could, to convey a false alarm that somebody was coming that way; occasionally drawing back the slide of the dark lantern to keep himself from the ditch. The alarm was no sooner given, than Mr. Winkle scrambled back over the wall, and Arabella ran into the house; the garden gate was shut, and the three adventurers were making the best of their way down the lane, when they were startled by the scientific gentleman unlocking his garden gate.

‘Hold hard,’ whispered Sam, who was, of course, the first of the party. ‘Show a light for just vun second, Sir.’

Mr. Pickwick did as he was desired, and Sam, seeing a man’s head peeping out very cautiously within half a yard of his own, gave it a gentle tap with his clenched fist, which knocked it, with a hollow sound, against the gate. Having performed this feat with great suddenness and dexterity, Mr. Weller caught Mr. Pickwick up on his back, and followed Mr. Winkle down the lane at a pace which, considering the burden he carried, was perfectly astonishing.

‘Have you got your vind back agin, Sir,’ inquired Sam, when they had reached the end.

‘Quite. Quite, now,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Then come along, Sir,’ said Sam, setting his master on his feet again. ‘Come betveen us, sir. Not half a mile to run. Think you’re vinnin’ a cup, sir. Now for it.’

Thus encouraged, Mr. Pickwick made the very best use of his legs. It may be confidently stated that a pair of black gaiters never got over the ground in better style than did those of Mr. Pickwick on this memorable occasion.

The coach was waiting, the horses were fresh, the roads were good, and the driver was willing. The whole party arrived in safety at the Bush before Mr. Pickwick had recovered his breath.

‘In with you at once, sir,’ said Sam, as he helped his master out. ‘Don’t stop a second in the street, arter that ‘ere exercise. Beg your pardon, sir,’ continued Sam, touching his hat as Mr. Winkle descended, ‘hope there warn’t a priory ‘tachment, sir?’

Mr. Winkle grasped his humble friend by the hand, and whispered in his ear, ‘It’s all right, Sam; quite right.’ Upon which Mr. Weller struck three distinct blows upon his nose in token of intelligence, smiled, winked, and proceeded to put the steps up, with a countenance expressive of lively satisfaction.

As to the scientific gentleman, he demonstrated, in a masterly treatise, that these wonderful lights were the effect of electricity; and clearly proved the same by detailing how a flash of fire danced before his eyes when he put his head out of the gate, and how he received a shock which stunned him for a quarter of an hour afterwards; which demonstration delighted all the scientific associations beyond measure, and caused him to be considered a light of science ever afterwards.

CHAPTER XL. INTRODUCES MR. PICKWICK TO A NEW AND NOT UNINTERESTING SCENE IN THE GREAT DRAMA OF LIFE

The remainder of the period which Mr. Pickwick had assigned as the duration of the stay at Bath passed over without the occurrence of anything material. Trinity term commenced. On the expiration of its first week, Mr. Pickwick and his friends returned to London; and the former gentleman, attended of course by Sam, straightway repaired to his old quarters at the George and Vulture.

On the third morning after their arrival, just as all the clocks in the city were striking nine individually, and somewhere about nine hundred and ninety-nine collectively, Sam was taking the air in George Yard, when a queer sort of fresh-painted vehicle drove up, out of which there jumped with great agility, throwing the reins to a stout man who sat beside him, a queer sort of gentleman, who seemed made for the vehicle, and the vehicle for him.

The vehicle was not exactly a gig, neither was it a stanhope. It was not what is currently denominated a dog-cart, neither was it a taxed cart, nor a chaise-cart, nor a guillotined cabriolet; and yet it had something of the character of each and every of these machines. It was painted a bright yellow, with the shafts and wheels picked out in black; and the driver sat in the orthodox sporting style, on cushions piled about two feet above the rail. The horse was a bay, a well-looking animal enough; but with something of a flash and dog-fighting air about him, nevertheless, which accorded both with the vehicle and his master.

The master himself was a man of about forty, with black hair, and carefully combed whiskers. He was dressed in a particularly gorgeous manner, with plenty of articles of jewellery about him—all about three sizes larger than those which are usually worn by gentlemen—and a rough greatcoat to crown the whole. Into one pocket of this greatcoat, he thrust his left hand the moment he dismounted, while from the other he drew forth, with his right, a very bright and glaring silk handkerchief, with which he whisked a speck or two of dust from his boots, and then, crumpling it in his hand, swaggered up the court.

It had not escaped Sam’s attention that, when this person dismounted, a shabby-looking man in a brown greatcoat shorn of divers buttons, who had been previously slinking about, on the opposite side of the way, crossed over, and remained stationary close by. Having something more than a suspicion of the object of the gentleman’s visit, Sam preceded him to the George and Vulture, and, turning sharp round, planted himself in the centre of the doorway.

‘Now, my fine fellow!’ said the man in the rough coat, in an imperious tone, attempting at the same time to push his way past.

‘Now, Sir, wot’s the matter?’ replied Sam, returning the push with compound interest.

‘Come, none of this, my man; this won’t do with me,’ said the owner of the rough coat, raising his voice, and turning white. ‘Here, Smouch!’

‘Well, wot’s amiss here?’ growled the man in the brown coat, who had been gradually sneaking up the court during this short dialogue.

‘Only some insolence of this young man’s,’ said the principal, giving Sam another push.

‘Come, none o’ this gammon,’ growled Smouch, giving him another, and a harder one.

This last push had the effect which it was intended by the experienced Mr. Smouch to produce; for while Sam, anxious to return the compliment, was grinding that gentleman’s body against the door-post, the principal crept past, and made his way to the bar, whither Sam, after bandying a few epithetical remarks with Mr. Smouch, followed at once.

‘Good-morning, my dear,’ said the principal, addressing the young lady at the bar, with Botany Bay ease, and New South Wales gentility; ‘which is Mr. Pickwick’s room, my dear?’

‘Show him up,’ said the barmaid to a waiter, without deigning another look at the exquisite, in reply to his inquiry.

The waiter led the way upstairs as he was desired, and the man in the rough coat followed, with Sam behind him, who, in his progress up the staircase, indulged in sundry gestures indicative of supreme contempt and defiance, to the unspeakable gratification of the servants and other lookers-on. Mr. Smouch, who was troubled with a hoarse cough, remained below, and expectorated in the passage.

Mr. Pickwick was fast asleep in bed, when his early visitor, followed by Sam, entered the room. The noise they made, in so doing, awoke him.

‘Shaving-water, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, from within the curtains.

‘Shave you directly, Mr. Pickwick,’ said the visitor, drawing one of them back from the bed’s head. ‘I’ve got an execution against you, at the suit of Bardell.—Here’s the warrant.—Common Pleas.—Here’s my card. I suppose you’ll come over to my house.’ Giving Mr. Pickwick a friendly tap on the shoulder, the sheriff’s officer (for such he was) threw his card on the counterpane, and pulled a gold toothpick from his waistcoat pocket.

‘Namby’s the name,’ said the sheriff’s deputy, as Mr. Pickwick took his spectacles from under the pillow, and put them on, to read the card. ‘Namby, Bell Alley, Coleman Street.’

At this point, Sam Weller, who had had his eyes fixed hitherto on Mr. Namby’s shining beaver, interfered.

‘Are you a Quaker?’ said Sam.

‘I’ll let you know I am, before I’ve done with you,’ replied the indignant officer. ‘I’ll teach you manners, my fine fellow, one of these fine mornings.’

‘Thank’ee,’ said Sam. ‘I’ll do the same to you. Take your hat off.’ With this, Mr. Weller, in the most dexterous manner, knocked Mr. Namby’s hat to the other side of the room, with such violence, that he had very nearly caused him to swallow the gold toothpick into the bargain.

‘Observe this, Mr. Pickwick,’ said the disconcerted officer, gasping for breath. ‘I’ve been assaulted in the execution of my dooty by your servant in your chamber. I’m in bodily fear. I call you to witness this.’

‘Don’t witness nothin’, Sir,’ interposed Sam. ‘Shut your eyes up tight, Sir. I’d pitch him out o’ winder, only he couldn’t fall far enough, ‘cause o’ the leads outside.’

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, in an angry voice, as his attendant made various demonstrations of hostilities, ‘if you say another word, or offer the slightest interference with this person, I discharge you that instant.’

‘But, Sir!’ said Sam.

‘Hold your tongue,’ interposed Mr. Pickwick. ‘Take that hat up again.’

But this Sam flatly and positively refused to do; and, after he had been severely reprimanded by his master, the officer, being in a hurry, condescended to pick it up himself, venting a great variety of threats against Sam meanwhile, which that gentleman received with perfect composure, merely observing that if Mr. Namby would have the goodness to put his hat on again, he would knock it into the latter end of next week. Mr. Namby, perhaps thinking that such a process might be productive of inconvenience to himself, declined to offer the temptation, and, soon after, called up Smouch. Having informed him that the capture was made, and that he was to wait for the prisoner until he should have finished dressing, Namby then swaggered out, and drove away. Smouch, requesting Mr. Pickwick in a surly manner ‘to be as alive as he could, for it was a busy time,’ drew up a chair by the door and sat there, until he had finished dressing. Sam was then despatched for a hackney-coach, and in it the triumvirate proceeded to Coleman Street. It was fortunate the distance was short; for Mr. Smouch, besides possessing no very enchanting conversational powers, was rendered a decidedly unpleasant companion in a limited space, by the physical weakness to which we have elsewhere adverted.

The coach having turned into a very narrow and dark street, stopped before a house with iron bars to all the windows; the door-posts of which were graced by the name and title of ‘Namby, Officer to the Sheriffs of London’; the inner gate having been opened by a gentleman who might have passed for a neglected twin-brother of Mr. Smouch, and who was endowed with a large key for the purpose, Mr. Pickwick was shown into the ‘coffee-room.’

This coffee-room was a front parlour, the principal features of which were fresh sand and stale tobacco smoke. Mr. Pickwick bowed to the three persons who were seated in it when he entered; and having despatched Sam for Perker, withdrew into an obscure corner, and looked thence with some curiosity upon his new companions.

One of these was a mere boy of nineteen or twenty, who, though it was yet barely ten o’clock, was drinking gin-and-water, and smoking a cigar- -amusements to which, judging from his inflamed countenance, he had devoted himself pretty constantly for the last year or two of his life. Opposite him, engaged in stirring the fire with the toe of his right boot, was a coarse, vulgar young man of about thirty, with a sallow face and harsh voice; evidently possessed of that knowledge of the world, and captivating freedom of manner, which is to be acquired in public-house parlours, and at low billiard tables. The third tenant of the apartment was a middle-aged man in a very old suit of black, who looked pale and haggard, and paced up and down the room incessantly; stopping, now and then, to look with great anxiety out of the window as if he expected somebody, and then resuming his walk.

‘You’d better have the loan of my razor this morning, Mr. Ayresleigh,’ said the man who was stirring the fire, tipping the wink to his friend the boy.

‘Thank you, no, I shan’t want it; I expect I shall be out, in the course of an hour or so,’ replied the other in a hurried manner. Then, walking again up to the window, and once more returning disappointed, he sighed deeply, and left the room; upon which the other two burst into a loud laugh.

‘Well, I never saw such a game as that,’ said the gentleman who had offered the razor, whose name appeared to be Price. ‘Never!’ Mr. Price confirmed the assertion with an oath, and then laughed again, when of course the boy (who thought his companion one of the most dashing fellows alive) laughed also.

‘You’d hardly think, would you now,’ said Price, turning towards Mr. Pickwick, ‘that that chap’s been here a week yesterday, and never once shaved himself yet, because he feels so certain he’s going out in half an hour’s time, thinks he may as well put it off till he gets home?’

‘Poor man!’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Are his chances of getting out of his difficulties really so great?’

‘Chances be d----d,’ replied Price; ‘he hasn’t half the ghost of one. I wouldn’t give _that _for his chance of walking about the streets this time ten years.’ With this, Mr. Price snapped his fingers contemptuously, and rang the bell.

‘Give me a sheet of paper, Crookey,’ said Mr. Price to the attendant, who in dress and general appearance looked something between a bankrupt glazier, and a drover in a state of insolvency; ‘and a glass of brandy- and-water, Crookey, d’ye hear? I’m going to write to my father, and I must have a stimulant, or I shan’t be able to pitch it strong enough into the old boy.’ At this facetious speech, the young boy, it is almost needless to say, was fairly convulsed.

‘That’s right,’ said Mr. Price. ‘Never say die. All fun, ain’t it?’

‘Prime!’ said the young gentleman.

‘You’ve got some spirit about you, you have,’ said Price. ‘You’ve seen something of life.’

‘I rather think I have!’ replied the boy. He had looked at it through the dirty panes of glass in a bar door.

Mr. Pickwick, feeling not a little disgusted with this dialogue, as well as with the air and manner of the two beings by whom it had been carried on, was about to inquire whether he could not be accommodated with a private sitting-room, when two or three strangers of genteel appearance entered, at sight of whom the boy threw his cigar into the fire, and whispering to Mr. Price that they had come to ‘make it all right’ for him, joined them at a table in the farther end of the room.

It would appear, however, that matters were not going to be made all right quite so speedily as the young gentleman anticipated; for a very long conversation ensued, of which Mr. Pickwick could not avoid hearing certain angry fragments regarding dissolute conduct, and repeated forgiveness. At last, there were very distinct allusions made by the oldest gentleman of the party to one Whitecross Street, at which the young gentleman, notwithstanding his primeness and his spirit, and his knowledge of life into the bargain, reclined his head upon the table, and howled dismally.

Very much satisfied with this sudden bringing down of the youth’s valour, and this effectual lowering of his tone, Mr. Pickwick rang the bell, and was shown, at his own request, into a private room furnished with a carpet, table, chairs, sideboard and sofa, and ornamented with a looking-glass, and various old prints. Here he had the advantage of hearing Mrs. Namby’s performance on a square piano overhead, while the breakfast was getting ready; when it came, Mr. Perker came too.

‘Aha, my dear sir,’ said the little man, ‘nailed at last, eh? Come, come, I’m not sorry for it either, because now you’ll see the absurdity of this conduct. I’ve noted down the amount of the taxed costs and damages for which the ca-sa was issued, and we had better settle at once and lose no time. Namby is come home by this time, I dare say. What say you, my dear sir? Shall I draw a cheque, or will you?’ The little man rubbed his hands with affected cheerfulness as he said this, but glancing at Mr. Pickwick’s countenance, could not forbear at the same time casting a desponding look towards Sam Weller.

‘Perker,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘let me hear no more of this, I beg. I see no advantage in staying here, so I shall go to prison to-night.’

‘You can’t go to Whitecross Street, my dear Sir,’ said Perker. ‘Impossible! There are sixty beds in a ward; and the bolt’s on, sixteen hours out of the four-and-twenty.’

‘I would rather go to some other place of confinement if I can,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘If not, I must make the best I can of that.’

‘You can go to the Fleet, my dear Sir, if you’re determined to go somewhere,’ said Perker.

‘That’ll do,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘I’ll go there directly I have finished my breakfast.’

‘Stop, stop, my dear Sir; not the least occasion for being in such a violent hurry to get into a place that most other men are as eager to get out of,’ said the good-natured little attorney. ‘We must have a habeas-corpus. There’ll be no judge at chambers till four o’clock this afternoon. You must wait till then.’

‘Very good,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with unmoved patience. ‘Then we will have a chop here, at two. See about it, Sam, and tell them to be punctual.’

Mr. Pickwick remaining firm, despite all the remonstrances and arguments of Perker, the chops appeared and disappeared in due course; he was then put into another hackney coach, and carried off to Chancery Lane, after waiting half an hour or so for Mr. Namby, who had a select dinner-party and could on no account be disturbed before.

There were two judges in attendance at Serjeant’s Inn—one King’s Bench, and one Common Pleas—and a great deal of business appeared to be transacting before them, if the number of lawyer’s clerks who were hurrying in and out with bundles of papers, afforded any test. When they reached the low archway which forms the entrance to the inn, Perker was detained a few moments parlaying with the coachman about the fare and the change; and Mr. Pickwick, stepping to one side to be out of the way of the stream of people that were pouring in and out, looked about him with some curiosity.

The people that attracted his attention most, were three or four men of shabby-genteel appearance, who touched their hats to many of the attorneys who passed, and seemed to have some business there, the nature of which Mr. Pickwick could not divine. They were curious-looking fellows. One was a slim and rather lame man in rusty black, and a white neckerchief; another was a stout, burly person, dressed in the same apparel, with a great reddish-black cloth round his neck; a third was a little weazen, drunken-looking body, with a pimply face. They were loitering about, with their hands behind them, and now and then with an anxious countenance whispered something in the ear of some of the gentlemen with papers, as they hurried by. Mr. Pickwick remembered to have very often observed them lounging under the archway when he had been walking past; and his curiosity was quite excited to know to what branch of the profession these dingy-looking loungers could possibly belong.

He was about to propound the question to Namby, who kept close beside him, sucking a large gold ring on his little finger, when Perker bustled up, and observing that there was no time to lose, led the way into the inn. As Mr. Pickwick followed, the lame man stepped up to him, and civilly touching his hat, held out a written card, which Mr. Pickwick, not wishing to hurt the man’s feelings by refusing, courteously accepted and deposited in his waistcoat pocket.

‘Now,’ said Perker, turning round before he entered one of the offices, to see that his companions were close behind him. ‘In here, my dear sir. Hallo, what do you want?’

This last question was addressed to the lame man, who, unobserved by Mr. Pickwick, made one of the party. In reply to it, the lame man touched his hat again, with all imaginable politeness, and motioned towards Mr. Pickwick.

‘No, no,’ said Perker, with a smile. ‘We don’t want you, my dear friend, we don’t want you.’

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said the lame man. ‘The gentleman took my card. I hope you will employ me, sir. The gentleman nodded to me. I’ll be judged by the gentleman himself. You nodded to me, sir?’

‘Pooh, pooh, nonsense. You didn’t nod to anybody, Pickwick? A mistake, a mistake,’ said Perker.

‘The gentleman handed me his card,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, producing it from his waistcoat pocket. ‘I accepted it, as the gentleman seemed to wish it—in fact I had some curiosity to look at it when I should be at leisure. I—’

The little attorney burst into a loud laugh, and returning the card to the lame man, informing him it was all a mistake, whispered to Mr. Pickwick as the man turned away in dudgeon, that he was only a bail.

‘A what!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

‘A bail,’ replied Perker.

‘A bail!’

Yes, my dear sir—half a dozen of ‘em here. Bail you to any amount, and only charge half a crown. Curious trade, isn’t it?’ said Perker, regaling himself with a pinch of snuff.

‘What! Am I to understand that these men earn a livelihood by waiting about here, to perjure themselves before the judges of the land, at the rate of half a crown a crime?’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, quite aghast at the disclosure.

‘Why, I don’t exactly know about perjury, my dear sir,’ replied the little gentleman. ‘Harsh word, my dear sir, very harsh word indeed. It’s a legal fiction, my dear sir, nothing more.’ Saying which, the attorney shrugged his shoulders, smiled, took a second pinch of snuff, and led the way into the office of the judge’s clerk.

This was a room of specially dirty appearance, with a very low ceiling and old panelled walls; and so badly lighted, that although it was broad day outside, great tallow candles were burning on the desks. At one end, was a door leading to the judge’s private apartment, round which were congregated a crowd of attorneys and managing clerks, who were called in, in the order in which their respective appointments stood upon the file. Every time this door was opened to let a party out, the next party made a violent rush to get in; and, as in addition to the numerous dialogues which passed between the gentlemen who were waiting to see the judge, a variety of personal squabbles ensued between the greater part of those who had seen him, there was as much noise as could well be raised in an apartment of such confined dimensions.

Nor were the conversations of these gentlemen the only sounds that broke upon the ear. Standing on a box behind a wooden bar at another end of the room was a clerk in spectacles who was ‘taking the affidavits’; large batches of which were, from time to time, carried into the private room by another clerk for the judge’s signature. There were a large number of attorneys’ clerks to be sworn, and it being a moral impossibility to swear them all at once, the struggles of these gentlemen to reach the clerk in spectacles, were like those of a crowd to get in at the pit door of a theatre when Gracious Majesty honours it with its presence. Another functionary, from time to time, exercised his lungs in calling over the names of those who had been sworn, for the purpose of restoring to them their affidavits after they had been signed by the judge, which gave rise to a few more scuffles; and all these things going on at the same time, occasioned as much bustle as the most active and excitable person could desire to behold. There were yet another class of persons—those who were waiting to attend summonses their employers had taken out, which it was optional to the attorney on the opposite side to attend or not—and whose business it was, from time to time, to cry out the opposite attorney’s name; to make certain that he was not in attendance without their knowledge.

For example. Leaning against the wall, close beside the seat Mr. Pickwick had taken, was an office-lad of fourteen, with a tenor voice; near him a common-law clerk with a bass one.

A clerk hurried in with a bundle of papers, and stared about him.

‘Sniggle and Blink,’ cried the tenor.

‘Porkin and Snob,’ growled the bass.

‘Stumpy and Deacon,’ said the new-comer.

Nobody answered; the next man who came in, was bailed by the whole three; and he in his turn shouted for another firm; and then somebody else roared in a loud voice for another; and so forth.

All this time, the man in the spectacles was hard at work, swearing the clerks; the oath being invariably administered, without any effort at punctuation, and usually in the following terms:—

‘Take the book in your right hand this is your name and hand-writing you swear that the contents of this your affidavit are true so help you God a shilling you must get change I haven’t got it.’

‘Well, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I suppose they are getting the Habeas- corpus ready?’

‘Yes,’ said Sam, ‘and I vish they’d bring out the have-his-carcase. It’s wery unpleasant keepin’ us vaitin’ here. I’d ha’ got half a dozen have- his-carcases ready, pack’d up and all, by this time.’

What sort of cumbrous and unmanageable machine, Sam Weller imagined a habeas-corpus to be, does not appear; for Perker, at that moment, walked up and took Mr. Pickwick away.

The usual forms having been gone through, the body of Samuel Pickwick was soon afterwards confided to the custody of the tipstaff, to be by him taken to the warden of the Fleet Prison, and there detained until the amount of the damages and costs in the action of Bardell against Pickwick was fully paid and satisfied.

‘And that,’ said Mr. Pickwick, laughing, ‘will be a very long time. Sam, call another hackney-coach. Perker, my dear friend, good-bye.’

‘I shall go with you, and see you safe there,’ said Perker.

‘Indeed,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘I would rather go without any other attendant than Sam. As soon as I get settled, I will write and let you know, and I shall expect you immediately. Until then, good-bye.’

As Mr. Pickwick said this, he got into the coach which had by this time arrived, followed by the tipstaff. Sam having stationed himself on the box, it rolled away.

‘A most extraordinary man that!’ said Perker, as he stopped to pull on his gloves.

‘What a bankrupt he’d make, Sir,’ observed Mr. Lowten, who was standing near. ‘How he would bother the commissioners! He’d set ‘em at defiance if they talked of committing him, Sir.’

The attorney did not appear very much delighted with his clerk’s professional estimate of Mr. Pickwick’s character, for he walked away without deigning any reply.

The hackney-coach jolted along Fleet Street, as hackney-coaches usually do. The horses ‘went better’, the driver said, when they had anything before them (they must have gone at a most extraordinary pace when there was nothing), and so the vehicle kept behind a cart; when the cart stopped, it stopped; and when the cart went on again, it did the same. Mr. Pickwick sat opposite the tipstaff; and the tipstaff sat with his hat between his knees, whistling a tune, and looking out of the coach window.

Time performs wonders. By the powerful old gentleman’s aid, even a hackney-coach gets over half a mile of ground. They stopped at length, and Mr. Pickwick alighted at the gate of the Fleet.

The tipstaff, just looking over his shoulder to see that his charge was following close at his heels, preceded Mr. Pickwick into the prison; turning to the left, after they had entered, they passed through an open door into a lobby, from which a heavy gate, opposite to that by which they had entered, and which was guarded by a stout turnkey with the key in his hand, led at once into the interior of the prison.

Here they stopped, while the tipstaff delivered his papers; and here Mr. Pickwick was apprised that he would remain, until he had undergone the ceremony, known to the initiated as ‘sitting for your portrait.’

‘Sitting for my portrait?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Having your likeness taken, sir,’ replied the stout turnkey.

‘We’re capital hands at likenesses here. Take ‘em in no time, and always exact. Walk in, sir, and make yourself at home.’

Mr. Pickwick complied with the invitation, and sat himself down; when Mr. Weller, who stationed himself at the back of the chair, whispered that the sitting was merely another term for undergoing an inspection by the different turnkeys, in order that they might know prisoners from visitors.

‘Well, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘then I wish the artists would come. This is rather a public place.’

‘They von’t be long, Sir, I des-say,’ replied Sam. ‘There’s a Dutch clock, sir.’

‘So I see,’ observed Mr. Pickwick.

‘And a bird-cage, sir,’ says Sam. ‘Veels vithin veels, a prison in a prison. Ain’t it, Sir?’

As Mr. Weller made this philosophical remark, Mr. Pickwick was aware that his sitting had commenced. The stout turnkey having been relieved from the lock, sat down, and looked at him carelessly, from time to time, while a long thin man who had relieved him, thrust his hands beneath his coat tails, and planting himself opposite, took a good long view of him. A third rather surly-looking gentleman, who had apparently been disturbed at his tea, for he was disposing of the last remnant of a crust and butter when he came in, stationed himself close to Mr. Pickwick; and, resting his hands on his hips, inspected him narrowly; while two others mixed with the group, and studied his features with most intent and thoughtful faces. Mr. Pickwick winced a good deal under the operation, and appeared to sit very uneasily in his chair; but he made no remark to anybody while it was being performed, not even to Sam, who reclined upon the back of the chair, reflecting, partly on the situation of his master, and partly on the great satisfaction it would have afforded him to make a fierce assault upon all the turnkeys there assembled, one after the other, if it were lawful and peaceable so to do.

At length the likeness was completed, and Mr. Pickwick was informed that he might now proceed into the prison.

‘Where am I to sleep to-night?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Why, I don’t rightly know about to-night,’ replied the stout turnkey. ‘You’ll be chummed on somebody to-morrow, and then you’ll be all snug and comfortable. The first night’s generally rather unsettled, but you’ll be set all squares to-morrow.’

After some discussion, it was discovered that one of the turnkeys had a bed to let, which Mr. Pickwick could have for that night. He gladly agreed to hire it.

‘If you’ll come with me, I’ll show it you at once,’ said the man. ‘It ain’t a large ‘un; but it’s an out-and-outer to sleep in. This way, sir.’

They passed through the inner gate, and descended a short flight of steps. The key was turned after them; and Mr. Pickwick found himself, for the first time in his life, within the walls of a debtors’ prison.

CHAPTER XLI. WHAT BEFELL MR. PICKWICK WHEN HE GOT INTO THE FLEET; WHAT PRISONERS HE SAW THERE, AND HOW HE PASSED THE NIGHT

Mr. Tom Roker, the gentleman who had accompanied Mr. Pickwick into the prison, turned sharp round to the right when he got to the bottom of the little flight of steps, and led the way, through an iron gate which stood open, and up another short flight of steps, into a long narrow gallery, dirty and low, paved with stone, and very dimly lighted by a window at each remote end.

‘This,’ said the gentleman, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and looking carelessly over his shoulder to Mr. Pickwick—‘this here is the hall flight.’

‘Oh,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, looking down a dark and filthy staircase, which appeared to lead to a range of damp and gloomy stone vaults, beneath the ground, ‘and those, I suppose, are the little cellars where the prisoners keep their small quantities of coals. Unpleasant places to have to go down to; but very convenient, I dare say.’

‘Yes, I shouldn’t wonder if they was convenient,’ replied the gentleman, ‘seeing that a few people live there, pretty snug. That’s the Fair, that is.’

‘My friend,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘you don’t really mean to say that human beings live down in those wretched dungeons?’

‘Don’t I?’ replied Mr. Roker, with indignant astonishment; ‘why shouldn’t I?’

‘Live!—live down there!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

‘Live down there! Yes, and die down there, too, very often!’ replied Mr. Roker; ‘and what of that? Who’s got to say anything agin it? Live down there! Yes, and a wery good place it is to live in, ain’t it?’

As Roker turned somewhat fiercely upon Mr. Pickwick in saying this, and moreover muttered in an excited fashion certain unpleasant invocations concerning his own eyes, limbs, and circulating fluids, the latter gentleman deemed it advisable to pursue the discourse no further. Mr. Roker then proceeded to mount another staircase, as dirty as that which led to the place which has just been the subject of discussion, in which ascent he was closely followed by Mr. Pickwick and Sam.

‘There,’ said Mr. Roker, pausing for breath when they reached another gallery of the same dimensions as the one below, ‘this is the coffee- room flight; the one above’s the third, and the one above that’s the top; and the room where you’re a-going to sleep to-night is the warden’s room, and it’s this way—come on.’ Having said all this in a breath, Mr. Roker mounted another flight of stairs with Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller following at his heels.

These staircases received light from sundry windows placed at some little distance above the floor, and looking into a gravelled area bounded by a high brick wall, with iron chevaux-de-frise at the top. This area, it appeared from Mr. Roker’s statement, was the racket- ground; and it further appeared, on the testimony of the same gentleman, that there was a smaller area in that portion of the prison which was nearest Farringdon Street, denominated and called ‘the Painted Ground,’ from the fact of its walls having once displayed the semblance of various men-of-war in full sail, and other artistical effects achieved in bygone times by some imprisoned draughtsman in his leisure hours.

Having communicated this piece of information, apparently more for the purpose of discharging his bosom of an important fact, than with any specific view of enlightening Mr. Pickwick, the guide, having at length reached another gallery, led the way into a small passage at the extreme end, opened a door, and disclosed an apartment of an appearance by no means inviting, containing eight or nine iron bedsteads.

‘There,’ said Mr. Roker, holding the door open, and looking triumphantly round at Mr. Pickwick, ‘there’s a room!’

Mr. Pickwick’s face, however, betokened such a very trifling portion of satisfaction at the appearance of his lodging, that Mr. Roker looked, for a reciprocity of feeling, into the countenance of Samuel Weller, who, until now, had observed a dignified silence.

‘There’s a room, young man,’ observed Mr. Roker.

‘I see it,’ replied Sam, with a placid nod of the head.

‘You wouldn’t think to find such a room as this in the Farringdon Hotel, would you?’ said Mr. Roker, with a complacent smile.

To this Mr. Weller replied with an easy and unstudied closing of one eye; which might be considered to mean, either that he would have thought it, or that he would not have thought it, or that he had never thought anything at all about it, as the observer’s imagination suggested. Having executed this feat, and reopened his eye, Mr. Weller proceeded to inquire which was the individual bedstead that Mr. Roker had so flatteringly described as an out-and-outer to sleep in.

‘That’s it,’ replied Mr. Roker, pointing to a very rusty one in a corner. ‘It would make any one go to sleep, that bedstead would, whether they wanted to or not.’

‘I should think,’ said Sam, eyeing the piece of furniture in question with a look of excessive disgust—‘I should think poppies was nothing to it.’

‘Nothing at all,’ said Mr. Roker.

‘And I s’pose,’ said Sam, with a sidelong glance at his master, as if to see whether there were any symptoms of his determination being shaken by what passed, ‘I s’pose the other gen’l’men as sleeps here _are _gen’l’men.’

‘Nothing but it,’ said Mr. Roker. ‘One of ‘em takes his twelve pints of ale a day, and never leaves off smoking even at his meals.’

‘He must be a first-rater,’ said Sam.

‘A1,’ replied Mr. Roker.

Nothing daunted, even by this intelligence, Mr. Pickwick smilingly announced his determination to test the powers of the narcotic bedstead for that night; and Mr. Roker, after informing him that he could retire to rest at whatever hour he thought proper, without any further notice or formality, walked off, leaving him standing with Sam in the gallery.

It was getting dark; that is to say, a few gas jets were kindled in this place which was never light, by way of compliment to the evening, which had set in outside. As it was rather warm, some of the tenants of the numerous little rooms which opened into the gallery on either hand, had set their doors ajar. Mr. Pickwick peeped into them as he passed along, with great curiosity and interest. Here, four or five great hulking fellows, just visible through a cloud of tobacco smoke, were engaged in noisy and riotous conversation over half-emptied pots of beer, or playing at all-fours with a very greasy pack of cards. In the adjoining room, some solitary tenant might be seen poring, by the light of a feeble tallow candle, over a bundle of soiled and tattered papers, yellow with dust and dropping to pieces from age, writing, for the hundredth time, some lengthened statement of his grievances, for the perusal of some great man whose eyes it would never reach, or whose heart it would never touch. In a third, a man, with his wife and a whole crowd of children, might be seen making up a scanty bed on the ground, or upon a few chairs, for the younger ones to pass the night in. And in a fourth, and a fifth, and a sixth, and a seventh, the noise, and the beer, and the tobacco smoke, and the cards, all came over again in greater force than before.

In the galleries themselves, and more especially on the stair-cases, there lingered a great number of people, who came there, some because their rooms were empty and lonesome, others because their rooms were full and hot; the greater part because they were restless and uncomfortable, and not possessed of the secret of exactly knowing what to do with themselves. There were many classes of people here, from the labouring man in his fustian jacket, to the broken-down spendthrift in his shawl dressing-gown, most appropriately out at elbows; but there was the same air about them all—a kind of listless, jail-bird, careless swagger, a vagabondish who’s-afraid sort of bearing, which is wholly indescribable in words, but which any man can understand in one moment if he wish, by setting foot in the nearest debtors’ prison, and looking at the very first group of people he sees there, with the same interest as Mr. Pickwick did.

‘It strikes me, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, leaning over the iron rail at the stair-head, ‘it strikes me, Sam, that imprisonment for debt is scarcely any punishment at all.’

‘Think not, sir?’ inquired Mr. Weller.

‘You see how these fellows drink, and smoke, and roar,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘It’s quite impossible that they can mind it much.’

‘Ah, that’s just the wery thing, Sir,’ rejoined Sam, ‘they don’t mind it; it’s a reg’lar holiday to them—all porter and skittles. It’s the t’other vuns as gets done over vith this sort o’ thing; them down- hearted fellers as can’t svig avay at the beer, nor play at skittles neither; them as vould pay if they could, and gets low by being boxed up. I’ll tell you wot it is, sir; them as is always a-idlin’ in public- houses it don’t damage at all, and them as is alvays a-workin’ wen they can, it damages too much. “It’s unekal,” as my father used to say wen his grog worn’t made half-and-half: “it’s unekal, and that’s the fault on it.”’

‘I think you’re right, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, after a few moments’ reflection, ‘quite right.’

‘P’raps, now and then, there’s some honest people as likes it,’ observed Mr. Weller, in a ruminative tone, ‘but I never heerd o’ one as I can call to mind, ‘cept the little dirty-faced man in the brown coat; and that was force of habit.’

‘And who was he?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Wy, that’s just the wery point as nobody never know’d,’ replied Sam.

‘But what did he do?’

‘Wy, he did wot many men as has been much better know’d has done in their time, Sir,’ replied Sam, ‘he run a match agin the constable, and vun it.’

‘In other words, I suppose,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘he got into debt.’

‘Just that, Sir,’ replied Sam, ‘and in course o’ time he come here in consekens. It warn’t much—execution for nine pound nothin’, multiplied by five for costs; but hows’ever here he stopped for seventeen year. If he got any wrinkles in his face, they were stopped up vith the dirt, for both the dirty face and the brown coat wos just the same at the end o’ that time as they wos at the beginnin’. He wos a wery peaceful, inoffendin’ little creetur, and wos alvays a-bustlin’ about for somebody, or playin’ rackets and never vinnin’; till at last the turnkeys they got quite fond on him, and he wos in the lodge ev’ry night, a-chattering vith ‘em, and tellin’ stories, and all that ‘ere. Vun night he wos in there as usual, along vith a wery old friend of his, as wos on the lock, ven he says all of a sudden, “I ain’t seen the market outside, Bill,” he says (Fleet Market wos there at that time)—“I ain’t seen the market outside, Bill,” he says, “for seventeen year.” “I know you ain’t,” says the turnkey, smoking his pipe. “I should like to see it for a minit, Bill,” he says. “Wery probable,” says the turnkey, smoking his pipe wery fierce, and making believe he warn’t up to wot the little man wanted. “Bill,” says the little man, more abrupt than afore, “I’ve got the fancy in my head. Let me see the public streets once more afore I die; and if I ain’t struck with apoplexy, I’ll be back in five minits by the clock.” “And wot ‘ud become o’ me if you _wos _struck with apoplexy?” said the turnkey. “Wy,” says the little creetur, “whoever found me, ‘ud bring me home, for I’ve got my card in my pocket, Bill,” he says, “No. 20, Coffee-room Flight”: and that wos true, sure enough, for wen he wanted to make the acquaintance of any new-comer, he used to pull out a little limp card vith them words on it and nothin’ else; in consideration of vich, he vos alvays called Number Tventy. The turnkey takes a fixed look at him, and at last he says in a solemn manner, “Tventy,” he says, “I’ll trust you; you Won’t get your old friend into trouble.” “No, my boy; I hope I’ve somethin’ better behind here,” says the little man; and as he said it he hit his little vesket wery hard, and then a tear started out o’ each eye, which wos wery extraordinary, for it wos supposed as water never touched his face. He shook the turnkey by the hand; out he vent—’

‘And never came back again,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Wrong for vunce, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, ‘for back he come, two minits afore the time, a-bilin’ with rage, sayin’ how he’d been nearly run over by a hackney-coach that he warn’t used to it; and he was blowed if he wouldn’t write to the lord mayor. They got him pacified at last; and for five years arter that, he never even so much as peeped out o’ the lodge gate.’

‘At the expiration of that time he died, I suppose,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘No, he didn’t, Sir,’ replied Sam. ‘He got a curiosity to go and taste the beer at a new public-house over the way, and it wos such a wery nice parlour, that he took it into his head to go there every night, which he did for a long time, always comin’ back reg’lar about a quarter of an hour afore the gate shut, which was all wery snug and comfortable. At last he began to get so precious jolly, that he used to forget how the time vent, or care nothin’ at all about it, and he went on gettin’ later and later, till vun night his old friend wos just a-shuttin’ the gate— had turned the key in fact—wen he come up. “Hold hard, Bill,” he says. “Wot, ain’t you come home yet, Tventy?” says the turnkey, “I thought you wos in, long ago.” “No, I wasn’t,” says the little man, with a smile. “Well, then, I’ll tell you wot it is, my friend,” says the turnkey, openin’ the gate wery slow and sulky, “it’s my ‘pinion as you’ve got into bad company o’ late, which I’m wery sorry to see. Now, I don’t wish to do nothing harsh,” he says, “but if you can’t confine yourself to steady circles, and find your vay back at reg’lar hours, as sure as you’re a-standin’ there, I’ll shut you out altogether!” The little man was seized vith a wiolent fit o’ tremblin’, and never vent outside the prison walls artervards!’

As Sam concluded, Mr. Pickwick slowly retraced his steps downstairs. After a few thoughtful turns in the Painted Ground, which, as it was now dark, was nearly deserted, he intimated to Mr. Weller that he thought it high time for him to withdraw for the night; requesting him to seek a bed in some adjacent public-house, and return early in the morning, to make arrangements for the removal of his master’s wardrobe from the George and Vulture. This request Mr. Samuel Weller prepared to obey, with as good a grace as he could assume, but with a very considerable show of reluctance nevertheless. He even went so far as to essay sundry ineffectual hints regarding the expediency of stretching himself on the gravel for that night; but finding Mr. Pickwick obstinately deaf to any such suggestions, finally withdrew.

There is no disguising the fact that Mr. Pickwick felt very low-spirited and uncomfortable—not for lack of society, for the prison was very full, and a bottle of wine would at once have purchased the utmost good- fellowship of a few choice spirits, without any more formal ceremony of introduction; but he was alone in the coarse, vulgar crowd, and felt the depression of spirits and sinking of heart, naturally consequent on the reflection that he was cooped and caged up, without a prospect of liberation. As to the idea of releasing himself by ministering to the sharpness of Dodson & Fogg, it never for an instant entered his thoughts.

In this frame of mind he turned again into the coffee-room gallery, and walked slowly to and fro. The place was intolerably dirty, and the smell of tobacco smoke perfectly suffocating. There was a perpetual slamming and banging of doors as the people went in and out; and the noise of their voices and footsteps echoed and re-echoed through the passages constantly. A young woman, with a child in her arms, who seemed scarcely able to crawl, from emaciation and misery, was walking up and down the passage in conversation with her husband, who had no other place to see her in. As they passed Mr. Pickwick, he could hear the female sob bitterly; and once she burst into such a passion of grief, that she was compelled to lean against the wall for support, while the man took the child in his arms, and tried to soothe her.

Mr. Pickwick’s heart was really too full to bear it, and he went upstairs to bed.

Now, although the warder’s room was a very uncomfortable one (being, in every point of decoration and convenience, several hundred degrees inferior to the common infirmary of a county jail), it had at present the merit of being wholly deserted save by Mr. Pickwick himself. So, he sat down at the foot of his little iron bedstead, and began to wonder how much a year the warder made out of the dirty room. Having satisfied himself, by mathematical calculation, that the apartment was about equal in annual value to the freehold of a small street in the suburbs of London, he took to wondering what possible temptation could have induced a dingy-looking fly that was crawling over his pantaloons, to come into a close prison, when he had the choice of so many airy situations—a course of meditation which led him to the irresistible conclusion that the insect was insane. After settling this point, he began to be conscious that he was getting sleepy; whereupon he took his nightcap out of the pocket in which he had had the precaution to stow it in the morning, and, leisurely undressing himself, got into bed and fell asleep.

‘Bravo! Heel over toe—cut and shuffle—pay away at it, Zephyr! I’m smothered if the opera house isn’t your proper hemisphere. Keep it up! Hooray!’ These expressions, delivered in a most boisterous tone, and accompanied with loud peals of laughter, roused Mr. Pickwick from one of those sound slumbers which, lasting in reality some half-hour, seem to the sleeper to have been protracted for three weeks or a month.

The voice had no sooner ceased than the room was shaken with such violence that the windows rattled in their frames, and the bedsteads trembled again. Mr. Pickwick started up, and remained for some minutes fixed in mute astonishment at the scene before him.

On the floor of the room, a man in a broad-skirted green coat, with corduroy knee-smalls and gray cotton stockings, was performing the most popular steps of a hornpipe, with a slang and burlesque caricature of grace and lightness, which, combined with the very appropriate character of his costume, was inexpressibly absurd. Another man, evidently very drunk, who had probably been tumbled into bed by his companions, was sitting up between the sheets, warbling as much as he could recollect of a comic song, with the most intensely sentimental feeling and expression; while a third, seated on one of the bedsteads, was applauding both performers with the air of a profound connoisseur, and encouraging them by such ebullitions of feeling as had already roused Mr. Pickwick from his sleep.

This last man was an admirable specimen of a class of gentry which never can be seen in full perfection but in such places—they may be met with, in an imperfect state, occasionally about stable-yards and Public- houses; but they never attain their full bloom except in these hot-beds, which would almost seem to be considerately provided by the legislature for the sole purpose of rearing them.

He was a tall fellow, with an olive complexion, long dark hair, and very thick bushy whiskers meeting under his chin. He wore no neckerchief, as he had been playing rackets all day, and his open shirt collar displayed their full luxuriance. On his head he wore one of the common eighteenpenny French skull-caps, with a gaudy tassel dangling therefrom, very happily in keeping with a common fustian coat. His legs, which, being long, were afflicted with weakness, graced a pair of Oxford- mixture trousers, made to show the full symmetry of those limbs. Being somewhat negligently braced, however, and, moreover, but imperfectly buttoned, they fell in a series of not the most graceful folds over a pair of shoes sufficiently down at heel to display a pair of very soiled white stockings. There was a rakish, vagabond smartness, and a kind of boastful rascality, about the whole man, that was worth a mine of gold.

This figure was the first to perceive that Mr. Pickwick was looking on; upon which he winked to the Zephyr, and entreated him, with mock gravity, not to wake the gentleman.

‘Why, bless the gentleman’s honest heart and soul!’ said the Zephyr, turning round and affecting the extremity of surprise; ‘the gentleman is awake. Hem, Shakespeare! How do you do, Sir? How is Mary and Sarah, sir? and the dear old lady at home, Sir? Will you have the kindness to put my compliments into the first little parcel you’re sending that way, sir, and say that I would have sent ‘em before, only I was afraid they might be broken in the wagon, sir?’

‘Don’t overwhelm the gentlemen with ordinary civilities when you see he’s anxious to have something to drink,’ said the gentleman with the whiskers, with a jocose air. ‘Why don’t you ask the gentleman what he’ll take?’

‘Dear me, I quite forgot,’ replied the other. ‘What will you take, sir? Will you take port wine, sir, or sherry wine, sir? I can recommend the ale, sir; or perhaps you’d like to taste the porter, sir? Allow me to have the felicity of hanging up your nightcap, Sir.’

With this, the speaker snatched that article of dress from Mr. Pickwick’s head, and fixed it in a twinkling on that of the drunken man, who, firmly impressed with the belief that he was delighting a numerous assembly, continued to hammer away at the comic song in the most melancholy strains imaginable.

Taking a man’s nightcap from his brow by violent means, and adjusting it on the head of an unknown gentleman, of dirty exterior, however ingenious a witticism in itself, is unquestionably one of those which come under the denomination of practical jokes. Viewing the matter precisely in this light, Mr. Pickwick, without the slightest intimation of his purpose, sprang vigorously out of bed, struck the Zephyr so smart a blow in the chest as to deprive him of a considerable portion of the commodity which sometimes bears his name, and then, recapturing his nightcap, boldly placed himself in an attitude of defence.

‘Now,’ said Mr. Pickwick, gasping no less from excitement than from the expenditure of so much energy, ‘come on—both of you—both of you!’ With this liberal invitation the worthy gentleman communicated a revolving motion to his clenched fists, by way of appalling his antagonists with a display of science.

It might have been Mr. Pickwick’s very unexpected gallantry, or it might have been the complicated manner in which he had got himself out of bed, and fallen all in a mass upon the hornpipe man, that touched his adversaries. Touched they were; for, instead of then and there making an attempt to commit man-slaughter, as Mr. Pickwick implicitly believed they would have done, they paused, stared at each other a short time, and finally laughed outright.

‘Well, you’re a trump, and I like you all the better for it,’ said the Zephyr. ‘Now jump into bed again, or you’ll catch the rheumatics. No malice, I hope?’ said the man, extending a hand the size of the yellow clump of fingers which sometimes swings over a glover’s door.

‘Certainly not,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with great alacrity; for, now that the excitement was over, he began to feel rather cool about the legs.

‘Allow me the H-onour,’ said the gentleman with the whiskers, presenting his dexter hand, and aspirating the h.

‘With much pleasure, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick; and having executed a very long and solemn shake, he got into bed again.

‘My name is Smangle, sir,’ said the man with the whiskers.

‘Oh,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Mine is Mivins,’ said the man in the stockings.

‘I am delighted to hear it, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Hem,’ coughed Mr. Smangle.

‘Did you speak, sir?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘No, I did not, sir,’ said Mr. Smangle.

All this was very genteel and pleasant; and, to make matters still more comfortable, Mr. Smangle assured Mr. Pickwick a great many more times that he entertained a very high respect for the feelings of a gentleman; which sentiment, indeed, did him infinite credit, as he could be in no wise supposed to understand them.

‘Are you going through the court, sir?’ inquired Mr. Smangle.

‘Through the what?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Through the court—Portugal Street—the Court for Relief of—you know.’

‘Oh, no,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘No, I am not.’

‘Going out, perhaps?’ suggested Mr. Mivins.

‘I fear not,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘I refuse to pay some damages, and am here in consequence.’

‘Ah,’ said Mr. Smangle, ‘paper has been my ruin.’

‘A stationer, I presume, Sir?’ said Mr. Pickwick innocently.

‘Stationer! No, no; confound and curse me! Not so low as that. No trade. When I say paper, I mean bills.’

‘Oh, you use the word in that sense. I see,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Damme! A gentleman must expect reverses,’ said Smangle. ‘What of that? Here am I in the Fleet Prison. Well; good. What then? I’m none the worse for that, am I?’

‘Not a bit,’ replied Mr. Mivins. And he was quite right; for, so far from Mr. Smangle being any the worse for it, he was something the better, inasmuch as to qualify himself for the place, he had attained gratuitous possession of certain articles of jewellery, which, long before that, had found their way to the pawnbroker’s.

‘Well; but come,’ said Mr. Smangle; ‘this is dry work. Let’s rinse our mouths with a drop of burnt sherry; the last-comer shall stand it, Mivins shall fetch it, and I’ll help to drink it. That’s a fair and gentlemanlike division of labour, anyhow. Curse me!’

Unwilling to hazard another quarrel, Mr. Pickwick gladly assented to the proposition, and consigned the money to Mr. Mivins, who, as it was nearly eleven o’clock, lost no time in repairing to the coffee-room on his errand.

‘I say,’ whispered Smangle, the moment his friend had left the room; ‘what did you give him?’

‘Half a sovereign,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘He’s a devilish pleasant gentlemanly dog,’ said Mr. Smangle;—‘infernal pleasant. I don’t know anybody more so; but—’ Here Mr. Smangle stopped short, and shook his head dubiously.

‘You don’t think there is any probability of his appropriating the money to his own use?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Oh, no! Mind, I don’t say that; I expressly say that he’s a devilish gentlemanly fellow,’ said Mr. Smangle. ‘But I think, perhaps, if somebody went down, just to see that he didn’t dip his beak into the jug by accident, or make some confounded mistake in losing the money as he came upstairs, it would be as well. Here, you sir, just run downstairs, and look after that gentleman, will you?’

This request was addressed to a little timid-looking, nervous man, whose appearance bespoke great poverty, and who had been crouching on his bedstead all this while, apparently stupefied by the novelty of his situation.

‘You know where the coffee-room is,’ said Smangle; ‘just run down, and tell that gentleman you’ve come to help him up with the jug. Or—stop— I’ll tell you what—I’ll tell you how we’ll do him,’ said Smangle, with a cunning look.

‘How?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Send down word that he’s to spend the change in cigars. Capital thought. Run and tell him that; d’ye hear? They shan’t be wasted,’ continued Smangle, turning to Mr. Pickwick. ‘I’ll smoke ‘em.’

This manoeuvring was so exceedingly ingenious and, withal, performed with such immovable composure and coolness, that Mr. Pickwick would have had no wish to disturb it, even if he had had the power. In a short time Mr. Mivins returned, bearing the sherry, which Mr. Smangle dispensed in two little cracked mugs; considerately remarking, with reference to himself, that a gentleman must not be particular under such circumstances, and that, for his part, he was not too proud to drink out of the jug. In which, to show his sincerity, he forthwith pledged the company in a draught which half emptied it.

An excellent understanding having been by these means promoted, Mr. Smangle proceeded to entertain his hearers with a relation of divers romantic adventures in which he had been from time to time engaged, involving various interesting anecdotes of a thoroughbred horse, and a magnificent Jewess, both of surpassing beauty, and much coveted by the nobility and gentry of these kingdoms.

Long before these elegant extracts from the biography of a gentleman were concluded, Mr. Mivins had betaken himself to bed, and had set in snoring for the night, leaving the timid stranger and Mr. Pickwick to the full benefit of Mr. Smangle’s experiences.

Nor were the two last-named gentlemen as much edified as they might have been by the moving passages narrated. Mr. Pickwick had been in a state of slumber for some time, when he had a faint perception of the drunken man bursting out afresh with the comic song, and receiving from Mr. Smangle a gentle intimation, through the medium of the water-jug, that his audience was not musically disposed. Mr. Pickwick then once again dropped off to sleep, with a confused consciousness that Mr. Smangle was still engaged in relating a long story, the chief point of which appeared to be that, on some occasion particularly stated and set forth, he had ‘done’ a bill and a gentleman at the same time.

CHAPTER XLII. ILLUSTRATIVE, LIKE THE PRECEDING ONE, OF THE OLD PROVERB, THAT ADVERSITY BRINGS A MAN ACQUAINTED WITH STRANGE BEDFELLOWS— LIKEWISE CONTAINING MR. PICKWICK’S EXTRAORDINARY AND STARTLING ANNOUNCEMENT TO MR. SAMUEL WELLER

When Mr. Pickwick opened his eyes next morning, the first object upon which they rested was Samuel Weller, seated upon a small black portmanteau, intently regarding, apparently in a condition of profound abstraction, the stately figure of the dashing Mr. Smangle; while Mr. Smangle himself, who was already partially dressed, was seated on his bedstead, occupied in the desperately hopeless attempt of staring Mr. Weller out of countenance. We say desperately hopeless, because Sam, with a comprehensive gaze which took in Mr. Smangle’s cap, feet, head, face, legs, and whiskers, all at the same time, continued to look steadily on, with every demonstration of lively satisfaction, but with no more regard to Mr. Smangle’s personal sentiments on the subject than he would have displayed had he been inspecting a wooden statue, or a straw-embowelled Guy Fawkes.

‘Well; will you know me again?’ said Mr. Smangle, with a frown.

‘I’d svear to you anyveres, Sir,’ replied Sam cheerfully.

‘Don’t be impertinent to a gentleman, Sir,’ said Mr. Smangle.

‘Not on no account,’ replied Sam. ‘If you’ll tell me wen he wakes, I’ll be upon the wery best extra-super behaviour!’ This observation, having a remote tendency to imply that Mr. Smangle was no gentleman, kindled his ire.

‘Mivins!’ said Mr. Smangle, with a passionate air.

‘What’s the office?’ replied that gentleman from his couch.

‘Who the devil is this fellow?’

‘’Gad,’ said Mr. Mivins, looking lazily out from under the bed-clothes, ‘I ought to ask _you _that. Hasn’t he any business here?’

‘No,’ replied Mr. Smangle.

‘Then knock him downstairs, and tell him not to presume to get up till I come and kick him,’ rejoined Mr. Mivins; with this prompt advice that excellent gentleman again betook himself to slumber.

The conversation exhibiting these unequivocal symptoms of verging on the personal, Mr. Pickwick deemed it a fit point at which to interpose.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Sir,’ rejoined that gentleman.

‘Has anything new occurred since last night?’

‘Nothin’ partickler, sir,’ replied Sam, glancing at Mr. Smangle’s whiskers; ‘the late prewailance of a close and confined atmosphere has been rayther favourable to the growth of veeds, of an alarmin’ and sangvinary natur; but vith that ‘ere exception things is quiet enough.’

‘I shall get up,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘give me some clean things.’

Whatever hostile intentions Mr. Smangle might have entertained, his thoughts were speedily diverted by the unpacking of the portmanteau; the contents of which appeared to impress him at once with a most favourable opinion, not only of Mr. Pickwick, but of Sam also, who, he took an early opportunity of declaring in a tone of voice loud enough for that eccentric personage to overhear, was a regular thoroughbred original, and consequently the very man after his own heart. As to Mr. Pickwick, the affection he conceived for him knew no limits.

‘Now is there anything I can do for you, my dear Sir?’ said Smangle.

‘Nothing that I am aware of, I am obliged to you,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘No linen that you want sent to the washerwoman’s? I know a delightful washerwoman outside, that comes for my things twice a week; and, by Jove!—how devilish lucky!—this is the day she calls. Shall I put any of those little things up with mine? Don’t say anything about the trouble. Confound and curse it! if one gentleman under a cloud is not to put himself a little out of the way to assist another gentleman in the same condition, what’s human nature?’

Thus spake Mr. Smangle, edging himself meanwhile as near as possible to the portmanteau, and beaming forth looks of the most fervent and disinterested friendship.

‘There’s nothing you want to give out for the man to brush, my dear creature, is there?’ resumed Smangle.

‘Nothin’ whatever, my fine feller,’ rejoined Sam, taking the reply into his own mouth. ‘P’raps if vun of us wos to brush, without troubling the man, it ‘ud be more agreeable for all parties, as the schoolmaster said when the young gentleman objected to being flogged by the butler.’

‘And there’s nothing I can send in my little box to the washer-woman’s, is there?’ said Smangle, turning from Sam to Mr. Pickwick, with an air of some discomfiture.

‘Nothin’ whatever, Sir,’ retorted Sam; ‘I’m afeered the little box must be chock full o’ your own as it is.’

This speech was accompanied with such a very expressive look at that particular portion of Mr. Smangle’s attire, by the appearance of which the skill of laundresses in getting up gentlemen’s linen is generally tested, that he was fain to turn upon his heel, and, for the present at any rate, to give up all design on Mr. Pickwick’s purse and wardrobe. He accordingly retired in dudgeon to the racket-ground, where he made a light and whole-some breakfast on a couple of the cigars which had been purchased on the previous night.

Mr. Mivins, who was no smoker, and whose account for small articles of chandlery had also reached down to the bottom of the slate, and been ‘carried over’ to the other side, remained in bed, and, in his own words, ‘took it out in sleep.’

After breakfasting in a small closet attached to the coffee-room, which bore the imposing title of the Snuggery, the temporary inmate of which, in consideration of a small additional charge, had the unspeakable advantage of overhearing all the conversation in the coffee-room aforesaid; and, after despatching Mr. Weller on some necessary errands, Mr. Pickwick repaired to the lodge, to consult Mr. Roker concerning his future accommodation.

‘Accommodation, eh?’ said that gentleman, consulting a large book. ‘Plenty of that, Mr. Pickwick. Your chummage ticket will be on twenty- seven, in the third.’

‘Oh,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘My what, did you say?’

‘Your chummage ticket,’ replied Mr. Roker; ‘you’re up to that?’

‘Not quite,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, with a smile.

‘Why,’ said Mr. Roker, ‘it’s as plain as Salisbury. You’ll have a chummage ticket upon twenty-seven in the third, and them as is in the room will be your chums.’

‘Are there many of them?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick dubiously.

‘Three,’ replied Mr. Roker.

Mr. Pickwick coughed.

‘One of ‘em’s a parson,’ said Mr. Roker, filling up a little piece of paper as he spoke; ‘another’s a butcher.’

‘Eh?’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

‘A butcher,’ repeated Mr. Roker, giving the nib of his pen a tap on the desk to cure it of a disinclination to mark. ‘What a thorough-paced goer he used to be sure-ly! You remember Tom Martin, Neddy?’ said Roker, appealing to another man in the lodge, who was paring the mud off his shoes with a five-and-twenty-bladed pocket-knife.

‘I should think so,’ replied the party addressed, with a strong emphasis on the personal pronoun.

‘Bless my dear eyes!’ said Mr. Roker, shaking his head slowly from side to side, and gazing abstractedly out of the grated windows before him, as if he were fondly recalling some peaceful scene of his early youth; ‘it seems but yesterday that he whopped the coal-heaver down Fox-under- the-Hill by the wharf there. I think I can see him now, a-coming up the Strand between the two street-keepers, a little sobered by the bruising, with a patch o’ winegar and brown paper over his right eyelid, and that ‘ere lovely bulldog, as pinned the little boy arterwards, a-following at his heels. What a rum thing time is, ain’t it, Neddy?’

The gentleman to whom these observations were addressed, who appeared of a taciturn and thoughtful cast, merely echoed the inquiry; Mr. Roker, shaking off the poetical and gloomy train of thought into which he had been betrayed, descended to the common business of life, and resumed his pen.

‘Do you know what the third gentlemen is?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, not very much gratified by this description of his future associates.

‘What is that Simpson, Neddy?’ said Mr. Roker, turning to his companion.

‘What Simpson?’ said Neddy.

‘Why, him in twenty-seven in the third, that this gentleman’s going to be chummed on.’

‘Oh, him!’ replied Neddy; ‘he’s nothing exactly. He _was _a horse chaunter: he’s a leg now.’

‘Ah, so I thought,’ rejoined Mr. Roker, closing the book, and placing the small piece of paper in Mr. Pickwick’s hands. ‘That’s the ticket, sir.’

Very much perplexed by this summary disposition of this person, Mr. Pickwick walked back into the prison, revolving in his mind what he had better do. Convinced, however, that before he took any other steps it would be advisable to see, and hold personal converse with, the three gentlemen with whom it was proposed to quarter him, he made the best of his way to the third flight.

After groping about in the gallery for some time, attempting in the dim light to decipher the numbers on the different doors, he at length appealed to a pot-boy, who happened to be pursuing his morning occupation of gleaning for pewter.

‘Which is twenty-seven, my good fellow?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Five doors farther on,’ replied the pot-boy. ‘There’s the likeness of a man being hung, and smoking the while, chalked outside the door.’

Guided by this direction, Mr. Pickwick proceeded slowly along the gallery until he encountered the ‘portrait of a gentleman,’ above described, upon whose countenance he tapped, with the knuckle of his forefinger—gently at first, and then audibly. After repeating this process several times without effect, he ventured to open the door and peep in.

There was only one man in the room, and he was leaning out of window as far as he could without overbalancing himself, endeavouring, with great perseverance, to spit upon the crown of the hat of a personal friend on the parade below. As neither speaking, coughing, sneezing, knocking, nor any other ordinary mode of attracting attention, made this person aware of the presence of a visitor, Mr. Pickwick, after some delay, stepped up to the window, and pulled him gently by the coat tail. The individual brought in his head and shoulders with great swiftness, and surveying Mr. Pickwick from head to foot, demanded in a surly tone what the— something beginning with a capital H—he wanted.

‘I believe,’ said Mr. Pickwick, consulting his ticket—‘I believe this is twenty-seven in the third?’

‘Well?’ replied the gentleman.

‘I have come here in consequence of receiving this bit of paper,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick.

‘Hand it over,’ said the gentleman.

Mr. Pickwick complied.

‘I think Roker might have chummed you somewhere else,’ said Mr. Simpson (for it was the leg), after a very discontented sort of a pause.

Mr. Pickwick thought so also; but, under all the circumstances, he considered it a matter of sound policy to be silent.

Mr. Simpson mused for a few moments after this, and then, thrusting his head out of the window, gave a shrill whistle, and pronounced some word aloud, several times. What the word was, Mr. Pickwick could not distinguish; but he rather inferred that it must be some nickname which distinguished Mr. Martin, from the fact of a great number of gentlemen on the ground below, immediately proceeding to cry ‘Butcher!’ in imitation of the tone in which that useful class of society are wont, diurnally, to make their presence known at area railings.

Subsequent occurrences confirmed the accuracy of Mr. Pickwick’s impression; for, in a few seconds, a gentleman, prematurely broad for his years, clothed in a professional blue jean frock and top-boots with circular toes, entered the room nearly out of breath, closely followed by another gentleman in very shabby black, and a sealskin cap. The latter gentleman, who fastened his coat all the way up to his chin by means of a pin and a button alternately, had a very coarse red face, and looked like a drunken chaplain; which, indeed, he was.

These two gentlemen having by turns perused Mr. Pickwick’s billet, the one expressed his opinion that it was ‘a rig,’ and the other his conviction that it was ‘a go.’ Having recorded their feelings in these very intelligible terms, they looked at Mr. Pickwick and each other in awkward silence.

‘It’s an aggravating thing, just as we got the beds so snug,’ said the chaplain, looking at three dirty mattresses, each rolled up in a blanket; which occupied one corner of the room during the day, and formed a kind of slab, on which were placed an old cracked basin, ewer, and soap-dish, of common yellow earthenware, with a blue flower—‘very aggravating.’

Mr. Martin expressed the same opinion in rather stronger terms; Mr. Simpson, after having let a variety of expletive adjectives loose upon society without any substantive to accompany them, tucked up his sleeves, and began to wash the greens for dinner.

While this was going on, Mr. Pickwick had been eyeing the room, which was filthily dirty, and smelt intolerably close. There was no vestige of either carpet, curtain, or blind. There was not even a closet in it. Unquestionably there were but few things to put away, if there had been one; but, however few in number, or small in individual amount, still, remnants of loaves and pieces of cheese, and damp towels, and scrags of meat, and articles of wearing apparel, and mutilated crockery, and bellows without nozzles, and toasting-forks without prongs, do present somewhat of an uncomfortable appearance when they are scattered about the floor of a small apartment, which is the common sitting and sleeping room of three idle men.

‘I suppose this can be managed somehow,’ said the butcher, after a pretty long silence. ‘What will you take to go out?’

I beg your pardon,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘What did you say? I hardly understand you.’

‘What will you take to be paid out?’ said the butcher. ‘The regular chummage is two-and-six. Will you take three bob?’

‘And a bender,’ suggested the clerical gentleman.

‘Well, I don’t mind that; it’s only twopence a piece more,’ said Mr. Martin. ‘What do you say, now? We’ll pay you out for three-and-sixpence a week. Come!’

‘And stand a gallon of beer down,’ chimed in Mr. Simpson. ‘There!’

‘And drink it on the spot,’ said the chaplain. ‘Now!’

‘I really am so wholly ignorant of the rules of this place,’ returned Mr. Pickwick, ‘that I do not yet comprehend you. Can I live anywhere else? I thought I could not.’

At this inquiry Mr. Martin looked, with a countenance of excessive surprise, at his two friends, and then each gentleman pointed with his right thumb over his left shoulder. This action imperfectly described in words by the very feeble term of ‘over the left,’ when performed by any number of ladies or gentlemen who are accustomed to act in unison, has a very graceful and airy effect; its expression is one of light and playful sarcasm.

‘_Can _you!’ repeated Mr. Martin, with a smile of pity.

‘Well, if I knew as little of life as that, I’d eat my hat and swallow the buckle whole,’ said the clerical gentleman.

‘So would I,’ added the sporting one solemnly.

After this introductory preface, the three chums informed Mr. Pickwick, in a breath, that money was, in the Fleet, just what money was out of it; that it would instantly procure him almost anything he desired; and that, supposing he had it, and had no objection to spend it, if he only signified his wish to have a room to himself, he might take possession of one, furnished and fitted to boot, in half an hour’s time.

With this the parties separated, very much to their common satisfaction; Mr. Pickwick once more retracing his steps to the lodge, and the three companions adjourning to the coffee-room, there to spend the five shillings which the clerical gentleman had, with admirable prudence and foresight, borrowed of him for the purpose.

‘I knowed it!’ said Mr. Roker, with a chuckle, when Mr. Pickwick stated the object with which he had returned. ‘Didn’t I say so, Neddy?’

The philosophical owner of the universal penknife growled an affirmative.

‘I knowed you’d want a room for yourself, bless you!’ said Mr. Roker. ‘Let me see. You’ll want some furniture. You’ll hire that of me, I suppose? That’s the reg’lar thing.’

‘With great pleasure,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘There’s a capital room up in the coffee-room flight, that belongs to a Chancery prisoner,’ said Mr. Roker. ‘It’ll stand you in a pound a week. I suppose you don’t mind that?’

‘Not at all,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Just step there with me,’ said Roker, taking up his hat with great alacrity; ‘the matter’s settled in five minutes. Lord! why didn’t you say at first that you was willing to come down handsome?’

The matter was soon arranged, as the turnkey had foretold. The Chancery prisoner had been there long enough to have lost his friends, fortune, home, and happiness, and to have acquired the right of having a room to himself. As he laboured, however, under the inconvenience of often wanting a morsel of bread, he eagerly listened to Mr. Pickwick’s proposal to rent the apartment, and readily covenanted and agreed to yield him up the sole and undisturbed possession thereof, in consideration of the weekly payment of twenty shillings; from which fund he furthermore contracted to pay out any person or persons that might be chummed upon it.

As they struck the bargain, Mr. Pickwick surveyed him with a painful interest. He was a tall, gaunt, cadaverous man, in an old greatcoat and slippers, with sunken cheeks, and a restless, eager eye. His lips were bloodless, and his bones sharp and thin. God help him! the iron teeth of confinement and privation had been slowly filing him down for twenty years.

‘And where will you live meanwhile, Sir?’ said Mr. Pickwick, as he laid the amount of the first week’s rent, in advance, on the tottering table.

The man gathered up the money with a trembling hand, and replied that he didn’t know yet; he must go and see where he could move his bed to.

‘I am afraid, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, laying his hand gently and compassionately on his arm—‘I am afraid you will have to live in some noisy, crowded place. Now, pray, consider this room your own when you want quiet, or when any of your friends come to see you.’

‘Friends!’ interposed the man, in a voice which rattled in his throat. ‘if I lay dead at the bottom of the deepest mine in the world; tight screwed down and soldered in my coffin; rotting in the dark and filthy ditch that drags its slime along, beneath the foundations of this prison; I could not be more forgotten or unheeded than I am here. I am a dead man; dead to society, without the pity they bestow on those whose souls have passed to judgment. Friends to see me! My God! I have sunk, from the prime of life into old age, in this place, and there is not one to raise his hand above my bed when I lie dead upon it, and say, “It is a blessing he is gone!”’

The excitement, which had cast an unwonted light over the man’s face, while he spoke, subsided as he concluded; and pressing his withered hands together in a hasty and disordered manner, he shuffled from the room.

‘Rides rather rusty,’ said Mr. Roker, with a smile. ‘Ah! they’re like the elephants. They feel it now and then, and it makes ‘em wild!’

Having made this deeply-sympathising remark, Mr. Roker entered upon his arrangements with such expedition, that in a short time the room was furnished with a carpet, six chairs, a table, a sofa bedstead, a tea- kettle, and various small articles, on hire, at the very reasonable rate of seven-and-twenty shillings and sixpence per week.

‘Now, is there anything more we can do for you?’ inquired Mr. Roker, looking round with great satisfaction, and gaily chinking the first week’s hire in his closed fist.

‘Why, yes,’ said Mr. Pickwick, who had been musing deeply for some time. ‘Are there any people here who run on errands, and so forth?’

‘Outside, do you mean?’ inquired Mr. Roker.

‘Yes. I mean who are able to go outside. Not prisoners.’

‘Yes, there is,’ said Roker. ‘There’s an unfortunate devil, who has got a friend on the poor side, that’s glad to do anything of that sort. He’s been running odd jobs, and that, for the last two months. Shall I send him?’

‘If you please,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick. ‘Stay; no. The poor side, you say? I should like to see it. I’ll go to him myself.’

The poor side of a debtor’s prison is, as its name imports, that in which the most miserable and abject class of debtors are confined. A prisoner having declared upon the poor side, pays neither rent nor chummage. His fees, upon entering and leaving the jail, are reduced in amount, and he becomes entitled to a share of some small quantities of food: to provide which, a few charitable persons have, from time to time, left trifling legacies in their wills. Most of our readers will remember, that, until within a very few years past, there was a kind of iron cage in the wall of the Fleet Prison, within which was posted some man of hungry looks, who, from time to time, rattled a money-box, and exclaimed in a mournful voice, ‘Pray, remember the poor debtors; pray remember the poor debtors.’ The receipts of this box, when there were any, were divided among the poor prisoners; and the men on the poor side relieved each other in this degrading office.

Although this custom has been abolished, and the cage is now boarded up, the miserable and destitute condition of these unhappy persons remains the same. We no longer suffer them to appeal at the prison gates to the charity and compassion of the passersby; but we still leave unblotted the leaves of our statute book, for the reverence and admiration of succeeding ages, the just and wholesome law which declares that the sturdy felon shall be fed and clothed, and that the penniless debtor shall be left to die of starvation and nakedness. This is no fiction. Not a week passes over our head, but, in every one of our prisons for debt, some of these men must inevitably expire in the slow agonies of want, if they were not relieved by their fellow-prisoners.

Turning these things in his mind, as he mounted the narrow staircase at the foot of which Roker had left him, Mr. Pickwick gradually worked himself to the boiling-over point; and so excited was he with his reflections on this subject, that he had burst into the room to which he had been directed, before he had any distinct recollection, either of the place in which he was, or of the object of his visit.

The general aspect of the room recalled him to himself at once; but he had no sooner cast his eye on the figure of a man who was brooding over the dusty fire, than, letting his hat fall on the floor, he stood perfectly fixed and immovable with astonishment.

Yes; in tattered garments, and without a coat; his common calico shirt, yellow and in rags; his hair hanging over his face; his features changed with suffering, and pinched with famine—there sat Mr. Alfred Jingle; his head resting on his hands, his eyes fixed upon the fire, and his whole appearance denoting misery and dejection!

Near him, leaning listlessly against the wall, stood a strong-built countryman, flicking with a worn-out hunting-whip the top-boot that adorned his right foot; his left being thrust into an old slipper. Horses, dogs, and drink had brought him there, pell-mell. There was a rusty spur on the solitary boot, which he occasionally jerked into the empty air, at the same time giving the boot a smart blow, and muttering some of the sounds by which a sportsman encourages his horse. He was riding, in imagination, some desperate steeplechase at that moment. Poor wretch! He never rode a match on the swiftest animal in his costly stud, with half the speed at which he had torn along the course that ended in the Fleet.

On the opposite side of the room an old man was seated on a small wooden box, with his eyes riveted on the floor, and his face settled into an expression of the deepest and most hopeless despair. A young girl—his little grand-daughter—was hanging about him, endeavouring, with a thousand childish devices, to engage his attention; but the old man neither saw nor heard her. The voice that had been music to him, and the eyes that had been light, fell coldly on his senses. His limbs were shaking with disease, and the palsy had fastened on his mind.

There were two or three other men in the room, congregated in a little knot, and noiselessly talking among themselves. There was a lean and haggard woman, too—a prisoner’s wife—who was watering, with great solicitude, the wretched stump of a dried-up, withered plant, which, it was plain to see, could never send forth a green leaf again—too true an emblem, perhaps, of the office she had come there to discharge.

Such were the objects which presented themselves to Mr. Pickwick’s view, as he looked round him in amazement. The noise of some one stumbling hastily into the room, roused him. Turning his eyes towards the door, they encountered the new-comer; and in him, through his rags and dirt, he recognised the familiar features of Mr. Job Trotter.

‘Mr. Pickwick!’ exclaimed Job aloud.

‘Eh?’ said Jingle, starting from his seat.

‘Mr ----! So it is—queer place—strange things—serves me right—very.’ Mr. Jingle thrust his hands into the place where his trousers pockets used to be, and, dropping his chin upon his breast, sank back into his chair.

Mr. Pickwick was affected; the two men looked so very miserable. The sharp, involuntary glance Jingle had cast at a small piece of raw loin of mutton, which Job had brought in with him, said more of their reduced state than two hours’ explanation could have done. Mr. Pickwick looked mildly at Jingle, and said—

‘I should like to speak to you in private. Will you step out for an instant?’

‘Certainly,’ said Jingle, rising hastily. ‘Can’t step far—no danger of overwalking yourself here—spike park—grounds pretty—romantic, but not extensive—open for public inspection—family always in town— housekeeper desperately careful—very.’

‘You have forgotten your coat,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as they walked out to the staircase, and closed the door after them.

‘Eh?’ said Jingle. ‘Spout—dear relation—uncle Tom—couldn’t help it— must eat, you know. Wants of nature—and all that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Gone, my dear sir—last coat—can’t help it. Lived on a pair of boots, whole fortnight. Silk umbrella—ivory handle—week—fact—honour—ask Job—knows it.’

‘Lived for three weeks upon a pair of boots, and a silk umbrella with an ivory handle!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, who had only heard of such things in shipwrecks or read of them in Constable’s Miscellany.

‘True,’ said Jingle, nodding his head. ‘Pawnbroker’s shop—duplicates here—small sums—mere nothing—all rascals.’

‘Oh,’ said Mr. Pickwick, much relieved by this explanation; ‘I understand you. You have pawned your wardrobe.’

‘Everything—Job’s too—all shirts gone—never mind—saves washing. Nothing soon—lie in bed—starve—die—inquest—little bone-house—poor prisoner—common necessaries—hush it up—gentlemen of the jury— warden’s tradesmen—keep it snug—natural death—coroner’s order— workhouse funeral—serve him right—all over—drop the curtain.’

Jingle delivered this singular summary of his prospects in life, with his accustomed volubility, and with various twitches of the countenance to counterfeit smiles. Mr. Pickwick easily perceived that his recklessness was assumed, and looking him full, but not unkindly, in the face, saw that his eyes were moist with tears.

‘Good fellow,’ said Jingle, pressing his hand, and turning his head away. ‘Ungrateful dog—boyish to cry—can’t help it—bad fever—weak— ill—hungry. Deserved it all—but suffered much—very.’ Wholly unable to keep up appearances any longer, and perhaps rendered worse by the effort he had made, the dejected stroller sat down on the stairs, and, covering his face with his hands, sobbed like a child.

‘Come, come,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with considerable emotion, ‘we will see what can be done, when I know all about the matter. Here, Job; where is that fellow?’

‘Here, sir,’ replied Job, presenting himself on the staircase. We have described him, by the bye, as having deeply-sunken eyes, in the best of times. In his present state of want and distress, he looked as if those features had gone out of town altogether.

‘Here, sir,’ cried Job.

‘Come here, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, trying to look stern, with four large tears running down his waistcoat. ‘Take that, sir.’

Take what? In the ordinary acceptation of such language, it should have been a blow. As the world runs, it ought to have been a sound, hearty cuff; for Mr. Pickwick had been duped, deceived, and wronged by the destitute outcast who was now wholly in his power. Must we tell the truth? It was something from Mr. Pickwick’s waistcoat pocket, which chinked as it was given into Job’s hand, and the giving of which, somehow or other imparted a sparkle to the eye, and a swelling to the heart, of our excellent old friend, as he hurried away.

Sam had returned when Mr. Pickwick reached his own room, and was inspecting the arrangements that had been made for his comfort, with a kind of grim satisfaction which was very pleasant to look upon. Having a decided objection to his master’s being there at all, Mr. Weller appeared to consider it a high moral duty not to appear too much pleased with anything that was done, said, suggested, or proposed.

‘Well, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Well, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘Pretty comfortable now, eh, Sam?’

‘Pretty vell, sir,’ responded Sam, looking round him in a disparaging manner.

‘Have you seen Mr. Tupman and our other friends?’

‘Yes, I _have _seen ‘em, sir, and they’re a-comin’ to-morrow, and wos wery much surprised to hear they warn’t to come to-day,’ replied Sam.

‘You have brought the things I wanted?’

Mr. Weller in reply pointed to various packages which he had arranged, as neatly as he could, in a corner of the room.

‘Very well, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, after a little hesitation; ‘listen to what I am going to say, Sam.’

‘Cert’nly, Sir,’ rejoined Mr. Weller; ‘fire away, Sir.’

‘I have felt from the first, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with much solemnity, ‘that this is not the place to bring a young man to.’

‘Nor an old ‘un neither, Sir,’ observed Mr. Weller.

‘You’re quite right, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘but old men may come here through their own heedlessness and unsuspicion, and young men may be brought here by the selfishness of those they serve. It is better for those young men, in every point of view, that they should not remain here. Do you understand me, Sam?’

‘Vy no, Sir, I do not,’ replied Mr. Weller doggedly.

‘Try, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Vell, sir,’ rejoined Sam, after a short pause, ‘I think I see your drift; and if I do see your drift, it’s my ‘pinion that you’re a-comin’ it a great deal too strong, as the mail-coachman said to the snowstorm, ven it overtook him.’

‘I see you comprehend me, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Independently of my wish that you should not be idling about a place like this, for years to come, I feel that for a debtor in the Fleet to be attended by his manservant is a monstrous absurdity. Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘for a time you must leave me.’

‘Oh, for a time, eh, sir?’ rejoined Mr. Weller rather sarcastically.

‘Yes, for the time that I remain here,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Your wages I shall continue to pay. Any one of my three friends will be happy to take you, were it only out of respect to me. And if I ever do leave this place, Sam,’ added Mr. Pickwick, with assumed cheerfulness—‘if I do, I pledge you my word that you shall return to me instantly.’

‘Now I’ll tell you wot it is, Sir,’ said Mr. Weller, in a grave and solemn voice. ‘This here sort o’ thing won’t do at all, so don’t let’s hear no more about it.’

I am serious, and resolved, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘You air, air you, sir?’ inquired Mr. Weller firmly. ‘Wery good, Sir; then so am I.’

Thus speaking, Mr. Weller fixed his hat on his head with great precision, and abruptly left the room.

‘Sam!’ cried Mr. Pickwick, calling after him, ‘Sam! Here!’

But the long gallery ceased to re-echo the sound of footsteps. Sam Weller was gone.

CHAPTER XLIII. SHOWING HOW MR. SAMUEL WELLER GOT INTO DIFFICULTIES

In a lofty room, ill-lighted and worse ventilated, situated in Portugal Street, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, there sit nearly the whole year round, one, two, three, or four gentlemen in wigs, as the case may be, with little writing-desks before them, constructed after the fashion of those used by the judges of the land, barring the French polish. There is a box of barristers on their right hand; there is an enclosure of insolvent debtors on their left; and there is an inclined plane of most especially dirty faces in their front. These gentlemen are the Commissioners of the Insolvent Court, and the place in which they sit, is the Insolvent Court itself.

It is, and has been, time out of mind, the remarkable fate of this court to be, somehow or other, held and understood, by the general consent of all the destitute shabby-genteel people in London, as their common resort, and place of daily refuge. It is always full. The steams of beer and spirits perpetually ascend to the ceiling, and, being condensed by the heat, roll down the walls like rain; there are more old suits of clothes in it at one time, than will be offered for sale in all Houndsditch in a twelvemonth; more unwashed skins and grizzly beards than all the pumps and shaving-shops between Tyburn and Whitechapel could render decent, between sunrise and sunset.

It must not be supposed that any of these people have the least shadow of business in, or the remotest connection with, the place they so indefatigably attend. If they had, it would be no matter of surprise, and the singularity of the thing would cease. Some of them sleep during the greater part of the sitting; others carry small portable dinners wrapped in pocket-handkerchiefs or sticking out of their worn-out pockets, and munch and listen with equal relish; but no one among them was ever known to have the slightest personal interest in any case that was ever brought forward. Whatever they do, there they sit from the first moment to the last. When it is heavy, rainy weather, they all come in, wet through; and at such times the vapours of the court are like those of a fungus-pit.

A casual visitor might suppose this place to be a temple dedicated to the Genius of Seediness. There is not a messenger or process-server attached to it, who wears a coat that was made for him; not a tolerably fresh, or wholesome-looking man in the whole establishment, except a little white-headed apple-faced tipstaff, and even he, like an ill- conditioned cherry preserved in brandy, seems to have artificially dried and withered up into a state of preservation to which he can lay no natural claim. The very barristers’ wigs are ill-powdered, and their curls lack crispness.

But the attorneys, who sit at a large bare table below the commissioners, are, after all, the greatest curiosities. The professional establishment of the more opulent of these gentlemen, consists of a blue bag and a boy; generally a youth of the Jewish persuasion. They have no fixed offices, their legal business being transacted in the parlours of public-houses, or the yards of prisons, whither they repair in crowds, and canvass for customers after the manner of omnibus cads. They are of a greasy and mildewed appearance; and if they can be said to have any vices at all, perhaps drinking and cheating are the most conspicuous among them. Their residences are usually on the outskirts of ‘the Rules,’ chiefly lying within a circle of one mile from the obelisk in St. George’s Fields. Their looks are not prepossessing, and their manners are peculiar.

Mr. Solomon Pell, one of this learned body, was a fat, flabby, pale man, in a surtout which looked green one minute, and brown the next, with a velvet collar of the same chameleon tints. His forehead was narrow, his face wide, his head large, and his nose all on one side, as if Nature, indignant with the propensities she observed in him in his birth, had given it an angry tweak which it had never recovered. Being short-necked and asthmatic, however, he respired principally through this feature; so, perhaps, what it wanted in ornament, it made up in usefulness.

‘I’m sure to bring him through it,’ said Mr. Pell.

‘Are you, though?’ replied the person to whom the assurance was pledged.

‘Certain sure,’ replied Pell; ‘but if he’d gone to any irregular practitioner, mind you, I wouldn’t have answered for the consequences.’

‘Ah!’ said the other, with open mouth.

‘No, that I wouldn’t,’ said Mr. Pell; and he pursed up his lips, frowned, and shook his head mysteriously.

Now, the place where this discourse occurred was the public-house just opposite to the Insolvent Court; and the person with whom it was held was no other than the elder Mr. Weller, who had come there, to comfort and console a friend, whose petition to be discharged under the act, was to be that day heard, and whose attorney he was at that moment consulting.

‘And vere is George?’ inquired the old gentleman.

Mr. Pell jerked his head in the direction of a back parlour, whither Mr. Weller at once repairing, was immediately greeted in the warmest and most flattering manner by some half-dozen of his professional brethren, in token of their gratification at his arrival. The insolvent gentleman, who had contracted a speculative but imprudent passion for horsing long stages, which had led to his present embarrassments, looked extremely well, and was soothing the excitement of his feelings with shrimps and porter.

The salutation between Mr. Weller and his friends was strictly confined to the freemasonry of the craft; consisting of a jerking round of the right wrist, and a tossing of the little finger into the air at the same time. We once knew two famous coachmen (they are dead now, poor fellows) who were twins, and between whom an unaffected and devoted attachment existed. They passed each other on the Dover road, every day, for twenty-four years, never exchanging any other greeting than this; and yet, when one died, the other pined away, and soon afterwards followed him!

‘Vell, George,’ said Mr. Weller senior, taking off his upper coat, and seating himself with his accustomed gravity. ‘How is it? All right behind, and full inside?’

‘All right, old feller,’ replied the embarrassed gentleman.

‘Is the gray mare made over to anybody?’ inquired Mr. Weller anxiously.

George nodded in the affirmative.

‘Vell, that’s all right,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Coach taken care on, also?’

‘Con-signed in a safe quarter,’ replied George, wringing the heads off half a dozen shrimps, and swallowing them without any more ado.

‘Wery good, wery good,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Alvays see to the drag ven you go downhill. Is the vay-bill all clear and straight for’erd?’

‘The schedule, sir,’ said Pell, guessing at Mr. Weller’s meaning, ‘the schedule is as plain and satisfactory as pen and ink can make it.’

Mr. Weller nodded in a manner which bespoke his inward approval of these arrangements; and then, turning to Mr. Pell, said, pointing to his friend George—

‘Ven do you take his cloths off?’

‘Why,’ replied Mr. Pell, ‘he stands third on the opposed list, and I should think it would be his turn in about half an hour. I told my clerk to come over and tell us when there was a chance.’

Mr. Weller surveyed the attorney from head to foot with great admiration, and said emphatically—

‘And what’ll you take, sir?’

‘Why, really,’ replied Mr. Pell, ‘you’re very—. Upon my word and honour, I’m not in the habit of—. It’s so very early in the morning, that, actually, I am almost—. Well, you may bring me threepenn’orth of rum, my dear.’

The officiating damsel, who had anticipated the order before it was given, set the glass of spirits before Pell, and retired.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Mr. Pell, looking round upon the company, ‘success to your friend! I don’t like to boast, gentlemen; it’s not my way; but I can’t help saying, that, if your friend hadn’t been fortunate enough to fall into hands that—But I won’t say what I was going to say. Gentlemen, my service to you.’ Having emptied the glass in a twinkling, Mr. Pell smacked his lips, and looked complacently round on the assembled coachmen, who evidently regarded him as a species of divinity.

‘Let me see,’ said the legal authority. ‘What was I a-saying, gentlemen?’

‘I think you was remarkin’ as you wouldn’t have no objection to another o’ the same, Sir,’ said Mr. Weller, with grave facetiousness.

‘Ha, ha!’ laughed Mr. Pell. ‘Not bad, not bad. A professional man, too! At this time of the morning, it would be rather too good a—Well, I don’t know, my dear—you may do that again, if you please. Hem!’

This last sound was a solemn and dignified cough, in which Mr. Pell, observing an indecent tendency to mirth in some of his auditors, considered it due to himself to indulge.

‘The late Lord Chancellor, gentlemen, was very fond of me,’ said Mr. Pell.

‘And wery creditable in him, too,’ interposed Mr. Weller.

‘Hear, hear,’ assented Mr. Pell’s client. ‘Why shouldn’t he be?

‘Ah! Why, indeed!’ said a very red-faced man, who had said nothing yet, and who looked extremely unlikely to say anything more. ‘Why shouldn’t he?’

A murmur of assent ran through the company.

‘I remember, gentlemen,’ said Mr. Pell, ‘dining with him on one occasion; there was only us two, but everything as splendid as if twenty people had been expected—the great seal on a dumb-waiter at his right hand, and a man in a bag-wig and suit of armour guarding the mace with a drawn sword and silk stockings—which is perpetually done, gentlemen, night and day; when he said, “Pell,” he said, “no false delicacy, Pell. You’re a man of talent; you can get anybody through the Insolvent Court, Pell; and your country should be proud of you.” Those were his very words. “My Lord,” I said, “you flatter me.”—“Pell,” he said, “if I do, I’m damned.”’

‘Did he say that?’ inquired Mr. Weller.

‘He did,’ replied Pell.

‘Vell, then,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘I say Parliament ought to ha’ took it up; and if he’d been a poor man, they would ha’ done it.’

‘But, my dear friend,’ argued Mr. Pell, ‘it was in confidence.’

‘In what?’ said Mr. Weller.

‘In confidence.’

‘Oh! wery good,’ replied Mr. Weller, after a little reflection. ‘If he damned hisself in confidence, o’ course that was another thing.’

‘Of course it was,’ said Mr. Pell. ‘The distinction’s obvious, you will perceive.’

‘Alters the case entirely,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Go on, Sir.’

No, I will not go on, Sir,’ said Mr. Pell, in a low and serious tone. ‘You have reminded me, Sir, that this conversation was private—private and confidential, gentlemen. Gentlemen, I am a professional man. It may be that I am a good deal looked up to, in my profession—it may be that I am not. Most people know. I say nothing. Observations have already been made, in this room, injurious to the reputation of my noble friend. You will excuse me, gentlemen; I was imprudent. I feel that I have no right to mention this matter without his concurrence. Thank you, Sir; thank you.’ Thus delivering himself, Mr. Pell thrust his hands into his pockets, and, frowning grimly around, rattled three halfpence with terrible determination.

This virtuous resolution had scarcely been formed, when the boy and the blue bag, who were inseparable companions, rushed violently into the room, and said (at least the boy did, for the blue bag took no part in the announcement) that the case was coming on directly. The intelligence was no sooner received than the whole party hurried across the street, and began to fight their way into court—a preparatory ceremony, which has been calculated to occupy, in ordinary cases, from twenty-five minutes to thirty.

Mr. Weller, being stout, cast himself at once into the crowd, with the desperate hope of ultimately turning up in some place which would suit him. His success was not quite equal to his expectations; for having neglected to take his hat off, it was knocked over his eyes by some unseen person, upon whose toes he had alighted with considerable force. Apparently this individual regretted his impetuosity immediately afterwards, for, muttering an indistinct exclamation of surprise, he dragged the old man out into the hall, and, after a violent struggle, released his head and face.

‘Samivel!’ exclaimed Mr. Weller, when he was thus enabled to behold his rescuer.

Sam nodded.

‘You’re a dutiful and affectionate little boy, you are, ain’t you,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘to come a-bonnetin’ your father in his old age?’

‘How should I know who you wos?’ responded the son. ‘Do you s’pose I wos to tell you by the weight o’ your foot?’

‘Vell, that’s wery true, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller, mollified at once; ‘but wot are you a-doin’ on here? Your gov’nor can’t do no good here, Sammy. They won’t pass that werdick, they won’t pass it, Sammy.’ And Mr. Weller shook his head with legal solemnity.

‘Wot a perwerse old file it is!’ exclaimed Sam, ‘always a-goin’ on about werdicks and alleybis and that. Who said anything about the werdick?’

Mr. Weller made no reply, but once more shook his head most learnedly.

‘Leave off rattlin’ that ‘ere nob o’ yourn, if you don’t want it to come off the springs altogether,’ said Sam impatiently, ‘and behave reasonable. I vent all the vay down to the Markis o’ Granby, arter you, last night.’

‘Did you see the Marchioness o’ Granby, Sammy?’ inquired Mr. Weller, with a sigh.

‘Yes, I did,’ replied Sam.

‘How wos the dear creetur a-lookin’?’

‘Wery queer,’ said Sam. ‘I think she’s a-injurin’ herself gradivally vith too much o’ that ‘ere pine-apple rum, and other strong medicines of the same natur.’

‘You don’t mean that, Sammy?’ said the senior earnestly.

‘I do, indeed,’ replied the junior.

Mr. Weller seized his son’s hand, clasped it, and let it fall. There was an expression on his countenance in doing so—not of dismay or apprehension, but partaking more of the sweet and gentle character of hope. A gleam of resignation, and even of cheerfulness, passed over his face too, as he slowly said, ‘I ain’t quite certain, Sammy; I wouldn’t like to say I wos altogether positive, in case of any subsekent disappointment, but I rayther think, my boy, I rayther think, that the shepherd’s got the liver complaint!’

‘Does he look bad?’ inquired Sam.

‘He’s uncommon pale,’ replied his father, ‘’cept about the nose, which is redder than ever. His appetite is wery so-so, but he imbibes wonderful.’

Some thoughts of the rum appeared to obtrude themselves on Mr. Weller’s mind, as he said this; for he looked gloomy and thoughtful; but he very shortly recovered, as was testified by a perfect alphabet of winks, in which he was only wont to indulge when particularly pleased.

‘Vell, now,’ said Sam, ‘about my affair. Just open them ears o’ yourn, and don’t say nothin’ till I’ve done.’ With this preface, Sam related, as succinctly as he could, the last memorable conversation he had had with Mr. Pickwick.

‘Stop there by himself, poor creetur!’ exclaimed the elder Mr. Weller, ‘without nobody to take his part! It can’t be done, Samivel, it can’t be done.’

‘O’ course it can’t,’ asserted Sam: ‘I know’d that, afore I came.’

Why, they’ll eat him up alive, Sammy,’ exclaimed Mr. Weller.

Sam nodded his concurrence in the opinion.

‘He goes in rayther raw, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller metaphorically, ‘and he’ll come out, done so ex-ceedin’ brown, that his most formiliar friends won’t know him. Roast pigeon’s nothin’ to it, Sammy.’

Again Sam Weller nodded.

‘It oughtn’t to be, Samivel,’ said Mr. Weller gravely.

‘It mustn’t be,’ said Sam.

‘Cert’nly not,’ said Mr. Weller.

‘Vell now,’ said Sam, ‘you’ve been a-prophecyin’ away, wery fine, like a red-faced Nixon, as the sixpenny books gives picters on.’

‘Who wos he, Sammy?’ inquired Mr. Weller.

‘Never mind who he was,’ retorted Sam; ‘he warn’t a coachman; that’s enough for you.’

I know’d a ostler o’ that name,’ said Mr. Weller, musing.

‘It warn’t him,’ said Sam. ‘This here gen’l’m’n was a prophet.’

‘Wot’s a prophet?’ inquired Mr. Weller, looking sternly on his son.

‘Wy, a man as tells what’s a-goin’ to happen,’ replied Sam.

‘I wish I’d know’d him, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘P’raps he might ha’ throw’d a small light on that ‘ere liver complaint as we wos a-speakin’ on, just now. Hows’ever, if he’s dead, and ain’t left the bisness to nobody, there’s an end on it. Go on, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, with a sigh.

‘Well,’ said Sam, ‘you’ve been a-prophecyin’ avay about wot’ll happen to the gov’ner if he’s left alone. Don’t you see any way o’ takin’ care on him?’

‘No, I don’t, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, with a reflective visage.

‘No vay at all?’ inquired Sam.

‘No vay,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘unless’—and a gleam of intelligence lighted up his countenance as he sank his voice to a whisper, and applied his mouth to the ear of his offspring—‘unless it is getting him out in a turn-up bedstead, unbeknown to the turnkeys, Sammy, or dressin’ him up like a old ‘ooman vith a green wail.’

Sam Weller received both of these suggestions with unexpected contempt, and again propounded his question.

‘No,’ said the old gentleman; ‘if he von’t let you stop there, I see no vay at all. It’s no thoroughfare, Sammy, no thoroughfare.’

‘Well, then, I’ll tell you wot it is,’ said Sam, ‘I’ll trouble you for the loan of five-and-twenty pound.’

‘Wot good’ll that do?’ inquired Mr. Weller.

‘Never mind,’ replied Sam. ‘P’raps you may ask for it five minits arterwards; p’raps I may say I von’t pay, and cut up rough. You von’t think o’ arrestin’ your own son for the money, and sendin’ him off to the Fleet, will you, you unnat’ral wagabone?’

At this reply of Sam’s, the father and son exchanged a complete code of telegraph nods and gestures, after which, the elder Mr. Weller sat himself down on a stone step and laughed till he was purple.

‘Wot a old image it is!’ exclaimed Sam, indignant at this loss of time. ‘What are you a-settin’ down there for, con-wertin’ your face into a street-door knocker, wen there’s so much to be done. Where’s the money?’

‘In the boot, Sammy, in the boot,’ replied Mr. Weller, composing his features. ‘Hold my hat, Sammy.’

Having divested himself of this encumbrance, Mr. Weller gave his body a sudden wrench to one side, and by a dexterous twist, contrived to get his right hand into a most capacious pocket, from whence, after a great deal of panting and exertion, he extricated a pocket-book of the large octavo size, fastened by a huge leathern strap. From this ledger he drew forth a couple of whiplashes, three or four buckles, a little sample-bag of corn, and, finally, a small roll of very dirty bank-notes, from which he selected the required amount, which he handed over to Sam.

‘And now, Sammy,’ said the old gentleman, when the whip-lashes, and the buckles, and the samples, had been all put back, and the book once more deposited at the bottom of the same pocket, ‘now, Sammy, I know a gen’l’m’n here, as’ll do the rest o’ the bisness for us, in no time—a limb o’ the law, Sammy, as has got brains like the frogs, dispersed all over his body, and reachin’ to the wery tips of his fingers; a friend of the Lord Chancellorship’s, Sammy, who’d only have to tell him what he wanted, and he’d lock you up for life, if that wos all.’

‘I say,’ said Sam, ‘none o’ that.’

‘None o’ wot?’ inquired Mr. Weller.

‘Wy, none o’ them unconstitootional ways o’ doin’ it,’ retorted Sam. ‘The have-his-carcass, next to the perpetual motion, is vun of the blessedest things as wos ever made. I’ve read that ‘ere in the newspapers wery of’en.’

‘Well, wot’s that got to do vith it?’ inquired Mr. Weller.

‘Just this here,’ said Sam, ‘that I’ll patronise the inwention, and go in, that vay. No visperin’s to the Chancellorship—I don’t like the notion. It mayn’t be altogether safe, vith reference to gettin’ out agin.’

Deferring to his son’s feeling upon this point, Mr. Weller at once sought the erudite Solomon Pell, and acquainted him with his desire to issue a writ, instantly, for the _sum _of twenty-five pounds, and costs of process; to be executed without delay upon the body of one Samuel Weller; the charges thereby incurred, to be paid in advance to Solomon Pell.

The attorney was in high glee, for the embarrassed coach-horser was ordered to be discharged forthwith. He highly approved of Sam’s attachment to his master; declared that it strongly reminded him of his own feelings of devotion to his friend, the Chancellor; and at once led the elder Mr. Weller down to the Temple, to swear the affidavit of debt, which the boy, with the assistance of the blue bag, had drawn up on the spot.

Meanwhile, Sam, having been formally introduced to the whitewashed gentleman and his friends, as the offspring of Mr. Weller, of the Belle Savage, was treated with marked distinction, and invited to regale himself with them in honour of the occasion—an invitation which he was by no means backward in accepting.

The mirth of gentlemen of this class is of a grave and quiet character, usually; but the present instance was one of peculiar festivity, and they relaxed in proportion. After some rather tumultuous toasting of the Chief Commissioner and Mr. Solomon Pell, who had that day displayed such transcendent abilities, a mottled-faced gentleman in a blue shawl proposed that somebody should sing a song. The obvious suggestion was, that the mottled-faced gentleman, being anxious for a song, should sing it himself; but this the mottled-faced gentleman sturdily, and somewhat offensively, declined to do. Upon which, as is not unusual in such cases, a rather angry colloquy ensued.

‘Gentlemen,’ said the coach-horser, ‘rather than disturb the harmony of this delightful occasion, perhaps Mr. Samuel Weller will oblige the company.’

‘Raly, gentlemen,’ said Sam, ‘I’m not wery much in the habit o’ singin’ without the instrument; but anythin’ for a quiet life, as the man said wen he took the sitivation at the lighthouse.’

With this prelude, Mr. Samuel Weller burst at once into the following wild and beautiful legend, which, under the impression that it is not generally known, we take the liberty of quoting. We would beg to call particular attention to the monosyllable at the end of the second and fourth lines, which not only enables the singer to take breath at those points, but greatly assists the metre.

ROMANCE

I

Bold Turpin vunce, on Hounslow Heath, His bold mare Bess bestrode—er; Ven there he see’d the Bishop’s coach A-coming along the road—er. So he gallops close to the ‘orse’s legs, And he claps his head vithin; And the Bishop says, ‘Sure as eggs is eggs, This here’s the bold Turpin!’

CHORUS

And the Bishop says, ‘Sure as eggs is eggs, This here’s the bold Turpin!’

II

Says Turpin, ‘You shall eat your words, With a sarse of leaden bul— let;’ So he puts a pistol to his mouth, And he fires it down his gul— let. The coachman he not likin’ the job, Set off at full gal-lop, But Dick put a couple of balls in his nob, And perwailed on him to stop.

CHORUS (sarcastically)

But Dick put a couple of balls in his nob, And perwailed on him to stop.

‘I maintain that that ‘ere song’s personal to the cloth,’ said the mottled-faced gentleman, interrupting it at this point. ‘I demand the name o’ that coachman.’

‘Nobody know’d,’ replied Sam. ‘He hadn’t got his card in his pocket.’

‘I object to the introduction o’ politics,’ said the mottled-faced gentleman. ‘I submit that, in the present company, that ‘ere song’s political; and, wot’s much the same, that it ain’t true. I say that that coachman did not run away; but that he died game—game as pheasants; and I won’t hear nothin’ said to the contrairey.’

As the mottled-faced gentleman spoke with great energy and determination, and as the opinions of the company seemed divided on the subject, it threatened to give rise to fresh altercation, when Mr. Weller and Mr. Pell most opportunely arrived.

‘All right, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller.

‘The officer will be here at four o’clock,’ said Mr. Pell. ‘I suppose you won’t run away meanwhile, eh? Ha! ha!’

‘P’raps my cruel pa ‘ull relent afore then,’ replied Sam, with a broad grin.

‘Not I,’ said the elder Mr. Weller.

‘Do,’ said Sam.

‘Not on no account,’ replied the inexorable creditor.

‘I’ll give bills for the amount, at sixpence a month,’ said Sam.

‘I won’t take ‘em,’ said Mr. Weller.

‘Ha, ha, ha! very good, very good,’ said Mr. Solomon Pell, who was making out his little bill of costs; ‘a very amusing incident indeed! Benjamin, copy that.’ And Mr. Pell smiled again, as he called Mr. Weller’s attention to the amount.

‘Thank you, thank you,’ said the professional gentleman, taking up another of the greasy notes as Mr. Weller took it from the pocket-book. ‘Three ten and one ten is five. Much obliged to you, Mr. Weller. Your son is a most deserving young man, very much so indeed, Sir. It’s a very pleasant trait in a young man’s character, very much so,’ added Mr. Pell, smiling smoothly round, as he buttoned up the money.

‘Wot a game it is!’ said the elder Mr. Weller, with a chuckle. ‘A reg’lar prodigy son!’

‘Prodigal—prodigal son, Sir,’ suggested Mr. Pell, mildly.

‘Never mind, Sir,’ said Mr. Weller, with dignity. ‘I know wot’s o’clock, Sir. Wen I don’t, I’ll ask you, Sir.’

By the time the officer arrived, Sam had made himself so extremely popular, that the congregated gentlemen determined to see him to prison in a body. So off they set; the plaintiff and defendant walking arm in arm, the officer in front, and eight stout coachmen bringing up the rear. At Serjeant’s Inn Coffee-house the whole party halted to refresh, and, the legal arrangements being completed, the procession moved on again.

Some little commotion was occasioned in Fleet Street, by the pleasantry of the eight gentlemen in the flank, who persevered in walking four abreast; it was also found necessary to leave the mottled-faced gentleman behind, to fight a ticket-porter, it being arranged that his friends should call for him as they came back. Nothing but these little incidents occurred on the way. When they reached the gate of the Fleet, the cavalcade, taking the time from the plaintiff, gave three tremendous cheers for the defendant, and, after having shaken hands all round, left him.

Sam, having been formally delivered into the warder’s custody, to the intense astonishment of Roker, and to the evident emotion of even the phlegmatic Neddy, passed at once into the prison, walked straight to his master’s room, and knocked at the door.

‘Come in,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

Sam appeared, pulled off his hat, and smiled.

‘Ah, Sam, my good lad!’ said Mr. Pickwick, evidently delighted to see his humble friend again; ‘I had no intention of hurting your feelings yesterday, my faithful fellow, by what I said. Put down your hat, Sam, and let me explain my meaning, a little more at length.’

‘Won’t presently do, sir?’ inquired Sam.

‘Certainly,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘but why not now?’

‘I’d rayther not now, sir,’ rejoined Sam.

‘Why?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘’Cause—’ said Sam, hesitating.

‘Because of what?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, alarmed at his follower’s manner. ‘Speak out, Sam.’

‘’Cause,’ rejoined Sam—‘’cause I’ve got a little bisness as I want to do.’

‘What business?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, surprised at Sam’s confused manner.

‘Nothin’ partickler, Sir,’ replied Sam.

‘Oh, if it’s nothing particular,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile, ‘you can speak with me first.’

‘I think I’d better see arter it at once,’ said Sam, still hesitating.

Mr. Pickwick looked amazed, but said nothing.

‘The fact is—’ said Sam, stopping short.

‘Well!’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Speak out, Sam.’

‘Why, the fact is,’ said Sam, with a desperate effort, ‘perhaps I’d better see arter my bed afore I do anythin’ else.’

‘Your bed!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, in astonishment.

‘Yes, my bed, Sir,’ replied Sam, ‘I’m a prisoner. I was arrested this here wery arternoon for debt.’

‘You arrested for debt!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, sinking into a chair.

‘Yes, for debt, Sir,’ replied Sam. ‘And the man as puts me in, ‘ull never let me out till you go yourself.’

‘Bless my heart and soul!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Wot I say, Sir,’ rejoined Sam. ‘If it’s forty years to come, I shall be a prisoner, and I’m very glad on it; and if it had been Newgate, it would ha’ been just the same. Now the murder’s out, and, damme, there’s an end on it!’

With these words, which he repeated with great emphasis and violence, Sam Weller dashed his hat upon the ground, in a most unusual state of excitement; and then, folding his arms, looked firmly and fixedly in his master’s face.

CHAPTER XLIV. TREATS OF DIVERS LITTLE MATTERS WHICH OCCURRED IN THE FLEET, AND OF MR. WINKLE’S MYSTERIOUS BEHAVIOUR; AND SHOWS HOW THE POOR CHANCERY PRISONER OBTAINED HIS RELEASE AT LAST

Mr. Pickwick felt a great deal too much touched by the warmth of Sam’s attachment, to be able to exhibit any manifestation of anger or displeasure at the precipitate course he had adopted, in voluntarily consigning himself to a debtor’s prison for an indefinite period. The only point on which he persevered in demanding an explanation, was, the name of Sam’s detaining creditor; but this Mr. Weller as perseveringly withheld.

‘It ain’t o’ no use, sir,’ said Sam, again and again; ‘he’s a malicious, bad-disposed, vorldly-minded, spiteful, windictive creetur, with a hard heart as there ain’t no soft’nin’, as the wirtuous clergyman remarked of the old gen’l’m’n with the dropsy, ven he said, that upon the whole he thought he’d rayther leave his property to his vife than build a chapel vith it.’

‘But consider, Sam,’ Mr. Pickwick remonstrated, ‘the sum is so small that it can very easily be paid; and having made up my mind that you shall stop with me, you should recollect how much more useful you would be, if you could go outside the walls.’

Wery much obliged to you, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller gravely; ‘but I’d rayther not.’

‘Rather not do what, Sam?’

‘Wy, I’d rayther not let myself down to ask a favour o’ this here unremorseful enemy.’

‘But it is no favour asking him to take his money, Sam,’ reasoned Mr. Pickwick.

‘Beg your pardon, sir,’ rejoined Sam, ‘but it ‘ud be a wery great favour to pay it, and he don’t deserve none; that’s where it is, sir.’

Here Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his nose with an air of some vexation, Mr. Weller thought it prudent to change the theme of the discourse.

‘I takes my determination on principle, Sir,’ remarked Sam, ‘and you takes yours on the same ground; wich puts me in mind o’ the man as killed his-self on principle, wich o’ course you’ve heerd on, Sir.’ Mr. Weller paused when he arrived at this point, and cast a comical look at his master out of the corners of his eyes.

‘There is no “of course” in the case, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, gradually breaking into a smile, in spite of the uneasiness which Sam’s obstinacy had given him. ‘The fame of the gentleman in question, never reached my ears.’

‘No, sir!’ exclaimed Mr. Weller. ‘You astonish me, Sir; he wos a clerk in a gov’ment office, sir.’

‘Was he?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes, he wos, Sir,’ rejoined Mr. Weller; ‘and a wery pleasant gen’l’m’n too—one o’ the precise and tidy sort, as puts their feet in little India-rubber fire-buckets wen it’s wet weather, and never has no other bosom friends but hare-skins; he saved up his money on principle, wore a clean shirt ev’ry day on principle; never spoke to none of his relations on principle, ‘fear they shou’d want to borrow money of him; and wos altogether, in fact, an uncommon agreeable character. He had his hair cut on principle vunce a fortnight, and contracted for his clothes on the economic principle—three suits a year, and send back the old uns. Being a wery reg’lar gen’l’m’n, he din’d ev’ry day at the same place, where it was one-and-nine to cut off the joint, and a wery good one-and- nine’s worth he used to cut, as the landlord often said, with the tears a-tricklin’ down his face, let alone the way he used to poke the fire in the vinter time, which wos a dead loss o’ four-pence ha’penny a day, to say nothin’ at all o’ the aggrawation o’ seein’ him do it. So uncommon grand with it too! “_Post _arter the next gen’l’m’n,” he sings out ev’ry day ven he comes in. “See arter the TIMES, Thomas; let me look at the MORNIN’ HERALD, when it’s out o’ hand; don’t forget to bespeak the CHRONICLE; and just bring the ‘TIZER, vill you:” and then he’d set vith his eyes fixed on the clock, and rush out, just a quarter of a minit ‘fore the time to waylay the boy as wos a-comin’ in with the evenin’ paper, which he’d read with sich intense interest and persewerance as worked the other customers up to the wery confines o’ desperation and insanity, ‘specially one i-rascible old gen’l’m’n as the vaiter wos always obliged to keep a sharp eye on, at sich times, fear he should be tempted to commit some rash act with the carving-knife. Vell, Sir, here he’d stop, occupyin’ the best place for three hours, and never takin’ nothin’ arter his dinner, but sleep, and then he’d go away to a coffee- house a few streets off, and have a small pot o’ coffee and four crumpets, arter wich he’d walk home to Kensington and go to bed. One night he wos took very ill; sends for a doctor; doctor comes in a green fly, with a kind o’ Robinson Crusoe set o’ steps, as he could let down wen he got out, and pull up arter him wen he got in, to perwent the necessity o’ the coachman’s gettin’ down, and thereby undeceivin’ the public by lettin’ ‘em see that it wos only a livery coat as he’d got on, and not the trousers to match. “Wot’s the matter?” says the doctor. “Wery ill,” says the patient. “Wot have you been a-eatin’ on?” says the doctor. “Roast weal,” says the patient. “Wot’s the last thing you dewoured?” says the doctor. “Crumpets,” says the patient. “That’s it!” says the doctor. “I’ll send you a box of pills directly, and don’t you never take no more of ‘em,” he says. “No more o’ wot?” says the patient- -“pills?” “No; crumpets,” says the doctor. “Wy?” says the patient, starting up in bed; “I’ve eat four crumpets, ev’ry night for fifteen year, on principle.” “Well, then, you’d better leave ‘em off, on principle,” says the doctor. “Crumpets is _not _wholesome, Sir,” says the doctor, wery fierce. “But they’re so cheap,” says the patient, comin’ down a little, “and so wery fillin’ at the price.” “They’d be dear to you, at any price; dear if you wos paid to eat ‘em,” says the doctor. “Four crumpets a night,” he says, “vill do your business in six months!” The patient looks him full in the face, and turns it over in his mind for a long time, and at last he says, “Are you sure o’ that ‘ere, Sir?” “I’ll stake my professional reputation on it,” says the doctor. “How many crumpets, at a sittin’, do you think ‘ud kill me off at once?” says the patient. “I don’t know,” says the doctor. “Do you think half-a-crown’s wurth ‘ud do it?” says the patient. “I think it might,” says the doctor. “Three shillins’ wurth ‘ud be sure to do it, I s’pose?” says the patient. “Certainly,” says the doctor. “Wery good,” says the patient; “good-night.” Next mornin’ he gets up, has a fire lit, orders in three shillins’ wurth o’ crumpets, toasts ‘em all, eats ‘em all, and blows his brains out.’

‘What did he do that for?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick abruptly; for he was considerably startled by this tragical termination of the narrative.

‘Wot did he do it for, Sir?’ reiterated Sam. ‘Wy, in support of his great principle that crumpets wos wholesome, and to show that he wouldn’t be put out of his way for nobody!’

With such like shiftings and changings of the discourse, did Mr. Weller meet his master’s questioning on the night of his taking up his residence in the Fleet. Finding all gentle remonstrance useless, Mr. Pickwick at length yielded a reluctant consent to his taking lodgings by the week, of a bald-headed cobbler, who rented a small slip room in one of the upper galleries. To this humble apartment Mr. Weller moved a mattress and bedding, which he hired of Mr. Roker; and, by the time he lay down upon it at night, was as much at home as if he had been bred in the prison, and his whole family had vegetated therein for three generations.

‘Do you always smoke arter you goes to bed, old cock?’ inquired Mr. Weller of his landlord, when they had both retired for the night.

‘Yes, I does, young bantam,’ replied the cobbler.

‘Will you allow me to in-quire wy you make up your bed under that ‘ere deal table?’ said Sam.

‘’Cause I was always used to a four-poster afore I came here, and I find the legs of the table answer just as well,’ replied the cobbler.

‘You’re a character, sir,’ said Sam.

‘I haven’t got anything of the kind belonging to me,’ rejoined the cobbler, shaking his head; ‘and if you want to meet with a good one, I’m afraid you’ll find some difficulty in suiting yourself at this register office.’

The above short dialogue took place as Mr. Weller lay extended on his mattress at one end of the room, and the cobbler on his, at the other; the apartment being illumined by the light of a rush-candle, and the cobbler’s pipe, which was glowing below the table, like a red-hot coal. The conversation, brief as it was, predisposed Mr. Weller strongly in his landlord’s favour; and, raising himself on his elbow, he took a more lengthened survey of his appearance than he had yet had either time or inclination to make.

He was a sallow man—all cobblers are; and had a strong bristly beard— all cobblers have. His face was a queer, good-tempered, crooked-featured piece of workmanship, ornamented with a couple of eyes that must have worn a very joyous expression at one time, for they sparkled yet. The man was sixty, by years, and Heaven knows how old by imprisonment, so that his having any look approaching to mirth or contentment, was singular enough. He was a little man, and, being half doubled up as he lay in bed, looked about as long as he ought to have been without his legs. He had a great red pipe in his mouth, and was smoking, and staring at the rush-light, in a state of enviable placidity.

‘Have you been here long?’ inquired Sam, breaking the silence which had lasted for some time.

‘Twelve year,’ replied the cobbler, biting the end of his pipe as he spoke.

‘Contempt?’ inquired Sam.

The cobbler nodded.

‘Well, then,’ said Sam, with some sternness, ‘wot do you persevere in bein’ obstinit for, vastin’ your precious life away, in this here magnified pound? Wy don’t you give in, and tell the Chancellorship that you’re wery sorry for makin’ his court contemptible, and you won’t do so no more?’

The cobbler put his pipe in the corner of his mouth, while he smiled, and then brought it back to its old place again; but said nothing.

‘Wy don’t you?’ said Sam, urging his question strenuously.

‘Ah,’ said the cobbler, ‘you don’t quite understand these matters. What do you suppose ruined me, now?’

‘Wy,’ said Sam, trimming the rush-light, ‘I s’pose the beginnin’ wos, that you got into debt, eh?’

‘Never owed a farden,’ said the cobbler; ‘try again.’

‘Well, perhaps,’ said Sam, ‘you bought houses, wich is delicate English for goin’ mad; or took to buildin’, wich is a medical term for bein’ incurable.’

The cobbler shook his head and said, ‘Try again.’

‘You didn’t go to law, I hope?’ said Sam suspiciously.

‘Never in my life,’ replied the cobbler. ‘The fact is, I was ruined by having money left me.’

‘Come, come,’ said Sam, ‘that von’t do. I wish some rich enemy ‘ud try to vork my destruction in that ‘ere vay. I’d let him.’

‘Oh, I dare say you don’t believe it,’ said the cobbler, quietly smoking his pipe. ‘I wouldn’t if I was you; but it’s true for all that.’

‘How wos it?’ inquired Sam, half induced to believe the fact already, by the look the cobbler gave him.

‘Just this,’ replied the cobbler; ‘an old gentleman that I worked for, down in the country, and a humble relation of whose I married—she’s dead, God bless her, and thank Him for it!—was seized with a fit and went off.’

‘Where?’ inquired Sam, who was growing sleepy after the numerous events of the day.

‘How should I know where he went?’ said the cobbler, speaking through his nose in an intense enjoyment of his pipe. ‘He went off dead.’

‘Oh, that indeed,’ said Sam. ‘Well?’

‘Well,’ said the cobbler, ‘he left five thousand pound behind him.’

‘And wery gen-teel in him so to do,’ said Sam.

‘One of which,’ continued the cobbler, ‘he left to me, ‘cause I married his relation, you see.’

‘Wery good,’ murmured Sam.

‘And being surrounded by a great number of nieces and nevys, as was always quarrelling and fighting among themselves for the property, he makes me his executor, and leaves the rest to me in trust, to divide it among ‘em as the will prowided.’

‘Wot do you mean by leavin’ it on trust?’ inquired Sam, waking up a little. ‘If it ain’t ready-money, were’s the use on it?’

‘It’s a law term, that’s all,’ said the cobbler.

‘I don’t think that,’ said Sam, shaking his head. ‘There’s wery little trust at that shop. Hows’ever, go on.’

Well,’ said the cobbler, ‘when I was going to take out a probate of the will, the nieces and nevys, who was desperately disappointed at not getting all the money, enters a caveat against it.’

What’s that?’ inquired Sam.

‘A legal instrument, which is as much as to say, it’s no go,’ replied the cobbler.

‘I see,’ said Sam, ‘a sort of brother-in-law o’ the have-his-carcass. Well.’

‘But,’ continued the cobbler, ‘finding that they couldn’t agree among themselves, and consequently couldn’t get up a case against the will, they withdrew the caveat, and I paid all the legacies. I’d hardly done it, when one nevy brings an action to set the will aside. The case comes on, some months afterwards, afore a deaf old gentleman, in a back room somewhere down by Paul’s Churchyard; and arter four counsels had taken a day a-piece to bother him regularly, he takes a week or two to consider, and read the evidence in six volumes, and then gives his judgment that how the testator was not quite right in his head, and I must pay all the money back again, and all the costs. I appealed; the case come on before three or four very sleepy gentlemen, who had heard it all before in the other court, where they’re lawyers without work; the only difference being, that, there, they’re called doctors, and in the other place delegates, if you understand that; and they very dutifully confirmed the decision of the old gentleman below. After that, we went into Chancery, where we are still, and where I shall always be. My lawyers have had all my thousand pound long ago; and what between the estate, as they call it, and the costs, I’m here for ten thousand, and shall stop here, till I die, mending shoes. Some gentlemen have talked of bringing it before Parliament, and I dare say would have done it, only they hadn’t time to come to me, and I hadn’t power to go to them, and they got tired of my long letters, and dropped the business. And this is God’s truth, without one word of suppression or exaggeration, as fifty people, both in this place and out of it, very well know.’

The cobbler paused to ascertain what effect his story had produced on Sam; but finding that he had dropped asleep, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, sighed, put it down, drew the bed-clothes over his head, and went to sleep, too.

Mr. Pickwick was sitting at breakfast, alone, next morning (Sam being busily engaged in the cobbler’s room, polishing his master’s shoes and brushing the black gaiters) when there came a knock at the door, which, before Mr. Pickwick could cry ‘Come in!’ was followed by the appearance of a head of hair and a cotton-velvet cap, both of which articles of dress he had no difficulty in recognising as the personal property of Mr. Smangle.

‘How are you?’ said that worthy, accompanying the inquiry with a score or two of nods; ‘I say—do you expect anybody this morning? Three men— devilish gentlemanly fellows—have been asking after you downstairs, and knocking at every door on the hall flight; for which they’ve been most infernally blown up by the collegians that had the trouble of opening ‘em.’

‘Dear me! How very foolish of them,’ said Mr. Pickwick, rising. ‘Yes; I have no doubt they are some friends whom I rather expected to see, yesterday.’

‘Friends of yours!’ exclaimed Smangle, seizing Mr. Pickwick by the hand. ‘Say no more. Curse me, they’re friends of mine from this minute, and friends of Mivins’s, too. Infernal pleasant, gentlemanly dog, Mivins, isn’t he?’ said Smangle, with great feeling.

‘I know so little of the gentleman,’ said Mr. Pickwick, hesitating, ‘that I—’

‘I know you do,’ interrupted Smangle, clasping Mr. Pickwick by the shoulder. ‘You shall know him better. You’ll be delighted with him. That man, Sir,’ said Smangle, with a solemn countenance, ‘has comic powers that would do honour to Drury Lane Theatre.’

‘Has he indeed?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Ah, by Jove he has!’ replied Smangle. ‘Hear him come the four cats in the wheel-barrow—four distinct cats, sir, I pledge you my honour. Now you know that’s infernal clever! Damme, you can’t help liking a man, when you see these traits about him. He’s only one fault—that little failing I mentioned to you, you know.’

As Mr. Smangle shook his head in a confidential and sympathising manner at this juncture, Mr. Pickwick felt that he was expected to say something, so he said, ‘Ah!’ and looked restlessly at the door.

‘Ah!’ echoed Mr. Smangle, with a long-drawn sigh. ‘He’s delightful company, that man is, sir. I don’t know better company anywhere; but he has that one drawback. If the ghost of his grandfather, Sir, was to rise before him this minute, he’d ask him for the loan of his acceptance on an eightpenny stamp.’

Dear me!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes,’ added Mr. Smangle; ‘and if he’d the power of raising him again, he would, in two months and three days from this time, to renew the bill!’

‘Those are very remarkable traits,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘but I’m afraid that while we are talking here, my friends may be in a state of great perplexity at not finding me.’

‘I’ll show ‘em the way,’ said Smangle, making for the door. ‘Good-day. I won’t disturb you while they’re here, you know. By the bye—’

As Smangle pronounced the last three words, he stopped suddenly, reclosed the door which he had opened, and, walking softly back to Mr. Pickwick, stepped close up to him on tiptoe, and said, in a very soft whisper—

‘You couldn’t make it convenient to lend me half-a-crown till the latter end of next week, could you?’

Mr. Pickwick could scarcely forbear smiling, but managing to preserve his gravity, he drew forth the coin, and placed it in Mr. Smangle’s palm; upon which, that gentleman, with many nods and winks, implying profound mystery, disappeared in quest of the three strangers, with whom he presently returned; and having coughed thrice, and nodded as many times, as an assurance to Mr. Pickwick that he would not forget to pay, he shook hands all round, in an engaging manner, and at length took himself off.

‘My dear friends,’ said Mr. Pickwick, shaking hands alternately with Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass, who were the three visitors in question, ‘I am delighted to see you.’

The triumvirate were much affected. Mr. Tupman shook his head deploringly, Mr. Snodgrass drew forth his handkerchief, with undisguised emotion; and Mr. Winkle retired to the window, and sniffed aloud.

‘Mornin’, gen’l’m’n,’ said Sam, entering at the moment with the shoes and gaiters. ‘Avay vith melincholly, as the little boy said ven his schoolmissus died. Velcome to the college, gen’l’m’n.’

‘This foolish fellow,’ said Mr. Pickwick, tapping Sam on the head as he knelt down to button up his master’s gaiters—‘this foolish fellow has got himself arrested, in order to be near me.’

‘What!’ exclaimed the three friends.

‘Yes, gen’l’m’n,’ said Sam, ‘I’m a—stand steady, sir, if you please— I’m a prisoner, gen’l’m’n. Con-fined, as the lady said.’

‘A prisoner!’ exclaimed Mr. Winkle, with unaccountable vehemence.

‘Hollo, sir!’ responded Sam, looking up. ‘Wot’s the matter, Sir?’

‘I had hoped, Sam, that—Nothing, nothing,’ said Mr. Winkle precipitately.

There was something so very abrupt and unsettled in Mr. Winkle’s manner, that Mr. Pickwick involuntarily looked at his two friends for an explanation.

‘We don’t know,’ said Mr. Tupman, answering this mute appeal aloud. ‘He has been much excited for two days past, and his whole demeanour very unlike what it usually is. We feared there must be something the matter, but he resolutely denies it.’

‘No, no,’ said Mr. Winkle, colouring beneath Mr. Pickwick’s gaze; ‘there is really nothing. I assure you there is nothing, my dear sir. It will be necessary for me to leave town, for a short time, on private business, and I had hoped to have prevailed upon you to allow Sam to accompany me.’

Mr. Pickwick looked more astonished than before.

‘I think,’ faltered Mr. Winkle, ‘that Sam would have had no objection to do so; but, of course, his being a prisoner here, renders it impossible. So I must go alone.’

As Mr. Winkle said these words, Mr. Pickwick felt, with some astonishment, that Sam’s fingers were trembling at the gaiters, as if he were rather surprised or startled. Sam looked up at Mr. Winkle, too, when he had finished speaking; and though the glance they exchanged was instantaneous, they seemed to understand each other.

‘Do you know anything of this, Sam?’ said Mr. Pickwick sharply.

‘No, I don’t, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, beginning to button with extraordinary assiduity.

‘Are you sure, Sam?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Wy, sir,’ responded Mr. Weller; ‘I’m sure so far, that I’ve never heerd anythin’ on the subject afore this moment. If I makes any guess about it,’ added Sam, looking at Mr. Winkle, ‘I haven’t got any right to say what it is, ‘fear it should be a wrong ‘un.’

‘I have no right to make any further inquiry into the private affairs of a friend, however intimate a friend,’ said Mr. Pickwick, after a short silence; ‘at present let me merely say, that I do not understand this at all. There. We have had quite enough of the subject.’

Thus expressing himself, Mr. Pickwick led the conversation to different topics, and Mr. Winkle gradually appeared more at ease, though still very far from being completely so. They had all so much to converse about, that the morning very quickly passed away; and when, at three o’clock, Mr. Weller produced upon the little dining-table, a roast leg of mutton and an enormous meat-pie, with sundry dishes of vegetables, and pots of porter, which stood upon the chairs or the sofa bedstead, or where they could, everybody felt disposed to do justice to the meal, notwithstanding that the meat had been purchased, and dressed, and the pie made, and baked, at the prison cookery hard by.

To these succeeded a bottle or two of very good wine, for which a messenger was despatched by Mr. Pickwick to the Horn Coffee-house, in Doctors’ Commons. The bottle or two, indeed, might be more properly described as a bottle or six, for by the time it was drunk, and tea over, the bell began to ring for strangers to withdraw.

But, if Mr. Winkle’s behaviour had been unaccountable in the morning, it became perfectly unearthly and solemn when, under the influence of his feelings, and his share of the bottle or six, he prepared to take leave of his friend. He lingered behind, until Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass had disappeared, and then fervently clenched Mr. Pickwick’s hand, with an expression of face in which deep and mighty resolve was fearfully blended with the very concentrated essence of gloom.

‘Good-night, my dear Sir!’ said Mr. Winkle between his set teeth.

‘Bless you, my dear fellow!’ replied the warm-hearted Mr. Pickwick, as he returned the pressure of his young friend’s hand.

‘Now then!’ cried Mr. Tupman from the gallery.

‘Yes, yes, directly,’ replied Mr. Winkle. ‘Good-night!’

‘Good-night,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

There was another good-night, and another, and half a dozen more after that, and still Mr. Winkle had fast hold of his friend’s hand, and was looking into his face with the same strange expression.

‘Is anything the matter?’ said Mr. Pickwick at last, when his arm was quite sore with shaking.

‘Nothing,’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘Well then, good-night,’ said Mr. Pickwick, attempting to disengage his hand.

‘My friend, my benefactor, my honoured companion,’ murmured Mr. Winkle, catching at his wrist. ‘Do not judge me harshly; do not, when you hear that, driven to extremity by hopeless obstacles, I—’

‘Now then,’ said Mr. Tupman, reappearing at the door. ‘Are you coming, or are we to be locked in?’

‘Yes, yes, I am ready,’ replied Mr. Winkle. And with a violent effort he tore himself away.

As Mr. Pickwick was gazing down the passage after them in silent astonishment, Sam Weller appeared at the stair-head, and whispered for one moment in Mr. Winkle’s ear.

‘Oh, certainly, depend upon me,’ said that gentleman aloud.

‘Thank’ee, sir. You won’t forget, sir?’ said Sam.

‘Of course not,’ replied Mr. Winkle.

‘Wish you luck, Sir,’ said Sam, touching his hat. ‘I should very much liked to ha’ joined you, Sir; but the gov’nor, o’ course, is paramount.’

‘It is very much to your credit that you remain here,’ said Mr. Winkle. With these words they disappeared down the stairs.

‘Very extraordinary,’ said Mr. Pickwick, going back into his room, and seating himself at the table in a musing attitude. ‘What can that young man be going to do?’

He had sat ruminating about the matter for some time, when the voice of Roker, the turnkey, demanded whether he might come in.

‘By all means,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘I’ve brought you a softer pillow, Sir,’ said Mr. Roker, ‘instead of the temporary one you had last night.’

‘Thank you,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Will you take a glass of wine?’

‘You’re wery good, Sir,’ replied Mr. Roker, accepting the proffered glass. ‘Yours, sir.’

‘Thank you,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘I’m sorry to say that your landlord’s wery bad to-night, Sir,’ said Roker, setting down the glass, and inspecting the lining of his hat preparatory to putting it on again.

‘What! The Chancery prisoner!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

‘He won’t be a Chancery prisoner wery long, Sir,’ replied Roker, turning his hat round, so as to get the maker’s name right side upwards, as he looked into it.

‘You make my blood run cold,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s been consumptive for a long time past,’ said Mr. Roker, ‘and he’s taken wery bad in the breath to-night. The doctor said, six months ago, that nothing but change of air could save him.’

‘Great Heaven!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick; ‘has this man been slowly murdered by the law for six months?’

‘I don’t know about that,’ replied Roker, weighing the hat by the brim in both hands. ‘I suppose he’d have been took the same, wherever he was. He went into the infirmary, this morning; the doctor says his strength is to be kept up as much as possible; and the warden’s sent him wine and broth and that, from his own house. It’s not the warden’s fault, you know, sir.’

‘Of course not,’ replied Mr. Pickwick hastily.

‘I’m afraid, however,’ said Roker, shaking his head, ‘that it’s all up with him. I offered Neddy two six-penn’orths to one upon it just now, but he wouldn’t take it, and quite right. Thank’ee, Sir. Good-night, sir.’

‘Stay,’ said Mr. Pickwick earnestly. ‘Where is this infirmary?’

‘Just over where you slept, sir,’ replied Roker. ‘I’ll show you, if you like to come.’ Mr. Pickwick snatched up his hat without speaking, and followed at once.

The turnkey led the way in silence; and gently raising the latch of the room door, motioned Mr. Pickwick to enter. It was a large, bare, desolate room, with a number of stump bedsteads made of iron, on one of which lay stretched the shadow of a man—wan, pale, and ghastly. His breathing was hard and thick, and he moaned painfully as it came and went. At the bedside sat a short old man in a cobbler’s apron, who, by the aid of a pair of horn spectacles, was reading from the Bible aloud. It was the fortunate legatee.

The sick man laid his hand upon his attendant’s arm, and motioned him to stop. He closed the book, and laid it on the bed.

‘Open the window,’ said the sick man.

He did so. The noise of carriages and carts, the rattle of wheels, the cries of men and boys, all the busy sounds of a mighty multitude instinct with life and occupation, blended into one deep murmur, floated into the room. Above the hoarse loud hum, arose, from time to time, a boisterous laugh; or a scrap of some jingling song, shouted forth, by one of the giddy crowd, would strike upon the ear, for an instant, and then be lost amidst the roar of voices and the tramp of footsteps; the breaking of the billows of the restless sea of life, that rolled heavily on, without. These are melancholy sounds to a quiet listener at any time; but how melancholy to the watcher by the bed of death!

‘There is no air here,’ said the man faintly. ‘The place pollutes it. It was fresh round about, when I walked there, years ago; but it grows hot and heavy in passing these walls. I cannot breathe it.’

‘We have breathed it together, for a long time,’ said the old man. ‘Come, come.’

There was a short silence, during which the two spectators approached the bed. The sick man drew a hand of his old fellow-prisoner towards him, and pressing it affectionately between both his own, retained it in his grasp.

‘I hope,’ he gasped after a while, so faintly that they bent their ears close over the bed to catch the half-formed sounds his pale lips gave vent to—‘I hope my merciful Judge will bear in mind my heavy punishment on earth. Twenty years, my friend, twenty years in this hideous grave! My heart broke when my child died, and I could not even kiss him in his little coffin. My loneliness since then, in all this noise and riot, has been very dreadful. May God forgive me! He has seen my solitary, lingering death.’

He folded his hands, and murmuring something more they could not hear, fell into a sleep—only a sleep at first, for they saw him smile.

They whispered together for a little time, and the turnkey, stooping over the pillow, drew hastily back. ‘He has got his discharge, by G—!’ said the man.

He had. But he had grown so like death in life, that they knew not when he died.

CHAPTER XLV. DESCRIPTIVE OF AN AFFECTING INTERVIEW BETWEEN MR. SAMUEL WELLER AND A FAMILY PARTY. MR. PICKWICK MAKES A TOUR OF THE DIMINUTIVE WORLD HE INHABITS, AND RESOLVES TO MIX WITH IT, IN FUTURE, AS LITTLE AS POSSIBLE

A few mornings after his incarceration, Mr. Samuel Weller, having arranged his master’s room with all possible care, and seen him comfortably seated over his books and papers, withdrew to employ himself for an hour or two to come, as he best could. It was a fine morning, and it occurred to Sam that a pint of porter in the open air would lighten his next quarter of an hour or so, as well as any little amusement in which he could indulge.

Having arrived at this conclusion, he betook himself to the tap. Having purchased the beer, and obtained, moreover, the day-but-one-before- yesterday’s paper, he repaired to the skittle-ground, and seating himself on a bench, proceeded to enjoy himself in a very sedate and methodical manner.

First of all, he took a refreshing draught of the beer, and then he looked up at a window, and bestowed a platonic wink on a young lady who was peeling potatoes thereat. Then he opened the paper, and folded it so as to get the police reports outwards; and this being a vexatious and difficult thing to do, when there is any wind stirring, he took another draught of the beer when he had accomplished it. Then, he read two lines of the paper, and stopped short to look at a couple of men who were finishing a game at rackets, which, being concluded, he cried out ‘wery good,’ in an approving manner, and looked round upon the spectators, to ascertain whether their sentiments coincided with his own. This involved the necessity of looking up at the windows also; and as the young lady was still there, it was an act of common politeness to wink again, and to drink to her good health in dumb show, in another draught of the beer, which Sam did; and having frowned hideously upon a small boy who had noted this latter proceeding with open eyes, he threw one leg over the other, and, holding the newspaper in both hands, began to read in real earnest.

He had hardly composed himself into the needful state of abstraction, when he thought he heard his own name proclaimed in some distant passage. Nor was he mistaken, for it quickly passed from mouth to mouth, and in a few seconds the air teemed with shouts of ‘Weller!’

Here!’ roared Sam, in a stentorian voice. ‘Wot’s the matter? Who wants him? Has an express come to say that his country house is afire?’

‘Somebody wants you in the hall,’ said a man who was standing by.

‘Just mind that ‘ere paper and the pot, old feller, will you?’ said Sam. ‘I’m a-comin’. Blessed, if they was a-callin’ me to the bar, they couldn’t make more noise about it!’

Accompanying these words with a gentle rap on the head of the young gentleman before noticed, who, unconscious of his close vicinity to the person in request, was screaming ‘Weller!’ with all his might, Sam hastened across the ground, and ran up the steps into the hall. Here, the first object that met his eyes was his beloved father sitting on a bottom stair, with his hat in his hand, shouting out ‘Weller!’ in his very loudest tone, at half-minute intervals.

‘Wot are you a-roarin’ at?’ said Sam impetuously, when the old gentleman had discharged himself of another shout; ‘making yourself so precious hot that you looks like a aggrawated glass-blower. Wot’s the matter?’

‘Aha!’ replied the old gentleman, ‘I began to be afeerd that you’d gone for a walk round the Regency Park, Sammy.’

‘Come,’ said Sam, ‘none o’ them taunts agin the wictim o’ avarice, and come off that ‘ere step. Wot are you a-settin’ down there for? I don’t live there.’

‘I’ve got such a game for you, Sammy,’ said the elder Mr. Weller, rising.

‘Stop a minit,’ said Sam, ‘you’re all vite behind.’

‘That’s right, Sammy, rub it off,’ said Mr. Weller, as his son dusted him. ‘It might look personal here, if a man walked about with vitevash on his clothes, eh, Sammy?’

As Mr. Weller exhibited in this place unequivocal symptoms of an approaching fit of chuckling, Sam interposed to stop it.

‘Keep quiet, do,’ said Sam, ‘there never vos such a old picter-card born. Wot are you bustin’ vith, now?’

‘Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, wiping his forehead, ‘I’m afeerd that vun o’ these days I shall laugh myself into a appleplexy, my boy.’

‘Vell, then, wot do you do it for?’ said Sam. ‘Now, then, wot have you got to say?’

‘Who do you think’s come here with me, Samivel?’ said Mr. Weller, drawing back a pace or two, pursing up his mouth, and extending his eyebrows.

‘Pell?’ said Sam.

Mr. Weller shook his head, and his red cheeks expanded with the laughter that was endeavouring to find a vent.

‘Mottled-faced man, p’raps?’ asked Sam.

Again Mr. Weller shook his head.

‘Who then?’asked Sam.

‘Your mother-in-law,’ said Mr. Weller; and it was lucky he did say it, or his cheeks must inevitably have cracked, from their most unnatural distension.

‘Your mother-in-law, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘and the red-nosed man, my boy; and the red-nosed man. Ho! ho! ho!’

With this, Mr. Weller launched into convulsions of laughter, while Sam regarded him with a broad grin gradually over-spreading his whole countenance.

‘They’ve come to have a little serious talk with you, Samivel,’ said Mr. Weller, wiping his eyes. ‘Don’t let out nothin’ about the unnat’ral creditor, Sammy.’

‘Wot, don’t they know who it is?’ inquired Sam.

‘Not a bit on it,’ replied his father.

‘Vere are they?’ said Sam, reciprocating all the old gentleman’s grins.

‘In the snuggery,’ rejoined Mr. Weller. ‘Catch the red-nosed man a-goin’ anyvere but vere the liquors is; not he, Samivel, not he. Ve’d a wery pleasant ride along the road from the Markis this mornin’, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, when he felt himself equal to the task of speaking in an articulate manner. ‘I drove the old piebald in that ‘ere little chay- cart as belonged to your mother-in-law’s first wenter, into vich a harm- cheer wos lifted for the shepherd; and I’m blessed,’ said Mr. Weller, with a look of deep scorn—‘I’m blessed if they didn’t bring a portable flight o’ steps out into the road a-front o’ our door for him, to get up by.’

‘You don’t mean that?’ said Sam.

‘I do mean that, Sammy,’ replied his father, ‘and I vish you could ha’ seen how tight he held on by the sides wen he did get up, as if he wos afeerd o’ being precipitayted down full six foot, and dashed into a million hatoms. He tumbled in at last, however, and avay ve vent; and I rayther think—I say I rayther think, Samivel—that he found his-self a little jolted ven ve turned the corners.’

‘Wot, I s’pose you happened to drive up agin a post or two?’ said Sam.

‘I’m afeerd,’ replied Mr. Weller, in a rapture of winks—‘I’m afeerd I took vun or two on ‘em, Sammy; he wos a-flyin’ out o’ the arm-cheer all the way.’

Here the old gentleman shook his head from side to side, and was seized with a hoarse internal rumbling, accompanied with a violent swelling of the countenance, and a sudden increase in the breadth of all his features; symptoms which alarmed his son not a little.

‘Don’t be frightened, Sammy, don’t be frightened,’ said the old gentleman, when by dint of much struggling, and various convulsive stamps upon the ground, he had recovered his voice. ‘It’s only a kind o’ quiet laugh as I’m a-tryin’ to come, Sammy.’

‘Well, if that’s wot it is,’ said Sam, ‘you’d better not try to come it agin. You’ll find it rayther a dangerous inwention.’

‘Don’t you like it, Sammy?’ inquired the old gentleman.

‘Not at all,’ replied Sam.

‘Well,’ said Mr. Weller, with the tears still running down his cheeks, ‘it ‘ud ha’ been a wery great accommodation to me if I could ha’ done it, and ‘ud ha’ saved a good many vords atween your mother-in-law and me, sometimes; but I’m afeerd you’re right, Sammy, it’s too much in the appleplexy line—a deal too much, Samivel.’

This conversation brought them to the door of the snuggery, into which Sam—pausing for an instant to look over his shoulder, and cast a sly leer at his respected progenitor, who was still giggling behind—at once led the way.

‘Mother-in-law,’ said Sam, politely saluting the lady, ‘wery much obliged to you for this here wisit.—Shepherd, how air you?’

‘Oh, Samuel!’ said Mrs. Weller. ‘This is dreadful.’

‘Not a bit on it, mum,’ replied Sam.—‘Is it, shepherd?’

Mr. Stiggins raised his hands, and turned up his eyes, until the whites- -or rather the yellows—were alone visible; but made no reply in words.

‘Is this here gen’l’m’n troubled with any painful complaint?’ said Sam, looking to his mother-in-law for explanation.

‘The good man is grieved to see you here, Samuel,’ replied Mrs. Weller.

‘Oh, that’s it, is it?’ said Sam. ‘I was afeerd, from his manner, that he might ha’ forgotten to take pepper vith that ‘ere last cowcumber he eat. Set down, Sir, ve make no extra charge for settin’ down, as the king remarked wen he blowed up his ministers.’

‘Young man,’ said Mr. Stiggins ostentatiously, ‘I fear you are not softened by imprisonment.’

‘Beg your pardon, Sir,’ replied Sam; ‘wot wos you graciously pleased to hobserve?’

‘I apprehend, young man, that your nature is no softer for this chastening,’ said Mr. Stiggins, in a loud voice.

‘Sir,’ replied Sam, ‘you’re wery kind to say so. I hope my natur is _NOT _ a soft vun, Sir. Wery much obliged to you for your good opinion, Sir.’

At this point of the conversation, a sound, indecorously approaching to a laugh, was heard to proceed from the chair in which the elder Mr. Weller was seated; upon which Mrs. Weller, on a hasty consideration of all the circumstances of the case, considered it her bounden duty to become gradually hysterical.

‘Weller,’ said Mrs. W. (the old gentleman was seated in a corner); ‘Weller! Come forth.’

‘Wery much obleeged to you, my dear,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘but I’m quite comfortable vere I am.’

Upon this, Mrs. Weller burst into tears.

‘Wot’s gone wrong, mum?’ said Sam.

‘Oh, Samuel!’ replied Mrs. Weller, ‘your father makes me wretched. Will nothing do him good?’

‘Do you hear this here?’ said Sam. ‘Lady vants to know vether nothin’ ‘ull do you good.’

‘Wery much indebted to Mrs. Weller for her po-lite inquiries, Sammy,’ replied the old gentleman. ‘I think a pipe vould benefit me a good deal. Could I be accommodated, Sammy?’

Here Mrs. Weller let fall some more tears, and Mr. Stiggins groaned.

‘Hollo! Here’s this unfortunate gen’l’m’n took ill agin,’ said Sam, looking round. ‘Vere do you feel it now, sir?’

‘In the same place, young man,’ rejoined Mr. Stiggins, ‘in the same place.’

‘Vere may that be, Sir?’ inquired Sam, with great outward simplicity.

‘In the buzzim, young man,’ replied Mr. Stiggins, placing his umbrella on his waistcoat.

At this affecting reply, Mrs. Weller, being wholly unable to suppress her feelings, sobbed aloud, and stated her conviction that the red-nosed man was a saint; whereupon Mr. Weller, senior, ventured to suggest, in an undertone, that he must be the representative of the united parishes of St. Simon Without and St. Walker Within.

‘I’m afeered, mum,’ said Sam, ‘that this here gen’l’m’n, with the twist in his countenance, feels rather thirsty, with the melancholy spectacle afore him. Is it the case, mum?’

The worthy lady looked at Mr. Stiggins for a reply; that gentleman, with many rollings of the eye, clenched his throat with his right hand, and mimicked the act of swallowing, to intimate that he was athirst.

‘I am afraid, Samuel, that his feelings have made him so indeed,’ said Mrs. Weller mournfully.

‘Wot’s your usual tap, sir?’ replied Sam.

‘Oh, my dear young friend,’ replied Mr. Stiggins, ‘all taps is vanities!’

‘Too true, too true, indeed,’ said Mrs. Weller, murmuring a groan, and shaking her head assentingly.

‘Well,’ said Sam, ‘I des-say they may be, sir; but wich is your partickler wanity? Wich wanity do you like the flavour on best, sir?’

‘Oh, my dear young friend,’ replied Mr. Stiggins, ‘I despise them all. If,’ said Mr. Stiggins—‘if there is any one of them less odious than another, it is the liquor called rum. Warm, my dear young friend, with three lumps of sugar to the tumbler.’

‘Wery sorry to say, sir,’ said Sam, ‘that they don’t allow that particular wanity to be sold in this here establishment.’

‘Oh, the hardness of heart of these inveterate men!’ ejaculated Mr. Stiggins. ‘Oh, the accursed cruelty of these inhuman persecutors!’

With these words, Mr. Stiggins again cast up his eyes, and rapped his breast with his umbrella; and it is but justice to the reverend gentleman to say, that his indignation appeared very real and unfeigned indeed.

After Mrs. Weller and the red-nosed gentleman had commented on this inhuman usage in a very forcible manner, and had vented a variety of pious and holy execrations against its authors, the latter recommended a bottle of port wine, warmed with a little water, spice, and sugar, as being grateful to the stomach, and savouring less of vanity than many other compounds. It was accordingly ordered to be prepared, and pending its preparation the red-nosed man and Mrs. Weller looked at the elder W. and groaned.

‘Well, Sammy,’ said the gentleman, ‘I hope you’ll find your spirits rose by this here lively wisit. Wery cheerful and improvin’ conwersation, ain’t it, Sammy?’

‘You’re a reprobate,’ replied Sam; ‘and I desire you won’t address no more o’ them ungraceful remarks to me.’

So far from being edified by this very proper reply, the elder Mr. Weller at once relapsed into a broad grin; and this inexorable conduct causing the lady and Mr. Stiggins to close their eyes, and rock themselves to and fro on their chairs, in a troubled manner, he furthermore indulged in several acts of pantomime, indicative of a desire to pummel and wring the nose of the aforesaid Stiggins, the performance of which, appeared to afford him great mental relief. The old gentleman very narrowly escaped detection in one instance; for Mr. Stiggins happening to give a start on the arrival of the negus, brought his head in smart contact with the clenched fist with which Mr. Weller had been describing imaginary fireworks in the air, within two inches of his ear, for some minutes.

‘Wot are you a-reachin’ out, your hand for the tumbler in that ‘ere sawage way for?’ said Sam, with great promptitude. ‘Don’t you see you’ve hit the gen’l’m’n?’

‘I didn’t go to do it, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, in some degree abashed by the very unexpected occurrence of the incident.

‘Try an in’ard application, sir,’ said Sam, as the red-nosed gentleman rubbed his head with a rueful visage. ‘Wot do you think o’ that, for a go o’ wanity, warm, Sir?’

Mr. Stiggins made no verbal answer, but his manner was expressive. He tasted the contents of the glass which Sam had placed in his hand, put his umbrella on the floor, and tasted it again, passing his hand placidly across his stomach twice or thrice; he then drank the whole at a breath, and smacking his lips, held out the tumbler for more.

Nor was Mrs. Weller behind-hand in doing justice to the composition. The good lady began by protesting that she couldn’t touch a drop—then took a small drop—then a large drop—then a great many drops; and her feelings being of the nature of those substances which are powerfully affected by the application of strong waters, she dropped a tear with every drop of negus, and so got on, melting the feelings down, until at length she had arrived at a very pathetic and decent pitch of misery.

The elder Mr. Weller observed these signs and tokens with many manifestations of disgust, and when, after a second jug of the same, Mr. Stiggins began to sigh in a dismal manner, he plainly evinced his disapprobation of the whole proceedings, by sundry incoherent ramblings of speech, among which frequent angry repetitions of the word ‘gammon’ were alone distinguishable to the ear.

‘I’ll tell you wot it is, Samivel, my boy,’ whispered the old gentleman into his son’s ear, after a long and steadfast contemplation of his lady and Mr. Stiggins; ‘I think there must be somethin’ wrong in your mother- in-law’s inside, as vell as in that o’ the red-nosed man.’

‘Wot do you mean?’ said Sam.

‘I mean this here, Sammy,’ replied the old gentleman, ‘that wot they drink, don’t seem no nourishment to ‘em; it all turns to warm water, and comes a-pourin’ out o’ their eyes. ‘Pend upon it, Sammy, it’s a constitootional infirmity.’

Mr. Weller delivered this scientific opinion with many confirmatory frowns and nods; which, Mrs. Weller remarking, and concluding that they bore some disparaging reference either to herself or to Mr. Stiggins, or to both, was on the point of becoming infinitely worse, when Mr. Stiggins, getting on his legs as well as he could, proceeded to deliver an edifying discourse for the benefit of the company, but more especially of Mr. Samuel, whom he adjured in moving terms to be upon his guard in that sink of iniquity into which he was cast; to abstain from all hypocrisy and pride of heart; and to take in all things exact pattern and copy by him (Stiggins), in which case he might calculate on arriving, sooner or later at the comfortable conclusion, that, like him, he was a most estimable and blameless character, and that all his acquaintances and friends were hopelessly abandoned and profligate wretches. Which consideration, he said, could not but afford him the liveliest satisfaction.

He furthermore conjured him to avoid, above all things, the vice of intoxication, which he likened unto the filthy habits of swine, and to those poisonous and baleful drugs which being chewed in the mouth, are said to filch away the memory. At this point of his discourse, the reverend and red-nosed gentleman became singularly incoherent, and staggering to and fro in the excitement of his eloquence, was fain to catch at the back of a chair to preserve his perpendicular.

Mr. Stiggins did not desire his hearers to be upon their guard against those false prophets and wretched mockers of religion, who, without sense to expound its first doctrines, or hearts to feel its first principles, are more dangerous members of society than the common criminal; imposing, as they necessarily do, upon the weakest and worst informed, casting scorn and contempt on what should be held most sacred, and bringing into partial disrepute large bodies of virtuous and well- conducted persons of many excellent sects and persuasions. But as he leaned over the back of the chair for a considerable time, and closing one eye, winked a good deal with the other, it is presumed that he thought all this, but kept it to himself.

During the delivery of the oration, Mrs. Weller sobbed and wept at the end of the paragraphs; while Sam, sitting cross-legged on a chair and resting his arms on the top rail, regarded the speaker with great suavity and blandness of demeanour; occasionally bestowing a look of recognition on the old gentleman, who was delighted at the beginning, and went to sleep about half-way.

‘Brayvo; wery pretty!’ said Sam, when the red-nosed man having finished, pulled his worn gloves on, thereby thrusting his fingers through the broken tops till the knuckles were disclosed to view. ‘Wery pretty.’

‘I hope it may do you good, Samuel,’ said Mrs. Weller solemnly.

‘I think it vill, mum,’ replied Sam.

‘I wish I could hope that it would do your father good,’ said Mrs. Weller.

‘Thank’ee, my dear,’ said Mr. Weller, senior. ‘How do you find yourself arter it, my love?’

‘Scoffer!’ exclaimed Mrs. Weller.

‘Benighted man!’ said the Reverend Mr. Stiggins.

‘If I don’t get no better light than that ‘ere moonshine o’ yourn, my worthy creetur,’ said the elder Mr. Weller, ‘it’s wery likely as I shall continey to be a night coach till I’m took off the road altogether. Now, Mrs. We, if the piebald stands at livery much longer, he’ll stand at nothin’ as we go back, and p’raps that ‘ere harm-cheer ‘ull be tipped over into some hedge or another, with the shepherd in it.’

At this supposition, the Reverend Mr. Stiggins, in evident consternation, gathered up his hat and umbrella, and proposed an immediate departure, to which Mrs. Weller assented. Sam walked with them to the lodge gate, and took a dutiful leave.

‘A-do, Samivel,’ said the old gentleman.

‘Wot’s a-do?’ inquired Sammy.

‘Well, good-bye, then,’ said the old gentleman.

‘Oh, that’s wot you’re aimin’ at, is it?’ said Sam. ‘Good-bye!’

‘Sammy,’ whispered Mr. Weller, looking cautiously round; ‘my duty to your gov’nor, and tell him if he thinks better o’ this here bis’ness, to com-moonicate vith me. Me and a cab’net-maker has dewised a plan for gettin’ him out. A pianner, Samivel—a pianner!’ said Mr. Weller, striking his son on the chest with the back of his hand, and falling back a step or two.

‘Wot do you mean?’ said Sam.

‘A pianner-forty, Samivel,’ rejoined Mr. Weller, in a still more mysterious manner, ‘as he can have on hire; vun as von’t play, Sammy.’

‘And wot ‘ud be the good o’ that?’ said Sam.

‘Let him send to my friend, the cabinet-maker, to fetch it back, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Are you avake, now?’

‘No,’ rejoined Sam.

‘There ain’t no vurks in it,’ whispered his father. ‘It ‘ull hold him easy, vith his hat and shoes on, and breathe through the legs, vich his holler. Have a passage ready taken for ‘Merriker. The ‘Merrikin gov’ment will never give him up, ven vunce they find as he’s got money to spend, Sammy. Let the gov’nor stop there, till Mrs. Bardell’s dead, or Mr. Dodson and Fogg’s hung (wich last ewent I think is the most likely to happen first, Sammy), and then let him come back and write a book about the ‘Merrikins as’ll pay all his expenses and more, if he blows ‘em up enough.’

Mr. Weller delivered this hurried abstract of his plot with great vehemence of whisper; and then, as if fearful of weakening the effect of the tremendous communication by any further dialogue, he gave the coachman’s salute, and vanished.

Sam had scarcely recovered his usual composure of countenance, which had been greatly disturbed by the secret communication of his respected relative, when Mr. Pickwick accosted him.

‘Sam,’ said that gentleman.

‘Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘I am going for a walk round the prison, and I wish you to attend me. I see a prisoner we know coming this way, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, smiling.

‘Wich, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Weller; ‘the gen’l’m’n vith the head o’ hair, or the interestin’ captive in the stockin’s?’

‘Neither,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick. ‘He is an older friend of yours, Sam.’

‘O’ mine, Sir?’ exclaimed Mr. Weller.

‘You recollect the gentleman very well, I dare say, Sam,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘or else you are more unmindful of your old acquaintances than I think you are. Hush! not a word, Sam; not a syllable. Here he is.’

As Mr. Pickwick spoke, Jingle walked up. He looked less miserable than before, being clad in a half-worn suit of clothes, which, with Mr. Pickwick’s assistance, had been released from the pawnbroker’s. He wore clean linen too, and had had his hair cut. He was very pale and thin, however; and as he crept slowly up, leaning on a stick, it was easy to see that he had suffered severely from illness and want, and was still very weak. He took off his hat as Mr. Pickwick saluted him, and seemed much humbled and abashed at the sight of Sam Weller.

Following close at his heels, came Mr. Job Trotter, in the catalogue of whose vices, want of faith and attachment to his companion could at all events find no place. He was still ragged and squalid, but his face was not quite so hollow as on his first meeting with Mr. Pickwick, a few days before. As he took off his hat to our benevolent old friend, he murmured some broken expressions of gratitude, and muttered something about having been saved from starving.

‘Well, well,’ said Mr. Pickwick, impatiently interrupting him, ‘you can follow with Sam. I want to speak to you, Mr. Jingle. Can you walk without his arm?’

‘Certainly, sir—all ready—not too fast—legs shaky—head queer—round and round—earthquaky sort of feeling—very.’

‘Here, give me your arm,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘No, no,’ replied Jingle; ‘won’t indeed—rather not.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘lean upon me, I desire, Sir.’

Seeing that he was confused and agitated, and uncertain what to do, Mr. Pickwick cut the matter short by drawing the invalided stroller’s arm through his, and leading him away, without saying another word about it.

During the whole of this time the countenance of Mr. Samuel Weller had exhibited an expression of the most overwhelming and absorbing astonishment that the imagination can portray. After looking from Job to Jingle, and from Jingle to Job in profound silence, he softly ejaculated the words, ‘Well, I am damn’d!’ which he repeated at least a score of times; after which exertion, he appeared wholly bereft of speech, and again cast his eyes, first upon the one and then upon the other, in mute perplexity and bewilderment.

‘Now, Sam!’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking back.

‘I’m a-comin’, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, mechanically following his master; and still he lifted not his eyes from Mr. Job Trotter, who walked at his side in silence.

Job kept his eyes fixed on the ground for some time. Sam, with his glued to Job’s countenance, ran up against the people who were walking about, and fell over little children, and stumbled against steps and railings, without appearing at all sensible of it, until Job, looking stealthily up, said—

‘How do you do, Mr. Weller?’

‘It is him!’ exclaimed Sam; and having established Job’s identity beyond all doubt, he smote his leg, and vented his feelings in a long, shrill whistle.

‘Things has altered with me, sir,’ said Job.

‘I should think they had,’ exclaimed Mr. Weller, surveying his companion’s rags with undisguised wonder. ‘This is rayther a change for the worse, Mr. Trotter, as the gen’l’m’n said, wen he got two doubtful shillin’s and sixpenn’orth o’ pocket-pieces for a good half-crown.’

‘It is indeed,’ replied Job, shaking his head. ‘There is no deception now, Mr. Weller. Tears,’ said Job, with a look of momentary slyness— ‘tears are not the only proofs of distress, nor the best ones.’

‘No, they ain’t,’ replied Sam expressively.

‘They may be put on, Mr. Weller,’ said Job.

‘I know they may,’ said Sam; ‘some people, indeed, has ‘em always ready laid on, and can pull out the plug wenever they likes.’

‘Yes,’ replied Job; ‘but these sort of things are not so easily counterfeited, Mr. Weller, and it is a more painful process to get them up.’ As he spoke, he pointed to his sallow, sunken cheeks, and, drawing up his coat sleeve, disclosed an arm which looked as if the bone could be broken at a touch, so sharp and brittle did it appear, beneath its thin covering of flesh.

‘Wot have you been a-doin’ to yourself?’ said Sam, recoiling.

‘Nothing,’ replied Job.

‘Nothin’!’ echoed Sam.

‘I have been doin’ nothing for many weeks past,’ said Job; and eating and drinking almost as little.’

Sam took one comprehensive glance at Mr. Trotter’s thin face and wretched apparel; and then, seizing him by the arm, commenced dragging him away with great violence.

‘Where are you going, Mr. Weller?’ said Job, vainly struggling in the powerful grasp of his old enemy.

‘Come on,’ said Sam; ‘come on!’ He deigned no further explanation till they reached the tap, and then called for a pot of porter, which was speedily produced.

‘Now,’ said Sam, ‘drink that up, ev’ry drop on it, and then turn the pot upside down, to let me see as you’ve took the medicine.’

‘But, my dear Mr. Weller,’ remonstrated Job.

‘Down vith it!’ said Sam peremptorily.

Thus admonished, Mr. Trotter raised the pot to his lips, and, by gentle and almost imperceptible degrees, tilted it into the air. He paused once, and only once, to draw a long breath, but without raising his face from the vessel, which, in a few moments thereafter, he held out at arm’s length, bottom upward. Nothing fell upon the ground but a few particles of froth, which slowly detached themselves from the rim, and trickled lazily down.

‘Well done!’ said Sam. ‘How do you find yourself arter it?’

‘Better, Sir. I think I am better,’ responded Job.

‘O’ course you air,’ said Sam argumentatively. ‘It’s like puttin’ gas in a balloon. I can see with the naked eye that you gets stouter under the operation. Wot do you say to another o’ the same dimensions?’

‘I would rather not, I am much obliged to you, Sir,’ replied Job—‘much rather not.’

‘Vell, then, wot do you say to some wittles?’ inquired Sam.

‘Thanks to your worthy governor, Sir,’ said Mr. Trotter, ‘we have half a leg of mutton, baked, at a quarter before three, with the potatoes under it to save boiling.’

‘Wot! Has he been a-purwidin’ for you?’ asked Sam emphatically.

‘He has, Sir,’ replied Job. ‘More than that, Mr. Weller; my master being very ill, he got us a room—we were in a kennel before—and paid for it, Sir; and come to look at us, at night, when nobody should know. Mr. Weller,’ said Job, with real tears in his eyes, for once, ‘I could serve that gentleman till I fell down dead at his feet.’

‘I say!’ said Sam, ‘I’ll trouble you, my friend! None o’ that!’

Job Trotter looked amazed.

‘None o’ that, I say, young feller,’ repeated Sam firmly. ‘No man serves him but me. And now we’re upon it, I’ll let you into another secret besides that,’ said Sam, as he paid for the beer. ‘I never heerd, mind you, or read of in story-books, nor see in picters, any angel in tights and gaiters—not even in spectacles, as I remember, though that may ha’ been done for anythin’ I know to the contrairey—but mark my vords, Job Trotter, he’s a reg’lar thoroughbred angel for all that; and let me see the man as wenturs to tell me he knows a better vun.’ With this defiance, Mr. Weller buttoned up his change in a side pocket, and, with many confirmatory nods and gestures by the way, proceeded in search of the subject of discourse.

They found Mr. Pickwick, in company with Jingle, talking very earnestly, and not bestowing a look on the groups who were congregated on the racket-ground; they were very motley groups too, and worth the looking at, if it were only in idle curiosity.

‘Well,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as Sam and his companion drew nigh, ‘you will see how your health becomes, and think about it meanwhile. Make the statement out for me when you feel yourself equal to the task, and I will discuss the subject with you when I have considered it. Now, go to your room. You are tired, and not strong enough to be out long.’

Mr. Alfred Jingle, without one spark of his old animation—with nothing even of the dismal gaiety which he had assumed when Mr. Pickwick first stumbled on him in his misery—bowed low without speaking, and, motioning to Job not to follow him just yet, crept slowly away.

‘Curious scene this, is it not, Sam?’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking good- humouredly round.

‘Wery much so, Sir,’ replied Sam. ‘Wonders ‘ull never cease,’ added Sam, speaking to himself. ‘I’m wery much mistaken if that ‘ere Jingle worn’t a-doin somethin’ in the water-cart way!’

The area formed by the wall in that part of the Fleet in which Mr. Pickwick stood was just wide enough to make a good racket-court; one side being formed, of course, by the wall itself, and the other by that portion of the prison which looked (or rather would have looked, but for the wall) towards St. Paul’s Cathedral. Sauntering or sitting about, in every possible attitude of listless idleness, were a great number of debtors, the major part of whom were waiting in prison until their day of ‘going up’ before the Insolvent Court should arrive; while others had been remanded for various terms, which they were idling away as they best could. Some were shabby, some were smart, many dirty, a few clean; but there they all lounged, and loitered, and slunk about with as little spirit or purpose as the beasts in a menagerie.

Lolling from the windows which commanded a view of this promenade were a number of persons, some in noisy conversation with their acquaintance below, others playing at ball with some adventurous throwers outside, others looking on at the racket-players, or watching the boys as they cried the game. Dirty, slipshod women passed and repassed, on their way to the cooking-house in one corner of the yard; children screamed, and fought, and played together, in another; the tumbling of the skittles, and the shouts of the players, mingled perpetually with these and a hundred other sounds; and all was noise and tumult—save in a little miserable shed a few yards off, where lay, all quiet and ghastly, the body of the Chancery prisoner who had died the night before, awaiting the mockery of an inquest. The body! It is the lawyer’s term for the restless, whirling mass of cares and anxieties, affections, hopes, and griefs, that make up the living man. The law had his body; and there it lay, clothed in grave-clothes, an awful witness to its tender mercy.

‘Would you like to see a whistling-shop, Sir?’ inquired Job Trotter.

‘What do you mean?’ was Mr. Pickwick’s counter inquiry.

‘A vistlin’ shop, Sir,’ interposed Mr. Weller.

‘What is that, Sam?—A bird-fancier’s?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Bless your heart, no, Sir,’ replied Job; ‘a whistling-shop, Sir, is where they sell spirits.’ Mr. Job Trotter briefly explained here, that all persons, being prohibited under heavy penalties from conveying spirits into debtors’ prisons, and such commodities being highly prized by the ladies and gentlemen confined therein, it had occurred to some speculative turnkey to connive, for certain lucrative considerations, at two or three prisoners retailing the favourite article of gin, for their own profit and advantage.

‘This plan, you see, Sir, has been gradually introduced into all the prisons for debt,’ said Mr. Trotter.

‘And it has this wery great advantage,’ said Sam, ‘that the turnkeys takes wery good care to seize hold o’ ev’rybody but them as pays ‘em, that attempts the willainy, and wen it gets in the papers they’re applauded for their wigilance; so it cuts two ways—frightens other people from the trade, and elewates their own characters.’

‘Exactly so, Mr. Weller,’ observed Job.

‘Well, but are these rooms never searched to ascertain whether any spirits are concealed in them?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Cert’nly they are, Sir,’ replied Sam; ‘but the turnkeys knows beforehand, and gives the word to the wistlers, and you may wistle for it wen you go to look.’

By this time, Job had tapped at a door, which was opened by a gentleman with an uncombed head, who bolted it after them when they had walked in, and grinned; upon which Job grinned, and Sam also; whereupon Mr. Pickwick, thinking it might be expected of him, kept on smiling to the end of the interview.

The gentleman with the uncombed head appeared quite satisfied with this mute announcement of their business, and, producing a flat stone bottle, which might hold about a couple of quarts, from beneath his bedstead, filled out three glasses of gin, which Job Trotter and Sam disposed of in a most workmanlike manner.

‘Any more?’ said the whistling gentleman.

‘No more,’ replied Job Trotter.

Mr. Pickwick paid, the door was unbolted, and out they came; the uncombed gentleman bestowing a friendly nod upon Mr. Roker, who happened to be passing at the moment.

From this spot, Mr. Pickwick wandered along all the galleries, up and down all the staircases, and once again round the whole area of the yard. The great body of the prison population appeared to be Mivins, and Smangle, and the parson, and the butcher, and the leg, over and over, and over again. There were the same squalor, the same turmoil and noise, the same general characteristics, in every corner; in the best and the worst alike. The whole place seemed restless and troubled; and the people were crowding and flitting to and fro, like the shadows in an uneasy dream.

‘I have seen enough,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as he threw himself into a chair in his little apartment. ‘My head aches with these scenes, and my heart too. Henceforth I will be a prisoner in my own room.’

And Mr. Pickwick steadfastly adhered to this determination. For three long months he remained shut up, all day; only stealing out at night to breathe the air, when the greater part of his fellow-prisoners were in bed or carousing in their rooms. His health was beginning to suffer from the closeness of the confinement, but neither the often-repeated entreaties of Perker and his friends, nor the still more frequently- repeated warnings and admonitions of Mr. Samuel Weller, could induce him to alter one jot of his inflexible resolution.

CHAPTER XLVI. RECORDS A TOUCHING ACT OF DELICATE FEELING, NOT UNMIXED WITH PLEASANTRY, ACHIEVED AND PERFORMED BY Messrs. DODSON AND FOGG

It was within a week of the close of the month of July, that a hackney cabriolet, number unrecorded, was seen to proceed at a rapid pace up Goswell Street; three people were squeezed into it besides the driver, who sat in his own particular little dickey at the side; over the apron were hung two shawls, belonging to two small vixenish-looking ladies under the apron; between whom, compressed into a very small compass, was stowed away, a gentleman of heavy and subdued demeanour, who, whenever he ventured to make an observation, was snapped up short by one of the vixenish ladies before-mentioned. Lastly, the two vixenish ladies and the heavy gentleman were giving the driver contradictory directions, all tending to the one point, that he should stop at Mrs. Bardell’s door; which the heavy gentleman, in direct opposition to, and defiance of, the vixenish ladies, contended was a green door and not a yellow one.

‘Stop at the house with a green door, driver,’ said the heavy gentleman.

‘Oh! You perwerse creetur!’ exclaimed one of the vixenish ladies. ‘Drive to the ‘ouse with the yellow door, cabmin.’

Upon this the cabman, who in a sudden effort to pull up at the house with the green door, had pulled the horse up so high that he nearly pulled him backward into the cabriolet, let the animal’s fore-legs down to the ground again, and paused.

‘Now vere am I to pull up?’ inquired the driver. ‘Settle it among yourselves. All I ask is, vere?’

Here the contest was renewed with increased violence; and the horse being troubled with a fly on his nose, the cabman humanely employed his leisure in lashing him about on the head, on the counter-irritation principle.

‘Most wotes carries the day!’ said one of the vixenish ladies at length. ‘The ‘ouse with the yellow door, cabman.’

But after the cabriolet had dashed up, in splendid style, to the house with the yellow door, ‘making,’ as one of the vixenish ladies triumphantly said, ‘acterrally more noise than if one had come in one’s own carriage,’ and after the driver had dismounted to assist the ladies in getting out, the small round head of Master Thomas Bardell was thrust out of the one-pair window of a house with a red door, a few numbers off.

‘Aggrawatin’ thing!’ said the vixenish lady last-mentioned, darting a withering glance at the heavy gentleman.

‘My dear, it’s not my fault,’ said the gentleman.

‘Don’t talk to me, you creetur, don’t,’ retorted the lady. ‘The house with the red door, cabmin. Oh! If ever a woman was troubled with a ruffinly creetur, that takes a pride and a pleasure in disgracing his wife on every possible occasion afore strangers, I am that woman!’

‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Raddle,’ said the other little woman, who was no other than Mrs. Cluppins.

‘What have I been a-doing of?’ asked Mr. Raddle.

‘Don’t talk to me, don’t, you brute, for fear I should be perwoked to forgit my sect and strike you!’ said Mrs. Raddle.

While this dialogue was going on, the driver was most ignominiously leading the horse, by the bridle, up to the house with the red door, which Master Bardell had already opened. Here was a mean and low way of arriving at a friend’s house! No dashing up, with all the fire and fury of the animal; no jumping down of the driver; no loud knocking at the door; no opening of the apron with a crash at the very last moment, for fear of the ladies sitting in a draught; and then the man handing the shawls out, afterwards, as if he were a private coachman! The whole edge of the thing had been taken off—it was flatter than walking.

‘Well, Tommy,’ said Mrs. Cluppins, ‘how’s your poor dear mother?’

‘Oh, she’s very well,’ replied Master Bardell. ‘She’s in the front parlour, all ready. I’m ready too, I am.’ Here Master Bardell put his hands in his pockets, and jumped off and on the bottom step of the door.

‘Is anybody else a-goin’, Tommy?’ said Mrs. Cluppins, arranging her pelerine.

‘Mrs. Sanders is going, she is,’ replied Tommy; ‘I’m going too, I am.’

‘Drat the boy,’ said little Mrs. Cluppins. ‘He thinks of nobody but himself. Here, Tommy, dear.’

‘Well,’ said Master Bardell.

‘Who else is a-goin’, lovey?’ said Mrs. Cluppins, in an insinuating manner.

‘Oh! Mrs. Rogers is a-goin’,’ replied Master Bardell, opening his eyes very wide as he delivered the intelligence.

‘What? The lady as has taken the lodgings!’ ejaculated Mrs. Cluppins.

Master Bardell put his hands deeper down into his pockets, and nodded exactly thirty-five times, to imply that it was the lady-lodger, and no other.

‘Bless us!’ said Mrs. Cluppins. ‘It’s quite a party!’

‘Ah, if you knew what was in the cupboard, you’d say so,’ replied Master Bardell.

‘What is there, Tommy?’ said Mrs. Cluppins coaxingly. ‘You’ll tell me, Tommy, I know.’

No, I won’t,’ replied Master Bardell, shaking his head, and applying himself to the bottom step again.

‘Drat the child!’ muttered Mrs. Cluppins. ‘What a prowokin’ little wretch it is! Come, Tommy, tell your dear Cluppy.’

‘Mother said I wasn’t to,’ rejoined Master Bardell, ‘I’m a-goin’ to have some, I am.’ Cheered by this prospect, the precocious boy applied himself to his infantile treadmill, with increased vigour.

The above examination of a child of tender years took place while Mr. and Mrs. Raddle and the cab-driver were having an altercation concerning the fare, which, terminating at this point in favour of the cabman, Mrs. Raddle came up tottering.

‘Lauk, Mary Ann! what’s the matter?’ said Mrs. Cluppins.

‘It’s put me all over in such a tremble, Betsy,’ replied Mrs. Raddle. ‘Raddle ain’t like a man; he leaves everythink to me.’

This was scarcely fair upon the unfortunate Mr. Raddle, who had been thrust aside by his good lady in the commencement of the dispute, and peremptorily commanded to hold his tongue. He had no opportunity of defending himself, however, for Mrs. Raddle gave unequivocal signs of fainting; which, being perceived from the parlour window, Mrs. Bardell, Mrs. Sanders, the lodger, and the lodger’s servant, darted precipitately out, and conveyed her into the house, all talking at the same time, and giving utterance to various expressions of pity and condolence, as if she were one of the most suffering mortals on earth. Being conveyed into the front parlour, she was there deposited on a sofa; and the lady from the first floor running up to the first floor, returned with a bottle of sal-volatile, which, holding Mrs. Raddle tight round the neck, she applied in all womanly kindness and pity to her nose, until that lady with many plunges and struggles was fain to declare herself decidedly better.

‘Ah, poor thing!’ said Mrs. Rogers, ‘I know what her feelin’s is, too well.’

Ah, poor thing! so do I,’ said Mrs. Sanders; and then all the ladies moaned in unison, and said they knew what it was, and they pitied her from their hearts, they did. Even the lodger’s little servant, who was thirteen years old and three feet high, murmured her sympathy.

‘But what’s been the matter?’ said Mrs. Bardell.

‘Ah, what has decomposed you, ma’am?’ inquired Mrs. Rogers.

‘I have been a good deal flurried,’ replied Mrs. Raddle, in a reproachful manner. Thereupon the ladies cast indignant glances at Mr. Raddle.

‘Why, the fact is,’ said that unhappy gentleman, stepping forward, ‘when we alighted at this door, a dispute arose with the driver of the cabrioily—’ A loud scream from his wife, at the mention of this word, rendered all further explanation inaudible.

‘You’d better leave us to bring her round, Raddle,’ said Mrs. Cluppins. ‘She’ll never get better as long as you’re here.’

All the ladies concurred in this opinion; so Mr. Raddle was pushed out of the room, and requested to give himself an airing in the back yard. Which he did for about a quarter of an hour, when Mrs. Bardell announced to him with a solemn face that he might come in now, but that he must be very careful how he behaved towards his wife. She knew he didn’t mean to be unkind; but Mary Ann was very far from strong, and, if he didn’t take care, he might lose her when he least expected it, which would be a very dreadful reflection for him afterwards; and so on. All this, Mr. Raddle heard with great submission, and presently returned to the parlour in a most lamb-like manner.

‘Why, Mrs. Rogers, ma’am,’ said Mrs. Bardell, ‘you’ve never been introduced, I declare! Mr. Raddle, ma’am; Mrs. Cluppins, ma’am; Mrs. Raddle, ma’am.’

‘Which is Mrs. Cluppins’s sister,’ suggested Mrs. Sanders.

‘Oh, indeed!’ said Mrs. Rogers graciously; for she was the lodger, and her servant was in waiting, so she was more gracious than intimate, in right of her position. ‘Oh, indeed!’

Mrs. Raddle smiled sweetly, Mr. Raddle bowed, and Mrs. Cluppins said, ‘she was sure she was very happy to have an opportunity of being known to a lady which she had heerd so much in favour of, as Mrs. Rogers.’ A compliment which the last-named lady acknowledged with graceful condescension.

‘Well, Mr. Raddle,’ said Mrs. Bardell; ‘I’m sure you ought to feel very much honoured at you and Tommy being the only gentlemen to escort so many ladies all the way to the Spaniards, at Hampstead. Don’t you think he ought, Mrs. Rogers, ma’am?’

Oh, certainly, ma’am,’ replied Mrs. Rogers; after whom all the other ladies responded, ‘Oh, certainly.’

‘Of course I feel it, ma’am,’ said Mr. Raddle, rubbing his hands, and evincing a slight tendency to brighten up a little. ‘Indeed, to tell you the truth, I said, as we was a-coming along in the cabrioily—’

At the recapitulation of the word which awakened so many painful recollections, Mrs. Raddle applied her handkerchief to her eyes again, and uttered a half-suppressed scream; so that Mrs. Bardell frowned upon Mr. Raddle, to intimate that he had better not say anything more, and desired Mrs. Rogers’s servant, with an air, to ‘put the wine on.’

This was the signal for displaying the hidden treasures of the closet, which comprised sundry plates of oranges and biscuits, and a bottle of old crusted port—that at one-and-nine—with another of the celebrated East India sherry at fourteen-pence, which were all produced in honour of the lodger, and afforded unlimited satisfaction to everybody. After great consternation had been excited in the mind of Mrs. Cluppins, by an attempt on the part of Tommy to recount how he had been cross-examined regarding the cupboard then in action (which was fortunately nipped in the bud by his imbibing half a glass of the old crusted ‘the wrong way,’ and thereby endangering his life for some seconds), the party walked forth in quest of a Hampstead stage. This was soon found, and in a couple of hours they all arrived safely in the Spaniards Tea-gardens, where the luckless Mr. Raddle’s very first act nearly occasioned his good lady a relapse; it being neither more nor less than to order tea for seven, whereas (as the ladies one and all remarked), what could have been easier than for Tommy to have drank out of anybody’s cup—or everybody’s, if that was all—when the waiter wasn’t looking, which would have saved one head of tea, and the tea just as good!

However, there was no help for it, and the tea-tray came, with seven cups and saucers, and bread-and-butter on the same scale. Mrs. Bardell was unanimously voted into the chair, and Mrs. Rogers being stationed on her right hand, and Mrs. Raddle on her left, the meal proceeded with great merriment and success.

‘How sweet the country is, to be sure!’ sighed Mrs. Rogers; ‘I almost wish I lived in it always.’

‘Oh, you wouldn’t like that, ma’am,’ replied Mrs. Bardell, rather hastily; for it was not at all advisable, with reference to the lodgings, to encourage such notions; ‘you wouldn’t like it, ma’am.’

‘Oh! I should think you was a deal too lively and sought after, to be content with the country, ma’am,’ said little Mrs. Cluppins.

‘Perhaps I am, ma’am. Perhaps I am,’ sighed the first-floor lodger.

‘For lone people as have got nobody to care for them, or take care of them, or as have been hurt in their mind, or that kind of thing,’ observed Mr. Raddle, plucking up a little cheerfulness, and looking round, ‘the country is all very well. The country for a wounded spirit, they say.’

Now, of all things in the world that the unfortunate man could have said, any would have been preferable to this. Of course Mrs. Bardell burst into tears, and requested to be led from the table instantly; upon which the affectionate child began to cry too, most dismally.

‘Would anybody believe, ma’am,’ exclaimed Mrs. Raddle, turning fiercely to the first-floor lodger, ‘that a woman could be married to such a unmanly creetur, which can tamper with a woman’s feelings as he does, every hour in the day, ma’am?’

‘My dear,’ remonstrated Mr. Raddle, ‘I didn’t mean anything, my dear.’

‘You didn’t mean!’ repeated Mrs. Raddle, with great scorn and contempt. ‘Go away. I can’t bear the sight on you, you brute.’

‘You must not flurry yourself, Mary Ann,’ interposed Mrs. Cluppins. ‘You really must consider yourself, my dear, which you never do. Now go away, Raddle, there’s a good soul, or you’ll only aggravate her.’

‘You had better take your tea by yourself, Sir, indeed,’ said Mrs. Rogers, again applying the smelling-bottle.

Mrs. Sanders, who, according to custom, was very busy with the bread- and-butter, expressed the same opinion, and Mr. Raddle quietly retired.

After this, there was a great hoisting up of Master Bardell, who was rather a large size for hugging, into his mother’s arms, in which operation he got his boots in the tea-board, and occasioned some confusion among the cups and saucers. But that description of fainting fits, which is contagious among ladies, seldom lasts long; so when he had been well kissed, and a little cried over, Mrs. Bardell recovered, set him down again, wondering how she could have been so foolish, and poured out some more tea.

It was at this moment, that the sound of approaching wheels was heard, and that the ladies, looking up, saw a hackney-coach stop at the garden gate.

‘More company!’ said Mrs. Sanders.

‘It’s a gentleman,’ said Mrs. Raddle.

‘Well, if it ain’t Mr. Jackson, the young man from Dodson and Fogg’s!’ cried Mrs. Bardell. ‘Why, gracious! Surely Mr. Pickwick can’t have paid the damages.’

‘Or hoffered marriage!’ said Mrs. Cluppins.

‘Dear me, how slow the gentleman is,’ exclaimed Mrs. Rogers. ‘Why doesn’t he make haste!’

As the lady spoke these words, Mr. Jackson turned from the coach where he had been addressing some observations to a shabby man in black leggings, who had just emerged from the vehicle with a thick ash stick in his hand, and made his way to the place where the ladies were seated; winding his hair round the brim of his hat, as he came along.

‘Is anything the matter? Has anything taken place, Mr. Jackson?’ said Mrs. Bardell eagerly.

‘Nothing whatever, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Jackson. ‘How de do, ladies? I have to ask pardon, ladies, for intruding—but the law, ladies—the law.’ With this apology Mr. Jackson smiled, made a comprehensive bow, and gave his hair another wind. Mrs. Rogers whispered Mrs. Raddle that he was really an elegant young man.

‘I called in Goswell Street,’ resumed Mr. Jackson, ‘and hearing that you were here, from the slavey, took a coach and came on. Our people want you down in the city directly, Mrs. Bardell.’

‘Lor!’ ejaculated that lady, starting at the sudden nature of the communication.

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Jackson, biting his lip. ‘It’s very important and pressing business, which can’t be postponed on any account. Indeed, Dodson expressly said so to me, and so did Fogg. I’ve kept the coach on purpose for you to go back in.’

‘How very strange!’ exclaimed Mrs. Bardell.

The ladies agreed that it _was _ very strange, but were unanimously of opinion that it must be very important, or Dodson & Fogg would never have sent; and further, that the business being urgent, she ought to repair to Dodson & Fogg’s without any delay.

There was a certain degree of pride and importance about being wanted by one’s lawyers in such a monstrous hurry, that was by no means displeasing to Mrs. Bardell, especially as it might be reasonably supposed to enhance her consequence in the eyes of the first-floor lodger. She simpered a little, affected extreme vexation and hesitation, and at last arrived at the conclusion that she supposed she must go.

‘But won’t you refresh yourself after your walk, Mr. Jackson?’ said Mrs. Bardell persuasively.

‘Why, really there ain’t much time to lose,’ replied Jackson; ‘and I’ve got a friend here,’ he continued, looking towards the man with the ash stick.

‘Oh, ask your friend to come here, Sir,’ said Mrs. Bardell. ‘Pray ask your friend here, Sir.’

‘Why, thank’ee, I’d rather not,’ said Mr. Jackson, with some embarrassment of manner. ‘He’s not much used to ladies’ society, and it makes him bashful. If you’ll order the waiter to deliver him anything short, he won’t drink it off at once, won’t he!—only try him!’ Mr. Jackson’s fingers wandered playfully round his nose at this portion of his discourse, to warn his hearers that he was speaking ironically.

The waiter was at once despatched to the bashful gentleman, and the bashful gentleman took something; Mr. Jackson also took something, and the ladies took something, for hospitality’s sake. Mr. Jackson then said he was afraid it was time to go; upon which, Mrs. Sanders, Mrs. Cluppins, and Tommy (who it was arranged should accompany Mrs. Bardell, leaving the others to Mr. Raddle’s protection), got into the coach.

‘Isaac,’ said Jackson, as Mrs. Bardell prepared to get in, looking up at the man with the ash stick, who was seated on the box, smoking a cigar.

‘Well?’

‘This is Mrs. Bardell.’

‘Oh, I know’d that long ago,’ said the man.

Mrs. Bardell got in, Mr. Jackson got in after her, and away they drove. Mrs. Bardell could not help ruminating on what Mr. Jackson’s friend had said. Shrewd creatures, those lawyers. Lord bless us, how they find people out!

‘Sad thing about these costs of our people’s, ain’t it,’ said Jackson, when Mrs. Cluppins and Mrs. Sanders had fallen asleep; ‘your bill of costs, I mean.’

‘I’m very sorry they can’t get them,’ replied Mrs. Bardell. ‘But if you law gentlemen do these things on speculation, why you must get a loss now and then, you know.’

‘You gave them a _cognovit _for the amount of your costs, after the trial, I’m told!’ said Jackson.

‘Yes. Just as a matter of form,’ replied Mrs. Bardell.

‘Certainly,’ replied Jackson drily. ‘Quite a matter of form. Quite.’

On they drove, and Mrs. Bardell fell asleep. She was awakened, after some time, by the stopping of the coach.

‘Bless us!’ said the lady. ‘Are we at Freeman’s Court?’

‘We’re not going quite so far,’ replied Jackson. ‘Have the goodness to step out.’

Mrs. Bardell, not yet thoroughly awake, complied. It was a curious place: a large wall, with a gate in the middle, and a gas-light burning inside.

‘Now, ladies,’ cried the man with the ash stick, looking into the coach, and shaking Mrs. Sanders to wake her, ‘Come!’ Rousing her friend, Mrs. Sanders alighted. Mrs. Bardell, leaning on Jackson’s arm, and leading Tommy by the hand, had already entered the porch. They followed.

The room they turned into was even more odd-looking than the porch. Such a number of men standing about! And they stared so!

‘What place is this?’ inquired Mrs. Bardell, pausing.

‘Only one of our public offices,’ replied Jackson, hurrying her through a door, and looking round to see that the other women were following. ‘Look sharp, Isaac!’

‘Safe and sound,’ replied the man with the ash stick. The door swung heavily after them, and they descended a small flight of steps.

‘Here we are at last. All right and tight, Mrs. Bardell!’ said Jackson, looking exultingly round.

‘What do you mean?’ said Mrs. Bardell, with a palpitating heart.

‘Just this,’ replied Jackson, drawing her a little on one side; ‘don’t be frightened, Mrs. Bardell. There never was a more delicate man than Dodson, ma’am, or a more humane man than Fogg. It was their duty in the way of business, to take you in execution for them costs; but they were anxious to spare your feelings as much as they could. What a comfort it must be, to you, to think how it’s been done! This is the Fleet, ma’am. Wish you good-night, Mrs. Bardell. Good-night, Tommy!’

As Jackson hurried away in company with the man with the ash stick another man, with a key in his hand, who had been looking on, led the bewildered female to a second short flight of steps leading to a doorway. Mrs. Bardell screamed violently; Tommy roared; Mrs. Cluppins shrunk within herself; and Mrs. Sanders made off, without more ado. For there stood the injured Mr. Pickwick, taking his nightly allowance of air; and beside him leant Samuel Weller, who, seeing Mrs. Bardell, took his hat off with mock reverence, while his master turned indignantly on his heel.

‘Don’t bother the woman,’ said the turnkey to Weller; ‘she’s just come in.’

‘A prisoner!’ said Sam, quickly replacing his hat. ‘Who’s the plaintives? What for? Speak up, old feller.’

‘Dodson and Fogg,’ replied the man; ‘execution on _cognovit _for costs.’

‘Here, Job, Job!’ shouted Sam, dashing into the passage. ‘Run to Mr. Perker’s, Job. I want him directly. I see some good in this. Here’s a game. Hooray! vere’s the gov’nor?’

But there was no reply to these inquiries, for Job had started furiously off, the instant he received his commission, and Mrs. Bardell had fainted in real downright earnest.

CHAPTER XLVII. IS CHIEFLY DEVOTED TO MATTERS OF BUSINESS, AND THE TEMPORAL ADVANTAGE OF DODSON AND FOGG—MR. WINKLE REAPPEARS UNDER EXTRAORDINARY CIRCUMSTANCES—MR. PICKWICK’S BENEVOLENCE PROVES STRONGER THAN HIS OBSTINACY

Job Trotter, abating nothing of his speed, ran up Holborn, sometimes in the middle of the road, sometimes on the pavement, sometimes in the gutter, as the chances of getting along varied with the press of men, women, children, and coaches, in each division of the thoroughfare, and, regardless of all obstacles stopped not for an instant until he reached the gate of Gray’s Inn. Notwithstanding all the expedition he had used, however, the gate had been closed a good half-hour when he reached it, and by the time he had discovered Mr. Perker’s laundress, who lived with a married daughter, who had bestowed her hand upon a non-resident waiter, who occupied the one-pair of some number in some street closely adjoining to some brewery somewhere behind Gray’s Inn Lane, it was within fifteen minutes of closing the prison for the night. Mr. Lowten had still to be ferreted out from the back parlour of the Magpie and Stump; and Job had scarcely accomplished this object, and communicated Sam Weller’s message, when the clock struck ten.

‘There,’ said Lowten, ‘it’s too late now. You can’t get in to-night; you’ve got the key of the street, my friend.’

‘Never mind me,’ replied Job. ‘I can sleep anywhere. But won’t it be better to see Mr. Perker to-night, so that we may be there, the first thing in the morning?’

‘Why,’ responded Lowten, after a little consideration, ‘if it was in anybody else’s case, Perker wouldn’t be best pleased at my going up to his house; but as it’s Mr. Pickwick’s, I think I may venture to take a cab and charge it to the office.’ Deciding on this line of conduct, Mr. Lowten took up his hat, and begging the assembled company to appoint a deputy-chairman during his temporary absence, led the way to the nearest coach-stand. Summoning the cab of most promising appearance, he directed the driver to repair to Montague Place, Russell Square.

Mr. Perker had had a dinner-party that day, as was testified by the appearance of lights in the drawing-room windows, the sound of an improved grand piano, and an improvable cabinet voice issuing therefrom, and a rather overpowering smell of meat which pervaded the steps and entry. In fact, a couple of very good country agencies happening to come up to town, at the same time, an agreeable little party had been got together to meet them, comprising Mr. Snicks, the Life Office Secretary, Mr. Prosee, the eminent counsel, three solicitors, one commissioner of bankrupts, a special pleader from the Temple, a small-eyed peremptory young gentleman, his pupil, who had written a lively book about the law of demises, with a vast quantity of marginal notes and references; and several other eminent and distinguished personages. From this society, little Mr. Perker detached himself, on his clerk being announced in a whisper; and repairing to the dining-room, there found Mr. Lowten and Job Trotter looking very dim and shadowy by the light of a kitchen candle, which the gentleman who condescended to appear in plush shorts and cottons for a quarterly stipend, had, with a becoming contempt for the clerk and all things appertaining to ‘the office,’ placed upon the table.

‘Now, Lowten,’ said little Mr. Perker, shutting the door, ‘what’s the matter? No important letter come in a parcel, is there?’

‘No, Sir,’ replied Lowten. ‘This is a messenger from Mr. Pickwick, Sir.’

‘From Pickwick, eh?’ said the little man, turning quickly to Job. ‘Well, what is it?’

‘Dodson and Fogg have taken Mrs. Bardell in execution for her costs, Sir,’ said Job.

‘No!’ exclaimed Perker, putting his hands in his pockets, and reclining against the sideboard.

‘Yes,’ said Job. ‘It seems they got a cognovit out of her, for the amount of ‘em, directly after the trial.’

‘By Jove!’ said Perker, taking both hands out of his pockets, and striking the knuckles of his right against the palm of his left, emphatically, ‘those are the cleverest scamps I ever had anything to do with!’

‘The sharpest practitioners I ever knew, Sir,’ observed Lowten.

‘Sharp!’ echoed Perker. ‘There’s no knowing where to have them.’

‘Very true, Sir, there is not,’ replied Lowten; and then, both master and man pondered for a few seconds, with animated countenances, as if they were reflecting upon one of the most beautiful and ingenious discoveries that the intellect of man had ever made. When they had in some measure recovered from their trance of admiration, Job Trotter discharged himself of the rest of his commission. Perker nodded his head thoughtfully, and pulled out his watch.

‘At ten precisely, I will be there,’ said the little man. ‘Sam is quite right. Tell him so. Will you take a glass of wine, Lowten?’

No, thank you, Sir.’

‘You mean yes, I think,’ said the little man, turning to the sideboard for a decanter and glasses.

As Lowten _did _mean yes, he said no more on the subject, but inquired of Job, in an audible whisper, whether the portrait of Perker, which hung opposite the fireplace, wasn’t a wonderful likeness, to which Job of course replied that it was. The wine being by this time poured out, Lowten drank to Mrs. Perker and the children, and Job to Perker. The gentleman in the plush shorts and cottons considering it no part of his duty to show the people from the office out, consistently declined to answer the bell, and they showed themselves out. The attorney betook himself to his drawing-room, the clerk to the Magpie and Stump, and Job to Covent Garden Market to spend the night in a vegetable basket.

Punctually at the appointed hour next morning, the good-humoured little attorney tapped at Mr. Pickwick’s door, which was opened with great alacrity by Sam Weller.

‘Mr. Perker, sir,’ said Sam, announcing the visitor to Mr. Pickwick, who was sitting at the window in a thoughtful attitude. ‘Wery glad you’ve looked in accidentally, Sir. I rather think the gov’nor wants to have a word and a half with you, Sir.’

Perker bestowed a look of intelligence on Sam, intimating that he understood he was not to say he had been sent for; and beckoning him to approach, whispered briefly in his ear.

‘You don’t mean that ‘ere, Sir?’ said Sam, starting back in excessive surprise.

Perker nodded and smiled.

Mr. Samuel Weller looked at the little lawyer, then at Mr. Pickwick, then at the ceiling, then at Perker again; grinned, laughed outright, and finally, catching up his hat from the carpet, without further explanation, disappeared.

‘What does this mean?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, looking at Perker with astonishment. ‘What has put Sam into this extraordinary state?’

‘Oh, nothing, nothing,’ replied Perker. ‘Come, my dear Sir, draw up your chair to the table. I have a good deal to say to you.’

‘What papers are those?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, as the little man deposited on the table a small bundle of documents tied with red tape.

‘The papers in Bardell and Pickwick,’ replied Perker, undoing the knot with his teeth.

Mr. Pickwick grated the legs of his chair against the ground; and throwing himself into it, folded his hands and looked sternly—if Mr. Pickwick ever could look sternly—at his legal friend.

‘You don’t like to hear the name of the cause?’ said the little man, still busying himself with the knot.

‘No, I do not indeed,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Sorry for that,’ resumed Perker, ‘because it will form the subject of our conversation.’

‘I would rather that the subject should be never mentioned between us, Perker,’ interposed Mr. Pickwick hastily.

‘Pooh, pooh, my dear Sir,’ said the little man, untying the bundle, and glancing eagerly at Mr. Pickwick out of the corners of his eyes. ‘It must be mentioned. I have come here on purpose. Now, are you ready to hear what I have to say, my dear Sir? No hurry; if you are not, I can wait. I have this morning’s paper here. Your time shall be mine. There!’ Hereupon, the little man threw one leg over the other, and made a show of beginning to read with great composure and application.

‘Well, well,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with a sigh, but softening into a smile at the same time. ‘Say what you have to say; it’s the old story, I suppose?’

‘With a difference, my dear Sir; with a difference,’ rejoined Perker, deliberately folding up the paper and putting it into his pocket again. ‘Mrs. Bardell, the plaintiff in the action, is within these walls, Sir.’

‘I know it,’ was Mr. Pickwick’s reply.

‘Very good,’ retorted Perker. ‘And you know how she comes here, I suppose; I mean on what grounds, and at whose suit?’

‘Yes; at least I have heard Sam’s account of the matter,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with affected carelessness.

‘Sam’s account of the matter,’ replied Perker, ‘is, I will venture to say, a perfectly correct one. Well now, my dear Sir, the first question I have to ask, is, whether this woman is to remain here?’

‘To remain here!’ echoed Mr. Pickwick.

‘To remain here, my dear Sir,’ rejoined Perker, leaning back in his chair and looking steadily at his client.

‘How can you ask me?’ said that gentleman. ‘It rests with Dodson and Fogg; you know that very well.’

‘I know nothing of the kind,’ retorted Perker firmly. ‘It does _not _rest with Dodson and Fogg; you know the men, my dear Sir, as well as I do. It rests solely, wholly, and entirely with you.’

‘With me!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, rising nervously from his chair, and reseating himself directly afterwards.

The little man gave a double-knock on the lid of his snuff-box, opened it, took a great pinch, shut it up again, and repeated the words, ‘With you.’

‘I say, my dear Sir,’ resumed the little man, who seemed to gather confidence from the snuff—‘I say, that her speedy liberation or perpetual imprisonment rests with you, and with you alone. Hear me out, my dear Sir, if you please, and do not be so very energetic, for it will only put you into a perspiration and do no good whatever. I say,’ continued Perker, checking off each position on a different finger, as he laid it down—‘I say that nobody but you can rescue her from this den of wretchedness; and that you can only do that, by paying the costs of this suit—both of plaintive and defendant—into the hands of these Freeman Court sharks. Now pray be quiet, my dear sir.’

Mr. Pickwick, whose face had been undergoing most surprising changes during this speech, and was evidently on the verge of a strong burst of indignation, calmed his wrath as well as he could. Perker, strengthening his argumentative powers with another pinch of snuff, proceeded—

‘I have seen the woman, this morning. By paying the costs, you can obtain a full release and discharge from the damages; and further—this I know is a far greater object of consideration with you, my dear sir—a voluntary statement, under her hand, in the form of a letter to me, that this business was, from the very first, fomented, and encouraged, and brought about, by these men, Dodson and Fogg; that she deeply regrets ever having been the instrument of annoyance or injury to you; and that she entreats me to intercede with you, and implore your pardon.’

‘If I pay her costs for her,’ said Mr. Pickwick indignantly. ‘A valuable document, indeed!’

‘No “if” in the case, my dear Sir,’ said Perker triumphantly. ‘There is the very letter I speak of. Brought to my office by another woman at nine o’clock this morning, before I had set foot in this place, or held any communication with Mrs. Bardell, upon my honour.’ Selecting the letter from the bundle, the little lawyer laid it at Mr. Pickwick’s elbow, and took snuff for two consecutive minutes, without winking.

‘Is this all you have to say to me?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick mildly.

‘Not quite,’ replied Perker. ‘I cannot undertake to say, at this moment, whether the wording of the cognovit, the nature of the ostensible consideration, and the proof we can get together about the whole conduct of the suit, will be sufficient to justify an indictment for conspiracy. I fear not, my dear Sir; they are too clever for that, I doubt. I do mean to say, however, that the whole facts, taken together, will be sufficient to justify you, in the minds of all reasonable men. And now, my dear Sir, I put it to you. This one hundred and fifty pounds, or whatever it may be—take it in round numbers—is nothing to you. A jury had decided against you; well, their verdict is wrong, but still they decided as they thought right, and it is against you. You have now an opportunity, on easy terms, of placing yourself in a much higher position than you ever could, by remaining here; which would only be imputed, by people who didn’t know you, to sheer dogged, wrongheaded, brutal obstinacy; nothing else, my dear Sir, believe me. Can you hesitate to avail yourself of it, when it restores you to your friends, your old pursuits, your health and amusements; when it liberates your faithful and attached servant, whom you otherwise doom to imprisonment for the whole of your life; and above all, when it enables you to take the very magnanimous revenge—which I know, my dear sir, is one after your own heart—of releasing this woman from a scene of misery and debauchery, to which no man should ever be consigned, if I had my will, but the infliction of which on any woman, is even more frightful and barbarous. Now I ask you, my dear sir, not only as your legal adviser, but as your very true friend, will you let slip the occasion of attaining all these objects, and doing all this good, for the paltry consideration of a few pounds finding their way into the pockets of a couple of rascals, to whom it makes no manner of difference, except that the more they gain, the more they’ll seek, and so the sooner be led into some piece of knavery that must end in a crash? I have put these considerations to you, my dear Sir, very feebly and imperfectly, but I ask you to think of them. Turn them over in your mind as long as you please. I wait here most patiently for your answer.’

Before Mr. Pickwick could reply, before Mr. Perker had taken one twentieth part of the snuff with which so unusually long an address imperatively required to be followed up, there was a low murmuring of voices outside, and then a hesitating knock at the door.

‘Dear, dear,’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, who had been evidently roused by his friend’s appeal; ‘what an annoyance that door is! Who is that?’

‘Me, Sir,’ replied Sam Weller, putting in his head.

‘I can’t speak to you just now, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘I am engaged at this moment, Sam.’

‘Beg your pardon, Sir,’ rejoined Mr. Weller. ‘But here’s a lady here, Sir, as says she’s somethin’ wery partickler to disclose.’

‘I can’t see any lady,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, whose mind was filled with visions of Mrs. Bardell.

‘I wouldn’t make too sure o’ that, Sir,’ urged Mr. Weller, shaking his head. ‘If you know’d who was near, sir, I rayther think you’d change your note; as the hawk remarked to himself vith a cheerful laugh, ven he heerd the robin-redbreast a-singin’ round the corner.’

‘Who is it?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Will you see her, Sir?’ asked Mr. Weller, holding the door in his hand as if he had some curious live animal on the other side.

‘I suppose I must,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking at Perker.

‘Well then, all in to begin!’ cried Sam. ‘Sound the gong, draw up the curtain, and enter the two conspiraytors.’

As Sam Weller spoke, he threw the door open, and there rushed tumultuously into the room, Mr. Nathaniel Winkle, leading after him by the hand, the identical young lady who at Dingley Dell had worn the boots with the fur round the tops, and who, now a very pleasing compound of blushes and confusion, and lilac silk, and a smart bonnet, and a rich lace veil, looked prettier than ever.

‘Miss Arabella Allen!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, rising from his chair.

‘No,’ replied Mr. Winkle, dropping on his knees. ‘Mrs. Winkle. Pardon, my dear friend, pardon!’

Mr. Pickwick could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses, and perhaps would not have done so, but for the corroborative testimony afforded by the smiling countenance of Perker, and the bodily presence, in the background, of Sam and the pretty housemaid; who appeared to contemplate the proceedings with the liveliest satisfaction.

‘Oh, Mr. Pickwick!’ said Arabella, in a low voice, as if alarmed at the silence. ‘Can you forgive my imprudence?’

Mr. Pickwick returned no verbal response to this appeal; but he took off his spectacles in great haste, and seizing both the young lady’s hands in his, kissed her a great number of times—perhaps a greater number than was absolutely necessary—and then, still retaining one of her hands, told Mr. Winkle he was an audacious young dog, and bade him get up. This, Mr. Winkle, who had been for some seconds scratching his nose with the brim of his hat, in a penitent manner, did; whereupon Mr. Pickwick slapped him on the back several times, and then shook hands heartily with Perker, who, not to be behind-hand in the compliments of the occasion, saluted both the bride and the pretty housemaid with right good-will, and, having wrung Mr. Winkle’s hand most cordially, wound up his demonstrations of joy by taking snuff enough to set any half-dozen men with ordinarily-constructed noses, a-sneezing for life.

‘Why, my dear girl,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘how has all this come about? Come! Sit down, and let me hear it all. How well she looks, doesn’t she, Perker?’ added Mr. Pickwick, surveying Arabella’s face with a look of as much pride and exultation, as if she had been his daughter.

‘Delightful, my dear Sir,’ replied the little man. ‘If I were not a married man myself, I should be disposed to envy you, you dog.’ Thus expressing himself, the little lawyer gave Mr. Winkle a poke in the chest, which that gentleman reciprocated; after which they both laughed very loudly, but not so loudly as Mr. Samuel Weller, who had just relieved his feelings by kissing the pretty housemaid under cover of the cupboard door.

‘I can never be grateful enough to you, Sam, I am sure,’ said Arabella, with the sweetest smile imaginable. ‘I shall not forget your exertions in the garden at Clifton.’

‘Don’t say nothin’ wotever about it, ma’am,’ replied Sam. ‘I only assisted natur, ma’am; as the doctor said to the boy’s mother, after he’d bled him to death.’

‘Mary, my dear, sit down,’ said Mr. Pickwick, cutting short these compliments. ‘Now then; how long have you been married, eh?’

Arabella looked bashfully at her lord and master, who replied, ‘Only three days.’

‘Only three days, eh?’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Why, what have you been doing these three months?’

‘Ah, to be sure!’ interposed Perker; ‘come, account for this idleness. You see Mr. Pickwick’s only astonishment is, that it wasn’t all over, months ago.’

‘Why the fact is,’ replied Mr. Winkle, looking at his blushing young wife, ‘that I could not persuade Bella to run away, for a long time. And when I had persuaded her, it was a long time more before we could find an opportunity. Mary had to give a month’s warning, too, before she could leave her place next door, and we couldn’t possibly have done it without her assistance.’

Upon my word,’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, who by this time had resumed his spectacles, and was looking from Arabella to Winkle, and from Winkle to Arabella, with as much delight depicted in his countenance as warmheartedness and kindly feeling can communicate to the human face— ‘upon my word! you seem to have been very systematic in your proceedings. And is your brother acquainted with all this, my dear?’

‘Oh, no, no,’ replied Arabella, changing colour. ‘Dear Mr. Pickwick, he must only know it from you—from your lips alone. He is so violent, so prejudiced, and has been so—so anxious in behalf of his friend, Mr. Sawyer,’ added Arabella, looking down, ‘that I fear the consequences dreadfully.’

‘Ah, to be sure,’ said Perker gravely. ‘You must take this matter in hand for them, my dear sir. These young men will respect you, when they would listen to nobody else. You must prevent mischief, my dear Sir. Hot blood, hot blood.’ And the little man took a warning pinch, and shook his head doubtfully.

‘You forget, my love,’ said Mr. Pickwick gently, ‘you forget that I am a prisoner.’

‘No, indeed I do not, my dear Sir,’ replied Arabella. ‘I never have forgotten it. I have never ceased to think how great your sufferings must have been in this shocking place. But I hoped that what no consideration for yourself would induce you to do, a regard to our happiness might. If my brother hears of this, first, from you, I feel certain we shall be reconciled. He is my only relation in the world, Mr. Pickwick, and unless you plead for me, I fear I have lost even him. I have done wrong, very, very wrong, I know.’ Here poor Arabella hid her face in her handkerchief, and wept bitterly.

Mr. Pickwick’s nature was a good deal worked upon, by these same tears; but when Mrs. Winkle, drying her eyes, took to coaxing and entreating in the sweetest tones of a very sweet voice, he became particularly restless, and evidently undecided how to act, as was evinced by sundry nervous rubbings of his spectacle-glasses, nose, tights, head, and gaiters.

Taking advantage of these symptoms of indecision, Mr. Perker (to whom, it appeared, the young couple had driven straight that morning) urged with legal point and shrewdness that Mr. Winkle, senior, was still unacquainted with the important rise in life’s flight of steps which his son had taken; that the future expectations of the said son depended entirely upon the said Winkle, senior, continuing to regard him with undiminished feelings of affection and attachment, which it was very unlikely he would, if this great event were long kept a secret from him; that Mr. Pickwick, repairing to Bristol to seek Mr. Allen, might, with equal reason, repair to Birmingham to seek Mr. Winkle, senior; lastly, that Mr. Winkle, senior, had good right and title to consider Mr. Pickwick as in some degree the guardian and adviser of his son, and that it consequently behoved that gentleman, and was indeed due to his personal character, to acquaint the aforesaid Winkle, senior, personally, and by word of mouth, with the whole circumstances of the case, and with the share he had taken in the transaction.

Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass arrived, most opportunely, in this stage of the pleadings, and as it was necessary to explain to them all that had occurred, together with the various reasons pro and con, the whole of the arguments were gone over again, after which everybody urged every argument in his own way, and at his own length. And, at last, Mr. Pickwick, fairly argued and remonstrated out of all his resolutions, and being in imminent danger of being argued and remonstrated out of his wits, caught Arabella in his arms, and declaring that she was a very amiable creature, and that he didn’t know how it was, but he had always been very fond of her from the first, said he could never find it in his heart to stand in the way of young people’s happiness, and they might do with him as they pleased.

Mr. Weller’s first act, on hearing this concession, was to despatch Job Trotter to the illustrious Mr. Pell, with an authority to deliver to the bearer the formal discharge which his prudent parent had had the foresight to leave in the hands of that learned gentleman, in case it should be, at any time, required on an emergency; his next proceeding was, to invest his whole stock of ready-money in the purchase of five- and-twenty gallons of mild porter, which he himself dispensed on the racket-ground to everybody who would partake of it; this done, he hurra’d in divers parts of the building until he lost his voice, and then quietly relapsed into his usual collected and philosophical condition.

At three o’clock that afternoon, Mr. Pickwick took a last look at his little room, and made his way, as well as he could, through the throng of debtors who pressed eagerly forward to shake him by the hand, until he reached the lodge steps. He turned here, to look about him, and his eye lightened as he did so. In all the crowd of wan, emaciated faces, he saw not one which was not happier for his sympathy and charity.

‘Perker,’ said Mr. Pickwick, beckoning one young man towards him, ‘this is Mr. Jingle, whom I spoke to you about.’

‘Very good, my dear Sir,’ replied Perker, looking hard at Jingle. ‘You will see me again, young man, to-morrow. I hope you may live to remember and feel deeply, what I shall have to communicate, Sir.’

Jingle bowed respectfully, trembled very much as he took Mr. Pickwick’s proffered hand, and withdrew.

‘Job you know, I think?’ said Mr. Pickwick, presenting that gentleman.

‘I know the rascal,’ replied Perker good-humouredly. ‘See after your friend, and be in the way to-morrow at one. Do you hear? Now, is there anything more?’

‘Nothing,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick. ‘You have delivered the little parcel I gave you for your old landlord, Sam?’

‘I have, Sir,’ replied Sam. ‘He bust out a-cryin’, Sir, and said you wos wery gen’rous and thoughtful, and he only wished you could have him innockilated for a gallopin’ consumption, for his old friend as had lived here so long wos dead, and he’d noweres to look for another.’

Poor fellow, poor fellow!’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘God bless you, my friends!’

As Mr. Pickwick uttered this adieu, the crowd raised a loud shout. Many among them were pressing forward to shake him by the hand again, when he drew his arm through Perker’s, and hurried from the prison, far more sad and melancholy, for the moment, than when he had first entered it. Alas! how many sad and unhappy beings had he left behind!

A happy evening was that for at least one party in the George and Vulture; and light and cheerful were two of the hearts that emerged from its hospitable door next morning. The owners thereof were Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller, the former of whom was speedily deposited inside a comfortable post-coach, with a little dickey behind, in which the latter mounted with great agility.

‘Sir,’ called out Mr. Weller to his master.

‘Well, Sam,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, thrusting his head out of the window.

‘I wish them horses had been three months and better in the Fleet, Sir.’

‘Why, Sam?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Wy, Sir,’ exclaimed Mr. Weller, rubbing his hands, ‘how they would go if they had been!’

CHAPTER XLVIII. RELATES HOW MR. PICKWICK, WITH THE ASSISTANCE OF SAMUEL WELLER, ESSAYED TO SOFTEN THE HEART OF MR. BENJAMIN ALLEN, AND TO MOLLIFY THE WRATH OF MR. ROBERT SAWYER

Mr. Ben Allen and Mr. Bob Sawyer sat together in the little surgery behind the shop, discussing minced veal and future prospects, when the discourse, not unnaturally, turned upon the practice acquired by Bob the aforesaid, and his present chances of deriving a competent independence from the honourable profession to which he had devoted himself.

‘Which, I think,’ observed Mr. Bob Sawyer, pursuing the thread of the subject—‘which, I think, Ben, are rather dubious.’

‘What’s rather dubious?’ inquired Mr. Ben Allen, at the same time sharpening his intellect with a draught of beer. ‘What’s dubious?’

‘Why, the chances,’ responded Mr. Bob Sawyer.

‘I forgot,’ said Mr. Ben Allen. ‘The beer has reminded me that I forgot, Bob—yes; they _are _dubious.’

‘It’s wonderful how the poor people patronise me,’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer reflectively. ‘They knock me up, at all hours of the night; they take medicine to an extent which I should have conceived impossible; they put on blisters and leeches with a perseverance worthy of a better cause; they make additions to their families, in a manner which is quite awful. Six of those last-named little promissory notes, all due on the same day, Ben, and all intrusted to me!’

‘It’s very gratifying, isn’t it?’ said Mr. Ben Allen, holding his plate for some more minced veal.

‘Oh, very,’ replied Bob; ‘only not quite so much so as the confidence of patients with a shilling or two to spare would be. This business was capitally described in the advertisement, Ben. It is a practice, a very extensive practice—and that’s all.’

‘Bob,’ said Mr. Ben Allen, laying down his knife and fork, and fixing his eyes on the visage of his friend, ‘Bob, I’ll tell you what it is.’

‘What is it?’ inquired Mr. Bob Sawyer.

‘You must make yourself, with as little delay as possible, master of Arabella’s one thousand pounds.’

‘Three per cent. consolidated bank annuities, now standing in her name in the book or books of the governor and company of the Bank of England,’ added Bob Sawyer, in legal phraseology.

‘Exactly so,’ said Ben. ‘She has it when she comes of age, or marries. She wants a year of coming of age, and if you plucked up a spirit she needn’t want a month of being married.’

‘She’s a very charming and delightful creature,’ quoth Mr. Robert Sawyer, in reply; ‘and has only one fault that I know of, Ben. It happens, unfortunately, that that single blemish is a want of taste. She don’t like me.’

‘It’s my opinion that she don’t know what she does like,’ said Mr. Ben Allen contemptuously.

‘Perhaps not,’ remarked Mr. Bob Sawyer. ‘But it’s my opinion that she does know what she doesn’t like, and that’s of more importance.’

‘I wish,’ said Mr. Ben Allen, setting his teeth together, and speaking more like a savage warrior who fed on raw wolf’s flesh which he carved with his fingers, than a peaceable young gentleman who ate minced veal with a knife and fork—‘I wish I knew whether any rascal really has been tampering with her, and attempting to engage her affections. I think I should assassinate him, Bob.’

‘I’d put a bullet in him, if I found him out,’ said Mr. Sawyer, stopping in the course of a long draught of beer, and looking malignantly out of the porter pot. ‘If that didn’t do his business, I’d extract it afterwards, and kill him that way.’

Mr. Benjamin Allen gazed abstractedly on his friend for some minutes in silence, and then said—

‘You have never proposed to her, point-blank, Bob?’

‘No. Because I saw it would be of no use,’ replied Mr. Robert Sawyer.

‘You shall do it, before you are twenty-four hours older,’ retorted Ben, with desperate calmness. ‘She shall have you, or I’ll know the reason why. I’ll exert my authority.’

‘Well,’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer, ‘we shall see.’

‘We shall see, my friend,’ replied Mr. Ben Allen fiercely. He paused for a few seconds, and added in a voice broken by emotion, ‘You have loved her from a child, my friend. You loved her when we were boys at school together, and, even then, she was wayward and slighted your young feelings. Do you recollect, with all the eagerness of a child’s love, one day pressing upon her acceptance, two small caraway-seed biscuits and one sweet apple, neatly folded into a circular parcel with the leaf of a copy-book?’

‘I do,’ replied Bob Sawyer.

‘She slighted that, I think?’ said Ben Allen.

‘She did,’ rejoined Bob. ‘She said I had kept the parcel so long in the pockets of my corduroys, that the apple was unpleasantly warm.’

‘I remember,’ said Mr. Allen gloomily. ‘Upon which we ate it ourselves, in alternate bites.’

Bob Sawyer intimated his recollection of the circumstance last alluded to, by a melancholy frown; and the two friends remained for some time absorbed, each in his own meditations.

While these observations were being exchanged between Mr. Bob Sawyer and Mr. Benjamin Allen; and while the boy in the gray livery, marvelling at the unwonted prolongation of the dinner, cast an anxious look, from time to time, towards the glass door, distracted by inward misgivings regarding the amount of minced veal which would be ultimately reserved for his individual cravings; there rolled soberly on through the streets of Bristol, a private fly, painted of a sad green colour, drawn by a chubby sort of brown horse, and driven by a surly-looking man with his legs dressed like the legs of a groom, and his body attired in the coat of a coachman. Such appearances are common to many vehicles belonging to, and maintained by, old ladies of economic habits; and in this vehicle sat an old lady who was its mistress and proprietor.

‘Martin!’ said the old lady, calling to the surly man, out of the front window.

‘Well?’ said the surly man, touching his hat to the old lady.

‘Mr. Sawyer’s,’ said the old lady.

‘I was going there,’ said the surly man.

The old lady nodded the satisfaction which this proof of the surly man’s foresight imparted to her feelings; and the surly man giving a smart lash to the chubby horse, they all repaired to Mr. Bob Sawyer’s together.

‘Martin!’ said the old lady, when the fly stopped at the door of Mr. Robert Sawyer, late Nockemorf.

‘Well?’ said Martin.

‘Ask the lad to step out, and mind the horse.’

‘I’m going to mind the horse myself,’ said Martin, laying his whip on the roof of the fly.

‘I can’t permit it, on any account,’ said the old lady; ‘your testimony will be very important, and I must take you into the house with me. You must not stir from my side during the whole interview. Do you hear?’

‘I hear,’ replied Martin.

‘Well; what are you stopping for?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Martin. So saying, the surly man leisurely descended from the wheel, on which he had been poising himself on the tops of the toes of his right foot, and having summoned the boy in the gray livery, opened the coach door, flung down the steps, and thrusting in a hand enveloped in a dark wash-leather glove, pulled out the old lady with as much unconcern in his manner as if she were a bandbox.

‘Dear me!’ exclaimed the old lady. ‘I am so flurried, now I have got here, Martin, that I’m all in a tremble.’

Mr. Martin coughed behind the dark wash-leather gloves, but expressed no sympathy; so the old lady, composing herself, trotted up Mr. Bob Sawyer’s steps, and Mr. Martin followed. Immediately on the old lady’s entering the shop, Mr. Benjamin Allen and Mr. Bob Sawyer, who had been putting the spirits-and-water out of sight, and upsetting nauseous drugs to take off the smell of the tobacco smoke, issued hastily forth in a transport of pleasure and affection.

‘My dear aunt,’ exclaimed Mr. Ben Allen, ‘how kind of you to look in upon us! Mr. Sawyer, aunt; my friend Mr. Bob Sawyer whom I have spoken to you about, regarding—you know, aunt.’ And here Mr. Ben Allen, who was not at the moment extraordinarily sober, added the word ‘Arabella,’ in what was meant to be a whisper, but which was an especially audible and distinct tone of speech which nobody could avoid hearing, if anybody were so disposed.

‘My dear Benjamin,’ said the old lady, struggling with a great shortness of breath, and trembling from head to foot, ‘don’t be alarmed, my dear, but I think I had better speak to Mr. Sawyer, alone, for a moment. Only for one moment.’

‘Bob,’ said Mr. Allen, ‘will you take my aunt into the surgery?’

‘Certainly,’ responded Bob, in a most professional voice. ‘Step this way, my dear ma’am. Don’t be frightened, ma’am. We shall be able to set you to rights in a very short time, I have no doubt, ma’am. Here, my dear ma’am. Now then!’ With this, Mr. Bob Sawyer having handed the old lady to a chair, shut the door, drew another chair close to her, and waited to hear detailed the symptoms of some disorder from which he saw in perspective a long train of profits and advantages.

The first thing the old lady did, was to shake her head a great many times, and began to cry.

‘Nervous,’ said Bob Sawyer complacently. ‘Camphor-julep and water three times a day, and composing draught at night.’

‘I don’t know how to begin, Mr. Sawyer,’ said the old lady. ‘It is so very painful and distressing.’

‘You need not begin, ma’am,’ rejoined Mr. Bob Sawyer. ‘I can anticipate all you would say. The head is in fault.’

‘I should be very sorry to think it was the heart,’ said the old lady, with a slight groan.

‘Not the slightest danger of that, ma’am,’ replied Bob Sawyer. ‘The stomach is the primary cause.’

‘Mr. Sawyer!’ exclaimed the old lady, starting.

‘Not the least doubt of it, ma’am,’ rejoined Bob, looking wondrous wise. ‘Medicine, in time, my dear ma’am, would have prevented it all.’

‘Mr. Sawyer,’ said the old lady, more flurried than before, ‘this conduct is either great impertinence to one in my situation, Sir, or it arises from your not understanding the object of my visit. If it had been in the power of medicine, or any foresight I could have used, to prevent what has occurred, I should certainly have done so. I had better see my nephew at once,’ said the old lady, twirling her reticule indignantly, and rising as she spoke.

‘Stop a moment, ma’am,’ said Bob Sawyer; ‘I’m afraid I have not understood you. What is the matter, ma’am?’

‘My niece, Mr. Sawyer,’ said the old lady: ‘your friend’s sister.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Bob, all impatience; for the old lady, although much agitated, spoke with the most tantalising deliberation, as old ladies often do. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Left my home, Mr. Sawyer, three days ago, on a pretended visit to my sister, another aunt of hers, who keeps the large boarding-school, just beyond the third mile-stone, where there is a very large laburnum-tree and an oak gate,’ said the old lady, stopping in this place to dry her eyes.

‘Oh, devil take the laburnum-tree, ma’am!’ said Bob, quite forgetting his professional dignity in his anxiety. ‘Get on a little faster; put a little more steam on, ma’am, pray.’

‘This morning,’ said the old lady slowly—‘this morning, she—’

‘She came back, ma’am, I suppose,’ said Bob, with great animation. ‘Did she come back?’

‘No, she did not; she wrote,’ replied the old lady.

‘What did she say?’ inquired Bob eagerly.

‘She said, Mr. Sawyer,’ replied the old lady—‘and it is this I want to prepare Benjamin’s mind for, gently and by degrees; she said that she was—I have got the letter in my pocket, Mr. Sawyer, but my glasses are in the carriage, and I should only waste your time if I attempted to point out the passage to you, without them; she said, in short, Mr. Sawyer, that she was married.’

What!’ said, or rather shouted, Mr. Bob Sawyer.

‘Married,’ repeated the old lady.

Mr. Bob Sawyer stopped to hear no more; but darting from the surgery into the outer shop, cried in a stentorian voice, ‘Ben, my boy, she’s bolted!’

Mr. Ben Allen, who had been slumbering behind the counter, with his head half a foot or so below his knees, no sooner heard this appalling communication, than he made a precipitate rush at Mr. Martin, and, twisting his hand in the neck-cloth of that taciturn servitor, expressed an obliging intention of choking him where he stood. This intention, with a promptitude often the effect of desperation, he at once commenced carrying into execution, with much vigour and surgical skill.

Mr. Martin, who was a man of few words and possessed but little power of eloquence or persuasion, submitted to this operation with a very calm and agreeable expression of countenance, for some seconds; finding, however, that it threatened speedily to lead to a result which would place it beyond his power to claim any wages, board or otherwise, in all time to come, he muttered an inarticulate remonstrance and felled Mr. Benjamin Allen to the ground. As that gentleman had his hands entangled in his cravat, he had no alternative but to follow him to the floor. There they both lay struggling, when the shop door opened, and the party was increased by the arrival of two most unexpected visitors, to wit, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Samuel Weller.

The impression at once produced on Mr. Weller’s mind by what he saw, was, that Mr. Martin was hired by the establishment of Sawyer, late Nockemorf, to take strong medicine, or to go into fits and be experimentalised upon, or to swallow poison now and then with the view of testing the efficacy of some new antidotes, or to do something or other to promote the great science of medicine, and gratify the ardent spirit of inquiry burning in the bosoms of its two young professors. So, without presuming to interfere, Sam stood perfectly still, and looked on, as if he were mightily interested in the result of the then pending experiment. Not so, Mr. Pickwick. He at once threw himself on the astonished combatants, with his accustomed energy, and loudly called upon the bystanders to interpose.

This roused Mr. Bob Sawyer, who had been hitherto quite paralysed by the frenzy of his companion. With that gentleman’s assistance, Mr. Pickwick raised Ben Allen to his feet. Mr. Martin finding himself alone on the floor, got up, and looked about him.

‘Mr. Allen,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘what is the matter, Sir?’

‘Never mind, Sir!’ replied Mr. Allen, with haughty defiance.

‘What is it?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, looking at Bob Sawyer. ‘Is he unwell?’

Before Bob could reply, Mr. Ben Allen seized Mr. Pickwick by the hand, and murmured, in sorrowful accents, ‘My sister, my dear Sir; my sister.’

‘Oh, is that all!’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘We shall easily arrange that matter, I hope. Your sister is safe and well, and I am here, my dear Sir, to—’

‘Sorry to do anythin’ as may cause an interruption to such wery pleasant proceedin’s, as the king said wen he dissolved the parliament,’ interposed Mr. Weller, who had been peeping through the glass door; ‘but there’s another experiment here, sir. Here’s a wenerable old lady a— lyin’ on the carpet waitin’ for dissection, or galwinism, or some other rewivin’ and scientific inwention.’

‘I forgot,’ exclaimed Mr. Ben Allen. ‘It is my aunt.’

‘Dear me!’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Poor lady! Gently Sam, gently.’

‘Strange sitivation for one o’ the family,’ observed Sam Weller, hoisting the aunt into a chair. ‘Now depitty sawbones, bring out the wollatilly!’

The latter observation was addressed to the boy in gray, who, having handed over the fly to the care of the street-keeper, had come back to see what all the noise was about. Between the boy in gray, and Mr. Bob Sawyer, and Mr. Benjamin Allen (who having frightened his aunt into a fainting fit, was affectionately solicitous for her recovery) the old lady was at length restored to consciousness; then Mr. Ben Allen, turning with a puzzled countenance to Mr. Pickwick, asked him what he was about to say, when he had been so alarmingly interrupted.

‘We are all friends here, I presume?’ said Mr. Pickwick, clearing his voice, and looking towards the man of few words with the surly countenance, who drove the fly with the chubby horse.

This reminded Mr. Bob Sawyer that the boy in gray was looking on, with eyes wide open, and greedy ears. The incipient chemist having been lifted up by his coat collar, and dropped outside the door, Bob Sawyer assured Mr. Pickwick that he might speak without reserve.

‘Your sister, my dear Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, turning to Benjamin Allen, ‘is in London; well and happy.’

‘Her happiness is no object to me, sir,’ said Benjamin Allen, with a flourish of the hand.

‘Her husband is an object to me, Sir,’ said Bob Sawyer. ‘He shall be an object to me, sir, at twelve paces, and a pretty object I’ll make of him, sir—a mean-spirited scoundrel!’ This, as it stood, was a very pretty denunciation, and magnanimous withal; but Mr. Bob Sawyer rather weakened its effect, by winding up with some general observations concerning the punching of heads and knocking out of eyes, which were commonplace by comparison.

‘Stay, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘before you apply those epithets to the gentleman in question, consider, dispassionately, the extent of his fault, and above all remember that he is a friend of mine.’

‘What!’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer. ‘His name!’ cried Ben Allen. ‘His name!’

‘Mr. Nathaniel Winkle,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

Mr. Benjamin Allen deliberately crushed his spectacles beneath the heel of his boot, and having picked up the pieces, and put them into three separate pockets, folded his arms, bit his lips, and looked in a threatening manner at the bland features of Mr. Pickwick.

‘Then it’s you, is it, Sir, who have encouraged and brought about this match?’ inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen at length.

‘And it’s this gentleman’s servant, I suppose,’ interrupted the old lady, ‘who has been skulking about my house, and endeavouring to entrap my servants to conspire against their mistress.—Martin!’

‘Well?’ said the surly man, coming forward.

‘Is that the young man you saw in the lane, whom you told me about, this morning?’

Mr. Martin, who, as it has already appeared, was a man of few words, looked at Sam Weller, nodded his head, and growled forth, ‘That’s the man.’ Mr. Weller, who was never proud, gave a smile of friendly recognition as his eyes encountered those of the surly groom, and admitted in courteous terms, that he had ‘knowed him afore.’

‘And this is the faithful creature,’ exclaimed Mr. Ben Allen, ‘whom I had nearly suffocated!—Mr. Pickwick, how dare you allow your fellow to be employed in the abduction of my sister? I demand that you explain this matter, sir.’

‘Explain it, sir!’ cried Bob Sawyer fiercely.

‘It’s a conspiracy,’ said Ben Allen.

‘A regular plant,’ added Mr. Bob Sawyer.

‘A disgraceful imposition,’ observed the old lady.

‘Nothing but a do,’ remarked Martin.

‘Pray hear me,’ urged Mr. Pickwick, as Mr. Ben Allen fell into a chair that patients were bled in, and gave way to his pocket-handkerchief. ‘I have rendered no assistance in this matter, beyond being present at one interview between the young people which I could not prevent, and from which I conceived my presence would remove any slight colouring of impropriety that it might otherwise have had; this is the whole share I have had in the transaction, and I had no suspicion that an immediate marriage was even contemplated. Though, mind,’ added Mr. Pickwick, hastily checking himself—‘mind, I do not say I should have prevented it, if I had known that it was intended.’

‘You hear that, all of you; you hear that?’ said Mr. Benjamin Allen.

‘I hope they do,’ mildly observed Mr. Pickwick, looking round, ‘and,’ added that gentleman, his colour mounting as he spoke, ‘I hope they hear this, Sir, also. That from what has been stated to me, sir, I assert that you were by no means justified in attempting to force your sister’s inclinations as you did, and that you should rather have endeavoured by your kindness and forbearance to have supplied the place of other nearer relations whom she had never known, from a child. As regards my young friend, I must beg to add, that in every point of worldly advantage he is, at least, on an equal footing with yourself, if not on a much better one, and that unless I hear this question discussed with becoming temper and moderation, I decline hearing any more said upon the subject.’

‘I wish to make a wery few remarks in addition to wot has been put for’ard by the honourable gen’l’m’n as has jist give over,’ said Mr. Weller, stepping forth, ‘wich is this here: a indiwidual in company has called me a feller.’

‘That has nothing whatever to do with the matter, Sam,’ interposed Mr. Pickwick. ‘Pray hold your tongue.’

‘I ain’t a-goin’ to say nothin’ on that ‘ere pint, sir,’ replied Sam, ‘but merely this here. P’raps that gen’l’m’n may think as there wos a priory ‘tachment; but there worn’t nothin’ o’ the sort, for the young lady said in the wery beginnin’ o’ the keepin’ company, that she couldn’t abide him. Nobody’s cut him out, and it ‘ud ha’ been jist the wery same for him if the young lady had never seen Mr. Vinkle. That’s what I wished to say, sir, and I hope I’ve now made that ‘ere gen’l’m’n’s mind easy.

A short pause followed these consolatory remarks of Mr. Weller. Then Mr. Ben Allen rising from his chair, protested that he would never see Arabella’s face again; while Mr. Bob Sawyer, despite Sam’s flattering assurance, vowed dreadful vengeance on the happy bridegroom.

But, just when matters were at their height, and threatening to remain so, Mr. Pickwick found a powerful assistant in the old lady, who, evidently much struck by the mode in which he had advocated her niece’s cause, ventured to approach Mr. Benjamin Allen with a few comforting reflections, of which the chief were, that after all, perhaps, it was well it was no worse; the least said the soonest mended, and upon her word she did not know that it was so very bad after all; what was over couldn’t be begun, and what couldn’t be cured must be endured; with various other assurances of the like novel and strengthening description. To all of these, Mr. Benjamin Allen replied that he meant no disrespect to his aunt, or anybody there, but if it were all the same to them, and they would allow him to have his own way, he would rather have the pleasure of hating his sister till death, and after it.

At length, when this determination had been announced half a hundred times, the old lady suddenly bridling up and looking very majestic, wished to know what she had done that no respect was to be paid to her years or station, and that she should be obliged to beg and pray, in that way, of her own nephew, whom she remembered about five-and-twenty years before he was born, and whom she had known, personally, when he hadn’t a tooth in his head; to say nothing of her presence on the first occasion of his having his hair cut, and assistance at numerous other times and ceremonies during his babyhood, of sufficient importance to found a claim upon his affection, obedience, and sympathies, for ever.

While the good lady was bestowing this objurgation on Mr. Ben Allen, Bob Sawyer and Mr. Pickwick had retired in close conversation to the inner room, where Mr. Sawyer was observed to apply himself several times to the mouth of a black bottle, under the influence of which, his features gradually assumed a cheerful and even jovial expression. And at last he emerged from the room, bottle in hand, and, remarking that he was very sorry to say he had been making a fool of himself, begged to propose the health and happiness of Mr. and Mrs. Winkle, whose felicity, so far from envying, he would be the first to congratulate them upon. Hearing this, Mr. Ben Allen suddenly arose from his chair, and, seizing the black bottle, drank the toast so heartily, that, the liquor being strong, he became nearly as black in the face as the bottle. Finally, the black bottle went round till it was empty, and there was so much shaking of hands and interchanging of compliments, that even the metal-visaged Mr. Martin condescended to smile.

‘And now,’ said Bob Sawyer, rubbing his hands, ‘we’ll have a jolly night.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘that I must return to my inn. I have not been accustomed to fatigue lately, and my journey has tired me exceedingly.’

‘You’ll take some tea, Mr. Pickwick?’ said the old lady, with irresistible sweetness.

‘Thank you, I would rather not,’ replied that gentleman. The truth is, that the old lady’s evidently increasing admiration was Mr. Pickwick’s principal inducement for going away. He thought of Mrs. Bardell; and every glance of the old lady’s eyes threw him into a cold perspiration.

As Mr. Pickwick could by no means be prevailed upon to stay, it was arranged at once, on his own proposition, that Mr. Benjamin Allen should accompany him on his journey to the elder Mr. Winkle’s, and that the coach should be at the door, at nine o’clock next morning. He then took his leave, and, followed by Samuel Weller, repaired to the Bush. It is worthy of remark, that Mr. Martin’s face was horribly convulsed as he shook hands with Sam at parting, and that he gave vent to a smile and an oath simultaneously; from which tokens it has been inferred by those who were best acquainted with that gentleman’s peculiarities, that he expressed himself much pleased with Mr. Weller’s society, and requested the honour of his further acquaintance.

‘Shall I order a private room, Sir?’ inquired Sam, when they reached the Bush.

‘Why, no, Sam,’ replied Mr. Pickwick; ‘as I dined in the coffee-room, and shall go to bed soon, it is hardly worth while. See who there is in the travellers’ room, Sam.’

Mr. Weller departed on his errand, and presently returned to say that there was only a gentleman with one eye; and that he and the landlord were drinking a bowl of bishop together.

‘I will join them,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘He’s a queer customer, the vun-eyed vun, sir,’ observed Mr. Weller, as he led the way. ‘He’s a-gammonin’ that ‘ere landlord, he is, sir, till he don’t rightly know wether he’s a-standing on the soles of his boots or the crown of his hat.’

The individual to whom this observation referred, was sitting at the upper end of the room when Mr. Pickwick entered, and was smoking a large Dutch pipe, with his eye intently fixed on the round face of the landlord; a jolly-looking old personage, to whom he had recently been relating some tale of wonder, as was testified by sundry disjointed exclamations of, ‘Well, I wouldn’t have believed it! The strangest thing I ever heard! Couldn’t have supposed it possible!’ and other expressions of astonishment which burst spontaneously from his lips, as he returned the fixed gaze of the one-eyed man.

‘Servant, sir,’ said the one-eyed man to Mr. Pickwick. ‘Fine night, sir.’

‘Very much so indeed,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, as the waiter placed a small decanter of brandy, and some hot water before him.

While Mr. Pickwick was mixing his brandy-and-water, the one-eyed man looked round at him earnestly, from time to time, and at length said—

‘I think I’ve seen you before.’

‘I don’t recollect you,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick.

‘I dare say not,’ said the one-eyed man. ‘You didn’t know me, but I knew two friends of yours that were stopping at the Peacock at Eatanswill, at the time of the election.’

‘Oh, indeed!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes,’ rejoined the one-eyed man. ‘I mentioned a little circumstance to them about a friend of mine of the name of Tom Smart. Perhaps you’ve heard them speak of it.’

‘Often,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick, smiling. ‘He was your uncle, I think?’

‘No, no; only a friend of my uncle’s,’ replied the one-eyed man.

‘He was a wonderful man, that uncle of yours, though,’ remarked the landlord shaking his head.

‘Well, I think he was; I think I may say he was,’ answered the one-eyed man. ‘I could tell you a story about that same uncle, gentlemen, that would rather surprise you.’

‘Could you?’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Let us hear it, by all means.’

The one-eyed bagman ladled out a glass of negus from the bowl, and drank it; smoked a long whiff out of the Dutch pipe; and then, calling to Sam Weller who was lingering near the door, that he needn’t go away unless he wanted to, because the story was no secret, fixed his eye upon the landlord’s, and proceeded, in the words of the next chapter.

CHAPTER XLIX. CONTAINING THE STORY OF THE BAGMAN’S UNCLE

My uncle, gentlemen,’ said the bagman, ‘was one of the merriest, pleasantest, cleverest fellows, that ever lived. I wish you had known him, gentlemen. On second thoughts, gentlemen, I don’t wish you had known him, for if you had, you would have been all, by this time, in the ordinary course of nature, if not dead, at all events so near it, as to have taken to stopping at home and giving up company, which would have deprived me of the inestimable pleasure of addressing you at this moment. Gentlemen, I wish your fathers and mothers had known my uncle. They would have been amazingly fond of him, especially your respectable mothers; I know they would. If any two of his numerous virtues predominated over the many that adorned his character, I should say they were his mixed punch and his after-supper song. Excuse my dwelling on these melancholy recollections of departed worth; you won’t see a man like my uncle every day in the week.

‘I have always considered it a great point in my uncle’s character, gentlemen, that he was the intimate friend and companion of Tom Smart, of the great house of Bilson and Slum, Cateaton Street, City. My uncle collected for Tiggin and Welps, but for a long time he went pretty near the same journey as Tom; and the very first night they met, my uncle took a fancy for Tom, and Tom took a fancy for my uncle. They made a bet of a new hat before they had known each other half an hour, who should brew the best quart of punch and drink it the quickest. My uncle was judged to have won the making, but Tom Smart beat him in the drinking by about half a salt-spoonful. They took another quart apiece to drink each other’s health in, and were staunch friends ever afterwards. There’s a destiny in these things, gentlemen; we can’t help it.

‘In personal appearance, my uncle was a trifle shorter than the middle size; he was a thought stouter too, than the ordinary run of people, and perhaps his face might be a shade redder. He had the jolliest face you ever saw, gentleman: something like Punch, with a handsome nose and chin; his eyes were always twinkling and sparkling with good-humour; and a smile—not one of your unmeaning wooden grins, but a real, merry, hearty, good-tempered smile—was perpetually on his countenance. He was pitched out of his gig once, and knocked, head first, against a milestone. There he lay, stunned, and so cut about the face with some gravel which had been heaped up alongside it, that, to use my uncle’s own strong expression, if his mother could have revisited the earth, she wouldn’t have known him. Indeed, when I come to think of the matter, gentlemen, I feel pretty sure she wouldn’t, for she died when my uncle was two years and seven months old, and I think it’s very likely that, even without the gravel, his top-boots would have puzzled the good lady not a little; to say nothing of his jolly red face. However, there he lay, and I have heard my uncle say, many a time, that the man said who picked him up that he was smiling as merrily as if he had tumbled out for a treat, and that after they had bled him, the first faint glimmerings of returning animation, were his jumping up in bed, bursting out into a loud laugh, kissing the young woman who held the basin, and demanding a mutton chop and a pickled walnut. He was very fond of pickled walnuts, gentlemen. He said he always found that, taken without vinegar, they relished the beer.

‘My uncle’s great journey was in the fall of the leaf, at which time he collected debts, and took orders, in the north; going from London to Edinburgh, from Edinburgh to Glasgow, from Glasgow back to Edinburgh, and thence to London by the smack. You are to understand that his second visit to Edinburgh was for his own pleasure. He used to go back for a week, just to look up his old friends; and what with breakfasting with this one, lunching with that, dining with the third, and supping with another, a pretty tight week he used to make of it. I don’t know whether any of you, gentlemen, ever partook of a real substantial hospitable Scotch breakfast, and then went out to a slight lunch of a bushel of oysters, a dozen or so of bottled ale, and a noggin or two of whiskey to close up with. If you ever did, you will agree with me that it requires a pretty strong head to go out to dinner and supper afterwards.

‘But bless your hearts and eyebrows, all this sort of thing was nothing to my uncle! He was so well seasoned, that it was mere child’s play. I have heard him say that he could see the Dundee people out, any day, and walk home afterwards without staggering; and yet the Dundee people have as strong heads and as strong punch, gentlemen, as you are likely to meet with, between the poles. I have heard of a Glasgow man and a Dundee man drinking against each other for fifteen hours at a sitting. They were both suffocated, as nearly as could be ascertained, at the same moment, but with this trifling exception, gentlemen, they were not a bit the worse for it.

‘One night, within four-and-twenty hours of the time when he had settled to take shipping for London, my uncle supped at the house of a very old friend of his, a Bailie Mac something and four syllables after it, who lived in the old town of Edinburgh. There were the bailie’s wife, and the bailie’s three daughters, and the bailie’s grown-up son, and three or four stout, bushy eye-browed, canny, old Scotch fellows, that the bailie had got together to do honour to my uncle, and help to make merry. It was a glorious supper. There was kippered salmon, and Finnan haddocks, and a lamb’s head, and a haggis—a celebrated Scotch dish, gentlemen, which my uncle used to say always looked to him, when it came to table, very much like a Cupid’s stomach—and a great many other things besides, that I forget the names of, but very good things, notwithstanding. The lassies were pretty and agreeable; the bailie’s wife was one of the best creatures that ever lived; and my uncle was in thoroughly good cue. The consequence of which was, that the young ladies tittered and giggled, and the old lady laughed out loud, and the bailie and the other old fellows roared till they were red in the face, the whole mortal time. I don’t quite recollect how many tumblers of whiskey- toddy each man drank after supper; but this I know, that about one o’clock in the morning, the bailie’s grown-up son became insensible while attempting the first verse of “Willie brewed a peck o’ maut”; and he having been, for half an hour before, the only other man visible above the mahogany, it occurred to my uncle that it was almost time to think about going, especially as drinking had set in at seven o’clock, in order that he might get home at a decent hour. But, thinking it might not be quite polite to go just then, my uncle voted himself into the chair, mixed another glass, rose to propose his own health, addressed himself in a neat and complimentary speech, and drank the toast with great enthusiasm. Still nobody woke; so my uncle took a little drop more—neat this time, to prevent the toddy from disagreeing with him— and, laying violent hands on his hat, sallied forth into the street.

‘It was a wild, gusty night when my uncle closed the bailie’s door, and settling his hat firmly on his head to prevent the wind from taking it, thrust his hands into his pockets, and looking upward, took a short survey of the state of the weather. The clouds were drifting over the moon at their giddiest speed; at one time wholly obscuring her; at another, suffering her to burst forth in full splendour and shed her light on all the objects around; anon, driving over her again, with increased velocity, and shrouding everything in darkness. “Really, this won’t do,” said my uncle, addressing himself to the weather, as if he felt himself personally offended. “This is not at all the kind of thing for my voyage. It will not do at any price,” said my uncle, very impressively. Having repeated this, several times, he recovered his balance with some difficulty—for he was rather giddy with looking up into the sky so long—and walked merrily on.

‘The bailie’s house was in the Canongate, and my uncle was going to the other end of Leith Walk, rather better than a mile’s journey. On either side of him, there shot up against the dark sky, tall, gaunt, straggling houses, with time-stained fronts, and windows that seemed to have shared the lot of eyes in mortals, and to have grown dim and sunken with age. Six, seven, eight storey high, were the houses; storey piled upon storey, as children build with cards—throwing their dark shadows over the roughly paved road, and making the dark night darker. A few oil lamps were scattered at long distances, but they only served to mark the dirty entrance to some narrow close, or to show where a common stair communicated, by steep and intricate windings, with the various flats above. Glancing at all these things with the air of a man who had seen them too often before, to think them worthy of much notice now, my uncle walked up the middle of the street, with a thumb in each waistcoat pocket, indulging from time to time in various snatches of song, chanted forth with such good-will and spirit, that the quiet honest folk started from their first sleep and lay trembling in bed till the sound died away in the distance; when, satisfying themselves that it was only some drunken ne’er-do-weel finding his way home, they covered themselves up warm and fell asleep again.

‘I am particular in describing how my uncle walked up the middle of the street, with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, gentlemen, because, as he often used to say (and with great reason too) there is nothing at all extraordinary in this story, unless you distinctly understand at the beginning, that he was not by any means of a marvellous or romantic turn.

‘Gentlemen, my uncle walked on with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, taking the middle of the street to himself, and singing, now a verse of a love song, and then a verse of a drinking one, and when he was tired of both, whistling melodiously, until he reached the North Bridge, which, at this point, connects the old and new towns of Edinburgh. Here he stopped for a minute, to look at the strange, irregular clusters of lights piled one above the other, and twinkling afar off so high, that they looked like stars, gleaming from the castle walls on the one side and the Calton Hill on the other, as if they illuminated veritable castles in the air; while the old picturesque town slept heavily on, in gloom and darkness below: its palace and chapel of Holyrood, guarded day and night, as a friend of my uncle’s used to say, by old Arthur’s Seat, towering, surly and dark, like some gruff genius, over the ancient city he has watched so long. I say, gentlemen, my uncle stopped here, for a minute, to look about him; and then, paying a compliment to the weather, which had a little cleared up, though the moon was sinking, walked on again, as royally as before; keeping the middle of the road with great dignity, and looking as if he would very much like to meet with somebody who would dispute possession of it with him. There was nobody at all disposed to contest the point, as it happened; and so, on he went, with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, like a lamb.

‘When my uncle reached the end of Leith Walk, he had to cross a pretty large piece of waste ground which separated him from a short street which he had to turn down to go direct to his lodging. Now, in this piece of waste ground, there was, at that time, an enclosure belonging to some wheelwright who contracted with the Post Office for the purchase of old, worn-out mail coaches; and my uncle, being very fond of coaches, old, young, or middle-aged, all at once took it into his head to step out of his road for no other purpose than to peep between the palings at these mails—about a dozen of which he remembered to have seen, crowded together in a very forlorn and dismantled state, inside. My uncle was a very enthusiastic, emphatic sort of person, gentlemen; so, finding that he could not obtain a good peep between the palings he got over them, and sitting himself quietly down on an old axle-tree, began to contemplate the mail coaches with a deal of gravity.

‘There might be a dozen of them, or there might be more—my uncle was never quite certain on this point, and being a man of very scrupulous veracity about numbers, didn’t like to say—but there they stood, all huddled together in the most desolate condition imaginable. The doors had been torn from their hinges and removed; the linings had been stripped off, only a shred hanging here and there by a rusty nail; the lamps were gone, the poles had long since vanished, the ironwork was rusty, the paint was worn away; the wind whistled through the chinks in the bare woodwork; and the rain, which had collected on the roofs, fell, drop by drop, into the insides with a hollow and melancholy sound. They were the decaying skeletons of departed mails, and in that lonely place, at that time of night, they looked chill and dismal.

‘My uncle rested his head upon his hands, and thought of the busy, bustling people who had rattled about, years before, in the old coaches, and were now as silent and changed; he thought of the numbers of people to whom one of these crazy, mouldering vehicles had borne, night after night, for many years, and through all weathers, the anxiously expected intelligence, the eagerly looked-for remittance, the promised assurance of health and safety, the sudden announcement of sickness and death. The merchant, the lover, the wife, the widow, the mother, the school-boy, the very child who tottered to the door at the postman’s knock—how had they all looked forward to the arrival of the old coach. And where were they all now?

‘Gentlemen, my uncle used to _say _that he thought all this at the time, but I rather suspect he learned it out of some book afterwards, for he distinctly stated that he fell into a kind of doze, as he sat on the old axle-tree looking at the decayed mail coaches, and that he was suddenly awakened by some deep church bell striking two. Now, my uncle was never a fast thinker, and if he had thought all these things, I am quite certain it would have taken him till full half-past two o’clock at the very least. I am, therefore, decidedly of opinion, gentlemen, that my uncle fell into a kind of doze, without having thought about anything at all.

‘Be this as it may, a church bell struck two. My uncle woke, rubbed his eyes, and jumped up in astonishment.

‘In one instant, after the clock struck two, the whole of this deserted and quiet spot had become a scene of most extraordinary life and animation. The mail coach doors were on their hinges, the lining was replaced, the ironwork was as good as new, the paint was restored, the lamps were alight; cushions and greatcoats were on every coach-box, porters were thrusting parcels into every boot, guards were stowing away letter-bags, hostlers were dashing pails of water against the renovated wheels; numbers of men were pushing about, fixing poles into every coach; passengers arrived, portmanteaus were handed up, horses were put to; in short, it was perfectly clear that every mail there, was to be off directly. Gentlemen, my uncle opened his eyes so wide at all this, that, to the very last moment of his life, he used to wonder how it fell out that he had ever been able to shut ‘em again.

‘“Now then!” said a voice, as my uncle felt a hand on his shoulder, “you’re booked for one inside. You’d better get in.”

‘“I booked!” said my uncle, turning round.

‘“Yes, certainly.”

‘My uncle, gentlemen, could say nothing, he was so very much astonished. The queerest thing of all was that although there was such a crowd of persons, and although fresh faces were pouring in, every moment, there was no telling where they came from. They seemed to start up, in some strange manner, from the ground, or the air, and disappear in the same way. When a porter had put his luggage in the coach, and received his fare, he turned round and was gone; and before my uncle had well begun to wonder what had become of him, half a dozen fresh ones started up, and staggered along under the weight of parcels, which seemed big enough to crush them. The passengers were all dressed so oddly too! Large, broad-skirted laced coats, with great cuffs and no collars; and wigs, gentlemen—great formal wigs with a tie behind. My uncle could make nothing of it.

‘“Now, are you going to get in?” said the person who had addressed my uncle before. He was dressed as a mail guard, with a wig on his head and most enormous cuffs to his coat, and had a lantern in one hand, and a huge blunderbuss in the other, which he was going to stow away in his little arm-chest. “_are _you going to get in, Jack Martin?” said the guard, holding the lantern to my uncle’s face.

‘“Hollo!” said my uncle, falling back a step or two. “That’s familiar!”

‘“It’s so on the way-bill,” said the guard.

‘“Isn’t there a ‘Mister’ before it?” said my uncle. For he felt, gentlemen, that for a guard he didn’t know, to call him Jack Martin, was a liberty which the Post Office wouldn’t have sanctioned if they had known it.

‘“No, there is not,” rejoined the guard coolly.

‘“Is the fare paid?” inquired my uncle.

‘“Of course it is,” rejoined the guard.

‘“It is, is it?” said my uncle. “Then here goes! Which coach?”

‘“This,” said the guard, pointing to an old-fashioned Edinburgh and London mail, which had the steps down and the door open. “Stop! Here are the other passengers. Let them get in first.”

‘As the guard spoke, there all at once appeared, right in front of my uncle, a young gentleman in a powdered wig, and a sky-blue coat trimmed with silver, made very full and broad in the skirts, which were lined with buckram. Tiggin and Welps were in the printed calico and waistcoat piece line, gentlemen, so my uncle knew all the materials at once. He wore knee breeches, and a kind of leggings rolled up over his silk stockings, and shoes with buckles; he had ruffles at his wrists, a three-cornered hat on his head, and a long taper sword by his side. The flaps of his waist-coat came half-way down his thighs, and the ends of his cravat reached to his waist. He stalked gravely to the coach door, pulled off his hat, and held it above his head at arm’s length, cocking his little finger in the air at the same time, as some affected people do, when they take a cup of tea. Then he drew his feet together, and made a low, grave bow, and then put out his left hand. My uncle was just going to step forward, and shake it heartily, when he perceived that these attentions were directed, not towards him, but to a young lady who just then appeared at the foot of the steps, attired in an old-fashioned green velvet dress with a long waist and stomacher. She had no bonnet on her head, gentlemen, which was muffled in a black silk hood, but she looked round for an instant as she prepared to get into the coach, and such a beautiful face as she disclosed, my uncle had never seen—not even in a picture. She got into the coach, holding up her dress with one hand; and as my uncle always said with a round oath, when he told the story, he wouldn’t have believed it possible that legs and feet could have been brought to such a state of perfection unless he had seen them with his own eyes.

‘But, in this one glimpse of the beautiful face, my uncle saw that the young lady cast an imploring look upon him, and that she appeared terrified and distressed. He noticed, too, that the young fellow in the powdered wig, notwithstanding his show of gallantry, which was all very fine and grand, clasped her tight by the wrist when she got in, and followed himself immediately afterwards. An uncommonly ill-looking fellow, in a close brown wig, and a plum-coloured suit, wearing a very large sword, and boots up to his hips, belonged to the party; and when he sat himself down next to the young lady, who shrank into a corner at his approach, my uncle was confirmed in his original impression that something dark and mysterious was going forward, or, as he always said himself, that “there was a screw loose somewhere.” It’s quite surprising how quickly he made up his mind to help the lady at any peril, if she needed any help.

‘“Death and lightning!” exclaimed the young gentleman, laying his hand upon his sword as my uncle entered the coach.

‘“Blood and thunder!” roared the other gentleman. With this, he whipped his sword out, and made a lunge at my uncle without further ceremony. My uncle had no weapon about him, but with great dexterity he snatched the ill-looking gentleman’s three-cornered hat from his head, and, receiving the point of his sword right through the crown, squeezed the sides together, and held it tight.

‘“Pink him behind!” cried the ill-looking gentleman to his companion, as he struggled to regain his sword.

‘“He had better not,” cried my uncle, displaying the heel of one of his shoes, in a threatening manner. “I’ll kick his brains out, if he has any—, or fracture his skull if he hasn’t.” Exerting all his strength, at this moment, my uncle wrenched the ill-looking man’s sword from his grasp, and flung it clean out of the coach window, upon which the younger gentleman vociferated, “Death and lightning!” again, and laid his hand upon the hilt of his sword, in a very fierce manner, but didn’t draw it. Perhaps, gentlemen, as my uncle used to say with a smile, perhaps he was afraid of alarming the lady.

‘“Now, gentlemen,” said my uncle, taking his seat deliberately, “I don’t want to have any death, with or without lightning, in a lady’s presence, and we have had quite blood and thundering enough for one journey; so, if you please, we’ll sit in our places like quiet insides. Here, guard, pick up that gentleman’s carving-knife.”

‘As quickly as my uncle said the words, the guard appeared at the coach window, with the gentleman’s sword in his hand. He held up his lantern, and looked earnestly in my uncle’s face, as he handed it in, when, by its light, my uncle saw, to his great surprise, that an immense crowd of mail-coach guards swarmed round the window, every one of whom had his eyes earnestly fixed upon him too. He had never seen such a sea of white faces, red bodies, and earnest eyes, in all his born days.

‘“This is the strangest sort of thing I ever had anything to do with,” thought my uncle; “allow me to return you your hat, sir.”

‘The ill-looking gentleman received his three-cornered hat in silence, looked at the hole in the middle with an inquiring air, and finally stuck it on the top of his wig with a solemnity the effect of which was a trifle impaired by his sneezing violently at the moment, and jerking it off again.

‘“All right!” cried the guard with the lantern, mounting into his little seat behind. Away they went. My uncle peeped out of the coach window as they emerged from the yard, and observed that the other mails, with coachmen, guards, horses, and passengers, complete, were driving round and round in circles, at a slow trot of about five miles an hour. My uncle burned with indignation, gentlemen. As a commercial man, he felt that the mail-bags were not to be trifled with, and he resolved to memorialise the Post Office on the subject, the very instant he reached London.

‘At present, however, his thoughts were occupied with the young lady who sat in the farthest corner of the coach, with her face muffled closely in her hood; the gentleman with the sky-blue coat sitting opposite to her; the other man in the plum-coloured suit, by her side; and both watching her intently. If she so much as rustled the folds of her hood, he could hear the ill-looking man clap his hand upon his sword, and could tell by the other’s breathing (it was so dark he couldn’t see his face) that he was looking as big as if he were going to devour her at a mouthful. This roused my uncle more and more, and he resolved, come what might, to see the end of it. He had a great admiration for bright eyes, and sweet faces, and pretty legs and feet; in short, he was fond of the whole sex. It runs in our family, gentleman—so am I.

‘Many were the devices which my uncle practised, to attract the lady’s attention, or at all events, to engage the mysterious gentlemen in conversation. They were all in vain; the gentlemen wouldn’t talk, and the lady didn’t dare. He thrust his head out of the coach window at intervals, and bawled out to know why they didn’t go faster. But he called till he was hoarse; nobody paid the least attention to him. He leaned back in the coach, and thought of the beautiful face, and the feet and legs. This answered better; it whiled away the time, and kept him from wondering where he was going, and how it was that he found himself in such an odd situation. Not that this would have worried him much, anyway—he was a mighty free and easy, roving, devil-may-care sort of person, was my uncle, gentlemen.

‘All of a sudden the coach stopped. “Hollo!” said my uncle, “what’s in the wind now?”

‘“Alight here,” said the guard, letting down the steps.

‘“Here!” cried my uncle.

‘“Here,” rejoined the guard.

‘“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” said my uncle.

‘“Very well, then stop where you are,” said the guard.

‘“I will,” said my uncle.

‘“Do,” said the guard.

‘The passengers had regarded this colloquy with great attention, and, finding that my uncle was determined not to alight, the younger man squeezed past him, to hand the lady out. At this moment, the ill-looking man was inspecting the hole in the crown of his three-cornered hat. As the young lady brushed past, she dropped one of her gloves into my uncle’s hand, and softly whispered, with her lips so close to his face that he felt her warm breath on his nose, the single word “Help!” Gentlemen, my uncle leaped out of the coach at once, with such violence that it rocked on the springs again.

‘“Oh! you’ve thought better of it, have you?” said the guard, when he saw my uncle standing on the ground.

‘My uncle looked at the guard for a few seconds, in some doubt whether it wouldn’t be better to wrench his blunderbuss from him, fire it in the face of the man with the big sword, knock the rest of the company over the head with the stock, snatch up the young lady, and go off in the smoke. On second thoughts, however, he abandoned this plan, as being a shade too melodramatic in the execution, and followed the two mysterious men, who, keeping the lady between them, were now entering an old house in front of which the coach had stopped. They turned into the passage, and my uncle followed.

‘Of all the ruinous and desolate places my uncle had ever beheld, this was the most so. It looked as if it had once been a large house of entertainment; but the roof had fallen in, in many places, and the stairs were steep, rugged, and broken. There was a huge fireplace in the room into which they walked, and the chimney was blackened with smoke; but no warm blaze lighted it up now. The white feathery dust of burned wood was still strewed over the hearth, but the stove was cold, and all was dark and gloomy.

‘“Well,” said my uncle, as he looked about him, “a mail travelling at the rate of six miles and a half an hour, and stopping for an indefinite time at such a hole as this, is rather an irregular sort of proceeding, I fancy. This shall be made known. I’ll write to the papers.”

‘My uncle said this in a pretty loud voice, and in an open, unreserved sort of manner, with the view of engaging the two strangers in conversation if he could. But, neither of them took any more notice of him than whispering to each other, and scowling at him as they did so. The lady was at the farther end of the room, and once she ventured to wave her hand, as if beseeching my uncle’s assistance.

‘At length the two strangers advanced a little, and the conversation began in earnest.

‘“You don’t know this is a private room, I suppose, fellow?” said the gentleman in sky-blue.

‘“No, I do not, fellow,” rejoined my uncle. “Only, if this is a private room specially ordered for the occasion, I should think the public room must be a _very _comfortable one;” with this, my uncle sat himself down in a high-backed chair, and took such an accurate measure of the gentleman, with his eyes, that Tiggin and Welps could have supplied him with printed calico for a suit, and not an inch too much or too little, from that estimate alone.

‘“Quit this room,” said both men together, grasping their swords.

‘“Eh?” said my uncle, not at all appearing to comprehend their meaning.

‘“Quit the room, or you are a dead man,” said the ill-looking fellow with the large sword, drawing it at the same time and flourishing it in the air.

‘“Down with him!” cried the gentleman in sky-blue, drawing his sword also, and falling back two or three yards. “Down with him!” The lady gave a loud scream.

‘Now, my uncle was always remarkable for great boldness, and great presence of mind. All the time that he had appeared so indifferent to what was going on, he had been looking slily about for some missile or weapon of defence, and at the very instant when the swords were drawn, he espied, standing in the chimney-corner, an old basket-hilted rapier in a rusty scabbard. At one bound, my uncle caught it in his hand, drew it, flourished it gallantly above his head, called aloud to the lady to keep out of the way, hurled the chair at the man in sky-blue, and the scabbard at the man in plum-colour, and taking advantage of the confusion, fell upon them both, pell-mell.

‘Gentlemen, there is an old story—none the worse for being true— regarding a fine young Irish gentleman, who being asked if he could play the fiddle, replied he had no doubt he could, but he couldn’t exactly say, for certain, because he had never tried. This is not inapplicable to my uncle and his fencing. He had never had a sword in his hand before, except once when he played Richard the Third at a private theatre, upon which occasion it was arranged with Richmond that he was to be run through, from behind, without showing fight at all. But here he was, cutting and slashing with two experienced swordsman, thrusting, and guarding, and poking, and slicing, and acquitting himself in the most manful and dexterous manner possible, although up to that time he had never been aware that he had the least notion of the science. It only shows how true the old saying is, that a man never knows what he can do till he tries, gentlemen.

‘The noise of the combat was terrific; each of the three combatants swearing like troopers, and their swords clashing with as much noise as if all the knives and steels in Newport market were rattling together, at the same time. When it was at its very height, the lady (to encourage my uncle most probably) withdrew her hood entirely from her face, and disclosed a countenance of such dazzling beauty, that he would have fought against fifty men, to win one smile from it and die. He had done wonders before, but now he began to powder away like a raving mad giant.

‘At this very moment, the gentleman in sky-blue turning round, and seeing the young lady with her face uncovered, vented an exclamation of rage and jealousy, and, turning his weapon against her beautiful bosom, pointed a thrust at her heart, which caused my uncle to utter a cry of apprehension that made the building ring. The lady stepped lightly aside, and snatching the young man’s sword from his hand, before he had recovered his balance, drove him to the wall, and running it through him, and the panelling, up to the very hilt, pinned him there, hard and fast. It was a splendid example. My uncle, with a loud shout of triumph, and a strength that was irresistible, made his adversary retreat in the same direction, and plunging the old rapier into the very centre of a large red flower in the pattern of his waistcoat, nailed him beside his friend; there they both stood, gentlemen, jerking their arms and legs about in agony, like the toy-shop figures that are moved by a piece of pack-thread. My uncle always said, afterwards, that this was one of the surest means he knew of, for disposing of an enemy; but it was liable to one objection on the ground of expense, inasmuch as it involved the loss of a sword for every man disabled.

‘“The mail, the mail!” cried the lady, running up to my uncle and throwing her beautiful arms round his neck; “we may yet escape.”

‘“May!” cried my uncle; “why, my dear, there’s nobody else to kill, is there?” My uncle was rather disappointed, gentlemen, for he thought a little quiet bit of love-making would be agreeable after the slaughtering, if it were only to change the subject.

‘“We have not an instant to lose here,” said the young lady. “He (pointing to the young gentleman in sky-blue) is the only son of the powerful Marquess of Filletoville.”

‘“Well then, my dear, I’m afraid he’ll never come to the title,” said my uncle, looking coolly at the young gentleman as he stood fixed up against the wall, in the cockchafer fashion that I have described. “You have cut off the entail, my love.”

‘“I have been torn from my home and my friends by these villains,” said the young lady, her features glowing with indignation. “That wretch would have married me by violence in another hour.”

‘“Confound his impudence!” said my uncle, bestowing a very contemptuous look on the dying heir of Filletoville.

‘“As you may guess from what you have seen,” said the young lady, “the party were prepared to murder me if I appealed to any one for assistance. If their accomplices find us here, we are lost. Two minutes hence may be too late. The mail!” With these words, overpowered by her feelings, and the exertion of sticking the young Marquess of Filletoville, she sank into my uncle’s arms. My uncle caught her up, and bore her to the house door. There stood the mail, with four long-tailed, flowing-maned, black horses, ready harnessed; but no coachman, no guard, no hostler even, at the horses’ heads.

‘Gentlemen, I hope I do no injustice to my uncle’s memory, when I express my opinion, that although he was a bachelor, he had held some ladies in his arms before this time; I believe, indeed, that he had rather a habit of kissing barmaids; and I know, that in one or two instances, he had been seen by credible witnesses, to hug a landlady in a very perceptible manner. I mention the circumstance, to show what a very uncommon sort of person this beautiful young lady must have been, to have affected my uncle in the way she did; he used to say, that as her long dark hair trailed over his arm, and her beautiful dark eyes fixed themselves upon his face when she recovered, he felt so strange and nervous that his legs trembled beneath him. But who can look in a sweet, soft pair of dark eyes, without feeling queer? I can’t, gentlemen. I am afraid to look at some eyes I know, and that’s the truth of it.

‘“You will never leave me,” murmured the young lady.

‘“Never,” said my uncle. And he meant it too.

‘“My dear preserver!” exclaimed the young lady. “My dear, kind, brave preserver!”

‘“Don’t,” said my uncle, interrupting her.

‘“‘Why?” inquired the young lady.

‘“Because your mouth looks so beautiful when you speak,” rejoined my uncle, “that I’m afraid I shall be rude enough to kiss it.”

‘The young lady put up her hand as if to caution my uncle not to do so, and said—No, she didn’t say anything—she smiled. When you are looking at a pair of the most delicious lips in the world, and see them gently break into a roguish smile—if you are very near them, and nobody else by—you cannot better testify your admiration of their beautiful form and colour than by kissing them at once. My uncle did so, and I honour him for it.

‘“Hark!” cried the young lady, starting. “The noise of wheels, and horses!”

‘“So it is,” said my uncle, listening. He had a good ear for wheels, and the trampling of hoofs; but there appeared to be so many horses and carriages rattling towards them, from a distance, that it was impossible to form a guess at their number. The sound was like that of fifty brakes, with six blood cattle in each.

‘“We are pursued!” cried the young lady, clasping her hands. “We are pursued. I have no hope but in you!”

‘There was such an expression of terror in her beautiful face, that my uncle made up his mind at once. He lifted her into the coach, told her not to be frightened, pressed his lips to hers once more, and then advising her to draw up the window to keep the cold air out, mounted to the box.

‘“Stay, love,” cried the young lady.

‘“What’s the matter?” said my uncle, from the coach-box.

‘“I want to speak to you,” said the young lady; “only a word. Only one word, dearest.”

‘“Must I get down?” inquired my uncle. The lady made no answer, but she smiled again. Such a smile, gentlemen! It beat the other one, all to nothing. My uncle descended from his perch in a twinkling.

‘“What is it, my dear?” said my uncle, looking in at the coach window. The lady happened to bend forward at the same time, and my uncle thought she looked more beautiful than she had done yet. He was very close to her just then, gentlemen, so he really ought to know.

‘“What is it, my dear?” said my uncle.

‘“Will you never love any one but me—never marry any one beside?” said the young lady.

‘My uncle swore a great oath that he never would marry anybody else, and the young lady drew in her head, and pulled up the window. He jumped upon the box, squared his elbows, adjusted the ribands, seized the whip which lay on the roof, gave one flick to the off leader, and away went the four long-tailed, flowing-maned black horses, at fifteen good English miles an hour, with the old mail-coach behind them. Whew! How they tore along!

‘The noise behind grew louder. The faster the old mail went, the faster came the pursuers—men, horses, dogs, were leagued in the pursuit. The noise was frightful, but, above all, rose the voice of the young lady, urging my uncle on, and shrieking, “Faster! Faster!”

‘They whirled past the dark trees, as feathers would be swept before a hurricane. Houses, gates, churches, haystacks, objects of every kind they shot by, with a velocity and noise like roaring waters suddenly let loose. But still the noise of pursuit grew louder, and still my uncle could hear the young lady wildly screaming, “Faster! Faster!”

‘My uncle plied whip and rein, and the horses flew onward till they were white with foam; and yet the noise behind increased; and yet the young lady cried, “Faster! Faster!” My uncle gave a loud stamp on the boot in the energy of the moment, and—found that it was gray morning, and he was sitting in the wheelwright’s yard, on the box of an old Edinburgh mail, shivering with the cold and wet and stamping his feet to warm them! He got down, and looked eagerly inside for the beautiful young lady. Alas! There was neither door nor seat to the coach. It was a mere shell.

‘Of course, my uncle knew very well that there was some mystery in the matter, and that everything had passed exactly as he used to relate it. He remained staunch to the great oath he had sworn to the beautiful young lady, refusing several eligible landladies on her account, and dying a bachelor at last. He always said what a curious thing it was that he should have found out, by such a mere accident as his clambering over the palings, that the ghosts of mail-coaches and horses, guards, coachmen, and passengers, were in the habit of making journeys regularly every night. He used to add, that he believed he was the only living person who had ever been taken as a passenger on one of these excursions. And I think he was right, gentlemen—at least I never heard of any other.’

‘I wonder what these ghosts of mail-coaches carry in their bags,’ said the landlord, who had listened to the whole story with profound attention.

‘The dead letters, of course,’ said the bagman.

‘Oh, ah! To be sure,’ rejoined the landlord. ‘I never thought of that.’

CHAPTER L. HOW MR. PICKWICK SPED UPON HIS MISSION, AND HOW HE WAS REINFORCED IN THE OUTSET BY A MOST UNEXPECTED AUXILIARY

The horses were put to, punctually at a quarter before nine next morning, and Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller having each taken his seat, the one inside and the other out, the postillion was duly directed to repair in the first instance to Mr. Bob Sawyer’s house, for the purpose of taking up Mr. Benjamin Allen.

It was with feelings of no small astonishment, when the carriage drew up before the door with the red lamp, and the very legible inscription of ‘Sawyer, late Nockemorf,’ that Mr. Pickwick saw, on popping his head out of the coach window, the boy in the gray livery very busily employed in putting up the shutters—the which, being an unusual and an unbusinesslike proceeding at that hour of the morning, at once suggested to his mind two inferences: the one, that some good friend and patient of Mr. Bob Sawyer’s was dead; the other, that Mr. Bob Sawyer himself was bankrupt.

‘What is the matter?’ said Mr. Pickwick to the boy.

‘Nothing’s the matter, Sir,’ replied the boy, expanding his mouth to the whole breadth of his countenance.

‘All right, all right!’ cried Bob Sawyer, suddenly appearing at the door, with a small leathern knapsack, limp and dirty, in one hand, and a rough coat and shawl thrown over the other arm. ‘I’m going, old fellow.’

‘You!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes,’ replied Bob Sawyer, ‘and a regular expedition we’ll make of it. Here, Sam! Look out!’ Thus briefly bespeaking Mr. Weller’s attention, Mr. Bob Sawyer jerked the leathern knapsack into the dickey, where it was immediately stowed away, under the seat, by Sam, who regarded the proceeding with great admiration. This done, Mr. Bob Sawyer, with the assistance of the boy, forcibly worked himself into the rough coat, which was a few sizes too small for him, and then advancing to the coach window, thrust in his head, and laughed boisterously.

‘What a start it is, isn’t it?’ cried Bob, wiping the tears out of his eyes, with one of the cuffs of the rough coat.

‘My dear Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with some embarrassment, ‘I had no idea of your accompanying us.’

‘No, that’s just the very thing,’ replied Bob, seizing Mr. Pickwick by the lappel of his coat. ‘That’s the joke.’

‘Oh, that’s the joke, is it?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Of course,’ replied Bob. ‘It’s the whole point of the thing, you know— that, and leaving the business to take care of itself, as it seems to have made up its mind not to take care of me.’ With this explanation of the phenomenon of the shutters, Mr. Bob Sawyer pointed to the shop, and relapsed into an ecstasy of mirth.

‘Bless me, you are surely not mad enough to think of leaving your patients without anybody to attend them!’ remonstrated Mr. Pickwick in a very serious tone.

‘Why not?’ asked Bob, in reply. ‘I shall save by it, you know. None of them ever pay. Besides,’ said Bob, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper, ‘they will be all the better for it; for, being nearly out of drugs, and not able to increase my account just now, I should have been obliged to give them calomel all round, and it would have been certain to have disagreed with some of them. So it’s all for the best.’

There was a philosophy and a strength of reasoning about this reply, which Mr. Pickwick was not prepared for. He paused a few moments, and added, less firmly than before—

‘But this chaise, my young friend, will only hold two; and I am pledged to Mr. Allen.’

‘Don’t think of me for a minute,’ replied Bob. ‘I’ve arranged it all; Sam and I will share the dickey between us. Look here. This little bill is to be wafered on the shop door: “Sawyer, late Nockemorf. Inquire of Mrs. Cripps over the way.” Mrs. Cripps is my boy’s mother. “Mr. Sawyer’s very sorry,” says Mrs. Cripps, “couldn’t help it—fetched away early this morning to a consultation of the very first surgeons in the country—couldn’t do without him—would have him at any price— tremendous operation.” The fact is,’ said Bob, in conclusion, ‘it’ll do me more good than otherwise, I expect. If it gets into one of the local papers, it will be the making of me. Here’s Ben; now then, jump in!’

With these hurried words, Mr. Bob Sawyer pushed the postboy on one side, jerked his friend into the vehicle, slammed the door, put up the steps, wafered the bill on the street door, locked it, put the key in his pocket, jumped into the dickey, gave the word for starting, and did the whole with such extraordinary precipitation, that before Mr. Pickwick had well begun to consider whether Mr. Bob Sawyer ought to go or not, they were rolling away, with Mr. Bob Sawyer thoroughly established as part and parcel of the equipage.

So long as their progress was confined to the streets of Bristol, the facetious Bob kept his professional green spectacles on, and conducted himself with becoming steadiness and gravity of demeanour; merely giving utterance to divers verbal witticisms for the exclusive behoof and entertainment of Mr. Samuel Weller. But when they emerged on the open road, he threw off his green spectacles and his gravity together, and performed a great variety of practical jokes, which were calculated to attract the attention of the passersby, and to render the carriage and those it contained objects of more than ordinary curiosity; the least conspicuous among these feats being a most vociferous imitation of a key-bugle, and the ostentatious display of a crimson silk pocket- handkerchief attached to a walking-stick, which was occasionally waved in the air with various gestures indicative of supremacy and defiance.

‘I wonder,’ said Mr. Pickwick, stopping in the midst of a most sedate conversation with Ben Allen, bearing reference to the numerous good qualities of Mr. Winkle and his sister—‘I wonder what all the people we pass, can see in us to make them stare so.’

‘It’s a neat turn-out,’ replied Ben Allen, with something of pride in his tone. ‘They’re not used to see this sort of thing, every day, I dare say.’

‘Possibly,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘It may be so. Perhaps it is.’

Mr. Pickwick might very probably have reasoned himself into the belief that it really was, had he not, just then happening to look out of the coach window, observed that the looks of the passengers betokened anything but respectful astonishment, and that various telegraphic communications appeared to be passing between them and some persons outside the vehicle, whereupon it occurred to him that these demonstrations might be, in some remote degree, referable to the humorous deportment of Mr. Robert Sawyer.

‘I hope,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘that our volatile friend is committing no absurdities in that dickey behind.’

‘Oh dear, no,’ replied Ben Allen. ‘Except when he’s elevated, Bob’s the quietest creature breathing.’

Here a prolonged imitation of a key-bugle broke upon the ear, succeeded by cheers and screams, all of which evidently proceeded from the throat and lungs of the quietest creature breathing, or in plainer designation, of Mr. Bob Sawyer himself.

Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Ben Allen looked expressively at each other, and the former gentleman taking off his hat, and leaning out of the coach window until nearly the whole of his waistcoat was outside it, was at length enabled to catch a glimpse of his facetious friend.

Mr. Bob Sawyer was seated, not in the dickey, but on the roof of the chaise, with his legs as far asunder as they would conveniently go, wearing Mr. Samuel Weller’s hat on one side of his head, and bearing, in one hand, a most enormous sandwich, while, in the other, he supported a goodly-sized case-bottle, to both of which he applied himself with intense relish, varying the monotony of the occupation by an occasional howl, or the interchange of some lively badinage with any passing stranger. The crimson flag was carefully tied in an erect position to the rail of the dickey; and Mr. Samuel Weller, decorated with Bob Sawyer’s hat, was seated in the centre thereof, discussing a twin sandwich, with an animated countenance, the expression of which betokened his entire and perfect approval of the whole arrangement.

This was enough to irritate a gentleman with Mr. Pickwick’s sense of propriety, but it was not the whole extent of the aggravation, for a stage-coach full, inside and out, was meeting them at the moment, and the astonishment of the passengers was very palpably evinced. The congratulations of an Irish family, too, who were keeping up with the chaise, and begging all the time, were of rather a boisterous description, especially those of its male head, who appeared to consider the display as part and parcel of some political or other procession of triumph.

‘Mr. Sawyer!’ cried Mr. Pickwick, in a state of great excitement, ‘Mr. Sawyer, Sir!’

‘Hollo!’ responded that gentleman, looking over the side of the chaise with all the coolness in life.

‘Are you mad, sir?’ demanded Mr. Pickwick.

‘Not a bit of it,’ replied Bob; ‘only cheerful.’

‘Cheerful, sir!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick. ‘Take down that scandalous red handkerchief, I beg. I insist, Sir. Sam, take it down.’

Before Sam could interpose, Mr. Bob Sawyer gracefully struck his colours, and having put them in his pocket, nodded in a courteous manner to Mr. Pickwick, wiped the mouth of the case-bottle, and applied it to his own, thereby informing him, without any unnecessary waste of words, that he devoted that draught to wishing him all manner of happiness and prosperity. Having done this, Bob replaced the cork with great care, and looking benignantly down on Mr. Pickwick, took a large bite out of the sandwich, and smiled.

‘Come,’ said Mr. Pickwick, whose momentary anger was not quite proof against Bob’s immovable self-possession, ‘pray let us have no more of this absurdity.’

‘No, no,’ replied Bob, once more exchanging hats with Mr. Weller; ‘I didn’t mean to do it, only I got so enlivened with the ride that I couldn’t help it.’

‘Think of the look of the thing,’ expostulated Mr. Pickwick; ‘have some regard to appearances.’

‘Oh, certainly,’ said Bob, ‘it’s not the sort of thing at all. All over, governor.’

Satisfied with this assurance, Mr. Pickwick once more drew his head into the chaise and pulled up the glass; but he had scarcely resumed the conversation which Mr. Bob Sawyer had interrupted, when he was somewhat startled by the apparition of a small dark body, of an oblong form, on the outside of the window, which gave sundry taps against it, as if impatient of admission.

‘What’s this?’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

‘It looks like a case-bottle;’ remarked Ben Allen, eyeing the object in question through his spectacles with some interest; ‘I rather think it belongs to Bob.’

The impression was perfectly accurate; for Mr. Bob Sawyer, having attached the case-bottle to the end of the walking-stick, was battering the window with it, in token of his wish, that his friends inside would partake of its contents, in all good-fellowship and harmony.

‘What’s to be done?’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking at the bottle. ‘This proceeding is more absurd than the other.’

‘I think it would be best to take it in,’ replied Mr. Ben Allen; ‘it would serve him right to take it in and keep it, wouldn’t it?’

‘It would,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘shall I?’

‘I think it the most proper course we could possibly adopt,’ replied Ben.

This advice quite coinciding with his own opinion, Mr. Pickwick gently let down the window and disengaged the bottle from the stick; upon which the latter was drawn up, and Mr. Bob Sawyer was heard to laugh heartily.

‘What a merry dog it is!’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking round at his companion, with the bottle in his hand.

‘He is,’ said Mr. Allen.

‘You cannot possibly be angry with him,’ remarked Mr. Pickwick.

‘Quite out of the question,’ observed Benjamin Allen.

During this short interchange of sentiments, Mr. Pickwick had, in an abstracted mood, uncorked the bottle.

‘What is it?’ inquired Ben Allen carelessly.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, with equal carelessness. ‘It smells, I think, like milk-punch.’

Oh, indeed?’ said Ben.

‘I _think _so,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick, very properly guarding himself against the possibility of stating an untruth; ‘mind, I could not undertake to say certainly, without tasting it.’

‘You had better do so,’ said Ben; ‘we may as well know what it is.’

‘Do you think so?’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘Well; if you are curious to know, of course I have no objection.’

Ever willing to sacrifice his own feelings to the wishes of his friend, Mr. Pickwick at once took a pretty long taste.

‘What is it?’ inquired Ben Allen, interrupting him with some impatience.

‘Curious,’ said Mr. Pickwick, smacking his lips, ‘I hardly know, now. Oh, yes!’ said Mr. Pickwick, after a second taste. ‘It is punch.’

Mr. Ben Allen looked at Mr. Pickwick; Mr. Pickwick looked at Mr. Ben Allen; Mr. Ben Allen smiled; Mr. Pickwick did not.

‘It would serve him right,’ said the last-named gentleman, with some severity—‘it would serve him right to drink it every drop.’

‘The very thing that occurred to me,’ said Ben Allen.

‘Is it, indeed?’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick. ‘Then here’s his health!’ With these words, that excellent person took a most energetic pull at the bottle, and handed it to Ben Allen, who was not slow to imitate his example. The smiles became mutual, and the milk-punch was gradually and cheerfully disposed of.

‘After all,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as he drained the last drop, ‘his pranks are really very amusing; very entertaining indeed.’

‘You may say that,’ rejoined Mr. Ben Allen. In proof of Bob Sawyer’s being one of the funniest fellows alive, he proceeded to entertain Mr. Pickwick with a long and circumstantial account how that gentleman once drank himself into a fever and got his head shaved; the relation of which pleasant and agreeable history was only stopped by the stoppage of the chaise at the Bell at Berkeley Heath, to change horses.

‘I say! We’re going to dine here, aren’t we?’ said Bob, looking in at the window.

‘Dine!’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Why, we have only come nineteen miles, and have eighty-seven and a half to go.’

‘Just the reason why we should take something to enable us to bear up against the fatigue,’ remonstrated Mr. Bob Sawyer.

‘Oh, it’s quite impossible to dine at half-past eleven o’clock in the day,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, looking at his watch.

‘So it is,’ rejoined Bob, ‘lunch is the very thing. Hollo, you sir! Lunch for three, directly; and keep the horses back for a quarter of an hour. Tell them to put everything they have cold, on the table, and some bottled ale, and let us taste your very best Madeira.’ Issuing these orders with monstrous importance and bustle, Mr. Bob Sawyer at once hurried into the house to superintend the arrangements; in less than five minutes he returned and declared them to be excellent.

The quality of the lunch fully justified the eulogium which Bob had pronounced, and very great justice was done to it, not only by that gentleman, but Mr. Ben Allen and Mr. Pickwick also. Under the auspices of the three, the bottled ale and the Madeira were promptly disposed of; and when (the horses being once more put to) they resumed their seats, with the case-bottle full of the best substitute for milk-punch that could be procured on so short a notice, the key-bugle sounded, and the red flag waved, without the slightest opposition on Mr. Pickwick’s part.

At the Hop Pole at Tewkesbury, they stopped to dine; upon which occasion there was more bottled ale, with some more Madeira, and some port besides; and here the case-bottle was replenished for the fourth time. Under the influence of these combined stimulants, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Ben Allen fell fast asleep for thirty miles, while Bob and Mr. Weller sang duets in the dickey.

It was quite dark when Mr. Pickwick roused himself sufficiently to look out of the window. The straggling cottages by the road-side, the dingy hue of every object visible, the murky atmosphere, the paths of cinders and brick-dust, the deep-red glow of furnace fires in the distance, the volumes of dense smoke issuing heavily forth from high toppling chimneys, blackening and obscuring everything around; the glare of distant lights, the ponderous wagons which toiled along the road, laden with clashing rods of iron, or piled with heavy goods—all betokened their rapid approach to the great working town of Birmingham.

As they rattled through the narrow thoroughfares leading to the heart of the turmoil, the sights and sounds of earnest occupation struck more forcibly on the senses. The streets were thronged with working people. The hum of labour resounded from every house; lights gleamed from the long casement windows in the attic storeys, and the whirl of wheels and noise of machinery shook the trembling walls. The fires, whose lurid, sullen light had been visible for miles, blazed fiercely up, in the great works and factories of the town. The din of hammers, the rushing of steam, and the dead heavy clanking of engines, was the harsh music which arose from every quarter.

The postboy was driving briskly through the open streets, and past the handsome and well-lighted shops that intervene between the outskirts of the town and the Old Royal Hotel, before Mr. Pickwick had begun to consider the very difficult and delicate nature of the commission which had carried him thither.

The delicate nature of this commission, and the difficulty of executing it in a satisfactory manner, were by no means lessened by the voluntary companionship of Mr. Bob Sawyer. Truth to tell, Mr. Pickwick felt that his presence on the occasion, however considerate and gratifying, was by no means an honour he would willingly have sought; in fact, he would cheerfully have given a reasonable sum of money to have had Mr. Bob Sawyer removed to any place at not less than fifty miles’ distance, without delay.

Mr. Pickwick had never held any personal communication with Mr. Winkle, senior, although he had once or twice corresponded with him by letter, and returned satisfactory answers to his inquiries concerning the moral character and behaviour of his son; he felt nervously sensible that to wait upon him, for the first time, attended by Bob Sawyer and Ben Allen, both slightly fuddled, was not the most ingenious and likely means that could have been hit upon to prepossess him in his favour.

‘However,’ said Mr. Pickwick, endeavouring to reassure himself, ‘I must do the best I can. I must see him to-night, for I faithfully promised to do so. If they persist in accompanying me, I must make the interview as brief as possible, and be content that, for their own sakes, they will not expose themselves.’

As he comforted himself with these reflections, the chaise stopped at the door of the Old Royal. Ben Allen having been partially awakened from a stupendous sleep, and dragged out by the collar by Mr. Samuel Weller, Mr. Pickwick was enabled to alight. They were shown to a comfortable apartment, and Mr. Pickwick at once propounded a question to the waiter concerning the whereabout of Mr. Winkle’s residence.

‘Close by, Sir,’ said the waiter, ‘not above five hundred yards, Sir. Mr. Winkle is a wharfinger, Sir, at the canal, sir. Private residence is not—oh dear, no, sir, not five hundred yards, sir.’ Here the waiter blew a candle out, and made a feint of lighting it again, in order to afford Mr. Pickwick an opportunity of asking any further questions, if he felt so disposed.

‘Take anything now, Sir?’ said the waiter, lighting the candle in desperation at Mr. Pickwick’s silence. ‘Tea or coffee, Sir? Dinner, sir?’

‘Nothing now.’

‘Very good, sir. Like to order supper, Sir?’

‘Not just now.’

‘Very good, Sir.’ Here, he walked slowly to the door, and then stopping short, turned round and said, with great suavity—

‘Shall I send the chambermaid, gentlemen?’

‘You may if you please,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘If _you _please, sir.’

‘And bring some soda-water,’ said Bob Sawyer.

‘Soda-water, Sir! Yes, Sir.’ With his mind apparently relieved from an overwhelming weight, by having at last got an order for something, the waiter imperceptibly melted away. Waiters never walk or run. They have a peculiar and mysterious power of skimming out of rooms, which other mortals possess not.

Some slight symptoms of vitality having been awakened in Mr. Ben Allen by the soda-water, he suffered himself to be prevailed upon to wash his face and hands, and to submit to be brushed by Sam. Mr. Pickwick and Bob Sawyer having also repaired the disorder which the journey had made in their apparel, the three started forth, arm in arm, to Mr. Winkle’s; Bob Sawyer impregnating the atmosphere with tobacco smoke as he walked along.

About a quarter of a mile off, in a quiet, substantial-looking street, stood an old red brick house with three steps before the door, and a brass plate upon it, bearing, in fat Roman capitals, the words, ‘Mr. Winkle.’ The steps were very white, and the bricks were very red, and the house was very clean; and here stood Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Benjamin Allen, and Mr. Bob Sawyer, as the clock struck ten.

A smart servant-girl answered the knock, and started on beholding the three strangers.

‘Is Mr. Winkle at home, my dear?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘He is just going to supper, Sir,’ replied the girl.

‘Give him that card if you please,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick. ‘Say I am sorry to trouble him at so late an hour; but I am anxious to see him to- night, and have only just arrived.’

The girl looked timidly at Mr. Bob Sawyer, who was expressing his admiration of her personal charms by a variety of wonderful grimaces; and casting an eye at the hats and greatcoats which hung in the passage, called another girl to mind the door while she went upstairs. The sentinel was speedily relieved; for the girl returned immediately, and begging pardon of the gentlemen for leaving them in the street, ushered them into a floor-clothed back parlour, half office and half dressing room, in which the principal useful and ornamental articles of furniture were a desk, a wash-hand stand and shaving-glass, a boot-rack and boot- jack, a high stool, four chairs, a table, and an old eight-day clock. Over the mantelpiece were the sunken doors of an iron safe, while a couple of hanging shelves for books, an almanac, and several files of dusty papers, decorated the walls.

‘Very sorry to leave you standing at the door, Sir,’ said the girl, lighting a lamp, and addressing Mr. Pickwick with a winning smile, ‘but you was quite strangers to me; and we have such a many trampers that only come to see what they can lay their hands on, that really—’

‘There is not the least occasion for any apology, my dear,’ said Mr. Pickwick good-humouredly.

‘Not the slightest, my love,’ said Bob Sawyer, playfully stretching forth his arms, and skipping from side to side, as if to prevent the young lady’s leaving the room.

The young lady was not at all softened by these allurements, for she at once expressed her opinion, that Mr. Bob Sawyer was an ‘odous creetur;’ and, on his becoming rather more pressing in his attentions, imprinted her fair fingers upon his face, and bounced out of the room with many expressions of aversion and contempt.

Deprived of the young lady’s society, Mr. Bob Sawyer proceeded to divert himself by peeping into the desk, looking into all the table drawers, feigning to pick the lock of the iron safe, turning the almanac with its face to the wall, trying on the boots of Mr. Winkle, senior, over his own, and making several other humorous experiments upon the furniture, all of which afforded Mr. Pickwick unspeakable horror and agony, and yielded Mr. Bob Sawyer proportionate delight.

At length the door opened, and a little old gentleman in a snuff- coloured suit, with a head and face the precise counterpart of those belonging to Mr. Winkle, junior, excepting that he was rather bald, trotted into the room with Mr. Pickwick’s card in one hand, and a silver candlestick in the other.

‘Mr. Pickwick, sir, how do you do?’ said Winkle the elder, putting down the candlestick and proffering his hand. ‘Hope I see you well, sir. Glad to see you. Be seated, Mr. Pickwick, I beg, Sir. This gentleman is—’

‘My friend, Mr. Sawyer,’ interposed Mr. Pickwick, ‘your son’s friend.’

‘Oh,’ said Mr. Winkle the elder, looking rather grimly at Bob. ‘I hope you are well, sir.’

‘Right as a trivet, sir,’ replied Bob Sawyer.

‘This other gentleman,’ cried Mr. Pickwick, ‘is, as you will see when you have read the letter with which I am intrusted, a very near relative, or I should rather say a very particular friend of your son’s. His name is Allen.’

‘_That _gentleman?’ inquired Mr. Winkle, pointing with the card towards Ben Allen, who had fallen asleep in an attitude which left nothing of him visible but his spine and his coat collar.

Mr. Pickwick was on the point of replying to the question, and reciting Mr. Benjamin Allen’s name and honourable distinctions at full length, when the sprightly Mr. Bob Sawyer, with a view of rousing his friend to a sense of his situation, inflicted a startling pinch upon the fleshly part of his arm, which caused him to jump up with a shriek. Suddenly aware that he was in the presence of a stranger, Mr. Ben Allen advanced and, shaking Mr. Winkle most affectionately by both hands for about five minutes, murmured, in some half-intelligible fragments of sentences, the great delight he felt in seeing him, and a hospitable inquiry whether he felt disposed to take anything after his walk, or would prefer waiting ‘till dinner-time;’ which done, he sat down and gazed about him with a petrified stare, as if he had not the remotest idea where he was, which indeed he had not.

All this was most embarrassing to Mr. Pickwick, the more especially as Mr. Winkle, senior, evinced palpable astonishment at the eccentric—not to say extraordinary—behaviour of his two companions. To bring the matter to an issue at once, he drew a letter from his pocket, and presenting it to Mr. Winkle, senior, said—

‘This letter, Sir, is from your son. You will see, by its contents, that on your favourable and fatherly consideration of it, depend his future happiness and welfare. Will you oblige me by giving it the calmest and coolest perusal, and by discussing the subject afterwards with me, in the tone and spirit in which alone it ought to be discussed? You may judge of the importance of your decision to your son, and his intense anxiety upon the subject, by my waiting upon you, without any previous warning, at so late an hour; and,’ added Mr. Pickwick, glancing slightly at his two companions—‘and under such unfavourable circumstances.’

With this prelude, Mr. Pickwick placed four closely-written sides of extra superfine wire-wove penitence in the hands of the astounded Mr. Winkle, senior. Then reseating himself in his chair, he watched his looks and manner: anxiously, it is true, but with the open front of a gentleman who feels he has taken no part which he need excuse or palliate.

The old wharfinger turned the letter over, looked at the front, back, and sides, made a microscopic examination of the fat little boy on the seal, raised his eyes to Mr. Pickwick’s face, and then, seating himself on the high stool, and drawing the lamp closer to him, broke the wax, unfolded the epistle, and lifting it to the light, prepared to read.

Just at this moment, Mr. Bob Sawyer, whose wit had lain dormant for some minutes, placed his hands on his knees, and made a face after the portraits of the late Mr. Grimaldi, as clown. It so happened that Mr. Winkle, senior, instead of being deeply engaged in reading the letter, as Mr. Bob Sawyer thought, chanced to be looking over the top of it at no less a person than Mr. Bob Sawyer himself; rightly conjecturing that the face aforesaid was made in ridicule and derision of his own person, he fixed his eyes on Bob with such expressive sternness, that the late Mr. Grimaldi’s lineaments gradually resolved themselves into a very fine expression of humility and confusion.

‘Did you speak, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Winkle, senior, after an awful silence.

‘No, sir,’ replied Bob, With no remains of the clown about him, save and except the extreme redness of his cheeks.

‘You are sure you did not, sir?’ said Mr. Winkle, senior.

‘Oh dear, yes, sir, quite,’ replied Bob.

‘I thought you did, Sir,’ replied the old gentleman, with indignant emphasis. ‘Perhaps you _looked _at me, sir?’

‘Oh, no! sir, not at all,’ replied Bob, with extreme civility.

‘I am very glad to hear it, sir,’ said Mr. Winkle, senior. Having frowned upon the abashed Bob with great magnificence, the old gentleman again brought the letter to the light, and began to read it seriously.

Mr. Pickwick eyed him intently as he turned from the bottom line of the first page to the top line of the second, and from the bottom of the second to the top of the third, and from the bottom of the third to the top of the fourth; but not the slightest alteration of countenance afforded a clue to the feelings with which he received the announcement of his son’s marriage, which Mr. Pickwick knew was in the very first half-dozen lines.

He read the letter to the last word, folded it again with all the carefulness and precision of a man of business, and, just when Mr. Pickwick expected some great outbreak of feeling, dipped a pen in the ink-stand, and said, as quietly as if he were speaking on the most ordinary counting-house topic—

‘What is Nathaniel’s address, Mr. Pickwick?’

‘The George and Vulture, at present,’ replied that gentleman.

‘George and Vulture. Where is that?’

‘George Yard, Lombard Street.’

‘In the city?’

‘Yes.’

The old gentleman methodically indorsed the address on the back of the letter; and then, placing it in the desk, which he locked, said, as he got off the stool and put the bunch of keys in his pocket—

‘I suppose there is nothing else which need detain us, Mr. Pickwick?’

‘Nothing else, my dear Sir!’ observed that warm-hearted person in indignant amazement. ‘Nothing else! Have you no opinion to express on this momentous event in our young friend’s life? No assurance to convey to him, through me, of the continuance of your affection and protection? Nothing to say which will cheer and sustain him, and the anxious girl who looks to him for comfort and support? My dear Sir, consider.’

‘I will consider,’ replied the old gentleman. ‘I have nothing to say just now. I am a man of business, Mr. Pickwick. I never commit myself hastily in any affair, and from what I see of this, I by no means like the appearance of it. A thousand pounds is not much, Mr. Pickwick.’

‘You’re very right, Sir,’ interposed Ben Allen, just awake enough to know that he had spent his thousand pounds without the smallest difficulty. ‘You’re an intelligent man. Bob, he’s a very knowing fellow this.’

‘I am very happy to find that you do me the justice to make the admission, sir,’ said Mr. Winkle, senior, looking contemptuously at Ben Allen, who was shaking his head profoundly. ‘The fact is, Mr. Pickwick, that when I gave my son a roving license for a year or so, to see something of men and manners (which he has done under your auspices), so that he might not enter life a mere boarding-school milk-sop to be gulled by everybody, I never bargained for this. He knows that very well, so if I withdraw my countenance from him on this account, he has no call to be surprised. He shall hear from me, Mr. Pickwick. Good- night, sir.—Margaret, open the door.’

All this time, Bob Sawyer had been nudging Mr. Ben Allen to say something on the right side; Ben accordingly now burst, without the slightest preliminary notice, into a brief but impassioned piece of eloquence.

‘Sir,’ said Mr. Ben Allen, staring at the old gentleman, out of a pair of very dim and languid eyes, and working his right arm vehemently up and down, ‘you—you ought to be ashamed of yourself.’

‘As the lady’s brother, of course you are an excellent judge of the question,’ retorted Mr. Winkle, senior. ‘There; that’s enough. Pray say no more, Mr. Pickwick. Good-night, gentlemen!’

With these words the old gentleman took up the candle-stick and opening the room door, politely motioned towards the passage.

‘You will regret this, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, setting his teeth close together to keep down his choler; for he felt how important the effect might prove to his young friend.

‘I am at present of a different opinion,’ calmly replied Mr. Winkle, senior. ‘Once again, gentlemen, I wish you a good-night.’

Mr. Pickwick walked with angry strides into the street. Mr. Bob Sawyer, completely quelled by the decision of the old gentleman’s manner, took the same course. Mr. Ben Allen’s hat rolled down the steps immediately afterwards, and Mr. Ben Allen’s body followed it directly. The whole party went silent and supperless to bed; and Mr. Pickwick thought, just before he fell asleep, that if he had known Mr. Winkle, senior, had been quite so much of a man of business, it was extremely probable he might never have waited upon him, on such an errand.

CHAPTER LI. IN WHICH MR. PICKWICK ENCOUNTERS AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE—TO WHICH FORTUNATE CIRCUMSTANCE THE READER IS MAINLY INDEBTED FOR MATTER OF THRILLING INTEREST HEREIN SET DOWN, CONCERNING TWO GREAT PUBLIC MEN OF MIGHT AND POWER

The morning which broke upon Mr. Pickwick’s sight at eight o’clock, was not at all calculated to elevate his spirits, or to lessen the depression which the unlooked-for result of his embassy inspired. The sky was dark and gloomy, the air was damp and raw, the streets were wet and sloppy. The smoke hung sluggishly above the chimney-tops as if it lacked the courage to rise, and the rain came slowly and doggedly down, as if it had not even the spirit to pour. A game-cock in the stableyard, deprived of every spark of his accustomed animation, balanced himself dismally on one leg in a corner; a donkey, moping with drooping head under the narrow roof of an outhouse, appeared from his meditative and miserable countenance to be contemplating suicide. In the street, umbrellas were the only things to be seen, and the clicking of pattens and splashing of rain-drops were the only sounds to be heard.

The breakfast was interrupted by very little conversation; even Mr. Bob Sawyer felt the influence of the weather, and the previous day’s excitement. In his own expressive language he was ‘floored.’ So was Mr. Ben Allen. So was Mr. Pickwick.

In protracted expectation of the weather clearing up, the last evening paper from London was read and re-read with an intensity of interest only known in cases of extreme destitution; every inch of the carpet was walked over with similar perseverance; the windows were looked out of, often enough to justify the imposition of an additional duty upon them; all kinds of topics of conversation were started, and failed; and at length Mr. Pickwick, when noon had arrived, without a change for the better, rang the bell resolutely, and ordered out the chaise.

Although the roads were miry, and the drizzling rain came down harder than it had done yet, and although the mud and wet splashed in at the open windows of the carriage to such an extent that the discomfort was almost as great to the pair of insides as to the pair of outsides, still there was something in the motion, and the sense of being up and doing, which was so infinitely superior to being pent in a dull room, looking at the dull rain dripping into a dull street, that they all agreed, on starting, that the change was a great improvement, and wondered how they could possibly have delayed making it as long as they had done.

When they stopped to change at Coventry, the steam ascended from the horses in such clouds as wholly to obscure the hostler, whose voice was however heard to declare from the mist, that he expected the first gold medal from the Humane Society on their next distribution of rewards, for taking the postboy’s hat off; the water descending from the brim of which, the invisible gentleman declared, must have drowned him (the postboy), but for his great presence of mind in tearing it promptly from his head, and drying the gasping man’s countenance with a wisp of straw.

‘This is pleasant,’ said Bob Sawyer, turning up his coat collar, and pulling the shawl over his mouth to concentrate the fumes of a glass of brandy just swallowed.

‘Wery,’ replied Sam composedly.

‘You don’t seem to mind it,’ observed Bob.

‘Vy, I don’t exactly see no good my mindin’ on it ‘ud do, sir,’ replied Sam.

‘That’s an unanswerable reason, anyhow,’ said Bob.

‘Yes, sir,’ rejoined Mr. Weller. ‘Wotever is, is right, as the young nobleman sweetly remarked wen they put him down in the pension list ‘cos his mother’s uncle’s vife’s grandfather vunce lit the king’s pipe vith a portable tinder-box.’

Not a bad notion that, Sam,’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer approvingly.

‘Just wot the young nobleman said ev’ry quarter-day arterwards for the rest of his life,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘Wos you ever called in,’ inquired Sam, glancing at the driver, after a short silence, and lowering his voice to a mysterious whisper—‘wos you ever called in, when you wos ‘prentice to a sawbones, to wisit a postboy.’

‘I don’t remember that I ever was,’ replied Bob Sawyer.

‘You never see a postboy in that ‘ere hospital as you _walked _(as they says o’ the ghosts), did you?’ demanded Sam.

‘No,’ replied Bob Sawyer. ‘I don’t think I ever did.’

‘Never know’d a churchyard were there wos a postboy’s tombstone, or see a dead postboy, did you?’ inquired Sam, pursuing his catechism.

‘No,’ rejoined Bob, ‘I never did.’

‘No!’ rejoined Sam triumphantly. ‘Nor never vill; and there’s another thing that no man never see, and that’s a dead donkey. No man never see a dead donkey ‘cept the gen’l’m’n in the black silk smalls as know’d the young ‘ooman as kep’ a goat; and that wos a French donkey, so wery likely he warn’t wun o’ the reg’lar breed.’

‘Well, what has that got to do with the postboys?’ asked Bob Sawyer.

‘This here,’ replied Sam. ‘Without goin’ so far as to as-sert, as some wery sensible people do, that postboys and donkeys is both immortal, wot I say is this: that wenever they feels theirselves gettin’ stiff and past their work, they just rides off together, wun postboy to a pair in the usual way; wot becomes on ‘em nobody knows, but it’s wery probable as they starts avay to take their pleasure in some other vorld, for there ain’t a man alive as ever see either a donkey or a postboy a- takin’ his pleasure in this!’

Expatiating upon this learned and remarkable theory, and citing many curious statistical and other facts in its support, Sam Weller beguiled the time until they reached Dunchurch, where a dry postboy and fresh horses were procured; the next stage was Daventry, and the next Towcester; and at the end of each stage it rained harder than it had done at the beginning.

‘I say,’ remonstrated Bob Sawyer, looking in at the coach window, as they pulled up before the door of the Saracen’s Head, Towcester, ‘this won’t do, you know.’

‘Bless me!’ said Mr. Pickwick, just awakening from a nap, ‘I’m afraid you’re wet.’

‘Oh, you are, are you?’ returned Bob. ‘Yes, I am, a little that way, Uncomfortably damp, perhaps.’

Bob did look dampish, inasmuch as the rain was streaming from his neck, elbows, cuffs, skirts, and knees; and his whole apparel shone so with the wet, that it might have been mistaken for a full suit of prepared oilskin.

‘I am rather wet,’ said Bob, giving himself a shake and casting a little hydraulic shower around, like a Newfoundland dog just emerged from the water.

‘I think it’s quite impossible to go on to-night,’ interposed Ben.

‘Out of the question, sir,’ remarked Sam Weller, coming to assist in the conference; ‘it’s a cruelty to animals, sir, to ask ‘em to do it. There’s beds here, sir,’ said Sam, addressing his master, ‘everything clean and comfortable. Wery good little dinner, sir, they can get ready in half an hour—pair of fowls, sir, and a weal cutlet; French beans, ‘taturs, tart, and tidiness. You’d better stop vere you are, sir, if I might recommend. Take adwice, sir, as the doctor said.’

The host of the Saracen’s Head opportunely appeared at this moment, to confirm Mr. Weller’s statement relative to the accommodations of the establishment, and to back his entreaties with a variety of dismal conjectures regarding the state of the roads, the doubt of fresh horses being to be had at the next stage, the dead certainty of its raining all night, the equally mortal certainty of its clearing up in the morning, and other topics of inducement familiar to innkeepers.

‘Well,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘but I must send a letter to London by some conveyance, so that it may be delivered the very first thing in the morning, or I must go forwards at all hazards.’

The landlord smiled his delight. Nothing could be easier than for the gentleman to inclose a letter in a sheet of brown paper, and send it on, either by the mail or the night coach from Birmingham. If the gentleman were particularly anxious to have it left as soon as possible, he might write outside, ‘To be delivered immediately,’ which was sure to be attended to; or ‘Pay the bearer half-a-crown extra for instant delivery,’ which was surer still.

‘Very well,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘then we will stop here.’

‘Lights in the Sun, John; make up the fire; the gentlemen are wet!’ cried the landlord. ‘This way, gentlemen; don’t trouble yourselves about the postboy now, sir. I’ll send him to you when you ring for him, sir. Now, John, the candles.’

The candles were brought, the fire was stirred up, and a fresh log of wood thrown on. In ten minutes’ time, a waiter was laying the cloth for dinner, the curtains were drawn, the fire was blazing brightly, and everything looked (as everything always does, in all decent English inns) as if the travellers had been expected, and their comforts prepared, for days beforehand.

Mr. Pickwick sat down at a side table, and hastily indited a note to Mr. Winkle, merely informing him that he was detained by stress of weather, but would certainly be in London next day; until when he deferred any account of his proceedings. This note was hastily made into a parcel, and despatched to the bar per Mr. Samuel Weller.

Sam left it with the landlady, and was returning to pull his master’s boots off, after drying himself by the kitchen fire, when glancing casually through a half-opened door, he was arrested by the sight of a gentleman with a sandy head who had a large bundle of newspapers lying on the table before him, and was perusing the leading article of one with a settled sneer which curled up his nose and all other features into a majestic expression of haughty contempt.

‘Hollo!’ said Sam, ‘I ought to know that ‘ere head and them features; the eyeglass, too, and the broad-brimmed tile! Eatansvill to vit, or I’m a Roman.’

Sam was taken with a troublesome cough, at once, for the purpose of attracting the gentleman’s attention; the gentleman starting at the sound, raised his head and his eyeglass, and disclosed to view the profound and thoughtful features of Mr. Pott, of the Eatanswill Gazette.

‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir,’ said Sam, advancing with a bow, ‘my master’s here, Mr. Pott.’

‘Hush! hush!’ cried Pott, drawing Sam into the room, and closing the door, with a countenance of mysterious dread and apprehension.

‘Wot’s the matter, Sir?’ inquired Sam, looking vacantly about him.

‘Not a whisper of my name,’ replied Pott; ‘this is a buff neighbourhood. If the excited and irritable populace knew I was here, I should be torn to pieces.’

‘No! Vould you, sir?’ inquired Sam.

‘I should be the victim of their fury,’ replied Pott. ‘Now young man, what of your master?’

‘He’s a-stopping here to-night on his vay to town, with a couple of friends,’ replied Sam.

‘Is Mr. Winkle one of them?’ inquired Pott, with a slight frown.

‘No, Sir. Mr. Vinkle stops at home now,’ rejoined Sam. ‘He’s married.’

‘Married!’ exclaimed Pott, with frightful vehemence. He stopped, smiled darkly, and added, in a low, vindictive tone, ‘It serves him right!’

Having given vent to this cruel ebullition of deadly malice and cold- blooded triumph over a fallen enemy, Mr. Pott inquired whether Mr. Pickwick’s friends were ‘blue?’ Receiving a most satisfactory answer in the affirmative from Sam, who knew as much about the matter as Pott himself, he consented to accompany him to Mr. Pickwick’s room, where a hearty welcome awaited him, and an agreement to club their dinners together was at once made and ratified.

‘And how are matters going on in Eatanswill?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, when Pott had taken a seat near the fire, and the whole party had got their wet boots off, and dry slippers on. ‘Is the Independent still in being?’

‘The Independent, sir,’ replied Pott, ‘is still dragging on a wretched and lingering career. Abhorred and despised by even the few who are cognisant of its miserable and disgraceful existence, stifled by the very filth it so profusely scatters, rendered deaf and blind by the exhalations of its own slime, the obscene journal, happily unconscious of its degraded state, is rapidly sinking beneath that treacherous mud which, while it seems to give it a firm standing with the low and debased classes of society, is nevertheless rising above its detested head, and will speedily engulf it for ever.’

Having delivered this manifesto (which formed a portion of his last week’s leader) with vehement articulation, the editor paused to take breath, and looked majestically at Bob Sawyer.

‘You are a young man, sir,’ said Pott.

Mr. Bob Sawyer nodded.

‘So are you, sir,’ said Pott, addressing Mr. Ben Allen.

Ben admitted the soft impeachment.

‘And are both deeply imbued with those blue principles, which, so long as I live, I have pledged myself to the people of these kingdoms to support and to maintain?’ suggested Pott.

‘Why, I don’t exactly know about that,’ replied Bob Sawyer. ‘I am—’

‘Not buff, Mr. Pickwick,’ interrupted Pott, drawing back his chair, ‘your friend is not buff, sir?’

‘No, no,’ rejoined Bob, ‘I’m a kind of plaid at present; a compound of all sorts of colours.’

‘A waverer,’ said Pott solemnly, ‘a waverer. I should like to show you a series of eight articles, Sir, that have appeared in the Eatanswill Gazette. I think I may venture to say that you would not be long in establishing your opinions on a firm and solid blue basis, sir.’

I dare say I should turn very blue, long before I got to the end of them,’ responded Bob.

Mr. Pott looked dubiously at Bob Sawyer for some seconds, and, turning to Mr. Pickwick, said—

‘You have seen the literary articles which have appeared at intervals in the Eatanswill Gazette in the course of the last three months, and which have excited such general—I may say such universal—attention and admiration?’

‘Why,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, slightly embarrassed by the question, ‘the fact is, I have been so much engaged in other ways, that I really have not had an opportunity of perusing them.’

‘You should do so, Sir,’ said Pott, with a severe countenance.

‘I will,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘They appeared in the form of a copious review of a work on Chinese metaphysics, Sir,’ said Pott.

‘Oh,’ observed Mr. Pickwick; ‘from your pen, I hope?’

‘From the pen of my critic, Sir,’ rejoined Pott, with dignity.

‘An abstruse subject, I should conceive,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Very, Sir,’ responded Pott, looking intensely sage. ‘He _crammed _for it, to use a technical but expressive term; he read up for the subject, at my desire, in the “Encyclopaedia Britannica.”’

‘Indeed!’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘I was not aware that that valuable work contained any information respecting Chinese metaphysics.’

‘He read, Sir,’ rejoined Pott, laying his hand on Mr. Pickwick’s knee, and looking round with a smile of intellectual superiority—‘he read for metaphysics under the letter M, and for China under the letter C, and combined his information, Sir!’

Mr. Pott’s features assumed so much additional grandeur at the recollection of the power and research displayed in the learned effusions in question, that some minutes elapsed before Mr. Pickwick felt emboldened to renew the conversation; at length, as the editor’s countenance gradually relaxed into its customary expression of moral supremacy, he ventured to resume the discourse by asking—

‘Is it fair to inquire what great object has brought you so far from home?’

‘That object which actuates and animates me in all my gigantic labours, Sir,’ replied Pott, with a calm smile: ‘my country’s good.’

I supposed it was some public mission,’ observed Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes, Sir,’ resumed Pott, ‘it is.’ Here, bending towards Mr. Pickwick, he whispered in a deep, hollow voice, ‘A Buff ball, Sir, will take place in Birmingham to-morrow evening.’

‘God bless me!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes, Sir, and supper,’ added Pott.

‘You don’t say so!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick.

Pott nodded portentously.

Now, although Mr. Pickwick feigned to stand aghast at this disclosure, he was so little versed in local politics that he was unable to form an adequate comprehension of the importance of the dire conspiracy it referred to; observing which, Mr. Pott, drawing forth the last number of the Eatanswill Gazette, and referring to the same, delivered himself of the following paragraph:—

HOLE-AND-CORNER BUFFERY.

‘A reptile contemporary has recently sweltered forth his black venom in the vain and hopeless attempt of sullying the fair name of our distinguished and excellent representative, the Honourable Mr. Slumkey— that Slumkey whom we, long before he gained his present noble and exalted position, predicted would one day be, as he now is, at once his country’s brightest honour, and her proudest boast: alike her bold defender and her honest pride—our reptile contemporary, we say, has made himself merry, at the expense of a superbly embossed plated coal- scuttle, which has been presented to that glorious man by his enraptured constituents, and towards the purchase of which, the nameless wretch insinuates, the Honourable Mr. Slumkey himself contributed, through a confidential friend of his butler’s, more than three-fourths of the whole sum subscribed. Why, does not the crawling creature see, that even if this be the fact, the Honourable Mr. Slumkey only appears in a still more amiable and radiant light than before, if that be possible? Does not even his obtuseness perceive that this amiable and touching desire to carry out the wishes of the constituent body, must for ever endear him to the hearts and souls of such of his fellow townsmen as are not worse than swine; or, in other words, who are not as debased as our contemporary himself? But such is the wretched trickery of hole-and- corner Buffery! These are not its only artifices. Treason is abroad. We boldly state, now that we are goaded to the disclosure, and we throw ourselves on the country and its constables for protection—we boldly state that secret preparations are at this moment in progress for a Buff ball; which is to be held in a Buff town, in the very heart and centre of a Buff population; which is to be conducted by a Buff master of the ceremonies; which is to be attended by four ultra Buff members of Parliament, and the admission to which, is to be by Buff tickets! Does our fiendish contemporary wince? Let him writhe, in impotent malice, as we pen the words, We will be there.’

‘There, Sir,’ said Pott, folding up the paper quite exhausted, ‘that is the state of the case!’

The landlord and waiter entering at the moment with dinner, caused Mr. Pott to lay his finger on his lips, in token that he considered his life in Mr. Pickwick’s hands, and depended on his secrecy. Messrs. Bob Sawyer and Benjamin Allen, who had irreverently fallen asleep during the reading of the quotation from the Eatanswill Gazette, and the discussion which followed it, were roused by the mere whispering of the talismanic word ‘Dinner’ in their ears; and to dinner they went with good digestion waiting on appetite, and health on both, and a waiter on all three.

In the course of the dinner and the sitting which succeeded it, Mr. Pott descending, for a few moments, to domestic topics, informed Mr. Pickwick that the air of Eatanswill not agreeing with his lady, she was then engaged in making a tour of different fashionable watering-places with a view to the recovery of her wonted health and spirits; this was a delicate veiling of the fact that Mrs. Pott, acting upon her often- repeated threat of separation, had, in virtue of an arrangement negotiated by her brother, the lieutenant, and concluded by Mr. Pott, permanently retired with the faithful bodyguard upon one moiety or half part of the annual income and profits arising from the editorship and sale of the Eatanswill Gazette.

While the great Mr. Pott was dwelling upon this and other matters, enlivening the conversation from time to time with various extracts from his own lucubrations, a stern stranger, calling from the window of a stage-coach, outward bound, which halted at the inn to deliver packages, requested to know whether if he stopped short on his journey and remained there for the night, he could be furnished with the necessary accommodation of a bed and bedstead.

‘Certainly, sir,’ replied the landlord.

‘I can, can I?’ inquired the stranger, who seemed habitually suspicious in look and manner.

‘No doubt of it, Sir,’ replied the landlord.

‘Good,’ said the stranger. ‘Coachman, I get down here. Guard, my carpet- bag!’

Bidding the other passengers good-night, in a rather snappish manner, the stranger alighted. He was a shortish gentleman, with very stiff black hair cut in the porcupine or blacking-brush style, and standing stiff and straight all over his head; his aspect was pompous and threatening; his manner was peremptory; his eyes were sharp and restless; and his whole bearing bespoke a feeling of great confidence in himself, and a consciousness of immeasurable superiority over all other people.

This gentleman was shown into the room originally assigned to the patriotic Mr. Pott; and the waiter remarked, in dumb astonishment at the singular coincidence, that he had no sooner lighted the candles than the gentleman, diving into his hat, drew forth a newspaper, and began to read it with the very same expression of indignant scorn, which, upon the majestic features of Pott, had paralysed his energies an hour before. The man observed too, that, whereas Mr. Pott’s scorn had been roused by a newspaper headed the Eatanswill Independent, this gentleman’s withering contempt was awakened by a newspaper entitled the Eatanswill Gazette.

‘Send the landlord,’ said the stranger.

‘Yes, sir,’ rejoined the waiter.

The landlord was sent, and came.

‘Are you the landlord?’ inquired the gentleman.

‘I am sir,’ replied the landlord.

‘Do you know me?’ demanded the gentleman.

‘I have not had that pleasure, Sir,’ rejoined the landlord.

‘My name is Slurk,’ said the gentleman.

The landlord slightly inclined his head.

‘Slurk, sir,’ repeated the gentleman haughtily. ‘Do you know me now, man?’

The landlord scratched his head, looked at the ceiling, and at the stranger, and smiled feebly.

‘Do you know me, man?’ inquired the stranger angrily.

The landlord made a strong effort, and at length replied, ‘Well, Sir, I do not know you.’

‘Great Heaven!’ said the stranger, dashing his clenched fist upon the table. ‘And this is popularity!’

The landlord took a step or two towards the door; the stranger fixing his eyes upon him, resumed.

‘This,’ said the stranger—‘this is gratitude for years of labour and study in behalf of the masses. I alight wet and weary; no enthusiastic crowds press forward to greet their champion; the church bells are silent; the very name elicits no responsive feeling in their torpid bosoms. It is enough,’ said the agitated Mr. Slurk, pacing to and fro, ‘to curdle the ink in one’s pen, and induce one to abandon their cause for ever.’

‘Did you say brandy-and-water, Sir?’ said the landlord, venturing a hint.

‘Rum,’ said Mr. Slurk, turning fiercely upon him. ‘Have you got a fire anywhere?’

‘We can light one directly, Sir,’ said the landlord.

‘Which will throw out no heat until it is bed-time,’ interrupted Mr. Slurk. ‘Is there anybody in the kitchen?’

Not a soul. There was a beautiful fire. Everybody had gone, and the house door was closed for the night.

‘I will drink my rum-and-water,’ said Mr. Slurk, ‘by the kitchen fire.’ So, gathering up his hat and newspaper, he stalked solemnly behind the landlord to that humble apartment, and throwing himself on a settle by the fireside, resumed his countenance of scorn, and began to read and drink in silent dignity.

Now, some demon of discord, flying over the Saracen’s Head at that moment, on casting down his eyes in mere idle curiosity, happened to behold Slurk established comfortably by the kitchen fire, and Pott slightly elevated with wine in another room; upon which the malicious demon, darting down into the last-mentioned apartment with inconceivable rapidity, passed at once into the head of Mr. Bob Sawyer, and prompted him for his (the demon’s) own evil purpose to speak as follows:—

‘I say, we’ve let the fire out. It’s uncommonly cold after the rain, isn’t it?’

‘It really is,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, shivering.

‘It wouldn’t be a bad notion to have a cigar by the kitchen fire, would it?’ said Bob Sawyer, still prompted by the demon aforesaid.

‘It would be particularly comfortable, I think,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘Mr. Pott, what do you say?’

Mr. Pott yielded a ready assent; and all four travellers, each with his glass in his hand, at once betook themselves to the kitchen, with Sam Weller heading the procession to show them the way.

The stranger was still reading; he looked up and started. Mr. Pott started.

‘What’s the matter?’ whispered Mr. Pickwick.

‘That reptile!’ replied Pott.

‘What reptile?’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking about him for fear he should tread on some overgrown black beetle, or dropsical spider.

‘That reptile,’ whispered Pott, catching Mr. Pickwick by the arm, and pointing towards the stranger. ‘That reptile Slurk, of the Independent!’

‘Perhaps we had better retire,’ whispered Mr. Pickwick.

‘Never, Sir,’ rejoined Pott, pot-valiant in a double sense—‘never.’ With these words, Mr. Pott took up his position on an opposite settle, and selecting one from a little bundle of newspapers, began to read against his enemy.

Mr. Pott, of course read the Independent, and Mr. Slurk, of course, read the Gazette; and each gentleman audibly expressed his contempt at the other’s compositions by bitter laughs and sarcastic sniffs; whence they proceeded to more open expressions of opinion, such as ‘absurd,’ ‘wretched,’ ‘atrocity,’ ‘humbug,’ ‘knavery’, ‘dirt,’ ‘filth,’ ‘slime,’ ‘ditch-water,’ and other critical remarks of the like nature.

Both Mr. Bob Sawyer and Mr. Ben Allen had beheld these symptoms of rivalry and hatred, with a degree of delight which imparted great additional relish to the cigars at which they were puffing most vigorously. The moment they began to flag, the mischievous Mr. Bob Sawyer, addressing Slurk with great politeness, said—

‘Will you allow me to look at your paper, Sir, when you have quite done with it?’

‘You will find very little to repay you for your trouble in this contemptible thing, sir,’ replied Slurk, bestowing a Satanic frown on Pott.

‘You shall have this presently,’ said Pott, looking up, pale with rage, and quivering in his speech, from the same cause. ‘Ha! ha! you will be amused with this fellow’s audacity.’

Terrible emphasis was laid upon ‘thing’ and ‘fellow’; and the faces of both editors began to glow with defiance.

‘The ribaldry of this miserable man is despicably disgusting,’ said Pott, pretending to address Bob Sawyer, and scowling upon Slurk.

Here, Mr. Slurk laughed very heartily, and folding up the paper so as to get at a fresh column conveniently, said, that the blockhead really amused him.

‘What an impudent blunderer this fellow is,’ said Pott, turning from pink to crimson.

‘Did you ever read any of this man’s foolery, Sir?’ inquired Slurk of Bob Sawyer.

‘Never,’ replied Bob; ‘is it very bad?’

‘Oh, shocking! shocking!’ rejoined Slurk.

‘Really! Dear me, this is too atrocious!’ exclaimed Pott, at this juncture; still feigning to be absorbed in his reading.

‘If you can wade through a few sentences of malice, meanness, falsehood, perjury, treachery, and cant,’ said Slurk, handing the paper to Bob, ‘you will, perhaps, be somewhat repaid by a laugh at the style of this ungrammatical twaddler.’

‘What’s that you said, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Pott, looking up, trembling all over with passion.

‘What’s that to you, sir?’ replied Slurk.

‘Ungrammatical twaddler, was it, sir?’ said Pott.

‘Yes, sir, it was,’ replied Slurk; ‘and blue bore, Sir, if you like that better; ha! ha!’

Mr. Pott retorted not a word at this jocose insult, but deliberately folded up his copy of the Independent, flattened it carefully down, crushed it beneath his boot, spat upon it with great ceremony, and flung it into the fire.

‘There, sir,’ said Pott, retreating from the stove, ‘and that’s the way I would serve the viper who produces it, if I were not, fortunately for him, restrained by the laws of my country.’

‘Serve him so, sir!’ cried Slurk, starting up. ‘Those laws shall never be appealed to by him, sir, in such a case. Serve him so, sir!’

‘Hear! hear!’ said Bob Sawyer.

‘Nothing can be fairer,’ observed Mr. Ben Allen.

‘Serve him so, sir!’ reiterated Slurk, in a loud voice.

Mr. Pott darted a look of contempt, which might have withered an anchor.

‘Serve him so, sir!’ reiterated Slurk, in a louder voice than before.

‘I will not, sir,’ rejoined Pott.

‘Oh, you won’t, won’t you, sir?’ said Mr. Slurk, in a taunting manner; ‘you hear this, gentlemen! He won’t; not that he’s afraid—, oh, no! he won’t. Ha! ha!’

‘I consider you, sir,’ said Mr. Pott, moved by this sarcasm, ‘I consider you a viper. I look upon you, sir, as a man who has placed himself beyond the pale of society, by his most audacious, disgraceful, and abominable public conduct. I view you, sir, personally and politically, in no other light than as a most unparalleled and unmitigated viper.’

The indignant Independent did not wait to hear the end of this personal denunciation; for, catching up his carpet-bag, which was well stuffed with movables, he swung it in the air as Pott turned away, and, letting it fall with a circular sweep on his head, just at that particular angle of the bag where a good thick hairbrush happened to be packed, caused a sharp crash to be heard throughout the kitchen, and brought him at once to the ground.

‘Gentlemen,’ cried Mr. Pickwick, as Pott started up and seized the fire- shovel—‘gentlemen! Consider, for Heaven’s sake—help—Sam—here—pray, gentlemen—interfere, somebody.’

Uttering these incoherent exclamations, Mr. Pickwick rushed between the infuriated combatants just in time to receive the carpet-bag on one side of his body, and the fire-shovel on the other. Whether the representatives of the public feeling of Eatanswill were blinded by animosity, or (being both acute reasoners) saw the advantage of having a third party between them to bear all the blows, certain it is that they paid not the slightest attention to Mr. Pickwick, but defying each other with great spirit, plied the carpet-bag and the fire-shovel most fearlessly. Mr. Pickwick would unquestionably have suffered severely for his humane interference, if Mr. Weller, attracted by his master’s cries, had not rushed in at the moment, and, snatching up a meal-sack, effectually stopped the conflict by drawing it over the head and shoulders of the mighty Pott, and clasping him tight round the shoulders.

‘Take away that ‘ere bag from the t’other madman,’ said Sam to Ben Allen and Bob Sawyer, who had done nothing but dodge round the group, each with a tortoise-shell lancet in his hand, ready to bleed the first man stunned. ‘Give it up, you wretched little creetur, or I’ll smother you in it.’

Awed by these threats, and quite out of breath, the Independent suffered himself to be disarmed; and Mr. Weller, removing the extinguisher from Pott, set him free with a caution.

‘You take yourselves off to bed quietly,’ said Sam, ‘or I’ll put you both in it, and let you fight it out vith the mouth tied, as I vould a dozen sich, if they played these games. And you have the goodness to come this here way, sir, if you please.’

Thus addressing his master, Sam took him by the arm, and led him off, while the rival editors were severally removed to their beds by the landlord, under the inspection of Mr. Bob Sawyer and Mr. Benjamin Allen; breathing, as they went away, many sanguinary threats, and making vague appointments for mortal combat next day. When they came to think it over, however, it occurred to them that they could do it much better in print, so they recommenced deadly hostilities without delay; and all Eatanswill rung with their boldness—on paper.

They had taken themselves off in separate coaches, early next morning, before the other travellers were stirring; and the weather having now cleared up, the chaise companions once more turned their faces to London.

CHAPTER LII. INVOLVING A SERIOUS CHANGE IN THE WELLER FAMILY, AND THE UNTIMELY DOWNFALL OF MR. STIGGINS

Considering it a matter of delicacy to abstain from introducing either Bob Sawyer or Ben Allen to the young couple, until they were fully prepared to expect them, and wishing to spare Arabella’s feelings as much as possible, Mr. Pickwick proposed that he and Sam should alight in the neighbourhood of the George and Vulture, and that the two young men should for the present take up their quarters elsewhere. To this they very readily agreed, and the proposition was accordingly acted upon; Mr. Ben Allen and Mr. Bob Sawyer betaking themselves to a sequestered pot- shop on the remotest confines of the Borough, behind the bar door of which their names had in other days very often appeared at the head of long and complex calculations worked in white chalk.

‘Dear me, Mr. Weller,’ said the pretty housemaid, meeting Sam at the door.

‘Dear me I vish it vos, my dear,’ replied Sam, dropping behind, to let his master get out of hearing. ‘Wot a sweet-lookin’ creetur you are, Mary!’

‘Lor’, Mr. Weller, what nonsense you do talk!’ said Mary. ‘Oh! don’t, Mr. Weller.’

‘Don’t what, my dear?’ said Sam.

‘Why, that,’ replied the pretty housemaid. ‘Lor, do get along with you.’ Thus admonishing him, the pretty housemaid pushed Sam against the wall, declaring that he had tumbled her cap, and put her hair quite out of curl.

‘And prevented what I was going to say, besides,’ added Mary. ‘There’s a letter been waiting here for you four days; you hadn’t gone away, half an hour, when it came; and more than that, it’s got “immediate,” on the outside.’

‘Vere is it, my love?’ inquired Sam.

‘I took care of it, for you, or I dare say it would have been lost long before this,’ replied Mary. ‘There, take it; it’s more than you deserve.’

With these words, after many pretty little coquettish doubts and fears, and wishes that she might not have lost it, Mary produced the letter from behind the nicest little muslin tucker possible, and handed it to Sam, who thereupon kissed it with much gallantry and devotion.

‘My goodness me!’ said Mary, adjusting the tucker, and feigning unconsciousness, ‘you seem to have grown very fond of it all at once.’

To this Mr. Weller only replied by a wink, the intense meaning of which no description could convey the faintest idea of; and, sitting himself down beside Mary on a window-seat, opened the letter and glanced at the contents.

‘Hollo!’ exclaimed Sam, ‘wot’s all this?’

‘Nothing the matter, I hope?’ said Mary, peeping over his shoulder.

‘Bless them eyes o’ yourn!’ said Sam, looking up.

‘Never mind my eyes; you had much better read your letter,’ said the pretty housemaid; and as she said so, she made the eyes twinkle with such slyness and beauty that they were perfectly irresistible.

Sam refreshed himself with a kiss, and read as follows:—

‘MARKIS GRAN ‘By DORKEN ‘Wensdy.

‘My DEAR SAMMLE,

‘I am wery sorry to have the pleasure of being a Bear of ill news your Mother in law cort cold consekens of imprudently settin too long on the damp grass in the rain a hearin of a shepherd who warnt able to leave off till late at night owen to his having vound his-self up vith brandy and vater and not being able to stop his-self till he got a little sober which took a many hours to do the doctor says that if she’d svallo’d varm brandy and vater artervards insted of afore she mightn’t have been no vus her veels wos immedetly greased and everythink done to set her agoin as could be inwented your father had hopes as she vould have vorked round as usual but just as she wos a turnen the corner my boy she took the wrong road and vent down hill vith a welocity you never see and notvithstandin that the drag wos put on drectly by the medikel man it wornt of no use at all for she paid the last pike at twenty minutes afore six o’clock yesterday evenin havin done the jouney wery much under the reglar time vich praps was partly owen to her haven taken in wery little luggage by the vay your father says that if you vill come and see me Sammy he vill take it as a wery great favor for I am wery lonely Samivel N. B. he _vill _have it spelt that vay vich I say ant right and as there is sich a many things to settle he is sure your guvner wont object of course he vill not Sammy for I knows him better so he sends his dooty in which I join and am Samivel infernally yours

‘TONY VELLER.’

‘Wot a incomprehensible letter,’ said Sam; ‘who’s to know wot it means, vith all this he-ing and I-ing! It ain’t my father’s writin’, ‘cept this here signater in print letters; that’s his.’

‘Perhaps he got somebody to write it for him, and signed it himself afterwards,’ said the pretty housemaid.

‘Stop a minit,’ replied Sam, running over the letter again, and pausing here and there, to reflect, as he did so. ‘You’ve hit it. The gen’l’m’n as wrote it wos a-tellin’ all about the misfortun’ in a proper vay, and then my father comes a-lookin’ over him, and complicates the whole concern by puttin’ his oar in. That’s just the wery sort o’ thing he’d do. You’re right, Mary, my dear.’

Having satisfied himself on this point, Sam read the letter all over, once more, and, appearing to form a clear notion of its contents for the first time, ejaculated thoughtfully, as he folded it up—

‘And so the poor creetur’s dead! I’m sorry for it. She warn’t a bad- disposed ‘ooman, if them shepherds had let her alone. I’m wery sorry for it.’

Mr. Weller uttered these words in so serious a manner, that the pretty housemaid cast down her eyes and looked very grave.

‘Hows’ever,’ said Sam, putting the letter in his pocket with a gentle sigh, ‘it wos to be—and wos, as the old lady said arter she’d married the footman. Can’t be helped now, can it, Mary?’

Mary shook her head, and sighed too.

‘I must apply to the hemperor for leave of absence,’ said Sam.

Mary sighed again—the letter was so very affecting.

‘Good-bye!’ said Sam.

‘Good-bye,’ rejoined the pretty housemaid, turning her head away.

‘Well, shake hands, won’t you?’ said Sam.

The pretty housemaid put out a hand which, although it was a housemaid’s, was a very small one, and rose to go.

‘I shan’t be wery long avay,’ said Sam.

‘You’re always away,’ said Mary, giving her head the slightest possible toss in the air. ‘You no sooner come, Mr. Weller, than you go again.’

Mr. Weller drew the household beauty closer to him, and entered upon a whispering conversation, which had not proceeded far, when she turned her face round and condescended to look at him again. When they parted, it was somehow or other indispensably necessary for her to go to her room, and arrange the cap and curls before she could think of presenting herself to her mistress; which preparatory ceremony she went off to perform, bestowing many nods and smiles on Sam over the banisters as she tripped upstairs.

‘I shan’t be avay more than a day, or two, Sir, at the furthest,’ said Sam, when he had communicated to Mr. Pickwick the intelligence of his father’s loss.

‘As long as may be necessary, Sam,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘you have my full permission to remain.’

Sam bowed.

‘You will tell your father, Sam, that if I can be of any assistance to him in his present situation, I shall be most willing and ready to lend him any aid in my power,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Thank’ee, sir,’ rejoined Sam. ‘I’ll mention it, sir.’

And with some expressions of mutual good-will and interest, master and man separated.

It was just seven o’clock when Samuel Weller, alighting from the box of a stage-coach which passed through Dorking, stood within a few hundred yards of the Marquis of Granby. It was a cold, dull evening; the little street looked dreary and dismal; and the mahogany countenance of the noble and gallant marquis seemed to wear a more sad and melancholy expression than it was wont to do, as it swung to and fro, creaking mournfully in the wind. The blinds were pulled down, and the shutters partly closed; of the knot of loungers that usually collected about the door, not one was to be seen; the place was silent and desolate.

Seeing nobody of whom he could ask any preliminary questions, Sam walked softly in, and glancing round, he quickly recognised his parent in the distance.

The widower was seated at a small round table in the little room behind the bar, smoking a pipe, with his eyes intently fixed upon the fire. The funeral had evidently taken place that day, for attached to his hat, which he still retained on his head, was a hatband measuring about a yard and a half in length, which hung over the top rail of the chair and streamed negligently down. Mr. Weller was in a very abstracted and contemplative mood. Notwithstanding that Sam called him by name several times, he still continued to smoke with the same fixed and quiet countenance, and was only roused ultimately by his son’s placing the palm of his hand on his shoulder.

‘Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘you’re welcome.’

‘I’ve been a-callin’ to you half a dozen times,’ said Sam, hanging his hat on a peg, ‘but you didn’t hear me.’

‘No, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller, again looking thoughtfully at the fire. ‘I was in a referee, Sammy.’

‘Wot about?’ inquired Sam, drawing his chair up to the fire.

‘In a referee, Sammy,’ replied the elder Mr. Weller, ‘regarding her, Samivel.’ Here Mr. Weller jerked his head in the direction of Dorking churchyard, in mute explanation that his words referred to the late Mrs. Weller.

‘I wos a-thinkin’, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, eyeing his son, with great earnestness, over his pipe, as if to assure him that however extraordinary and incredible the declaration might appear, it was nevertheless calmly and deliberately uttered. ‘I wos a-thinkin’, Sammy, that upon the whole I wos wery sorry she wos gone.’

‘Vell, and so you ought to be,’ replied Sam.

Mr. Weller nodded his acquiescence in the sentiment, and again fastening his eyes on the fire, shrouded himself in a cloud, and mused deeply.

‘Those wos wery sensible observations as she made, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, driving the smoke away with his hand, after a long silence.

‘Wot observations?’ inquired Sam.

‘Them as she made, arter she was took ill,’ replied the old gentleman.

‘Wot was they?’

‘Somethin’ to this here effect. “Veller,” she says, “I’m afeered I’ve not done by you quite wot I ought to have done; you’re a wery kind- hearted man, and I might ha’ made your home more comfortabler. I begin to see now,” she says, “ven it’s too late, that if a married ‘ooman vishes to be religious, she should begin vith dischargin’ her dooties at home, and makin’ them as is about her cheerful and happy, and that vile she goes to church, or chapel, or wot not, at all proper times, she should be wery careful not to con-wert this sort o’ thing into a excuse for idleness or self-indulgence. I have done this,” she says, “and I’ve vasted time and substance on them as has done it more than me; but I hope ven I’m gone, Veller, that you’ll think on me as I wos afore I know’d them people, and as I raly wos by natur.” ‘“Susan,” says I—I wos took up wery short by this, Samivel; I von’t deny it, my boy—“Susan,” I says, “you’ve been a wery good vife to me, altogether; don’t say nothin’ at all about it; keep a good heart, my dear; and you’ll live to see me punch that ‘ere Stiggins’s head yet.” She smiled at this, Samivel,’ said the old gentleman, stifling a sigh with his pipe, ‘but she died arter all!’

‘Vell,’ said Sam, venturing to offer a little homely consolation, after the lapse of three or four minutes, consumed by the old gentleman in slowly shaking his head from side to side, and solemnly smoking, ‘vell, gov’nor, ve must all come to it, one day or another.’

‘So we must, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller the elder.

‘There’s a Providence in it all,’ said Sam.

‘O’ course there is,’ replied his father, with a nod of grave approval. ‘Wot ‘ud become of the undertakers vithout it, Sammy?’

Lost in the immense field of conjecture opened by this reflection, the elder Mr. Weller laid his pipe on the table, and stirred the fire with a meditative visage.

While the old gentleman was thus engaged, a very buxom-looking cook, dressed in mourning, who had been bustling about, in the bar, glided into the room, and bestowing many smirks of recognition upon Sam, silently stationed herself at the back of his father’s chair, and announced her presence by a slight cough, the which, being disregarded, was followed by a louder one.

‘Hollo!’ said the elder Mr. Weller, dropping the poker as he looked round, and hastily drew his chair away. ‘Wot’s the matter now?’

‘Have a cup of tea, there’s a good soul,’ replied the buxom female coaxingly.

‘I von’t,’ replied Mr. Weller, in a somewhat boisterous manner. ‘I’ll see you—’ Mr. Weller hastily checked himself, and added in a low tone, ‘furder fust.’

‘Oh, dear, dear! How adwersity does change people!’ said the lady, looking upwards.

‘It’s the only thing ‘twixt this and the doctor as shall change my condition,’ muttered Mr. Weller.

‘I really never saw a man so cross,’ said the buxom female.

‘Never mind. It’s all for my own good; vich is the reflection vith vich the penitent school-boy comforted his feelin’s ven they flogged him,’ rejoined the old gentleman.

The buxom female shook her head with a compassionate and sympathising air; and, appealing to Sam, inquired whether his father really ought not to make an effort to keep up, and not give way to that lowness of spirits.

‘You see, Mr. Samuel,’ said the buxom female, ‘as I was telling him yesterday, he will feel lonely, he can’t expect but what he should, sir, but he should keep up a good heart, because, dear me, I’m sure we all pity his loss, and are ready to do anything for him; and there’s no situation in life so bad, Mr. Samuel, that it can’t be mended. Which is what a very worthy person said to me when my husband died.’ Here the speaker, putting her hand before her mouth, coughed again, and looked affectionately at the elder Mr. Weller.

‘As I don’t rekvire any o’ your conversation just now, mum, vill you have the goodness to re-tire?’ inquired Mr. Weller, in a grave and steady voice.

‘Well, Mr. Weller,’ said the buxom female, ‘I’m sure I only spoke to you out of kindness.’

‘Wery likely, mum,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Samivel, show the lady out, and shut the door after her.’

This hint was not lost upon the buxom female; for she at once left the room, and slammed the door behind her, upon which Mr. Weller, senior, falling back in his chair in a violent perspiration, said—

‘Sammy, if I wos to stop here alone vun week—only vun week, my boy— that ‘ere ‘ooman ‘ud marry me by force and wiolence afore it was over.’

‘Wot! is she so wery fond on you?’ inquired Sam.

‘Fond!’ replied his father. ‘I can’t keep her avay from me. If I was locked up in a fireproof chest vith a patent Brahmin, she’d find means to get at me, Sammy.’

‘Wot a thing it is to be so sought arter!’ observed Sam, smiling.

‘I don’t take no pride out on it, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller, poking the fire vehemently, ‘it’s a horrid sitiwation. I’m actiwally drove out o’ house and home by it. The breath was scarcely out o’ your poor mother- in-law’s body, ven vun old ‘ooman sends me a pot o’ jam, and another a pot o’ jelly, and another brews a blessed large jug o’ camomile-tea, vich she brings in vith her own hands.’ Mr. Weller paused with an aspect of intense disgust, and looking round, added in a whisper, ‘They wos all widders, Sammy, all on ‘em, ‘cept the camomile-tea vun, as wos a single young lady o’ fifty-three.’

Sam gave a comical look in reply, and the old gentleman having broken an obstinate lump of coal, with a countenance expressive of as much earnestness and malice as if it had been the head of one of the widows last-mentioned, said:

‘In short, Sammy, I feel that I ain’t safe anyveres but on the box.’

‘How are you safer there than anyveres else?’ interrupted Sam.

‘’Cos a coachman’s a privileged indiwidual,’ replied Mr. Weller, looking fixedly at his son. ‘’Cos a coachman may do vithout suspicion wot other men may not; ‘cos a coachman may be on the wery amicablest terms with eighty mile o’ females, and yet nobody think that he ever means to marry any vun among ‘em. And wot other man can say the same, Sammy?’

‘Vell, there’s somethin’ in that,’ said Sam.

‘If your gov’nor had been a coachman,’ reasoned Mr. Weller, ‘do you s’pose as that ‘ere jury ‘ud ever ha’ conwicted him, s’posin’ it possible as the matter could ha’ gone to that extremity? They dustn’t ha’ done it.’

‘Wy not?’ said Sam, rather disparagingly.

‘Wy not!’ rejoined Mr. Weller; ‘’cos it ‘ud ha’ gone agin their consciences. A reg’lar coachman’s a sort o’ con-nectin’ link betwixt singleness and matrimony, and every practicable man knows it.’

‘Wot! You mean, they’re gen’ral favorites, and nobody takes adwantage on ‘em, p’raps?’ said Sam.

His father nodded.

‘How it ever come to that ‘ere pass,’ resumed the parent Weller, ‘I can’t say. Wy it is that long-stage coachmen possess such insiniwations, and is alvays looked up to—a-dored I may say—by ev’ry young ‘ooman in ev’ry town he vurks through, I don’t know. I only know that so it is. It’s a regulation of natur—a dispensary, as your poor mother-in-law used to say.’

‘A dispensation,’ said Sam, correcting the old gentleman.

‘Wery good, Samivel, a dispensation if you like it better,’ returned Mr. Weller; ‘I call it a dispensary, and it’s always writ up so, at the places vere they gives you physic for nothin’ in your own bottles; that’s all.’

With these words, Mr. Weller refilled and relighted his pipe, and once more summoning up a meditative expression of countenance, continued as follows—

‘Therefore, my boy, as I do not see the adwisability o’ stoppin here to be married vether I vant to or not, and as at the same time I do not vish to separate myself from them interestin’ members o’ society altogether, I have come to the determination o’ driving the Safety, and puttin’ up vunce more at the Bell Savage, vich is my nat’ral born element, Sammy.’

‘And wot’s to become o’ the bis’ness?’ inquired Sam.

‘The bis’ness, Samivel,’ replied the old gentleman, ‘good-vill, stock, and fixters, vill be sold by private contract; and out o’ the money, two hundred pound, agreeable to a rekvest o’ your mother-in-law’s to me, a little afore she died, vill be invested in your name in—What do you call them things agin?’

‘Wot things?’ inquired Sam.

‘Them things as is always a-goin’ up and down, in the city.’

‘Omnibuses?’ suggested Sam.

‘Nonsense,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Them things as is alvays a- fluctooatin’, and gettin’ theirselves inwolved somehow or another vith the national debt, and the chequers bill; and all that.’

‘Oh! the funds,’ said Sam.

‘Ah!’ rejoined Mr. Weller, ‘the funs; two hundred pounds o’ the money is to be inwested for you, Samivel, in the funs; four and a half per cent. reduced counsels, Sammy.’

‘Wery kind o’ the old lady to think o’ me,’ said Sam, ‘and I’m wery much obliged to her.’

‘The rest will be inwested in my name,’ continued the elder Mr. Weller; ‘and wen I’m took off the road, it’ll come to you, so take care you don’t spend it all at vunst, my boy, and mind that no widder gets a inklin’ o’ your fortun’, or you’re done.’

Having delivered this warning, Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with a more serene countenance; the disclosure of these matters appearing to have eased his mind considerably.

‘Somebody’s a-tappin’ at the door,’ said Sam.

‘Let ‘em tap,’ replied his father, with dignity.

Sam acted upon the direction. There was another tap, and another, and then a long row of taps; upon which Sam inquired why the tapper was not admitted.

‘Hush,’ whispered Mr. Weller, with apprehensive looks, ‘don’t take no notice on ‘em, Sammy, it’s vun o’ the widders, p’raps.’

No notice being taken of the taps, the unseen visitor, after a short lapse, ventured to open the door and peep in. It was no female head that was thrust in at the partially-opened door, but the long black locks and red face of Mr. Stiggins. Mr. Weller’s pipe fell from his hands.

The reverend gentleman gradually opened the door by almost imperceptible degrees, until the aperture was just wide enough to admit of the passage of his lank body, when he glided into the room and closed it after him, with great care and gentleness. Turning towards Sam, and raising his hands and eyes in token of the unspeakable sorrow with which he regarded the calamity that had befallen the family, he carried the high-backed chair to his old corner by the fire, and, seating himself on the very edge, drew forth a brown pocket-handkerchief, and applied the same to his optics.

While this was going forward, the elder Mr. Weller sat back in his chair, with his eyes wide open, his hands planted on his knees, and his whole countenance expressive of absorbing and overwhelming astonishment. Sam sat opposite him in perfect silence, waiting, with eager curiosity, for the termination of the scene.

Mr. Stiggins kept the brown pocket-handkerchief before his eyes for some minutes, moaning decently meanwhile, and then, mastering his feelings by a strong effort, put it in his pocket and buttoned it up. After this, he stirred the fire; after that, he rubbed his hands and looked at Sam.

‘Oh, my young friend,’ said Mr. Stiggins, breaking the silence, in a very low voice, ‘here’s a sorrowful affliction!’

Sam nodded very slightly.

‘For the man of wrath, too!’ added Mr. Stiggins; ‘it makes a vessel’s heart bleed!’

Mr. Weller was overheard by his son to murmur something relative to making a vessel’s nose bleed; but Mr. Stiggins heard him not.

‘Do you know, young man,’ whispered Mr. Stiggins, drawing his chair closer to Sam, ‘whether she has left Emanuel anything?’

‘Who’s he?’ inquired Sam.

‘The chapel,’ replied Mr. Stiggins; ‘our chapel; our fold, Mr. Samuel.’

‘She hasn’t left the fold nothin’, nor the shepherd nothin’, nor the animals nothin’,’ said Sam decisively; ‘nor the dogs neither.’

Mr. Stiggins looked slily at Sam; glanced at the old gentleman, who was sitting with his eyes closed, as if asleep; and drawing his chair still nearer, said—

‘Nothing for me, Mr. Samuel?’

Sam shook his head.

‘I think there’s something,’ said Stiggins, turning as pale as he could turn. ‘Consider, Mr. Samuel; no little token?’

‘Not so much as the vorth o’ that ‘ere old umberella o’ yourn,’ replied Sam.

‘Perhaps,’ said Mr. Stiggins hesitatingly, after a few moments’ deep thought, ‘perhaps she recommended me to the care of the man of wrath, Mr. Samuel?’

‘I think that’s wery likely, from what he said,’ rejoined Sam; ‘he wos a-speakin’ about you, jist now.’

‘Was he, though?’ exclaimed Stiggins, brightening up. ‘Ah! He’s changed, I dare say. We might live very comfortably together now, Mr. Samuel, eh? I could take care of his property when you are away—good care, you see.’

Heaving a long-drawn sigh, Mr. Stiggins paused for a response. Sam nodded, and Mr. Weller the elder gave vent to an extraordinary sound, which, being neither a groan, nor a grunt, nor a gasp, nor a growl, seemed to partake in some degree of the character of all four.

Mr. Stiggins, encouraged by this sound, which he understood to betoken remorse or repentance, looked about him, rubbed his hands, wept, smiled, wept again, and then, walking softly across the room to a well- remembered shelf in one corner, took down a tumbler, and with great deliberation put four lumps of sugar in it. Having got thus far, he looked about him again, and sighed grievously; with that, he walked softly into the bar, and presently returning with the tumbler half full of pine-apple rum, advanced to the kettle which was singing gaily on the hob, mixed his grog, stirred it, sipped it, sat down, and taking a long and hearty pull at the rum-and-water, stopped for breath.

The elder Mr. Weller, who still continued to make various strange and uncouth attempts to appear asleep, offered not a single word during these proceedings; but when Stiggins stopped for breath, he darted upon him, and snatching the tumbler from his hand, threw the remainder of the rum-and-water in his face, and the glass itself into the grate. Then, seizing the reverend gentleman firmly by the collar, he suddenly fell to kicking him most furiously, accompanying every application of his top- boot to Mr. Stiggins’s person, with sundry violent and incoherent anathemas upon his limbs, eyes, and body.

‘Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘put my hat on tight for me.’

Sam dutifully adjusted the hat with the long hatband more firmly on his father’s head, and the old gentleman, resuming his kicking with greater agility than before, tumbled with Mr. Stiggins through the bar, and through the passage, out at the front door, and so into the street—the kicking continuing the whole way, and increasing in vehemence, rather than diminishing, every time the top-boot was lifted.

It was a beautiful and exhilarating sight to see the red-nosed man writhing in Mr. Weller’s grasp, and his whole frame quivering with anguish as kick followed kick in rapid succession; it was a still more exciting spectacle to behold Mr. Weller, after a powerful struggle, immersing Mr. Stiggins’s head in a horse-trough full of water, and holding it there, until he was half suffocated.

‘There!’ said Mr. Weller, throwing all his energy into one most complicated kick, as he at length permitted Mr. Stiggins to withdraw his head from the trough, ‘send any vun o’ them lazy shepherds here, and I’ll pound him to a jelly first, and drownd him artervards! Sammy, help me in, and fill me a small glass of brandy. I’m out o’ breath, my boy.’

CHAPTER LIII. COMPRISING THE FINAL EXIT OF MR. JINGLE AND JOB TROTTER, WITH A GREAT MORNING OF BUSINESS IN GRAY’S INN SQUARE—CONCLUDING WITH A DOUBLE KNOCK AT MR. PERKER’S DOOR

When Arabella, after some gentle preparation and many assurances that there was not the least occasion for being low-spirited, was at length made acquainted by Mr. Pickwick with the unsatisfactory result of his visit to Birmingham, she burst into tears, and sobbing aloud, lamented in moving terms that she should have been the unhappy cause of any estrangement between a father and his son.

‘My dear girl,’ said Mr. Pickwick kindly, ‘it is no fault of yours. It was impossible to foresee that the old gentleman would be so strongly prepossessed against his son’s marriage, you know. I am sure,’ added Mr. Pickwick, glancing at her pretty face, ‘he can have very little idea of the pleasure he denies himself.’

‘Oh, my dear Mr. Pickwick,’ said Arabella, ‘what shall we do, if he continues to be angry with us?’

‘Why, wait patiently, my dear, until he thinks better of it,’ replied Mr. Pickwick cheerfully.

‘But, dear Mr. Pickwick, what is to become of Nathaniel if his father withdraws his assistance?’ urged Arabella.

‘In that case, my love,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick, ‘I will venture to prophesy that he will find some other friend who will not be backward in helping him to start in the world.’

The significance of this reply was not so well disguised by Mr. Pickwick but that Arabella understood it. So, throwing her arms round his neck, and kissing him affectionately, she sobbed louder than before.

‘Come, come,’ said Mr. Pickwick taking her hand, ‘we will wait here a few days longer, and see whether he writes or takes any other notice of your husband’s communication. If not, I have thought of half a dozen plans, any one of which would make you happy at once. There, my dear, there!’

With these words, Mr. Pickwick gently pressed Arabella’s hand, and bade her dry her eyes, and not distress her husband. Upon which, Arabella, who was one of the best little creatures alive, put her handkerchief in her reticule, and by the time Mr. Winkle joined them, exhibited in full lustre the same beaming smiles and sparkling eyes that had originally captivated him.

‘This is a distressing predicament for these young people,’ thought Mr. Pickwick, as he dressed himself next morning. ‘I’ll walk up to Perker’s, and consult him about the matter.’

As Mr. Pickwick was further prompted to betake himself to Gray’s Inn Square by an anxious desire to come to a pecuniary settlement with the kind-hearted little attorney without further delay, he made a hurried breakfast, and executed his intention so speedily, that ten o’clock had not struck when he reached Gray’s Inn.

It still wanted ten minutes to the hour when he had ascended the staircase on which Perker’s chambers were. The clerks had not arrived yet, and he beguiled the time by looking out of the staircase window.

The healthy light of a fine October morning made even the dingy old houses brighten up a little; some of the dusty windows actually looking almost cheerful as the sun’s rays gleamed upon them. Clerk after clerk hastened into the square by one or other of the entrances, and looking up at the Hall clock, accelerated or decreased his rate of walking according to the time at which his office hours nominally commenced; the half-past nine o’clock people suddenly becoming very brisk, and the ten o’clock gentlemen falling into a pace of most aristocratic slowness. The clock struck ten, and clerks poured in faster than ever, each one in a greater perspiration than his predecessor. The noise of unlocking and opening doors echoed and re-echoed on every side; heads appeared as if by magic in every window; the porters took up their stations for the day; the slipshod laundresses hurried off; the postman ran from house to house; and the whole legal hive was in a bustle.

‘You’re early, Mr. Pickwick,’ said a voice behind him.

‘Ah, Mr. Lowten,’ replied that gentleman, looking round, and recognising his old acquaintance.

‘Precious warm walking, isn’t it?’ said Lowten, drawing a Bramah key from his pocket, with a small plug therein, to keep the dust out.

‘You appear to feel it so,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick, smiling at the clerk, who was literally red-hot.

‘I’ve come along, rather, I can tell you,’ replied Lowten. ‘It went the half hour as I came through the Polygon. I’m here before him, though, so I don’t mind.’

Comforting himself with this reflection, Mr. Lowten extracted the plug from the door-key; having opened the door, replugged and repocketed his Bramah, and picked up the letters which the postman had dropped through the box, he ushered Mr. Pickwick into the office. Here, in the twinkling of an eye, he divested himself of his coat, put on a threadbare garment, which he took out of a desk, hung up his hat, pulled forth a few sheets of cartridge and blotting-paper in alternate layers, and, sticking a pen behind his ear, rubbed his hands with an air of great satisfaction.

‘There, you see, Mr. Pickwick,’ he said, ‘now I’m complete. I’ve got my office coat on, and my pad out, and let him come as soon as he likes. You haven’t got a pinch of snuff about you, have you?’

‘No, I have not,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘I’m sorry for it,’ said Lowten. ‘Never mind. I’ll run out presently, and get a bottle of soda. Don’t I look rather queer about the eyes, Mr. Pickwick?’

The individual appealed to, surveyed Mr. Lowten’s eyes from a distance, and expressed his opinion that no unusual queerness was perceptible in those features.

‘I’m glad of it,’ said Lowten. ‘We were keeping it up pretty tolerably at the Stump last night, and I’m rather out of sorts this morning. Perker’s been about that business of yours, by the bye.’

‘What business?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick. ‘Mrs. Bardell’s costs?’

‘No, I don’t mean that,’ replied Mr. Lowten. ‘About getting that customer that we paid the ten shillings in the pound to the bill- discounter for, on your account—to get him out of the Fleet, you know— about getting him to Demerara.’

‘Oh, Mr. Jingle,’ said Mr. Pickwick hastily. ‘Yes. Well?’

‘Well, it’s all arranged,’ said Lowten, mending his pen. ‘The agent at Liverpool said he had been obliged to you many times when you were in business, and he would be glad to take him on your recommendation.’

‘That’s well,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘I am delighted to hear it.’

‘But I say,’ resumed Lowten, scraping the back of the pen preparatory to making a fresh split, ‘what a soft chap that other is!’

‘Which other?’

‘Why, that servant, or friend, or whatever he is; you know, Trotter.’

‘Ah!’ said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile. ‘I always thought him the reverse.’

‘Well, and so did I, from what little I saw of him,’ replied Lowten, ‘it only shows how one may be deceived. What do you think of his going to Demerara, too?’

‘What! And giving up what was offered him here!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

‘Treating Perker’s offer of eighteen bob a week, and a rise if he behaved himself, like dirt,’ replied Lowten. ‘He said he must go along with the other one, and so they persuaded Perker to write again, and they’ve got him something on the same estate; not near so good, Perker says, as a convict would get in New South Wales, if he appeared at his trial in a new suit of clothes.’

‘Foolish fellow,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with glistening eyes. ‘Foolish fellow.’

‘Oh, it’s worse than foolish; it’s downright sneaking, you know,’ replied Lowten, nibbing the pen with a contemptuous face. ‘He says that he’s the only friend he ever had, and he’s attached to him, and all that. Friendship’s a very good thing in its way—we are all very friendly and comfortable at the Stump, for instance, over our grog, where every man pays for himself; but damn hurting yourself for anybody else, you know! No man should have more than two attachments—the first, to number one, and the second to the ladies; that’s what I say—ha! ha!’ Mr. Lowten concluded with a loud laugh, half in jocularity, and half in derision, which was prematurely cut short by the sound of Perker’s footsteps on the stairs, at the first approach of which, he vaulted on his stool with an agility most remarkable, and wrote intensely.

The greeting between Mr. Pickwick and his professional adviser was warm and cordial; the client was scarcely ensconced in the attorney’s arm- chair, however, when a knock was heard at the door, and a voice inquired whether Mr. Perker was within.

‘Hark!’ said Perker, ‘that’s one of our vagabond friends—Jingle himself, my dear Sir. Will you see him?’

‘What do you think?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, hesitating.

‘Yes, I think you had better. Here, you Sir, what’s your name, walk in, will you?’

In compliance with this unceremonious invitation, Jingle and Job walked into the room, but, seeing Mr. Pickwick, stopped short in some confusion.

‘Well,’ said Perker, ‘don’t you know that gentleman?’

‘Good reason to,’ replied Mr. Jingle, stepping forward. ‘Mr. Pickwick— deepest obligations—life preserver—made a man of me—you shall never repent it, Sir.’

‘I am happy to hear you say so,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘You look much better.’

‘Thanks to you, sir—great change—Majesty’s Fleet—unwholesome place— very,’ said Jingle, shaking his head. He was decently and cleanly dressed, and so was Job, who stood bolt upright behind him, staring at Mr. Pickwick with a visage of iron.

‘When do they go to Liverpool?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, half aside to Perker.

‘This evening, Sir, at seven o’clock,’ said Job, taking one step forward. ‘By the heavy coach from the city, Sir.’

‘Are your places taken?’

‘They are, sir,’ replied Job.

‘You have fully made up your mind to go?’

‘I have sir,’ answered Job.

‘With regard to such an outfit as was indispensable for Jingle,’ said Perker, addressing Mr. Pickwick aloud. ‘I have taken upon myself to make an arrangement for the deduction of a small sum from his quarterly salary, which, being made only for one year, and regularly remitted, will provide for that expense. I entirely disapprove of your doing anything for him, my dear sir, which is not dependent on his own exertions and good conduct.’

‘Certainly,’ interposed Jingle, with great firmness. ‘Clear head—man of the world—quite right—perfectly.’

‘By compounding with his creditor, releasing his clothes from the pawnbroker’s, relieving him in prison, and paying for his passage,’ continued Perker, without noticing Jingle’s observation, ‘you have already lost upwards of fifty pounds.’

‘Not lost,’ said Jingle hastily, ‘Pay it all—stick to business—cash up—every farthing. Yellow fever, perhaps—can’t help that—if not—’ Here Mr. Jingle paused, and striking the crown of his hat with great violence, passed his hand over his eyes, and sat down.

‘He means to say,’ said Job, advancing a few paces, ‘that if he is not carried off by the fever, he will pay the money back again. If he lives, he will, Mr. Pickwick. I will see it done. I know he will, Sir,’ said Job, with energy. ‘I could undertake to swear it.’

‘Well, well,’ said Mr. Pickwick, who had been bestowing a score or two of frowns upon Perker, to stop his summary of benefits conferred, which the little attorney obstinately disregarded, ‘you must be careful not to play any more desperate cricket matches, Mr. Jingle, or to renew your acquaintance with Sir Thomas Blazo, and I have little doubt of your preserving your health.’

Mr. Jingle smiled at this sally, but looked rather foolish notwithstanding; so Mr. Pickwick changed the subject by saying—

‘You don’t happen to know, do you, what has become of another friend of yours—a more humble one, whom I saw at Rochester?’

‘Dismal Jemmy?’ inquired Jingle.

‘Yes.’

Jingle shook his head.

‘Clever rascal—queer fellow, hoaxing genius—Job’s brother.’

‘Job’s brother!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. ‘Well, now I look at him closely, there is a likeness.’

‘We were always considered like each other, Sir,’ said Job, with a cunning look just lurking in the corners of his eyes, ‘only I was really of a serious nature, and he never was. He emigrated to America, Sir, in consequence of being too much sought after here, to be comfortable; and has never been heard of since.’

‘That accounts for my not having received the “page from the romance of real life,” which he promised me one morning when he appeared to be contemplating suicide on Rochester Bridge, I suppose,’ said Mr. Pickwick, smiling. ‘I need not inquire whether his dismal behaviour was natural or assumed.’

‘He could assume anything, Sir,’ said Job. ‘You may consider yourself very fortunate in having escaped him so easily. On intimate terms he would have been even a more dangerous acquaintance than—’ Job looked at Jingle, hesitated, and finally added, ‘than—than-myself even.’

‘A hopeful family yours, Mr. Trotter,’ said Perker, sealing a letter which he had just finished writing.

‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Job. ‘Very much so.’

‘Well,’ said the little man, laughing, ‘I hope you are going to disgrace it. Deliver this letter to the agent when you reach Liverpool, and let me advise you, gentlemen, not to be too knowing in the West Indies. If you throw away this chance, you will both richly deserve to be hanged, as I sincerely trust you will be. And now you had better leave Mr. Pickwick and me alone, for we have other matters to talk over, and time is precious.’ As Perker said this, he looked towards the door, with an evident desire to render the leave-taking as brief as possible.

It was brief enough on Mr. Jingle’s part. He thanked the little attorney in a few hurried words for the kindness and promptitude with which he had rendered his assistance, and, turning to his benefactor, stood for a few seconds as if irresolute what to say or how to act. Job Trotter relieved his perplexity; for, with a humble and grateful bow to Mr. Pickwick, he took his friend gently by the arm, and led him away.

‘A worthy couple!’ said Perker, as the door closed behind them.

‘I hope they may become so,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘What do you think? Is there any chance of their permanent reformation?’

Perker shrugged his shoulders doubtfully, but observing Mr. Pickwick’s anxious and disappointed look, rejoined—

‘Of course there is a chance. I hope it may prove a good one. They are unquestionably penitent now; but then, you know, they have the recollection of very recent suffering fresh upon them. What they may become, when that fades away, is a problem that neither you nor I can solve. However, my dear Sir,’ added Perker, laying his hand on Mr. Pickwick’s shoulder, ‘your object is equally honourable, whatever the result is. Whether that species of benevolence which is so very cautious and long-sighted that it is seldom exercised at all, lest its owner should be imposed upon, and so wounded in his self-love, be real charity or a worldly counterfeit, I leave to wiser heads than mine to determine. But if those two fellows were to commit a burglary to-morrow, my opinion of this action would be equally high.’

With these remarks, which were delivered in a much more animated and earnest manner than is usual in legal gentlemen, Perker drew his chair to his desk, and listened to Mr. Pickwick’s recital of old Mr. Winkle’s obstinacy.

‘Give him a week,’ said Perker, nodding his head prophetically.

‘Do you think he will come round?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘I think he will,’ rejoined Perker. ‘If not, we must try the young lady’s persuasion; and that is what anybody but you would have done at first.’

Mr. Perker was taking a pinch of snuff with various grotesque contractions of countenance, eulogistic of the persuasive powers appertaining unto young ladies, when the murmur of inquiry and answer was heard in the outer office, and Lowten tapped at the door.

‘Come in!’ cried the little man.

The clerk came in, and shut the door after him, with great mystery.

‘What’s the matter?’ inquired Perker.

‘You’re wanted, Sir.’

‘Who wants me?’

Lowten looked at Mr. Pickwick, and coughed.

‘Who wants me? Can’t you speak, Mr. Lowten?’

‘Why, sir,’ replied Lowten, ‘it’s Dodson; and Fogg is with him.’

‘Bless my life!’ said the little man, looking at his watch, ‘I appointed them to be here at half-past eleven, to settle that matter of yours, Pickwick. I gave them an undertaking on which they sent down your discharge; it’s very awkward, my dear Sir; what will you do? Would you like to step into the next room?’

The next room being the identical room in which Messrs. Dodson & Fogg were, Mr. Pickwick replied that he would remain where he was: the more especially as Messrs. Dodson & Fogg ought to be ashamed to look him in the face, instead of his being ashamed to see them. Which latter circumstance he begged Mr. Perker to note, with a glowing countenance and many marks of indignation.

‘Very well, my dear Sir, very well,’ replied Perker, ‘I can only say that if you expect either Dodson or Fogg to exhibit any symptom of shame or confusion at having to look you, or anybody else, in the face, you are the most sanguine man in your expectations that I ever met with. Show them in, Mr. Lowten.’

Mr. Lowten disappeared with a grin, and immediately returned ushering in the firm, in due form of precedence—Dodson first, and Fogg afterwards.

‘You have seen Mr. Pickwick, I believe?’ said Perker to Dodson, inclining his pen in the direction where that gentleman was seated.

‘How do you do, Mr. Pickwick?’ said Dodson, in a loud voice.

‘Dear me,’ cried Fogg, ‘how do you do, Mr. Pickwick? I hope you are well, Sir. I thought I knew the face,’ said Fogg, drawing up a chair, and looking round him with a smile.

Mr. Pickwick bent his head very slightly, in answer to these salutations, and, seeing Fogg pull a bundle of papers from his coat pocket, rose and walked to the window.

‘There’s no occasion for Mr. Pickwick to move, Mr. Perker,’ said Fogg, untying the red tape which encircled the little bundle, and smiling again more sweetly than before. ‘Mr. Pickwick is pretty well acquainted with these proceedings. There are no secrets between us, I think. He! he! he!’

‘Not many, I think,’ said Dodson. ‘Ha! ha! ha!’ Then both the partners laughed together—pleasantly and cheerfully, as men who are going to receive money often do.

‘We shall make Mr. Pickwick pay for peeping,’ said Fogg, with considerable native humour, as he unfolded his papers. ‘The amount of the taxed costs is one hundred and thirty-three, six, four, Mr. Perker.’

There was a great comparing of papers, and turning over of leaves, by Fogg and Perker, after this statement of profit and loss. Meanwhile, Dodson said, in an affable manner, to Mr. Pickwick—

‘I don’t think you are looking quite so stout as when I had the pleasure of seeing you last, Mr. Pickwick.’

‘Possibly not, Sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, who had been flashing forth looks of fierce indignation, without producing the smallest effect on either of the sharp practitioners; ‘I believe I am not, Sir. I have been persecuted and annoyed by scoundrels of late, Sir.’

Perker coughed violently, and asked Mr. Pickwick whether he wouldn’t like to look at the morning paper. To which inquiry Mr. Pickwick returned a most decided negative.

‘True,’ said Dodson, ‘I dare say you have been annoyed in the Fleet; there are some odd gentry there. Whereabouts were your apartments, Mr. Pickwick?’

‘My one room,’ replied that much-injured gentleman, ‘was on the coffee- room flight.’

‘Oh, indeed!’ said Dodson. ‘I believe that is a very pleasant part of the establishment.’

‘Very,’ replied Mr. Pickwick drily.

There was a coolness about all this, which, to a gentleman of an excitable temperament, had, under the circumstances, rather an exasperating tendency. Mr. Pickwick restrained his wrath by gigantic efforts; but when Perker wrote a cheque for the whole amount, and Fogg deposited it in a small pocket-book, with a triumphant smile playing over his pimply features, which communicated itself likewise to the stern countenance of Dodson, he felt the blood in his cheeks tingling with indignation.

‘Now, Mr. Dodson,’ said Fogg, putting up the pocket-book and drawing on his gloves, ‘I am at your service.’

‘Very good,’ said Dodson, rising; ‘I am quite ready.’

‘I am very happy,’ said Fogg, softened by the cheque, ‘to have had the pleasure of making Mr. Pickwick’s acquaintance. I hope you don’t think quite so ill of us, Mr. Pickwick, as when we first had the pleasure of seeing you.’

‘I hope not,’ said Dodson, with the high tone of calumniated virtue. ‘Mr. Pickwick now knows us better, I trust; whatever your opinion of gentlemen of our profession may be, I beg to assure you, sir, that I bear no ill-will or vindictive feeling towards you for the sentiments you thought proper to express in our office in Freeman’s Court, Cornhill, on the occasion to which my partner has referred.’

‘Oh, no, no; nor I,’ said Fogg, in a most forgiving manner.

‘Our conduct, Sir,’ said Dodson, ‘will speak for itself, and justify itself, I hope, upon every occasion. We have been in the profession some years, Mr. Pickwick, and have been honoured with the confidence of many excellent clients. I wish you good-morning, Sir.’

‘Good-morning, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Fogg. So saying, he put his umbrella under his arm, drew off his right glove, and extended the hand of reconciliation to that most indignant gentleman; who, thereupon, thrust his hands beneath his coat tails, and eyed the attorney with looks of scornful amazement.

‘Lowten!’ cried Perker, at this moment. ‘Open the door.’

‘Wait one instant,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Perker, I _will _speak.’

‘My dear Sir, pray let the matter rest where it is,’ said the little attorney, who had been in a state of nervous apprehension during the whole interview; ‘Mr. Pickwick, I beg—’

‘I will not be put down, Sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick hastily. ‘Mr. Dodson, you have addressed some remarks to me.’

Dodson turned round, bent his head meekly, and smiled.

‘Some remarks to me,’ repeated Mr. Pickwick, almost breathless; ‘and your partner has tendered me his hand, and you have both assumed a tone of forgiveness and high-mindedness, which is an extent of impudence that I was not prepared for, even in you.’

‘What, sir!’ exclaimed Dodson.

‘What, sir!’ reiterated Fogg.

‘Do you know that I have been the victim of your plots and conspiracies?’ continued Mr. Pickwick. ‘Do you know that I am the man whom you have been imprisoning and robbing? Do you know that you were the attorneys for the plaintiff, in Bardell and Pickwick?’

‘Yes, sir, we do know it,’ replied Dodson.

‘Of course we know it, Sir,’ rejoined Fogg, slapping his pocket—perhaps by accident.

‘I see that you recollect it with satisfaction,’ said Mr. Pickwick, attempting to call up a sneer for the first time in his life, and failing most signally in so doing. ‘Although I have long been anxious to tell you, in plain terms, what my opinion of you is, I should have let even this opportunity pass, in deference to my friend Perker’s wishes, but for the unwarrantable tone you have assumed, and your insolent familiarity. I say insolent familiarity, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, turning upon Fogg with a fierceness of gesture which caused that person to retreat towards the door with great expedition.

‘Take care, Sir,’ said Dodson, who, though he was the biggest man of the party, had prudently entrenched himself behind Fogg, and was speaking over his head with a very pale face. ‘Let him assault you, Mr. Fogg; don’t return it on any account.’

‘No, no, I won’t return it,’ said Fogg, falling back a little more as he spoke; to the evident relief of his partner, who by these means was gradually getting into the outer office.

‘You are,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, resuming the thread of his discourse- -’you are a well-matched pair of mean, rascally, pettifogging robbers.’

‘Well,’ interposed Perker, ‘is that all?’

‘It is all summed up in that,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick; ‘they are mean, rascally, pettifogging robbers.’

‘There!’ said Perker, in a most conciliatory tone. ‘My dear sirs, he has said all he has to say. Now pray go. Lowten, is that door open?’

Mr. Lowten, with a distant giggle, replied in the affirmative.

‘There, there—good-morning—good-morning—now pray, my dear sirs—Mr. Lowten, the door!’ cried the little man, pushing Dodson & Fogg, nothing loath, out of the office; ‘this way, my dear sirs—now pray don’t prolong this—Dear me—Mr. Lowten—the door, sir—why don’t you attend?’

‘If there’s law in England, sir,’ said Dodson, looking towards Mr. Pickwick, as he put on his hat, ‘you shall smart for this.’

‘You are a couple of mean—’

‘Remember, sir, you pay dearly for this,’ said Fogg.

‘—Rascally, pettifogging robbers!’ continued Mr. Pickwick, taking not the least notice of the threats that were addressed to him.

‘Robbers!’ cried Mr. Pickwick, running to the stair-head, as the two attorneys descended.

‘Robbers!’ shouted Mr. Pickwick, breaking from Lowten and Perker, and thrusting his head out of the staircase window.

When Mr. Pickwick drew in his head again, his countenance was smiling and placid; and, walking quietly back into the office, he declared that he had now removed a great weight from his mind, and that he felt perfectly comfortable and happy.

Perker said nothing at all until he had emptied his snuff-box, and sent Lowten out to fill it, when he was seized with a fit of laughing, which lasted five minutes; at the expiration of which time he said that he supposed he ought to be very angry, but he couldn’t think of the business seriously yet—when he could, he would be.

‘Well, now,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘let me have a settlement with you.’

Of the same kind as the last?’ inquired Perker, with another laugh.

‘Not exactly,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick, drawing out his pocket-book, and shaking the little man heartily by the hand, ‘I only mean a pecuniary settlement. You have done me many acts of kindness that I can never repay, and have no wish to repay, for I prefer continuing the obligation.’

With this preface, the two friends dived into some very complicated accounts and vouchers, which, having been duly displayed and gone through by Perker, were at once discharged by Mr. Pickwick with many professions of esteem and friendship.

They had no sooner arrived at this point, than a most violent and startling knocking was heard at the door; it was not an ordinary double- knock, but a constant and uninterrupted succession of the loudest single raps, as if the knocker were endowed with the perpetual motion, or the person outside had forgotten to leave off.

‘Dear me, what’s that?’ exclaimed Perker, starting.

‘I think it is a knock at the door,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as if there could be the smallest doubt of the fact.

The knocker made a more energetic reply than words could have yielded, for it continued to hammer with surprising force and noise, without a moment’s cessation.

‘Dear me!’ said Perker, ringing his bell, ‘we shall alarm the inn. Mr. Lowten, don’t you hear a knock?’

‘I’ll answer the door in one moment, Sir,’ replied the clerk.

The knocker appeared to hear the response, and to assert that it was quite impossible he could wait so long. It made a stupendous uproar.

‘It’s quite dreadful,’ said Mr. Pickwick, stopping his ears.

‘Make haste, Mr. Lowten,’ Perker called out; ‘we shall have the panels beaten in.’

Mr. Lowten, who was washing his hands in a dark closet, hurried to the door, and turning the handle, beheld the appearance which is described in the next chapter.

CHAPTER LIV. CONTAINING SOME PARTICULARS RELATIVE TO THE DOUBLE KNOCK, AND OTHER MATTERS: AMONG WHICH CERTAIN INTERESTING DISCLOSURES RELATIVE TO MR. SNODGRASS AND A YOUNG LADY ARE BY NO MEANS IRRELEVANT TO THIS HISTORY

The object that presented itself to the eyes of the astonished clerk, was a boy—a wonderfully fat boy—habited as a serving lad, standing upright on the mat, with his eyes closed as if in sleep. He had never seen such a fat boy, in or out of a travelling caravan; and this, coupled with the calmness and repose of his appearance, so very different from what was reasonably to have been expected of the inflicter of such knocks, smote him with wonder.

‘What’s the matter?’ inquired the clerk.

The extraordinary boy replied not a word; but he nodded once, and seemed, to the clerk’s imagination, to snore feebly.

‘Where do you come from?’ inquired the clerk.

The boy made no sign. He breathed heavily, but in all other respects was motionless.

The clerk repeated the question thrice, and receiving no answer, prepared to shut the door, when the boy suddenly opened his eyes, winked several times, sneezed once, and raised his hand as if to repeat the knocking. Finding the door open, he stared about him with astonishment, and at length fixed his eyes on Mr. Lowten’s face.

‘What the devil do you knock in that way for?’ inquired the clerk angrily.

‘Which way?’ said the boy, in a slow and sleepy voice.

‘Why, like forty hackney-coachmen,’ replied the clerk.

‘Because master said, I wasn’t to leave off knocking till they opened the door, for fear I should go to sleep,’ said the boy.

‘Well,’ said the clerk, ‘what message have you brought?’

‘He’s downstairs,’ rejoined the boy.

‘Who?’

‘Master. He wants to know whether you’re at home.’

Mr. Lowten bethought himself, at this juncture, of looking out of the window. Seeing an open carriage with a hearty old gentleman in it, looking up very anxiously, he ventured to beckon him; on which, the old gentleman jumped out directly.

‘That’s your master in the carriage, I suppose?’ said Lowten.

The boy nodded.

All further inquiries were superseded by the appearance of old Wardle, who, running upstairs and just recognising Lowten, passed at once into Mr. Perker’s room.

‘Pickwick!’ said the old gentleman. ‘Your hand, my boy! Why have I never heard until the day before yesterday of your suffering yourself to be cooped up in jail? And why did you let him do it, Perker?’

‘I couldn’t help it, my dear Sir,’ replied Perker, with a smile and a pinch of snuff; ‘you know how obstinate he is?’

‘Of course I do; of course I do,’ replied the old gentleman. ‘I am heartily glad to see him, notwithstanding. I will not lose sight of him again, in a hurry.’

With these words, Wardle shook Mr. Pickwick’s hand once more, and, having done the same by Perker, threw himself into an arm-chair, his jolly red face shining again with smiles and health.

‘Well!’ said Wardle. ‘Here are pretty goings on—a pinch of your snuff, Perker, my boy—never were such times, eh?’

‘What do you mean?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Mean!’ replied Wardle. ‘Why, I think the girls are all running mad; that’s no news, you’ll say? Perhaps it’s not; but it’s true, for all that.’

‘You have not come up to London, of all places in the world, to tell us that, my dear Sir, have you?’ inquired Perker.

‘No, not altogether,’ replied Wardle; ‘though it was the main cause of my coming. How’s Arabella?’

‘Very well,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘and will be delighted to see you, I am sure.’

‘Black-eyed little jilt!’ replied Wardle. ‘I had a great idea of marrying her myself, one of these odd days. But I am glad of it too, very glad.’

‘How did the intelligence reach you?’ asked Mr. Pickwick.

‘Oh, it came to my girls, of course,’ replied Wardle. ‘Arabella wrote, the day before yesterday, to say she had made a stolen match without her husband’s father’s consent, and so you had gone down to get it when his refusing it couldn’t prevent the match, and all the rest of it. I thought it a very good time to say something serious to my girls; so I said what a dreadful thing it was that children should marry without their parents’ consent, and so forth; but, bless your hearts, I couldn’t make the least impression upon them. They thought it such a much more dreadful thing that there should have been a wedding without bridesmaids, that I might as well have preached to Joe himself.’

Here the old gentleman stopped to laugh; and having done so to his heart’s content, presently resumed—

‘But this is not the best of it, it seems. This is only half the love- making and plotting that have been going forward. We have been walking on mines for the last six months, and they’re sprung at last.’

‘What do you mean?’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, turning pale; ‘no other secret marriage, I hope?’

‘No, no,’ replied old Wardle; ‘not so bad as that; no.’

‘What then?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick; ‘am I interested in it?’

‘Shall I answer that question, Perker?’ said Wardle.

‘If you don’t commit yourself by doing so, my dear Sir.’

‘Well then, you are,’ said Wardle.

‘How?’ asked Mr. Pickwick anxiously. ‘In what way?’

‘Really,’ replied Wardle, ‘you’re such a fiery sort of a young fellow that I am almost afraid to tell you; but, however, if Perker will sit between us to prevent mischief, I’ll venture.’

Having closed the room door, and fortified himself with another application to Perker’s snuff-box, the old gentleman proceeded with his great disclosure in these words—

‘The fact is, that my daughter Bella—Bella, who married young Trundle, you know.’

‘Yes, yes, we know,’ said Mr. Pickwick impatiently.

‘Don’t alarm me at the very beginning. My daughter Bella—Emily having gone to bed with a headache after she had read Arabella’s letter to me— sat herself down by my side the other evening, and began to talk over this marriage affair. “Well, pa,” she says, “what do you think of it?” “Why, my dear,” I said, “I suppose it’s all very well; I hope it’s for the best.” I answered in this way because I was sitting before the fire at the time, drinking my grog rather thoughtfully, and I knew my throwing in an undecided word now and then, would induce her to continue talking. Both my girls are pictures of their dear mother, and as I grow old I like to sit with only them by me; for their voices and looks carry me back to the happiest period of my life, and make me, for the moment, as young as I used to be then, though not quite so light-hearted. “It’s quite a marriage of affection, pa,” said Bella, after a short silence. “Yes, my dear,” said I, “but such marriages do not always turn out the happiest.”’

‘I question that, mind!’ interposed Mr. Pickwick warmly.

‘Very good,’ responded Wardle, ‘question anything you like when it’s your turn to speak, but don’t interrupt me.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Granted,’ replied Wardle. ‘“I am sorry to hear you express your opinion against marriages of affection, pa,” said Bella, colouring a little. “I was wrong; I ought not to have said so, my dear, either,” said I, patting her cheek as kindly as a rough old fellow like me could pat it, “for your mother’s was one, and so was yours.” “It’s not that I meant, pa,” said Bella. “The fact is, pa, I wanted to speak to you about Emily.”’

Mr. Pickwick started.

‘What’s the matter now?’ inquired Wardle, stopping in his narrative.

‘Nothing,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘Pray go on.’

‘I never could spin out a story,’ said Wardle abruptly. ‘It must come out, sooner or later, and it’ll save us all a great deal of time if it comes at once. The long and the short of it is, then, that Bella at last mustered up courage to tell me that Emily was very unhappy; that she and your young friend Snodgrass had been in constant correspondence and communication ever since last Christmas; that she had very dutifully made up her mind to run away with him, in laudable imitation of her old friend and school-fellow; but that having some compunctions of conscience on the subject, inasmuch as I had always been rather kindly disposed to both of them, they had thought it better in the first instance to pay me the compliment of asking whether I would have any objection to their being married in the usual matter-of-fact manner. There now, Mr. Pickwick, if you can make it convenient to reduce your eyes to their usual size again, and to let me hear what you think we ought to do, I shall feel rather obliged to you!’

The testy manner in which the hearty old gentleman uttered this last sentence was not wholly unwarranted; for Mr. Pickwick’s face had settled down into an expression of blank amazement and perplexity, quite curious to behold.

‘Snodgrass!—since last Christmas!’ were the first broken words that issued from the lips of the confounded gentleman.

‘Since last Christmas,’ replied Wardle; ‘that’s plain enough, and very bad spectacles we must have worn, not to have discovered it before.’

‘I don’t understand it,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ruminating; ‘I cannot really understand it.’

‘It’s easy enough to understand it,’ replied the choleric old gentleman. ‘If you had been a younger man, you would have been in the secret long ago; and besides,’ added Wardle, after a moment’s hesitation, ‘the truth is, that, knowing nothing of this matter, I have rather pressed Emily for four or five months past, to receive favourably (if she could; I would never attempt to force a girl’s inclinations) the addresses of a young gentleman down in our neighbourhood. I have no doubt that, girl- like, to enhance her own value and increase the ardour of Mr. Snodgrass, she has represented this matter in very glowing colours, and that they have both arrived at the conclusion that they are a terribly-persecuted pair of unfortunates, and have no resource but clandestine matrimony, or charcoal. Now the question is, what’s to be done?’

‘What have _you _done?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘I!’

‘I mean what did you do when your married daughter told you this?’

‘Oh, I made a fool of myself of course,’ rejoined Wardle.

‘Just so,’ interposed Perker, who had accompanied this dialogue with sundry twitchings of his watch-chain, vindictive rubbings of his nose, and other symptoms of impatience. ‘That’s very natural; but how?’

‘I went into a great passion and frightened my mother into a fit,’ said Wardle.

‘That was judicious,’ remarked Perker; ‘and what else?’

‘I fretted and fumed all next day, and raised a great disturbance,’ rejoined the old gentleman. ‘At last I got tired of rendering myself unpleasant and making everybody miserable; so I hired a carriage at Muggleton, and, putting my own horses in it, came up to town, under pretence of bringing Emily to see Arabella.’

‘Miss Wardle is with you, then?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘To be sure she is,’ replied Wardle. ‘She is at Osborne’s Hotel in the Adelphi at this moment, unless your enterprising friend has run away with her since I came out this morning.’

‘You are reconciled then?’ said Perker.

‘Not a bit of it,’ answered Wardle; ‘she has been crying and moping ever since, except last night, between tea and supper, when she made a great parade of writing a letter that I pretended to take no notice of.’

‘You want my advice in this matter, I suppose?’ said Perker, looking from the musing face of Mr. Pickwick to the eager countenance of Wardle, and taking several consecutive pinches of his favourite stimulant.

‘I suppose so,’ said Wardle, looking at Mr. Pickwick.

‘Certainly,’ replied that gentleman.

‘Well then,’ said Perker, rising and pushing his chair back, ‘my advice is, that you both walk away together, or ride away, or get away by some means or other, for I’m tired of you, and just talk this matter over between you. If you have not settled it by the next time I see you, I’ll tell you what to do.’

‘This is satisfactory,’ said Wardle, hardly knowing whether to smile or be offended.

‘Pooh, pooh, my dear Sir,’ returned Perker. ‘I know you both a great deal better than you know yourselves. You have settled it already, to all intents and purposes.’

Thus expressing himself, the little gentleman poked his snuff-box first into the chest of Mr. Pickwick, and then into the waistcoat of Mr. Wardle, upon which they all three laughed, especially the two last-named gentlemen, who at once shook hands again, without any obvious or particular reason.

‘You dine with me to-day,’ said Wardle to Perker, as he showed them out.

‘Can’t promise, my dear Sir, can’t promise,’ replied Perker. ‘I’ll look in, in the evening, at all events.’

‘I shall expect you at five,’ said Wardle. ‘Now, Joe!’ And Joe having been at length awakened, the two friends departed in Mr. Wardle’s carriage, which in common humanity had a dickey behind for the fat boy, who, if there had been a footboard instead, would have rolled off and killed himself in his very first nap.

Driving to the George and Vulture, they found that Arabella and her maid had sent for a hackney-coach immediately on the receipt of a short note from Emily announcing her arrival in town, and had proceeded straight to the Adelphi. As Wardle had business to transact in the city, they sent the carriage and the fat boy to his hotel, with the information that he and Mr. Pickwick would return together to dinner at five o’clock.

Charged with this message, the fat boy returned, slumbering as peaceably in his dickey, over the stones, as if it had been a down bed on watch springs. By some extraordinary miracle he awoke of his own accord, when the coach stopped, and giving himself a good shake to stir up his faculties, went upstairs to execute his commission.

Now, whether the shake had jumbled the fat boy’s faculties together, instead of arranging them in proper order, or had roused such a quantity of new ideas within him as to render him oblivious of ordinary forms and ceremonies, or (which is also possible) had proved unsuccessful in preventing his falling asleep as he ascended the stairs, it is an undoubted fact that he walked into the sitting-room without previously knocking at the door; and so beheld a gentleman with his arms clasping his young mistress’s waist, sitting very lovingly by her side on a sofa, while Arabella and her pretty handmaid feigned to be absorbed in looking out of a window at the other end of the room. At the sight of this phenomenon, the fat boy uttered an interjection, the ladies a scream, and the gentleman an oath, almost simultaneously.

‘Wretched creature, what do you want here?’ said the gentleman, who it is needless to say was Mr. Snodgrass.

To this the fat boy, considerably terrified, briefly responded, ‘Missis.’

‘What do you want me for,’ inquired Emily, turning her head aside, ‘you stupid creature?’

‘Master and Mr. Pickwick is a-going to dine here at five,’ replied the fat boy.

‘Leave the room!’ said Mr. Snodgrass, glaring upon the bewildered youth.

‘No, no, no,’ added Emily hastily. ‘Bella, dear, advise me.’

Upon this, Emily and Mr. Snodgrass, and Arabella and Mary, crowded into a corner, and conversed earnestly in whispers for some minutes, during which the fat boy dozed.

‘Joe,’ said Arabella, at length, looking round with a most bewitching smile, ‘how do you do, Joe?’

‘Joe,’ said Emily, ‘you’re a very good boy; I won’t forget you, Joe.’

‘Joe,’ said Mr. Snodgrass, advancing to the astonished youth, and seizing his hand, ‘I didn’t know you before. There’s five shillings for you, Joe!”

‘I’ll owe you five, Joe,’ said Arabella, ‘for old acquaintance sake, you know;’ and another most captivating smile was bestowed upon the corpulent intruder.

The fat boy’s perception being slow, he looked rather puzzled at first to account for this sudden prepossession in his favour, and stared about him in a very alarming manner. At length his broad face began to show symptoms of a grin of proportionately broad dimensions; and then, thrusting half-a-crown into each of his pockets, and a hand and wrist after it, he burst into a horse laugh: being for the first and only time in his existence.

‘He understands us, I see,’ said Arabella.

‘He had better have something to eat, immediately,’ remarked Emily.

The fat boy almost laughed again when he heard this suggestion. Mary, after a little more whispering, tripped forth from the group and said—

‘I am going to dine with you to-day, sir, if you have no objection.’

‘This way,’ said the fat boy eagerly. ‘There is such a jolly meat-pie!’

With these words, the fat boy led the way downstairs; his pretty companion captivating all the waiters and angering all the chambermaids as she followed him to the eating-room.

There was the meat-pie of which the youth had spoken so feelingly, and there were, moreover, a steak, and a dish of potatoes, and a pot of porter.

‘Sit down,’ said the fat boy. ‘Oh, my eye, how prime! I am so hungry.’

Having apostrophised his eye, in a species of rapture, five or six times, the youth took the head of the little table, and Mary seated herself at the bottom.

‘Will you have some of this?’ said the fat boy, plunging into the pie up to the very ferules of the knife and fork.

‘A little, if you please,’ replied Mary.

The fat boy assisted Mary to a little, and himself to a great deal, and was just going to begin eating when he suddenly laid down his knife and fork, leaned forward in his chair, and letting his hands, with the knife and fork in them, fall on his knees, said, very slowly—

‘I say! How nice you look!’

This was said in an admiring manner, and was, so far, gratifying; but still there was enough of the cannibal in the young gentleman’s eyes to render the compliment a double one.

‘Dear me, Joseph,’ said Mary, affecting to blush, ‘what do you mean?’

The fat boy, gradually recovering his former position, replied with a heavy sigh, and, remaining thoughtful for a few moments, drank a long draught of the porter. Having achieved this feat, he sighed again, and applied himself assiduously to the pie.

‘What a nice young lady Miss Emily is!’ said Mary, after a long silence.

The fat boy had by this time finished the pie. He fixed his eyes on Mary, and replied—

‘I knows a nicerer.’

‘Indeed!’ said Mary.

‘Yes, indeed!’ replied the fat boy, with unwonted vivacity.

‘What’s her name?’ inquired Mary.

‘What’s yours?’

‘Mary.’

‘So’s hers,’ said the fat boy. ‘You’re her.’ The boy grinned to add point to the compliment, and put his eyes into something between a squint and a cast, which there is reason to believe he intended for an ogle.

‘You mustn’t talk to me in that way,’ said Mary; ‘you don’t mean it.’

‘Don’t I, though?’ replied the fat boy. ‘I say?’

‘Well?’

‘Are you going to come here regular?’

‘No,’ rejoined Mary, shaking her head, ‘I’m going away again to-night. Why?’

‘Oh,’ said the fat boy, in a tone of strong feeling; ‘how we should have enjoyed ourselves at meals, if you had been!’

‘I might come here sometimes, perhaps, to see you,’ said Mary, plaiting the table-cloth in assumed coyness, ‘if you would do me a favour.’

The fat boy looked from the pie-dish to the steak, as if he thought a favour must be in a manner connected with something to eat; and then took out one of the half-crowns and glanced at it nervously.

‘Don’t you understand me?’ said Mary, looking slily in his fat face.

Again he looked at the half-crown, and said faintly, ‘No.’

‘The ladies want you not to say anything to the old gentleman about the young gentleman having been upstairs; and I want you too.’

‘Is that all?’ said the fat boy, evidently very much relieved, as he pocketed the half-crown again. ‘Of course I ain’t a-going to.’

‘You see,’ said Mary, ‘Mr. Snodgrass is very fond of Miss Emily, and Miss Emily’s very fond of him, and if you were to tell about it, the old gentleman would carry you all away miles into the country, where you’d see nobody.’

‘No, no, I won’t tell,’ said the fat boy stoutly.

‘That’s a dear,’ said Mary. ‘Now it’s time I went upstairs, and got my lady ready for dinner.’

‘Don’t go yet,’ urged the fat boy.

‘I must,’ replied Mary. ‘Good-bye, for the present.’

The fat boy, with elephantine playfulness, stretched out his arms to ravish a kiss; but as it required no great agility to elude him, his fair enslaver had vanished before he closed them again; upon which the apathetic youth ate a pound or so of steak with a sentimental countenance, and fell fast asleep.

There was so much to say upstairs, and there were so many plans to concert for elopement and matrimony in the event of old Wardle continuing to be cruel, that it wanted only half an hour of dinner when Mr. Snodgrass took his final adieu. The ladies ran to Emily’s bedroom to dress, and the lover, taking up his hat, walked out of the room. He had scarcely got outside the door, when he heard Wardle’s voice talking loudly, and looking over the banisters beheld him, followed by some other gentlemen, coming straight upstairs. Knowing nothing of the house, Mr. Snodgrass in his confusion stepped hastily back into the room he had just quitted, and passing thence into an inner apartment (Mr. Wardle’s bedchamber), closed the door softly, just as the persons he had caught a glimpse of entered the sitting-room. These were Mr. Wardle, Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Nathaniel Winkle, and Mr. Benjamin Allen, whom he had no difficulty in recognising by their voices.

‘Very lucky I had the presence of mind to avoid them,’ thought Mr. Snodgrass with a smile, and walking on tiptoe to another door near the bedside; ‘this opens into the same passage, and I can walk quietly and comfortably away.’

There was only one obstacle to his walking quietly and comfortably away, which was that the door was locked and the key gone.

‘Let us have some of your best wine to-day, waiter,’ said old Wardle, rubbing his hands.

‘You shall have some of the very best, sir,’ replied the waiter.

‘Let the ladies know we have come in.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

Devoutly and ardently did Mr. Snodgrass wish that the ladies could know he had come in. He ventured once to whisper, ‘Waiter!’ through the keyhole, but the probability of the wrong waiter coming to his relief, flashed upon his mind, together with a sense of the strong resemblance between his own situation and that in which another gentleman had been recently found in a neighbouring hotel (an account of whose misfortunes had appeared under the head of ‘Police’ in that morning’s paper), he sat himself on a portmanteau, and trembled violently.

‘We won’t wait a minute for Perker,’ said Wardle, looking at his watch; ‘he is always exact. He will be here, in time, if he means to come; and if he does not, it’s of no use waiting. Ha! Arabella!’

‘My sister!’ exclaimed Mr. Benjamin Allen, folding her in a most romantic embrace.

‘Oh, Ben, dear, how you do smell of tobacco,’ said Arabella, rather overcome by this mark of affection.

‘Do I?’ said Mr. Benjamin Allen. ‘Do I, Bella? Well, perhaps I do.’

Perhaps he did, having just left a pleasant little smoking-party of twelve medical students, in a small back parlour with a large fire.

‘But I am delighted to see you,’ said Mr. Ben Allen. ‘Bless you, Bella!’

‘There,’ said Arabella, bending forward to kiss her brother; ‘don’t take hold of me again, Ben, dear, because you tumble me so.’

At this point of the reconciliation, Mr. Ben Allen allowed his feelings and the cigars and porter to overcome him, and looked round upon the beholders with damp spectacles.

‘Is nothing to be said to me?’ cried Wardle, with open arms.

‘A great deal,’ whispered Arabella, as she received the old gentleman’s hearty caress and congratulation. ‘You are a hard-hearted, unfeeling, cruel monster.’

‘You are a little rebel,’ replied Wardle, in the same tone, ‘and I am afraid I shall be obliged to forbid you the house. People like you, who get married in spite of everybody, ought not to be let loose on society. But come!’ added the old gentleman aloud, ‘here’s the dinner; you shall sit by me. Joe; why, damn the boy, he’s awake!’

To the great distress of his master, the fat boy was indeed in a state of remarkable vigilance, his eyes being wide open, and looking as if they intended to remain so. There was an alacrity in his manner, too, which was equally unaccountable; every time his eyes met those of Emily or Arabella, he smirked and grinned; once, Wardle could have sworn, he saw him wink.

This alteration in the fat boy’s demeanour originated in his increased sense of his own importance, and the dignity he acquired from having been taken into the confidence of the young ladies; and the smirks, and grins, and winks were so many condescending assurances that they might depend upon his fidelity. As these tokens were rather calculated to awaken suspicion than allay it, and were somewhat embarrassing besides, they were occasionally answered by a frown or shake of the head from Arabella, which the fat boy, considering as hints to be on his guard, expressed his perfect understanding of, by smirking, grinning, and winking, with redoubled assiduity.

‘Joe,’ said Mr. Wardle, after an unsuccessful search in all his pockets, ‘is my snuff-box on the sofa?’

‘No, sir,’ replied the fat boy.

‘Oh, I recollect; I left it on my dressing-table this morning,’ said Wardle. ‘Run into the next room and fetch it.’

The fat boy went into the next room; and, having been absent about a minute, returned with the snuff-box, and the palest face that ever a fat boy wore.

‘What’s the matter with the boy?’ exclaimed Wardle.

‘Nothen’s the matter with me,’ replied Joe nervously.

‘Have you been seeing any spirits?’ inquired the old gentleman.

‘Or taking any?’ added Ben Allen.

‘I think you’re right,’ whispered Wardle across the table. ‘He is intoxicated, I’m sure.’

Ben Allen replied that he thought he was; and, as that gentleman had seen a vast deal of the disease in question, Wardle was confirmed in an impression which had been hovering about his mind for half an hour, and at once arrived at the conclusion that the fat boy was drunk.

‘Just keep your eye upon him for a few minutes,’ murmured Wardle. ‘We shall soon find out whether he is or not.’

The unfortunate youth had only interchanged a dozen words with Mr. Snodgrass, that gentleman having implored him to make a private appeal to some friend to release him, and then pushed him out with the snuff- box, lest his prolonged absence should lead to a discovery. He ruminated a little with a most disturbed expression of face, and left the room in search of Mary.

But Mary had gone home after dressing her mistress, and the fat boy came back again more disturbed than before.

Wardle and Mr. Ben Allen exchanged glances.

‘Joe!’ said Wardle.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What did you go away for?’

The fat boy looked hopelessly in the face of everybody at table, and stammered out that he didn’t know.

‘Oh,’ said Wardle, ‘you don’t know, eh? Take this cheese to Mr. Pickwick.’

Now, Mr. Pickwick being in the very best health and spirits, had been making himself perfectly delightful all dinner-time, and was at this moment engaged in an energetic conversation with Emily and Mr. Winkle; bowing his head, courteously, in the emphasis of his discourse, gently waving his left hand to lend force to his observations, and all glowing with placid smiles. He took a piece of cheese from the plate, and was on the point of turning round to renew the conversation, when the fat boy, stooping so as to bring his head on a level with that of Mr. Pickwick, pointed with his thumb over his shoulder, and made the most horrible and hideous face that was ever seen out of a Christmas pantomime.

‘Dear me!’ said Mr. Pickwick, starting, ‘what a very—Eh?’ He stopped, for the fat boy had drawn himself up, and was, or pretended to be, fast asleep.

‘What’s the matter?’ inquired Wardle.

‘This is such an extremely singular lad!’ replied Mr. Pickwick, looking uneasily at the boy. ‘It seems an odd thing to say, but upon my word I am afraid that, at times, he is a little deranged.’

‘Oh! Mr. Pickwick, pray don’t say so,’ cried Emily and Arabella, both at once.

‘I am not certain, of course,’ said Mr. Pickwick, amidst profound silence and looks of general dismay; ‘but his manner to me this moment really was very alarming. Oh!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, suddenly jumping up with a short scream. ‘I beg your pardon, ladies, but at that moment he ran some sharp instrument into my leg. Really, he is not safe.’

‘He’s drunk,’ roared old Wardle passionately. ‘Ring the bell! Call the waiters! He’s drunk.’

‘I ain’t,’ said the fat boy, falling on his knees as his master seized him by the collar. ‘I ain’t drunk.’

‘Then you’re mad; that’s worse. Call the waiters,’ said the old gentleman.

‘I ain’t mad; I’m sensible,’ rejoined the fat boy, beginning to cry.

‘Then, what the devil did you run sharp instruments into Mr. Pickwick’s legs for?’ inquired Wardle angrily.

‘He wouldn’t look at me,’ replied the boy. ‘I wanted to speak to him.’

‘What did you want to say?’ asked half a dozen voices at once.

The fat boy gasped, looked at the bedroom door, gasped again, and wiped two tears away with the knuckle of each of his forefingers.

‘What did you want to say?’ demanded Wardle, shaking him.

‘Stop!’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘allow me. What did you wish to communicate to me, my poor boy?’

‘I want to whisper to you,’ replied the fat boy.

‘You want to bite his ear off, I suppose,’ said Wardle. ‘Don’t come near him; he’s vicious; ring the bell, and let him be taken downstairs.’

Just as Mr. Winkle caught the bell-rope in his hand, it was arrested by a general expression of astonishment; the captive lover, his face burning with confusion, suddenly walked in from the bedroom, and made a comprehensive bow to the company.

‘Hollo!’ cried Wardle, releasing the fat boy’s collar, and staggering back. ‘What’s this?’

‘I have been concealed in the next room, sir, since you returned,’ explained Mr. Snodgrass.

‘Emily, my girl,’ said Wardle reproachfully, ‘I detest meanness and deceit; this is unjustifiable and indelicate in the highest degree. I don’t deserve this at your hands, Emily, indeed!’

‘Dear papa,’ said Emily, ‘Arabella knows—everybody here knows—Joe knows—that I was no party to this concealment. Augustus, for Heaven’s sake, explain it!’

Mr. Snodgrass, who had only waited for a hearing, at once recounted how he had been placed in his then distressing predicament; how the fear of giving rise to domestic dissensions had alone prompted him to avoid Mr. Wardle on his entrance; how he merely meant to depart by another door, but, finding it locked, had been compelled to stay against his will. It was a painful situation to be placed in; but he now regretted it the less, inasmuch as it afforded him an opportunity of acknowledging, before their mutual friends, that he loved Mr. Wardle’s daughter deeply and sincerely; that he was proud to avow that the feeling was mutual; and that if thousands of miles were placed between them, or oceans rolled their waters, he could never for an instant forget those happy days, when first—et cetera, et cetera.

Having delivered himself to this effect, Mr. Snodgrass bowed again, looked into the crown of his hat, and stepped towards the door.

‘Stop!’ shouted Wardle. ‘Why, in the name of all that’s—’

‘Inflammable,’ mildly suggested Mr. Pickwick, who thought something worse was coming.

‘Well—that’s inflammable,’ said Wardle, adopting the substitute; ‘couldn’t you say all this to me in the first instance?’

‘Or confide in me?’ added Mr. Pickwick.

‘Dear, dear,’ said Arabella, taking up the defence, ‘what is the use of asking all that now, especially when you know you had set your covetous old heart on a richer son-in-law, and are so wild and fierce besides, that everybody is afraid of you, except me? Shake hands with him, and order him some dinner, for goodness gracious’ sake, for he looks half starved; and pray have your wine up at once, for you’ll not be tolerable until you have taken two bottles at least.’

The worthy old gentleman pulled Arabella’s ear, kissed her without the smallest scruple, kissed his daughter also with great affection, and shook Mr. Snodgrass warmly by the hand.

‘She is right on one point at all events,’ said the old gentleman cheerfully. ‘Ring for the wine!’

The wine came, and Perker came upstairs at the same moment. Mr. Snodgrass had dinner at a side table, and, when he had despatched it, drew his chair next Emily, without the smallest opposition on the old gentleman’s part.

The evening was excellent. Little Mr. Perker came out wonderfully, told various comic stories, and sang a serious song which was almost as funny as the anecdotes. Arabella was very charming, Mr. Wardle very jovial, Mr. Pickwick very harmonious, Mr. Ben Allen very uproarious, the lovers very silent, Mr. Winkle very talkative, and all of them very happy.

CHAPTER LV. MR. SOLOMON PELL, ASSISTED BY A SELECT COMMITTEE OF COACHMEN, ARRANGES THE AFFAIRS OF THE ELDER MR. WELLER

Samivel,’ said Mr. Weller, accosting his son on the morning after the funeral, ‘I’ve found it, Sammy. I thought it wos there.’

‘Thought wot wos there?’ inquired Sam.

‘Your mother-in-law’s vill, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘In wirtue o’ vich, them arrangements is to be made as I told you on, last night, respectin’ the funs.’

‘Wot, didn’t she tell you were it wos?’ inquired Sam.

‘Not a bit on it, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘We wos a adjestin’ our little differences, and I wos a-cheerin’ her spirits and bearin’ her up, so that I forgot to ask anythin’ about it. I don’t know as I should ha’ done it, indeed, if I had remembered it,’ added Mr. Weller, ‘for it’s a rum sort o’ thing, Sammy, to go a-hankerin’ arter anybody’s property, ven you’re assistin’ ‘em in illness. It’s like helping an outside passenger up, ven he’s been pitched off a coach, and puttin’ your hand in his pocket, vile you ask him, vith a sigh, how he finds his-self, Sammy.’

With this figurative illustration of his meaning, Mr. Weller unclasped his pocket-book, and drew forth a dirty sheet of letter-paper, on which were inscribed various characters crowded together in remarkable confusion.

‘This here is the dockyment, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘I found it in the little black tea-pot, on the top shelf o’ the bar closet. She used to keep bank-notes there, ‘fore she vos married, Samivel. I’ve seen her take the lid off, to pay a bill, many and many a time. Poor creetur, she might ha’ filled all the tea-pots in the house vith vills, and not have inconwenienced herself neither, for she took wery little of anythin’ in that vay lately, ‘cept on the temperance nights, ven they just laid a foundation o’ tea to put the spirits atop on!’

‘What does it say?’ inquired Sam.

‘Jist vot I told you, my boy,’ rejoined his parent. ‘Two hundred pound vurth o’ reduced counsels to my son-in-law, Samivel, and all the rest o’ my property, of ev’ry kind and description votsoever, to my husband, Mr. Tony Veller, who I appint as my sole eggzekiter.’

‘That’s all, is it?’ said Sam.

‘That’s all,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘And I s’pose as it’s all right and satisfactory to you and me as is the only parties interested, ve may as vell put this bit o’ paper into the fire.’

‘Wot are you a-doin’ on, you lunatic?’ said Sam, snatching the paper away, as his parent, in all innocence, stirred the fire preparatory to suiting the action to the word. ‘You’re a nice eggzekiter, you are.’

‘Vy not?’ inquired Mr. Weller, looking sternly round, with the poker in his hand.

‘Vy not?’ exclaimed Sam. ‘’Cos it must be proved, and probated, and swore to, and all manner o’ formalities.’

‘You don’t mean that?’ said Mr. Weller, laying down the poker.

Sam buttoned the will carefully in a side pocket; intimating by a look, meanwhile, that he did mean it, and very seriously too.

‘Then I’ll tell you wot it is,’ said Mr. Weller, after a short meditation, ‘this is a case for that ‘ere confidential pal o’ the Chancellorship’s. Pell must look into this, Sammy. He’s the man for a difficult question at law. Ve’ll have this here brought afore the Solvent Court, directly, Samivel.’

‘I never did see such a addle-headed old creetur!’ exclaimed Sam irritably; ‘Old Baileys, and Solvent Courts, and alleybis, and ev’ry species o’ gammon alvays a-runnin’ through his brain. You’d better get your out o’ door clothes on, and come to town about this bisness, than stand a-preachin’ there about wot you don’t understand nothin’ on.’

‘Wery good, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller, ‘I’m quite agreeable to anythin’ as vill hexpedite business, Sammy. But mind this here, my boy, nobody but Pell—nobody but Pell as a legal adwiser.’

‘I don’t want anybody else,’ replied Sam. ‘Now, are you a-comin’?’

‘Vait a minit, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller, who, having tied his shawl with the aid of a small glass that hung in the window, was now, by dint of the most wonderful exertions, struggling into his upper garments. ‘Vait a minit’ Sammy; ven you grow as old as your father, you von’t get into your veskit quite as easy as you do now, my boy.’

‘If I couldn’t get into it easier than that, I’m blessed if I’d vear vun at all,’ rejoined his son.

‘You think so now,’ said Mr. Weller, with the gravity of age, ‘but you’ll find that as you get vider, you’ll get viser. Vidth and visdom, Sammy, alvays grows together.’

As Mr. Weller delivered this infallible maxim—the result of many years’ personal experience and observation—he contrived, by a dexterous twist of his body, to get the bottom button of his coat to perform its office. Having paused a few seconds to recover breath, he brushed his hat with his elbow, and declared himself ready.

‘As four heads is better than two, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, as they drove along the London Road in the chaise-cart, ‘and as all this here property is a wery great temptation to a legal gen’l’m’n, ve’ll take a couple o’ friends o’ mine vith us, as’ll be wery soon down upon him if he comes anythin’ irreg’lar; two o’ them as saw you to the Fleet that day. They’re the wery best judges,’ added Mr. Weller, in a half-whisper- -’the wery best judges of a horse, you ever know’d.’

‘And of a lawyer too?’ inquired Sam.

‘The man as can form a ackerate judgment of a animal, can form a ackerate judgment of anythin’,’ replied his father, so dogmatically, that Sam did not attempt to controvert the position.

In pursuance of this notable resolution, the services of the mottled- faced gentleman and of two other very fat coachmen—selected by Mr. Weller, probably, with a view to their width and consequent wisdom—were put into requisition; and this assistance having been secured, the party proceeded to the public-house in Portugal Street, whence a messenger was despatched to the Insolvent Court over the way, requiring Mr. Solomon Pell’s immediate attendance.

The messenger fortunately found Mr. Solomon Pell in court, regaling himself, business being rather slack, with a cold collation of an Abernethy biscuit and a saveloy. The message was no sooner whispered in his ear than he thrust them in his pocket among various professional documents, and hurried over the way with such alacrity that he reached the parlour before the messenger had even emancipated himself from the court.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Mr. Pell, touching his hat, ‘my service to you all. I don’t say it to flatter you, gentlemen, but there are not five other men in the world, that I’d have come out of that court for, to-day.’

‘So busy, eh?’ said Sam.

‘Busy!’ replied Pell; ‘I’m completely sewn up, as my friend the late Lord Chancellor many a time used to say to me, gentlemen, when he came out from hearing appeals in the House of Lords. Poor fellow; he was very susceptible to fatigue; he used to feel those appeals uncommonly. I actually thought more than once that he’d have sunk under ‘em; I did, indeed.’

Here Mr. Pell shook his head and paused; on which, the elder Mr. Weller, nudging his neighbour, as begging him to mark the attorney’s high connections, asked whether the duties in question produced any permanent ill effects on the constitution of his noble friend.

‘I don’t think he ever quite recovered them,’ replied Pell; ‘in fact I’m sure he never did. “Pell,” he used to say to me many a time, “how the blazes you can stand the head-work you do, is a mystery to me.”—“Well,” I used to answer, “I hardly know how I do it, upon my life.”—“Pell,” he’d add, sighing, and looking at me with a little envy—friendly envy, you know, gentlemen, mere friendly envy; I never minded it—“Pell, you’re a wonder; a wonder.” Ah! you’d have liked him very much if you had known him, gentlemen. Bring me three-penn’orth of rum, my dear.’

Addressing this latter remark to the waitress, in a tone of subdued grief, Mr. Pell sighed, looked at his shoes and the ceiling; and, the rum having by that time arrived, drank it up.

‘However,’ said Pell, drawing a chair to the table, ‘a professional man has no right to think of his private friendships when his legal assistance is wanted. By the bye, gentlemen, since I saw you here before, we have had to weep over a very melancholy occurrence.’

Mr. Pell drew out a pocket-handkerchief, when he came to the word weep, but he made no further use of it than to wipe away a slight tinge of rum which hung upon his upper lip.

‘I saw it in the ADVERTISER, Mr. Weller,’ continued Pell. ‘Bless my soul, not more than fifty-two! Dear me—only think.’

These indications of a musing spirit were addressed to the mottled-faced man, whose eyes Mr. Pell had accidentally caught; on which, the mottled- faced man, whose apprehension of matters in general was of a foggy nature, moved uneasily in his seat, and opined that, indeed, so far as that went, there was no saying how things was brought about; which observation, involving one of those subtle propositions which it is difficult to encounter in argument, was controverted by nobody.

‘I have heard it remarked that she was a very fine woman, Mr. Weller,’ said Pell, in a sympathising manner.

‘Yes, sir, she wos,’ replied the elder Mr. Weller, not much relishing this mode of discussing the subject, and yet thinking that the attorney, from his long intimacy with the late Lord Chancellor, must know best on all matters of polite breeding. ‘She wos a wery fine ‘ooman, sir, ven I first know’d her. She wos a widder, sir, at that time.’

‘Now, it’s curious,’ said Pell, looking round with a sorrowful smile; ‘Mrs. Pell was a widow.’

‘That’s very extraordinary,’ said the mottled-faced man.

‘Well, it is a curious coincidence,’ said Pell.

‘Not at all,’ gruffly remarked the elder Mr. Weller. ‘More widders is married than single wimin.’

‘Very good, very good,’ said Pell, ‘you’re quite right, Mr. Weller. Mrs. Pell was a very elegant and accomplished woman; her manners were the theme of universal admiration in our neighbourhood. I was proud to see that woman dance; there was something so firm and dignified, and yet natural, in her motion. Her cutting, gentlemen, was simplicity itself. Ah! well, well! Excuse my asking the question, Mr. Samuel,’ continued the attorney in a lower voice, ‘was your mother-in-law tall?’

‘Not wery,’ replied Sam.

‘Mrs. Pell was a tall figure,’ said Pell, ‘a splendid woman, with a noble shape, and a nose, gentlemen, formed to command and be majestic. She was very much attached to me—very much—highly connected, too. Her mother’s brother, gentlemen, failed for eight hundred pounds, as a law stationer.’

‘Vell,’ said Mr. Weller, who had grown rather restless during this discussion, ‘vith regard to bis’ness.’

The word was music to Pell’s ears. He had been revolving in his mind whether any business was to be transacted, or whether he had been merely invited to partake of a glass of brandy-and-water, or a bowl of punch, or any similar professional compliment, and now the doubt was set at rest without his appearing at all eager for its solution. His eyes glistened as he laid his hat on the table, and said—

‘What is the business upon which—um? Either of these gentlemen wish to go through the court? We require an arrest; a friendly arrest will do, you know; we are all friends here, I suppose?’

‘Give me the dockyment, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, taking the will from his son, who appeared to enjoy the interview amazingly. ‘Wot we rekvire, sir, is a probe o’ this here.’

‘Probate, my dear Sir, probate,’ said Pell.

‘Well, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller sharply, ‘probe and probe it, is wery much the same; if you don’t understand wot I mean, sir, I des-say I can find them as does.’

‘No offence, I hope, Mr. Weller,’ said Pell meekly. ‘You are the executor, I see,’ he added, casting his eyes over the paper.

‘I am, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘These other gentlemen, I presume, are legatees, are they?’ inquired Pell, with a congratulatory smile.

‘Sammy is a leg-at-ease,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘these other gen’l’m’n is friends o’ mine, just come to see fair; a kind of umpires.’

‘Oh!’ said Pell, ‘very good. I have no objections, I’m sure. I shall want a matter of five pound of you before I begin, ha! ha! ha!’

It being decided by the committee that the five pound might be advanced, Mr. Weller produced that sum; after which, a long consultation about nothing particular took place, in the course whereof Mr. Pell demonstrated to the perfect satisfaction of the gentlemen who saw fair, that unless the management of the business had been intrusted to him, it must all have gone wrong, for reasons not clearly made out, but no doubt sufficient. This important point being despatched, Mr. Pell refreshed himself with three chops, and liquids both malt and spirituous, at the expense of the estate; and then they all went away to Doctors’ Commons.

The next day there was another visit to Doctors’ Commons, and a great to-do with an attesting hostler, who, being inebriated, declined swearing anything but profane oaths, to the great scandal of a proctor and surrogate. Next week, there were more visits to Doctors’ Commons, and there was a visit to the Legacy Duty Office besides, and there were treaties entered into, for the disposal of the lease and business, and ratifications of the same, and inventories to be made out, and lunches to be taken, and dinners to be eaten, and so many profitable things to be done, and such a mass of papers accumulated that Mr. Solomon Pell, and the boy, and the blue bag to boot, all got so stout that scarcely anybody would have known them for the same man, boy, and bag, that had loitered about Portugal Street, a few days before.

At length all these weighty matters being arranged, a day was fixed for selling out and transferring the stock, and of waiting with that view upon Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, stock-broker, of somewhere near the bank, who had been recommended by Mr. Solomon Pell for the purpose.

It was a kind of festive occasion, and the parties were attired accordingly. Mr. Weller’s tops were newly cleaned, and his dress was arranged with peculiar care; the mottled-faced gentleman wore at his button-hole a full-sized dahlia with several leaves; and the coats of his two friends were adorned with nosegays of laurel and other evergreens. All three were habited in strict holiday costume; that is to say, they were wrapped up to the chins, and wore as many clothes as possible, which is, and has been, a stage-coachman’s idea of full dress ever since stage-coaches were invented.

Mr. Pell was waiting at the usual place of meeting at the appointed time; even he wore a pair of gloves and a clean shirt, much frayed at the collar and wristbands by frequent washings.

‘A quarter to two,’ said Pell, looking at the parlour clock. ‘If we are with Mr. Flasher at a quarter past, we shall just hit the best time.’

‘What should you say to a drop o’ beer, gen’l’m’n?’ suggested the mottled-faced man.

‘And a little bit o’ cold beef,’ said the second coachman.

‘Or a oyster,’ added the third, who was a hoarse gentleman, supported by very round legs.

‘Hear, hear!’ said Pell; ‘to congratulate Mr. Weller, on his coming into possession of his property, eh? Ha! ha!’

‘I’m quite agreeable, gen’l’m’n,’ answered Mr. Weller. ‘Sammy, pull the bell.’

Sammy complied; and the porter, cold beef, and oysters being promptly produced, the lunch was done ample justice to. Where everybody took so active a part, it is almost invidious to make a distinction; but if one individual evinced greater powers than another, it was the coachman with the hoarse voice, who took an imperial pint of vinegar with his oysters, without betraying the least emotion.

‘Mr. Pell, Sir,’ said the elder Mr. Weller, stirring a glass of brandy- and-water, of which one was placed before every gentleman when the oyster shells were removed—‘Mr. Pell, Sir, it wos my intention to have proposed the funs on this occasion, but Samivel has vispered to me—’

Here Mr. Samuel Weller, who had silently eaten his oysters with tranquil smiles, cried, ‘Hear!’ in a very loud voice.

‘—Has vispered to me,’ resumed his father, ‘that it vould be better to dewote the liquor to vishin’ you success and prosperity, and thankin’ you for the manner in which you’ve brought this here business through. Here’s your health, sir.’

‘Hold hard there,’ interposed the mottled-faced gentleman, with sudden energy; ‘your eyes on me, gen’l’m’n!’

Saying this, the mottled-faced gentleman rose, as did the other gentlemen. The mottled-faced gentleman reviewed the company, and slowly lifted his hand, upon which every man (including him of the mottled countenance) drew a long breath, and lifted his tumbler to his lips. In one instant, the mottled-faced gentleman depressed his hand again, and every glass was set down empty. It is impossible to describe the thrilling effect produced by this striking ceremony. At once dignified, solemn, and impressive, it combined every element of grandeur.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ said Mr. Pell, ‘all I can say is, that such marks of confidence must be very gratifying to a professional man. I don’t wish to say anything that might appear egotistical, gentlemen, but I’m very glad, for your own sakes, that you came to me; that’s all. If you had gone to any low member of the profession, it’s my firm conviction, and I assure you of it as a fact, that you would have found yourselves in Queer Street before this. I could have wished my noble friend had been alive to have seen my management of this case. I don’t say it out of pride, but I think—However, gentlemen, I won’t trouble you with that. I’m generally to be found here, gentlemen, but if I’m not here, or over the way, that’s my address. You’ll find my terms very cheap and reasonable, and no man attends more to his clients than I do, and I hope I know a little of my profession besides. If you have any opportunity of recommending me to any of your friends, gentlemen, I shall be very much obliged to you, and so will they too, when they come to know me. Your healths, gentlemen.’

With this expression of his feelings, Mr. Solomon Pell laid three small written cards before Mr. Weller’s friends, and, looking at the clock again, feared it was time to be walking. Upon this hint Mr. Weller settled the bill, and, issuing forth, the executor, legatee, attorney, and umpires, directed their steps towards the city.

The office of Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, of the Stock Exchange, was in a first floor up a court behind the Bank of England; the house of Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, was at Brixton, Surrey; the horse and stanhope of Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, were at an adjacent livery stable; the groom of Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, was on his way to the West End to deliver some game; the clerk of Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, had gone to his dinner; and so Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, himself, cried, ‘Come in,’ when Mr. Pell and his companions knocked at the counting-house door.

‘Good-morning, Sir,’ said Pell, bowing obsequiously. ‘We want to make a little transfer, if you please.’

‘Oh, just come in, will you?’ said Mr. Flasher. ‘Sit down a minute; I’ll attend to you directly.’

‘Thank you, Sir,’ said Pell, ‘there’s no hurry. Take a chair, Mr. Weller.’

Mr. Weller took a chair, and Sam took a box, and the umpires took what they could get, and looked at the almanac and one or two papers which were wafered against the wall, with as much open-eyed reverence as if they had been the finest efforts of the old masters.

‘Well, I’ll bet you half a dozen of claret on it; come!’ said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, resuming the conversation to which Mr. Pell’s entrance had caused a momentary interruption.

This was addressed to a very smart young gentleman who wore his hat on his right whisker, and was lounging over the desk, killing flies with a ruler. Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, was balancing himself on two legs of an office stool, spearing a wafer-box with a penknife, which he dropped every now and then with great dexterity into the very centre of a small red wafer that was stuck outside. Both gentlemen had very open waistcoats and very rolling collars, and very small boots, and very big rings, and very little watches, and very large guard-chains, and symmetrical inexpressibles, and scented pocket-handkerchiefs.

‘I never bet half a dozen!’ said the other gentleman. ‘I’ll take a dozen.’

‘Done, Simmery, done!’ said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire.

‘P. P., mind,’ observed the other.

‘Of course,’ replied Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, entered it in a little book, with a gold pencil-case, and the other gentleman entered it also, in another little book with another gold pencil-case.

‘I see there’s a notice up this morning about Boffer,’ observed Mr. Simmery. ‘Poor devil, he’s expelled the house!’

‘I’ll bet you ten guineas to five, he cuts his throat,’ said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire.

‘Done,’ replied Mr. Simmery.

‘Stop! I bar,’ said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps he may hang himself.’

‘Very good,’ rejoined Mr. Simmery, pulling out the gold pencil-case again. ‘I’ve no objection to take you that way. Say, makes away with himself.’

‘Kills himself, in fact,’ said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire.

‘Just so,’ replied Mr. Simmery, putting it down. ‘“Flasher—ten guineas to five, Boffer kills himself.” Within what time shall we say?’

‘A fortnight?’ suggested Wilkins Flasher, Esquire.

‘Con-found it, no,’ rejoined Mr. Simmery, stopping for an instant to smash a fly with the ruler. ‘Say a week.’

‘Split the difference,’ said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. ‘Make it ten days.’

‘Well; ten days,’ rejoined Mr. Simmery.

So it was entered down on the little books that Boffer was to kill himself within ten days, or Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, was to hand over to Frank Simmery, Esquire, the sum of ten guineas; and that if Boffer did kill himself within that time, Frank Simmery, Esquire, would pay to Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, five guineas, instead.

‘I’m very sorry he has failed,’ said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. ‘Capital dinners he gave.’

‘Fine port he had too,’ remarked Mr. Simmery. ‘We are going to send our butler to the sale to-morrow, to pick up some of that sixty-four.’

‘The devil you are!’ said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. ‘My man’s going too. Five guineas my man outbids your man.’

‘Done.’

Another entry was made in the little books, with the gold pencil-cases; and Mr. Simmery, having by this time killed all the flies and taken all the bets, strolled away to the Stock Exchange to see what was going forward.

Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, now condescended to receive Mr. Solomon Pell’s instructions, and having filled up some printed forms, requested the party to follow him to the bank, which they did: Mr. Weller and his three friends staring at all they beheld in unbounded astonishment, and Sam encountering everything with a coolness which nothing could disturb.

Crossing a courtyard which was all noise and bustle, and passing a couple of porters who seemed dressed to match the red fire engine which was wheeled away into a corner, they passed into an office where their business was to be transacted, and where Pell and Mr. Flasher left them standing for a few moments, while they went upstairs into the Will Office.

‘Wot place is this here?’ whispered the mottled-faced gentleman to the elder Mr. Weller.

‘Counsel’s Office,’ replied the executor in a whisper.

‘Wot are them gen’l’men a-settin’ behind the counters?’ asked the hoarse coachman.

‘Reduced counsels, I s’pose,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Ain’t they the reduced counsels, Samivel?’

‘Wy, you don’t suppose the reduced counsels is alive, do you?’ inquired Sam, with some disdain.

‘How should I know?’ retorted Mr. Weller; ‘I thought they looked wery like it. Wot are they, then?’

‘Clerks,’ replied Sam.

‘Wot are they all a-eatin’ ham sangwidges for?’ inquired his father.

‘’Cos it’s in their dooty, I suppose,’ replied Sam, ‘it’s a part o’ the system; they’re alvays a-doin’ it here, all day long!’

Mr. Weller and his friends had scarcely had a moment to reflect upon this singular regulation as connected with the monetary system of the country, when they were rejoined by Pell and Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, who led them to a part of the counter above which was a round blackboard with a large ‘W.’ on it.

‘Wot’s that for, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Weller, directing Pell’s attention to the target in question.

‘The first letter of the name of the deceased,’ replied Pell.

‘I say,’ said Mr. Weller, turning round to the umpires, there’s somethin’ wrong here. We’s our letter—this won’t do.’

The referees at once gave it as their decided opinion that the business could not be legally proceeded with, under the letter W., and in all probability it would have stood over for one day at least, had it not been for the prompt, though, at first sight, undutiful behaviour of Sam, who, seizing his father by the skirt of the coat, dragged him to the counter, and pinned him there, until he had affixed his signature to a couple of instruments; which, from Mr. Weller’s habit of printing, was a work of so much labour and time, that the officiating clerk peeled and ate three Ribstone pippins while it was performing.

As the elder Mr. Weller insisted on selling out his portion forthwith, they proceeded from the bank to the gate of the Stock Exchange, to which Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, after a short absence, returned with a cheque on Smith, Payne, & Smith, for five hundred and thirty pounds; that being the money to which Mr. Weller, at the market price of the day, was entitled, in consideration of the balance of the second Mrs. Weller’s funded savings. Sam’s two hundred pounds stood transferred to his name, and Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, having been paid his commission, dropped the money carelessly into his coat pocket, and lounged back to his office.

Mr. Weller was at first obstinately determined on cashing the cheque in nothing but sovereigns; but it being represented by the umpires that by so doing he must incur the expense of a small sack to carry them home in, he consented to receive the amount in five-pound notes.

‘My son,’ said Mr. Weller, as they came out of the banking-house—‘my son and me has a wery partickler engagement this arternoon, and I should like to have this here bis’ness settled out of hand, so let’s jest go straight avay someveres, vere ve can hordit the accounts.’

A quiet room was soon found, and the accounts were produced and audited. Mr. Pell’s bill was taxed by Sam, and some charges were disallowed by the umpires; but, notwithstanding Mr. Pell’s declaration, accompanied with many solemn asseverations that they were really too hard upon him, it was by very many degrees the best professional job he had ever had, and one on which he boarded, lodged, and washed, for six months afterwards.

The umpires having partaken of a dram, shook hands and departed, as they had to drive out of town that night. Mr. Solomon Pell, finding that nothing more was going forward, either in the eating or drinking way, took a friendly leave, and Sam and his father were left alone.

‘There!’ said Mr. Weller, thrusting his pocket-book in his side pocket. ‘Vith the bills for the lease, and that, there’s eleven hundred and eighty pound here. Now, Samivel, my boy, turn the horses’ heads to the George and Wulter!’

CHAPTER LVI. AN IMPORTANT CONFERENCE TAKES PLACE BETWEEN MR. PICKWICK AND SAMUEL WELLER, AT WHICH HIS PARENT ASSISTS—AN OLD GENTLEMAN IN A SNUFF-COLOURED SUIT ARRIVES UNEXPECTEDLY

Mr. Pickwick was sitting alone, musing over many things, and thinking among other considerations how he could best provide for the young couple whose present unsettled condition was matter of constant regret and anxiety to him, when Mary stepped lightly into the room, and, advancing to the table, said, rather hastily—

‘Oh, if you please, Sir, Samuel is downstairs, and he says may his father see you?’

‘Surely,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Thank you, Sir,’ said Mary, tripping towards the door again.

‘Sam has not been here long, has he?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Oh, no, Sir,’ replied Mary eagerly. ‘He has only just come home. He is not going to ask you for any more leave, Sir, he says.’

Mary might have been conscious that she had communicated this last intelligence with more warmth than seemed actually necessary, or she might have observed the good-humoured smile with which Mr. Pickwick regarded her, when she had finished speaking. She certainly held down her head, and examined the corner of a very smart little apron, with more closeness than there appeared any absolute occasion for.

‘Tell them they can come up at once, by all means,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

Mary, apparently much relieved, hurried away with her message.

Mr. Pickwick took two or three turns up and down the room; and, rubbing his chin with his left hand as he did so, appeared lost in thought.

‘Well, well,’ said Mr. Pickwick, at length in a kind but somewhat melancholy tone, ‘it is the best way in which I could reward him for his attachment and fidelity; let it be so, in Heaven’s name. It is the fate of a lonely old man, that those about him should form new and different attachments and leave him. I have no right to expect that it should be otherwise with me. No, no,’ added Mr. Pickwick more cheerfully, ‘it would be selfish and ungrateful. I ought to be happy to have an opportunity of providing for him so well. I am. Of course I am.’

Mr. Pickwick had been so absorbed in these reflections, that a knock at the door was three or four times repeated before he heard it. Hastily seating himself, and calling up his accustomed pleasant looks, he gave the required permission, and Sam Weller entered, followed by his father.

‘Glad to see you back again, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘How do you do, Mr. Weller?’

‘Wery hearty, thank’ee, sir,’ replied the widower; ‘hope I see you well, sir.’

‘Quite, I thank you,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘I wanted to have a little bit o’ conwersation with you, sir,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘if you could spare me five minits or so, sir.’

‘Certainly,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘Sam, give your father a chair.’

‘Thank’ee, Samivel, I’ve got a cheer here,’ said Mr. Weller, bringing one forward as he spoke; ‘uncommon fine day it’s been, sir,’ added the old gentleman, laying his hat on the floor as he sat himself down.

‘Remarkably so, indeed,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘Very seasonable.’

‘Seasonablest veather I ever see, sir,’ rejoined Mr. Weller. Here, the old gentleman was seized with a violent fit of coughing, which, being terminated, he nodded his head and winked and made several supplicatory and threatening gestures to his son, all of which Sam Weller steadily abstained from seeing.

Mr. Pickwick, perceiving that there was some embarrassment on the old gentleman’s part, affected to be engaged in cutting the leaves of a book that lay beside him, and waited patiently until Mr. Weller should arrive at the object of his visit.

‘I never see sich a aggrawatin’ boy as you are, Samivel,’ said Mr. Weller, looking indignantly at his son; ‘never in all my born days.’

‘What is he doing, Mr. Weller?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘He von’t begin, sir,’ rejoined Mr. Weller; ‘he knows I ain’t ekal to ex-pressin’ myself ven there’s anythin’ partickler to be done, and yet he’ll stand and see me a-settin’ here taking up your walable time, and makin’ a reg’lar spectacle o’ myself, rayther than help me out vith a syllable. It ain’t filial conduct, Samivel,’ said Mr. Weller, wiping his forehead; ‘wery far from it.’

‘You said you’d speak,’ replied Sam; ‘how should I know you wos done up at the wery beginnin’?’

‘You might ha’ seen I warn’t able to start,’ rejoined his father; ‘I’m on the wrong side of the road, and backin’ into the palin’s, and all manner of unpleasantness, and yet you von’t put out a hand to help me. I’m ashamed on you, Samivel.’

‘The fact is, Sir,’ said Sam, with a slight bow, ‘the gov’nor’s been a- drawin’ his money.’

‘Wery good, Samivel, wery good,’ said Mr. Weller, nodding his head with a satisfied air, ‘I didn’t mean to speak harsh to you, Sammy. Wery good. That’s the vay to begin. Come to the pint at once. Wery good indeed, Samivel.’

Mr. Weller nodded his head an extraordinary number of times, in the excess of his gratification, and waited in a listening attitude for Sam to resume his statement.

‘You may sit down, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, apprehending that the interview was likely to prove rather longer than he had expected.

Sam bowed again and sat down; his father looking round, he continued—

‘The gov’nor, sir, has drawn out five hundred and thirty pound.’

‘Reduced counsels,’ interposed Mr. Weller, senior, in an undertone.

‘It don’t much matter vether it’s reduced counsels, or wot not,’ said Sam; ‘five hundred and thirty pounds is the sum, ain’t it?’

‘All right, Samivel,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘To vich sum, he has added for the house and bisness—’

‘Lease, good-vill, stock, and fixters,’ interposed Mr. Weller.

‘As much as makes it,’ continued Sam, ‘altogether, eleven hundred and eighty pound.’

‘Indeed!’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘I am delighted to hear it. I congratulate you, Mr. Weller, on having done so well.’

‘Vait a minit, Sir,’ said Mr. Weller, raising his hand in a deprecatory manner. ‘Get on, Samivel.’

‘This here money,’ said Sam, with a little hesitation, ‘he’s anxious to put someveres, vere he knows it’ll be safe, and I’m wery anxious too, for if he keeps it, he’ll go a-lendin’ it to somebody, or inwestin’ property in horses, or droppin’ his pocket-book down an airy, or makin’ a Egyptian mummy of his-self in some vay or another.’

‘Wery good, Samivel,’ observed Mr. Weller, in as complacent a manner as if Sam had been passing the highest eulogiums on his prudence and foresight. ‘Wery good.’

‘For vich reasons,’ continued Sam, plucking nervously at the brim of his hat—‘for vich reasons, he’s drawn it out to-day, and come here vith me to say, leastvays to offer, or in other vords—’

‘To say this here,’ said the elder Mr. Weller impatiently, ‘that it ain’t o’ no use to me. I’m a-goin’ to vork a coach reg’lar, and ha’n’t got noveres to keep it in, unless I vos to pay the guard for takin’ care on it, or to put it in vun o’ the coach pockets, vich ‘ud be a temptation to the insides. If you’ll take care on it for me, sir, I shall be wery much obliged to you. P’raps,’ said Mr. Weller, walking up to Mr. Pickwick and whispering in his ear—‘p’raps it’ll go a little vay towards the expenses o’ that ‘ere conwiction. All I say is, just you keep it till I ask you for it again.’ With these words, Mr. Weller placed the pocket-book in Mr. Pickwick’s hands, caught up his hat, and ran out of the room with a celerity scarcely to be expected from so corpulent a subject.

‘Stop him, Sam!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick earnestly. ‘Overtake him; bring him back instantly! Mr. Weller—here—come back!’

Sam saw that his master’s injunctions were not to be disobeyed; and, catching his father by the arm as he was descending the stairs, dragged him back by main force.

‘My good friend,’ said Mr. Pickwick, taking the old man by the hand, ‘your honest confidence overpowers me.’

‘I don’t see no occasion for nothin’ o’ the kind, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller obstinately.

‘I assure you, my good friend, I have more money than I can ever need; far more than a man at my age can ever live to spend,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘No man knows how much he can spend, till he tries,’ observed Mr. Weller.

‘Perhaps not,’ replied Mr. Pickwick; ‘but as I have no intention of trying any such experiments, I am not likely to come to want. I must beg you to take this back, Mr. Weller.’

Wery well,’ said Mr. Weller, with a discontented look. ‘Mark my vords, Sammy, I’ll do somethin’ desperate vith this here property; somethin’ desperate!’

‘You’d better not,’ replied Sam.

Mr. Weller reflected for a short time, and then, buttoning up his coat with great determination, said—

‘I’ll keep a pike.’

‘Wot!’ exclaimed Sam.

‘A pike!’ rejoined Mr. Weller, through his set teeth; ‘I’ll keep a pike. Say good-bye to your father, Samivel. I dewote the remainder of my days to a pike.’

This threat was such an awful one, and Mr. Weller, besides appearing fully resolved to carry it into execution, seemed so deeply mortified by Mr. Pickwick’s refusal, that that gentleman, after a short reflection, said—

‘Well, well, Mr. Weller, I will keep your money. I can do more good with it, perhaps, than you can.’

‘Just the wery thing, to be sure,’ said Mr. Weller, brightening up; ‘o’ course you can, sir.’

‘Say no more about it,’ said Mr. Pickwick, locking the pocket-book in his desk; ‘I am heartily obliged to you, my good friend. Now sit down again. I want to ask your advice.’

The internal laughter occasioned by the triumphant success of his visit, which had convulsed not only Mr. Weller’s face, but his arms, legs, and body also, during the locking up of the pocket-book, suddenly gave place to the most dignified gravity as he heard these words.

‘Wait outside a few minutes, Sam, will you?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

Sam immediately withdrew.

Mr. Weller looked uncommonly wise and very much amazed, when Mr. Pickwick opened the discourse by saying—

‘You are not an advocate for matrimony, I think, Mr. Weller?’

Mr. Weller shook his head. He was wholly unable to speak; vague thoughts of some wicked widow having been successful in her designs on Mr. Pickwick, choked his utterance.

‘Did you happen to see a young girl downstairs when you came in just now with your son?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes. I see a young gal,’ replied Mr. Weller shortly.

‘What did you think of her, now? Candidly, Mr. Weller, what did you think of her?’

‘I thought she wos wery plump, and vell made,’ said Mr. Weller, with a critical air.

‘So she is,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘so she is. What did you think of her manners, from what you saw of her?’

‘Wery pleasant,’ rejoined Mr. Weller. ‘Wery pleasant and comformable.’

The precise meaning which Mr. Weller attached to this last-mentioned adjective, did not appear; but, as it was evident from the tone in which he used it that it was a favourable expression, Mr. Pickwick was as well satisfied as if he had been thoroughly enlightened on the subject.

‘I take a great interest in her, Mr. Weller,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

Mr. Weller coughed.

‘I mean an interest in her doing well,’ resumed Mr. Pickwick; ‘a desire that she may be comfortable and prosperous. You understand?’

‘Wery clearly,’ replied Mr. Weller, who understood nothing yet.

‘That young person,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘is attached to your son.’

‘To Samivel Veller!’ exclaimed the parent.

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘It’s nat’ral,’ said Mr. Weller, after some consideration, ‘nat’ral, but rayther alarmin’. Sammy must be careful.’

‘How do you mean?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Wery careful that he don’t say nothin’ to her,’ responded Mr. Weller. ‘Wery careful that he ain’t led avay, in a innocent moment, to say anythin’ as may lead to a conwiction for breach. You’re never safe vith ‘em, Mr. Pickwick, ven they vunce has designs on you; there’s no knowin’ vere to have ‘em; and vile you’re a-considering of it, they have you. I wos married fust, that vay myself, Sir, and Sammy wos the consekens o’ the manoover.’

‘You give me no great encouragement to conclude what I have to say,’ observed Mr. Pickwick, ‘but I had better do so at once. This young person is not only attached to your son, Mr. Weller, but your son is attached to her.’

‘Vell,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘this here’s a pretty sort o’ thing to come to a father’s ears, this is!’

‘I have observed them on several occasions,’ said Mr. Pickwick, making no comment on Mr. Weller’s last remark; ‘and entertain no doubt at all about it. Supposing I were desirous of establishing them comfortably as man and wife in some little business or situation, where they might hope to obtain a decent living, what should you think of it, Mr. Weller?’

At first, Mr. Weller received with wry faces a proposition involving the marriage of anybody in whom he took an interest; but, as Mr. Pickwick argued the point with him, and laid great stress on the fact that Mary was not a widow, he gradually became more tractable. Mr. Pickwick had great influence over him, and he had been much struck with Mary’s appearance; having, in fact, bestowed several very unfatherly winks upon her, already. At length he said that it was not for him to oppose Mr. Pickwick’s inclination, and that he would be very happy to yield to his advice; upon which, Mr. Pickwick joyfully took him at his word, and called Sam back into the room.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, clearing his throat, ‘your father and I have been having some conversation about you.’

‘About you, Samivel,’ said Mr. Weller, in a patronising and impressive voice.

‘I am not so blind, Sam, as not to have seen, a long time since, that you entertain something more than a friendly feeling towards Mrs. Winkle’s maid,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘You hear this, Samivel?’ said Mr. Weller, in the same judicial form of speech as before.

‘I hope, Sir,’ said Sam, addressing his master, ‘I hope there’s no harm in a young man takin’ notice of a young ‘ooman as is undeniably good- looking and well-conducted.’

‘Certainly not,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Not by no means,’ acquiesced Mr. Weller, affably but magisterially.

‘So far from thinking there is anything wrong in conduct so natural,’ resumed Mr. Pickwick, ‘it is my wish to assist and promote your wishes in this respect. With this view, I have had a little conversation with your father; and finding that he is of my opinion—’

‘The lady not bein’ a widder,’ interposed Mr. Weller in explanation.

‘The lady not being a widow,’ said Mr. Pickwick, smiling. ‘I wish to free you from the restraint which your present position imposes upon you, and to mark my sense of your fidelity and many excellent qualities, by enabling you to marry this girl at once, and to earn an independent livelihood for yourself and family. I shall be proud, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, whose voice had faltered a little hitherto, but now resumed its customary tone, ‘proud and happy to make your future prospects in life my grateful and peculiar care.’

There was a profound silence for a short time, and then Sam said, in a low, husky sort of voice, but firmly withal—

‘I’m very much obliged to you for your goodness, Sir, as is only like yourself; but it can’t be done.’

‘Can’t be done!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick in astonishment.

‘Samivel!’ said Mr. Weller, with dignity.

‘I say it can’t be done,’ repeated Sam in a louder key. ‘Wot’s to become of you, Sir?’

‘My good fellow,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘the recent changes among my friends will alter my mode of life in future, entirely; besides, I am growing older, and want repose and quiet. My rambles, Sam, are over.’

‘How do I know that ‘ere, sir?’ argued Sam. ‘You think so now! S’pose you wos to change your mind, vich is not unlikely, for you’ve the spirit o’ five-and-twenty in you still, what ‘ud become on you vithout me? It can’t be done, Sir, it can’t be done.’

‘Wery good, Samivel, there’s a good deal in that,’ said Mr. Weller encouragingly.

‘I speak after long deliberation, Sam, and with the certainty that I shall keep my word,’ said Mr. Pickwick, shaking his head. ‘New scenes have closed upon me; my rambles are at an end.’

‘Wery good,’ rejoined Sam. ‘Then, that’s the wery best reason wy you should alvays have somebody by you as understands you, to keep you up and make you comfortable. If you vant a more polished sort o’ feller, vell and good, have him; but vages or no vages, notice or no notice, board or no board, lodgin’ or no lodgin’, Sam Veller, as you took from the old inn in the Borough, sticks by you, come what may; and let ev’rythin’ and ev’rybody do their wery fiercest, nothin’ shall ever perwent it!’

At the close of this declaration, which Sam made with great emotion, the elder Mr. Weller rose from his chair, and, forgetting all considerations of time, place, or propriety, waved his hat above his head, and gave three vehement cheers.

‘My good fellow,’ said Mr. Pickwick, when Mr. Weller had sat down again, rather abashed at his own enthusiasm, ‘you are bound to consider the young woman also.’

‘I do consider the young ‘ooman, Sir,’ said Sam. ‘I have considered the young ‘ooman. I’ve spoke to her. I’ve told her how I’m sitivated; she’s ready to vait till I’m ready, and I believe she vill. If she don’t, she’s not the young ‘ooman I take her for, and I give her up vith readiness. You’ve know’d me afore, Sir. My mind’s made up, and nothin’ can ever alter it.’

Who could combat this resolution? Not Mr. Pickwick. He derived, at that moment, more pride and luxury of feeling from the disinterested attachment of his humble friends, than ten thousand protestations from the greatest men living could have awakened in his heart.

While this conversation was passing in Mr. Pickwick’s room, a little old gentleman in a suit of snuff-coloured clothes, followed by a porter carrying a small portmanteau, presented himself below; and, after securing a bed for the night, inquired of the waiter whether one Mrs. Winkle was staying there, to which question the waiter of course responded in the affirmative.

‘Is she alone?’ inquired the old gentleman.

‘I believe she is, Sir,’ replied the waiter; ‘I can call her own maid, Sir, if you—’

‘No, I don’t want her,’ said the old gentleman quickly. ‘Show me to her room without announcing me.’

‘Eh, Sir?’ said the waiter.

‘Are you deaf?’ inquired the little old gentleman.

‘No, sir.’

‘Then listen, if you please. Can you hear me now?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘That’s well. Show me to Mrs. Winkle’s room, without announcing me.’

As the little old gentleman uttered this command, he slipped five shillings into the waiter’s hand, and looked steadily at him.

‘Really, sir,’ said the waiter, ‘I don’t know, sir, whether—’

‘Ah! you’ll do it, I see,’ said the little old gentleman. ‘You had better do it at once. It will save time.’

There was something so very cool and collected in the gentleman’s manner, that the waiter put the five shillings in his pocket, and led him upstairs without another word.

‘This is the room, is it?’ said the gentleman. ‘You may go.’

The waiter complied, wondering much who the gentleman could be, and what he wanted; the little old gentleman, waiting till he was out of sight, tapped at the door.

‘Come in,’ said Arabella.

‘Um, a pretty voice, at any rate,’ murmured the little old gentleman; ‘but that’s nothing.’ As he said this, he opened the door and walked in. Arabella, who was sitting at work, rose on beholding a stranger—a little confused—but by no means ungracefully so.

‘Pray don’t rise, ma’am,’ said the unknown, walking in, and closing the door after him. ‘Mrs. Winkle, I believe?’

Arabella inclined her head.

‘Mrs. Nathaniel Winkle, who married the son of the old man at Birmingham?’ said the stranger, eyeing Arabella with visible curiosity.

Again Arabella inclined her head, and looked uneasily round, as if uncertain whether to call for assistance.

‘I surprise you, I see, ma’am,’ said the old gentleman.

‘Rather, I confess,’ replied Arabella, wondering more and more.

‘I’ll take a chair, if you’ll allow me, ma’am,’ said the stranger.

He took one; and drawing a spectacle-case from his pocket, leisurely pulled out a pair of spectacles, which he adjusted on his nose.

‘You don’t know me, ma’am?’ he said, looking so intently at Arabella that she began to feel alarmed.

‘No, sir,’ she replied timidly.

‘No,’ said the gentleman, nursing his left leg; ‘I don’t know how you should. You know my name, though, ma’am.’

‘Do I?’ said Arabella, trembling, though she scarcely knew why. ‘May I ask what it is?’

‘Presently, ma’am, presently,’ said the stranger, not having yet removed his eyes from her countenance. ‘You have been recently married, ma’am?’

‘I have,’ replied Arabella, in a scarcely audible tone, laying aside her work, and becoming greatly agitated as a thought, that had occurred to her before, struck more forcibly upon her mind.

‘Without having represented to your husband the propriety of first consulting his father, on whom he is dependent, I think?’ said the stranger.

Arabella applied her handkerchief to her eyes.

‘Without an endeavour, even, to ascertain, by some indirect appeal, what were the old man’s sentiments on a point in which he would naturally feel much interested?’ said the stranger.

‘I cannot deny it, Sir,’ said Arabella.

‘And without having sufficient property of your own to afford your husband any permanent assistance in exchange for the worldly advantages which you knew he would have gained if he had married agreeably to his father’s wishes?’ said the old gentleman. ‘This is what boys and girls call disinterested affection, till they have boys and girls of their own, and then they see it in a rougher and very different light!’

Arabella’s tears flowed fast, as she pleaded in extenuation that she was young and inexperienced; that her attachment had alone induced her to take the step to which she had resorted; and that she had been deprived of the counsel and guidance of her parents almost from infancy.

‘It was wrong,’ said the old gentleman in a milder tone, ‘very wrong. It was romantic, unbusinesslike, foolish.’

‘It was my fault; all my fault, Sir,’ replied poor Arabella, weeping.

‘Nonsense,’ said the old gentleman; ‘it was not your fault that he fell in love with you, I suppose? Yes it was, though,’ said the old gentleman, looking rather slily at Arabella. ‘It was your fault. He couldn’t help it.’

This little compliment, or the little gentleman’s odd way of paying it, or his altered manner—so much kinder than it was, at first—or all three together, forced a smile from Arabella in the midst of her tears.

‘Where’s your husband?’ inquired the old gentleman, abruptly; stopping a smile which was just coming over his own face.

‘I expect him every instant, sir,’ said Arabella. ‘I persuaded him to take a walk this morning. He is very low and wretched at not having heard from his father.’

‘Low, is he?’ said the old gentlemen. ‘Serve him right!’

‘He feels it on my account, I am afraid,’ said Arabella; ‘and indeed, Sir, I feel it deeply on his. I have been the sole means of bringing him to his present condition.’

‘Don’t mind it on his account, my dear,’ said the old gentleman. ‘It serves him right. I am glad of it—actually glad of it, as far as he is concerned.’

The words were scarcely out of the old gentleman’s lips, when footsteps were heard ascending the stairs, which he and Arabella seemed both to recognise at the same moment. The little gentleman turned pale; and, making a strong effort to appear composed, stood up, as Mr. Winkle entered the room.

‘Father!’ cried Mr. Winkle, recoiling in amazement.

‘Yes, sir,’ replied the little old gentleman. ‘Well, Sir, what have you got to say to me?’

Mr. Winkle remained silent.

‘You are ashamed of yourself, I hope, Sir?’ said the old gentleman.

Still Mr. Winkle said nothing.

‘Are you ashamed of yourself, Sir, or are you not?’ inquired the old gentleman.

‘No, Sir,’ replied Mr. Winkle, drawing Arabella’s arm through his. ‘I am not ashamed of myself, or of my wife either.’

‘Upon my word!’ cried the old gentleman ironically.

‘I am very sorry to have done anything which has lessened your affection for me, Sir,’ said Mr. Winkle; ‘but I will say, at the same time, that I have no reason to be ashamed of having this lady for my wife, nor you of having her for a daughter.’

‘Give me your hand, Nat,’ said the old gentleman, in an altered voice. ‘Kiss me, my love. You are a very charming little daughter-in-law after all!’

In a few minutes’ time Mr. Winkle went in search of Mr. Pickwick, and returning with that gentleman, presented him to his father, whereupon they shook hands for five minutes incessantly.

‘Mr. Pickwick, I thank you most heartily for all your kindness to my son,’ said old Mr. Winkle, in a bluff, straightforward way. ‘I am a hasty fellow, and when I saw you last, I was vexed and taken by surprise. I have judged for myself now, and am more than satisfied. Shall I make any more apologies, Mr. Pickwick?’

‘Not one,’ replied that gentleman. ‘You have done the only thing wanting to complete my happiness.’

Hereupon there was another shaking of hands for five minutes longer, accompanied by a great number of complimentary speeches, which, besides being complimentary, had the additional and very novel recommendation of being sincere.

Sam had dutifully seen his father to the Belle Sauvage, when, on returning, he encountered the fat boy in the court, who had been charged with the delivery of a note from Emily Wardle.

‘I say,’ said Joe, who was unusually loquacious, ‘what a pretty girl Mary is, isn’t she? I am so fond of her, I am!’

Mr. Weller made no verbal remark in reply; but eyeing the fat boy for a moment, quite transfixed at his presumption, led him by the collar to the corner, and dismissed him with a harmless but ceremonious kick. After which, he walked home, whistling.

CHAPTER LVII. IN WHICH THE PICKWICK CLUB IS FINALLY DISSOLVED, AND EVERYTHING CONCLUDED TO THE SATISFACTION OF EVERYBODY

For a whole week after the happy arrival of Mr. Winkle from Birmingham, Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller were from home all day long, only returning just in time for dinner, and then wearing an air of mystery and importance quite foreign to their natures. It was evident that very grave and eventful proceedings were on foot; but various surmises were afloat, respecting their precise character. Some (among whom was Mr. Tupman) were disposed to think that Mr. Pickwick contemplated a matrimonial alliance; but this idea the ladies most strenuously repudiated. Others rather inclined to the belief that he had projected some distant tour, and was at present occupied in effecting the preliminary arrangements; but this again was stoutly denied by Sam himself, who had unequivocally stated, when cross-examined by Mary, that no new journeys were to be undertaken. At length, when the brains of the whole party had been racked for six long days, by unavailing speculation, it was unanimously resolved that Mr. Pickwick should be called upon to explain his conduct, and to state distinctly why he had thus absented himself from the society of his admiring friends.

With this view, Mr. Wardle invited the full circle to dinner at the Adelphi; and the decanters having been thrice sent round, opened the business.

‘We are all anxious to know,’ said the old gentleman, ‘what we have done to offend you, and to induce you to desert us and devote yourself to these solitary walks.’

‘Are you?’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘It is singular enough that I had intended to volunteer a full explanation this very day; so, if you will give me another glass of wine, I will satisfy your curiosity.’

The decanters passed from hand to hand with unwonted briskness, and Mr. Pickwick, looking round on the faces of his friends with a cheerful smile, proceeded—

‘All the changes that have taken place among us,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I mean the marriage that _has _taken place, and the marriage that WILL take place, with the changes they involve, rendered it necessary for me to think, soberly and at once, upon my future plans. I determined on retiring to some quiet, pretty neighbourhood in the vicinity of London; I saw a house which exactly suited my fancy; I have taken it and furnished it. It is fully prepared for my reception, and I intend entering upon it at once, trusting that I may yet live to spend many quiet years in peaceful retirement, cheered through life by the society of my friends, and followed in death by their affectionate remembrance.’

Here Mr. Pickwick paused, and a low murmur ran round the table.

‘The house I have taken,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘is at Dulwich. It has a large garden, and is situated in one of the most pleasant spots near London. It has been fitted up with every attention to substantial comfort; perhaps to a little elegance besides; but of that you shall judge for yourselves. Sam accompanies me there. I have engaged, on Perker’s representation, a housekeeper—a very old one—and such other servants as she thinks I shall require. I propose to consecrate this little retreat, by having a ceremony in which I take a great interest, performed there. I wish, if my friend Wardle entertains no objection, that his daughter should be married from my new house, on the day I take possession of it. The happiness of young people,’ said Mr. Pickwick, a little moved, ‘has ever been the chief pleasure of my life. It will warm my heart to witness the happiness of those friends who are dearest to me, beneath my own roof.’

Mr. Pickwick paused again: Emily and Arabella sobbed audibly.

‘I have communicated, both personally and by letter, with the club,’ resumed Mr. Pickwick, ‘acquainting them with my intention. During our long absence, it has suffered much from internal dissentions; and the withdrawal of my name, coupled with this and other circumstances, has occasioned its dissolution. The Pickwick Club exists no longer.

‘I shall never regret,’ said Mr. Pickwick in a low voice, ‘I shall never regret having devoted the greater part of two years to mixing with different varieties and shades of human character, frivolous as my pursuit of novelty may have appeared to many. Nearly the whole of my previous life having been devoted to business and the pursuit of wealth, numerous scenes of which I had no previous conception have dawned upon me—I hope to the enlargement of my mind, and the improvement of my understanding. If I have done but little good, I trust I have done less harm, and that none of my adventures will be other than a source of amusing and pleasant recollection to me in the decline of life. God bless you all!’

With these words, Mr. Pickwick filled and drained a bumper with a trembling hand; and his eyes moistened as his friends rose with one accord, and pledged him from their hearts.

There were few preparatory arrangements to be made for the marriage of Mr. Snodgrass. As he had neither father nor mother, and had been in his minority a ward of Mr. Pickwick’s, that gentleman was perfectly well acquainted with his possessions and prospects. His account of both was quite satisfactory to Wardle—as almost any other account would have been, for the good old gentleman was overflowing with hilarity and kindness—and a handsome portion having been bestowed upon Emily, the marriage was fixed to take place on the fourth day from that time—the suddenness of which preparations reduced three dressmakers and a tailor to the extreme verge of insanity.

Getting post-horses to the carriage, old Wardle started off, next day, to bring his mother back to town. Communicating his intelligence to the old lady with characteristic impetuosity, she instantly fainted away; but being promptly revived, ordered the brocaded silk gown to be packed up forthwith, and proceeded to relate some circumstances of a similar nature attending the marriage of the eldest daughter of Lady Tollimglower, deceased, which occupied three hours in the recital, and were not half finished at last.

Mrs. Trundle had to be informed of all the mighty preparations that were making in London; and, being in a delicate state of health, was informed thereof through Mr. Trundle, lest the news should be too much for her; but it was not too much for her, inasmuch as she at once wrote off to Muggleton, to order a new cap and a black satin gown, and moreover avowed her determination of being present at the ceremony. Hereupon, Mr. Trundle called in the doctor, and the doctor said Mrs. Trundle ought to know best how she felt herself, to which Mrs. Trundle replied that she felt herself quite equal to it, and that she had made up her mind to go; upon which the doctor, who was a wise and discreet doctor, and knew what was good for himself, as well as for other people, said that perhaps if Mrs. Trundle stopped at home, she might hurt herself more by fretting, than by going, so perhaps she had better go. And she did go; the doctor with great attention sending in half a dozen of medicine, to be drunk upon the road.

In addition to these points of distraction, Wardle was intrusted with two small letters to two small young ladies who were to act as bridesmaids; upon the receipt of which, the two young ladies were driven to despair by having no ‘things’ ready for so important an occasion, and no time to make them in—a circumstance which appeared to afford the two worthy papas of the two small young ladies rather a feeling of satisfaction than otherwise. However, old frocks were trimmed, and new bonnets made, and the young ladies looked as well as could possibly have been expected of them. And as they cried at the subsequent ceremony in the proper places, and trembled at the right times, they acquitted themselves to the admiration of all beholders.

How the two poor relations ever reached London—whether they walked, or got behind coaches, or procured lifts in wagons, or carried each other by turns—is uncertain; but there they were, before Wardle; and the very first people that knocked at the door of Mr. Pickwick’s house, on the bridal morning, were the two poor relations, all smiles and shirt collar.

They were welcomed heartily though, for riches or poverty had no influence on Mr. Pickwick; the new servants were all alacrity and readiness; Sam was in a most unrivalled state of high spirits and excitement; Mary was glowing with beauty and smart ribands.

The bridegroom, who had been staying at the house for two or three days previous, sallied forth gallantly to Dulwich Church to meet the bride, attended by Mr. Pickwick, Ben Allen, Bob Sawyer, and Mr. Tupman; with Sam Weller outside, having at his button-hole a white favour, the gift of his lady-love, and clad in a new and gorgeous suit of livery invented for the occasion. They were met by the Wardles, and the Winkles, and the bride and bridesmaids, and the Trundles; and the ceremony having been performed, the coaches rattled back to Mr. Pickwick’s to breakfast, where little Mr. Perker already awaited them.

Here, all the light clouds of the more solemn part of the proceedings passed away; every face shone forth joyously; and nothing was to be heard but congratulations and commendations. Everything was so beautiful! The lawn in front, the garden behind, the miniature conservatory, the dining-room, the drawing-room, the bedrooms, the smoking-room, and, above all, the study, with its pictures and easy- chairs, and odd cabinets, and queer tables, and books out of number, with a large cheerful window opening upon a pleasant lawn and commanding a pretty landscape, dotted here and there with little houses almost hidden by the trees; and then the curtains, and the carpets, and the chairs, and the sofas! Everything was so beautiful, so compact, so neat, and in such exquisite taste, said everybody, that there really was no deciding what to admire most.

And in the midst of all this, stood Mr. Pickwick, his countenance lighted up with smiles, which the heart of no man, woman, or child, could resist: himself the happiest of the group: shaking hands, over and over again, with the same people, and when his own hands were not so employed, rubbing them with pleasure: turning round in a different direction at every fresh expression of gratification or curiosity, and inspiring everybody with his looks of gladness and delight.

Breakfast is announced. Mr. Pickwick leads the old lady (who has been very eloquent on the subject of Lady Tollimglower) to the top of a long table; Wardle takes the bottom; the friends arrange themselves on either side; Sam takes his station behind his master’s chair; the laughter and talking cease; Mr. Pickwick, having said grace, pauses for an instant and looks round him. As he does so, the tears roll down his cheeks, in the fullness of his joy.

Let us leave our old friend in one of those moments of unmixed happiness, of which, if we seek them, there are ever some, to cheer our transitory existence here. There are dark shadows on the earth, but its lights are stronger in the contrast. Some men, like bats or owls, have better eyes for the darkness than for the light. We, who have no such optical powers, are better pleased to take our last parting look at the visionary companions of many solitary hours, when the brief sunshine of the world is blazing full upon them.

It is the fate of most men who mingle with the world, and attain even the prime of life, to make many real friends, and lose them in the course of nature. It is the fate of all authors or chroniclers to create imaginary friends, and lose them in the course of art. Nor is this the full extent of their misfortunes; for they are required to furnish an account of them besides.

In compliance with this custom—unquestionably a bad one—we subjoin a few biographical words, in relation to the party at Mr. Pickwick’s assembled.

Mr. and Mrs. Winkle, being fully received into favour by the old gentleman, were shortly afterwards installed in a newly-built house, not half a mile from Mr. Pickwick’s. Mr. Winkle, being engaged in the city as agent or town correspondent of his father, exchanged his old costume for the ordinary dress of Englishmen, and presented all the external appearance of a civilised Christian ever afterwards.

Mr. and Mrs. Snodgrass settled at Dingley Dell, where they purchased and cultivated a small farm, more for occupation than profit. Mr. Snodgrass, being occasionally abstracted and melancholy, is to this day reputed a great poet among his friends and acquaintance, although we do not find that he has ever written anything to encourage the belief. There are many celebrated characters, literary, philosophical, and otherwise, who hold a high reputation on a similar tenure.

Mr. Tupman, when his friends married, and Mr. Pickwick settled, took lodgings at Richmond, where he has ever since resided. He walks constantly on the terrace during the summer months, with a youthful and jaunty air, which has rendered him the admiration of the numerous elderly ladies of single condition, who reside in the vicinity. He has never proposed again.

Mr. Bob Sawyer, having previously passed through the Gazette, passed over to Bengal, accompanied by Mr. Benjamin Allen; both gentlemen having received surgical appointments from the East India Company. They each had the yellow fever fourteen times, and then resolved to try a little abstinence; since which period, they have been doing well. Mrs. Bardell let lodgings to many conversable single gentlemen, with great profit, but never brought any more actions for breach of promise of marriage. Her attorneys, Messrs. Dodson & Fogg, continue in business, from which they realise a large income, and in which they are universally considered among the sharpest of the sharp.

Sam Weller kept his word, and remained unmarried, for two years. The old housekeeper dying at the end of that time, Mr. Pickwick promoted Mary to the situation, on condition of her marrying Mr. Weller at once, which she did without a murmur. From the circumstance of two sturdy little boys having been repeatedly seen at the gate of the back garden, there is reason to suppose that Sam has some family.

The elder Mr. Weller drove a coach for twelve months, but being afflicted with the gout, was compelled to retire. The contents of the pocket-book had been so well invested for him, however, by Mr. Pickwick, that he had a handsome independence to retire on, upon which he still lives at an excellent public-house near Shooter’s Hill, where he is quite reverenced as an oracle, boasting very much of his intimacy with Mr. Pickwick, and retaining a most unconquerable aversion to widows.

Mr. Pickwick himself continued to reside in his new house, employing his leisure hours in arranging the memoranda which he afterwards presented to the secretary of the once famous club, or in hearing Sam Weller read aloud, with such remarks as suggested themselves to his mind, which never failed to afford Mr. Pickwick great amusement. He was much troubled at first, by the numerous applications made to him by Mr. Snodgrass, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Trundle, to act as godfather to their offspring; but he has become used to it now, and officiates as a matter of course. He never had occasion to regret his bounty to Mr. Jingle; for both that person and Job Trotter became, in time, worthy members of society, although they have always steadily objected to return to the scenes of their old haunts and temptations. Mr. Pickwick is somewhat infirm now; but he retains all his former juvenility of spirit, and may still be frequently seen, contemplating the pictures in the Dulwich Gallery, or enjoying a walk about the pleasant neighbourhood on a fine day. He is known by all the poor people about, who never fail to take their hats off, as he passes, with great respect. The children idolise him, and so indeed does the whole neighbourhood. Every year he repairs to a large family merry-making at Mr. Wardle’s; on this, as on all other occasions, he is invariably attended by the faithful Sam, between whom and his master there exists a steady and reciprocal attachment which nothing but death will terminate.

CHAPTER LVI.   AN IMPORTANT CONFERENCE TAKES PLACE

CHAPTER LVII.   IN WHICH THE PICKWICK CLUB IS FINALLY DISSOLVED

DETAILED CONTENTS

1. The Pickwickians 2. The first Day’s Journey, and the first Evening’s Adventures; with their Consequences 3. A new Acquaintance—The Stroller’s Tale—A disagreeable Interruption, and an unpleasant Encounter 4. A Field Day and Bivouac—More new Friends—An Invitation to the Country 5. A short one—Showing, among other Matters, how Mr. Pickwick undertook to drive, and Mr. Winkle to ride, and how they both did it 6. An old-fashioned Card-party—The Clergyman’s verses—The Story of the Convict’s Return 7. How Mr. Winkle, instead of shooting at the Pigeon and killing the Crow, shot at the Crow and wounded the Pigeon; how the Dingley Dell Cricket Club played All-Muggleton, and how All- Muggleton dined at the Dingley Dell Expense; with other interesting and instructive Matters 8. Strongly illustrative of the Position, that the Course of True Love is not a Railway 9. A Discovery and a Chase 10. Clearing up all Doubts (if any existed) of the Disinterestedness of Mr. A. Jingle’s Character 11. Involving another Journey, and an Antiquarian Discovery; Recording Mr. Pickwick’s Determination to be present at an Election; and containing a Manuscript of the old Clergyman’s 12. Descriptive of a very important Proceeding on the Part of Mr. Pickwick; no less an Epoch in his Life, than in this History 13. Some Account of Eatanswill; of the State of Parties therein; and of the Election of a Member to serve in Parliament for that ancient, loyal, and patriotic Borough 14. Comprising a brief Description of the Company at the Peacock assembled; and a Tale told by a Bagman 15. In which is given a faithful Portraiture of two distinguished Persons; and an accurate Description of a public Breakfast in their House and Grounds: which public Breakfast leads to the Recognition of an old Acquaintance, and the Commencement of anothe r Chapter 16. Too full of Adventure to be briefly described 17. Showing that an Attack of Rheumatism, in some Cases, acts as a Quickener to inventive Genius 18. Briefly illustrative of two Points; first, the Power of Hysterics, and, secondly, the Force of Circumstances 19. A pleasant Day with an unpleasant Termination 20. Showing how Dodson and Fogg were Men of Business, and their Clerks Men of pleasure; and how an affecting Interview took place between Mr. Weller and his long-lost Parent; showing also what Choice Spirits assembled at the Magpie and Stump, and what a C apital Chapter the next one will be 21. In which the old Man launches forth into his favourite Theme, and relates a Story about a queer Client 22. Mr. Pickwick journeys to Ipswich and meets with a romantic Adventure with a middle-aged Lady in yellow Curl-papers 23. In which Mr. Samuel Weller begins to devote his Energies to the Return Match between himself and Mr. Trotter 24. Wherein Mr. Peter Magnus grows jealous, and the middle-aged Lady apprehensive, which brings the Pickwickians within the Grasp of the Law 25. Showing, among a Variety of pleasant Matters, how majestic and impartial Mr. Nupkins was; and how Mr. Weller returned Mr. Job Trotter’s Shuttlecock as heavily as it came- -With another Matter, which will be found in its Place 26. Which contains a brief Account of the Progress of the Action of Bardell against Pickwick 27. Samuel Weller makes a Pilgrimage to Dorking, and beholds his Mother-in-law 28. A good-humoured Christmas Chapter, containing an Account of a Wedding, and some other Sports beside: which although in their Way even as good Customs as Marriage itself, are not quite so religiously kept up, in these degenerate Times 29. The Story of the Goblins who stole a Sexton 30. How the Pickwickians made and cultivated the Acquaintance of a Couple of nice young Men belonging to one of the liberal Professions; how they disported themselves on the Ice; and how their Visit came to a Conclusion 31. Which is all about the Law, and sundry Great Authorities learned therein 32. Describes, far more fully than the Court Newsman ever did, a Bachelor’s Party, given by Mr. Bob Sawyer at his Lodgings in the Borough 33. Mr. Weller the elder delivers some Critical Sentiments respecting Literary Composition; and, assisted by his Son Samuel, pays a small Instalment of Retaliation to the Account of the Reverend Gentleman with the Red Nose 34. Is wholly devoted to a full and faithful Report of the memorable Trial of Bardell against Pickwick 35. In which Mr. Pickwick thinks he had better go to Bath; and goes accordingly 36. The chief Features of which will be found to be an authentic Version of the Legend of Prince Bladud, and a most extraordinary Calamity that befell Mr. Winkle 37. Honourably accounts for Mr. Weller’s Absence, by describing a Soiree to which he was invited and went; also relates how he was intrusted by Mr. Pickwick with a Private Mission of Delicacy and Importance 38. How Mr. Winkle, when he stepped out of the Frying-pan, walked gently and comfortably into the Fire 39. Mr. Samuel Weller, being intrusted with a Mission of Love, proceeds to execute it; with what Success will hereinafter appear 40. Introduces Mr. Pickwick to a new and not uninteresting Scene in the great Drama of Life 41. What befell Mr. Pickwick when he got into the Fleet; what Prisoners he saw there; and how he passed the Night 42. Illustrative, like the preceding one, of the old Proverb, that Adversity brings a Man acquainted with strange Bedfellows—Likewise containing Mr. Pickwick’s extraordinary and startling Announcement to Mr. Samuel Weller
2. Showing how Mr. Samuel Weller got into Difficulties 44. Treats of divers little Matters which occurred in the Fleet, and of Mr. Winkle’s mysterious Behaviour; and shows how the poor Chancery Prisoner obtained his Release at last 45. Descriptive of an affecting Interview between Mr. Samuel Weller and a Family Party. Mr. Pickwick makes a Tour of the diminutive World he inhabits, and resolves to mix with it, in Future, as little as possible 46. Records a touching Act of delicate Feeling not unmixed with Pleasantry, achieved and performed by Messrs. Dodson and Fogg 47. Is chiefly devoted to Matters of Business, and the temporal Advantage of Dodson and Fogg—Mr. Winkle reappears under extraordinary Circumstances—Mr. Pickwick’s Benevolence proves stronger than his Obstinacy 48. Relates how Mr. Pickwick, with the Assistance of Samuel Weller, essayed to soften the Heart of Mr. Benjamin Allen, and to mollify the Wrath of Mr. Robert Sawyer 49. Containing the Story of the Bagman’s Uncle 50. How Mr. Pickwick sped upon his Mission, and how he was reinforced in the Outset by a most unexpected Auxiliary 51. In which Mr. Pickwick encounters an old Acquaintance—To which fortunate Circumstance the Reader is mainly indebted for Matter of thrilling Interest herein set down, concerning two great Public Men of Might and Power 52. Involving a serious Change in the Weller Family, and the untimely Downfall of Mr. Stiggins 53. Comprising the final Exit of Mr. Jingle and Job Trotter, with a great Morning of business in Gray’s Inn Square—Concluding with a Double Knock at Mr. Perker’s Door 54. Containing some Particulars relative to the Double Knock, and other Matters: among which certain interesting Disclosures relative to Mr. Snodgrass and a Young Lady are by no Means irrelevant to this History
3. Mr. Solomon Pell, assisted by a Select Committee of Coachmen, arranges the affairs of the elder Mr. Weller 56. An important Conference takes place between Mr. Pickwick and Samuel Weller, at which his Parent assists—An old Gentleman in a snuff-coloured Suit arrives unexpectedly
4. In which the Pickwick Club is finally dissolved, and everything concluded to the Satisfaction of Everybody

THE POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF THE PICKWICK CLUB

capitolo LVI. Si tiene una conferenza importante

CAPITOLO LVII. IN CUI IL CLUB Pickwick VIENE FINALMENTE SCiolto

Indice dettagliato

I ragazzi erano paralizzati dallo stupore; il giovane ribelle non provava alcuna paura.

I documenti postumi del Club Pickwick

CHAPTER I. THE PICKWICKIANS

The first ray of light which illumines the gloom, and converts into a dazzling brilliancy that obscurity in which the earlier history of the public career of the immortal Pickwick would appear to be involved, is derived from the perusal of the following entry in the Transactions of the Pickwick Club, which the editor of these papers feels the highest pleasure in laying before his readers, as a proof of the careful attention, indefatigable assiduity, and nice discrimination, with which his search among the multifarious documents confided to him has been conducted.

‘May 12, 1827. Joseph Smiggers, Esq., P.V.P.M.P.C. [Perpetual Vice- President—Member Pickwick Club], presiding. The following resolutions unanimously agreed to:—

‘That this Association has heard read, with feelings of unmingled satisfaction, and unqualified approval, the paper communicated by Samuel Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C. [General Chairman—Member Pickwick Club], entitled “Speculations on the Source of the Hampstead Ponds, with some Observations on the Theory of Tittlebats;” and that this Association does hereby return its warmest thanks to the said Samuel Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C., for the same.

‘That while this Association is deeply sensible of the advantages which must accrue to the cause of science, from the production to which they have just adverted—no less than from the unwearied researches of Samuel Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C., in Hornsey, Highgate, Brixton, and Camberwell—they cannot but entertain a lively sense of the inestimable benefits which must inevitably result from carrying the speculations of that learned man into a wider field, from extending his travels, and, consequently, enlarging his sphere of observation, to the advancement of knowledge, and the diffusion of learning.

‘That, with the view just mentioned, this Association has taken into its serious consideration a proposal, emanating from the aforesaid, Samuel Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C., and three other Pickwickians hereinafter named, for forming a new branch of United Pickwickians, under the title of The Corresponding Society of the Pickwick Club.

‘That the said proposal has received the sanction and approval of this Association.

‘That the Corresponding Society of the Pickwick Club is therefore hereby constituted; and that Samuel Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C., Tracy Tupman, Esq., M.P.C., Augustus Snodgrass, Esq., M.P.C., and Nathaniel Winkle, Esq., M.P.C., are hereby nominated and appointed members of the same; and that they be requested to forward, from time to time, authenticated accounts of their journeys and investigations, of their observations of character and manners, and of the whole of their adventures, together with all tales and papers to which local scenery or associations may give rise, to the Pickwick Club, stationed in London.

‘That this Association cordially recognises the principle of every member of the Corresponding Society defraying his own travelling expenses; and that it sees no objection whatever to the members of the said society pursuing their inquiries for any length of time they please, upon the same terms.

‘That the members of the aforesaid Corresponding Society be, and are hereby informed, that their proposal to pay the postage of their letters, and the carriage of their parcels, has been deliberated upon by this Association: that this Association considers such proposal worthy of the great minds from which it emanated, and that it hereby signifies its perfect acquiescence therein.’

A casual observer, adds the secretary, to whose notes we are indebted for the following account—a casual observer might possibly have remarked nothing extraordinary in the bald head, and circular spectacles, which were intently turned towards his (the secretary’s) face, during the reading of the above resolutions: to those who knew that the gigantic brain of Pickwick was working beneath that forehead, and that the beaming eyes of Pickwick were twinkling behind those glasses, the sight was indeed an interesting one. There sat the man who had traced to their source the mighty ponds of Hampstead, and agitated the scientific world with his Theory of Tittlebats, as calm and unmoved as the deep waters of the one on a frosty day, or as a solitary specimen of the other in the inmost recesses of an earthen jar. And how much more interesting did the spectacle become, when, starting into full life and animation, as a simultaneous call for ‘Pickwick’ burst from his followers, that illustrious man slowly mounted into the Windsor chair, on which he had been previously seated, and addressed the club himself had founded. What a study for an artist did that exciting scene present! The eloquent Pickwick, with one hand gracefully concealed behind his coat tails, and the other waving in air to assist his glowing declamation; his elevated position revealing those tights and gaiters, which, had they clothed an ordinary man, might have passed without observation, but which, when Pickwick clothed them—if we may use the expression—inspired involuntary awe and respect; surrounded by the men who had volunteered to share the perils of his travels, and who were destined to participate in the glories of his discoveries. On his right sat Mr. Tracy Tupman—the too susceptible Tupman, who to the wisdom and experience of maturer years superadded the enthusiasm and ardour of a boy in the most interesting and pardonable of human weaknesses—love. Time and feeding had expanded that once romantic form; the black silk waistcoat had become more and more developed; inch by inch had the gold watch-chain beneath it disappeared from within the range of Tupman’s vision; and gradually had the capacious chin encroached upon the borders of the white cravat: but the soul of Tupman had known no change— admiration of the fair sex was still its ruling passion. On the left of his great leader sat the poetic Snodgrass, and near him again the sporting Winkle; the former poetically enveloped in a mysterious blue cloak with a canine-skin collar, and the latter communicating additional lustre to a new green shooting-coat, plaid neckerchief, and closely- fitted drabs.

CAPITOLO I. I PICKWICKIANI

Il primo raggio di luce che illumina l’oscurità e trasforma in un bagliore abbagliante quella nebbia nella quale sembrava essere avvolta la precedente storia della carriera pubblica dell’immortale Pickwick, deriva dalla lettura della seguente voce negli “Transactions of the Pickwick Club”. L’editore di questi scritti prova il più grande piacere nel presentarla ai suoi lettori come prova dell’attenzione meticolosa, dell’assiduità instancabile e della fine discriminazione con cui ha condotto le sue ricerche tra i numerosi documenti che gli sono stati affidati.

“12 maggio 1827. Joseph Smiggers, Esq., P.V.P.M.P.C. [Vicepresidente Permanente – Membro del Club Pickwick, presiedeva la riunione. Le seguenti risoluzioni furono unanimemente approvate:”

“Che questa Associazione abbia ascoltato con sentimenti di profonda soddisfazione e approvazione incondizionata il documento inviato da Samuel Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C. [Presidente Generale – Membro del Club Pickwick, intitolato ‘Speculazioni sulla fonte dei laghi di Hampstead, con alcune osservazioni sulla teoria dei Tittlebats’; e che questa Associazione rivolga pertanto i suoi più caldi ringraziamenti al suddetto Samuel Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C., per lo stesso.”

‘Sebbene questa Associazione sia pienamente consapevole dei vantaggi che derivano, per la causa della scienza, sia dalle ricerche appena menzionate sia dagli instancabili sforzi di Samuel Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C., condotti a Hornsey, Highgate, Brixton e Camberwell – non possono fare a meno di riconoscere i benefici inestimabili che deriverebbero inevitabilmente dall’espandere le speculazioni di quell’uomo erudito in ambiti più ampi, dall’allargare i suoi viaggi e, di conseguenza, il suo campo di osservazione, al fine di promuovere la conoscenza e diffondere la cultura.’

‘In considerazione di quanto appena menzionato, questa Associazione ha preso seriamente in esame una proposta proveniente dal suddetto Samuel Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C., e da altri tre membri del gruppo Pickwick, i quali sono qui di seguito nominati, volta alla creazione di una nuova sezione degli United Pickwickians con il nome di “The Corresponding Society of the Pickwick Club”.’

Che la suddetta proposta abbia ricevuto l’approvazione di questa Associazione.

‘Pertanto, la Società Corrispondente del Club Pickwick viene qui costituita; e che Samuel Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C., Tracy Tupman, Esq., M.P.C., Augustus Snodgrass, Esq., M.P.C., e Nathaniel Winkle, Esq., M.P.C., siano qui nominati e designati membri della stessa; e che venga loro chiesto di inviare, a intervalli regolari, resoconti autentificati dei loro viaggi e delle loro indagini, delle loro osservazioni sui caratteri e sulle maniere delle persone, nonché di tutte le loro avventure, insieme a eventuali racconti o documenti che possano riguardare luoghi o situazioni specifiche, al Club Pickwick, con sede a Londra.’

‘Che questa Associazione riconosca cordialmente il principio secondo cui ogni membro della Società Corrispondente deve sostenere personalmente le proprie spese di viaggio; e che non abbia alcuna obiezione al fatto che i membri della suddetta società proseguano le loro indagini per qualsiasi periodo di tempo desiderino, alle stesse condizioni.’

“Si comunica ai membri della suddetta Società che la loro proposta di finanziare le spese di spedizione delle loro lettere e il trasporto dei loro pacchi è stata esaminata da questa Associazione; che questa Associazione ritiene tale proposta degna delle grandi menti da cui è nata, e che pertanto ne dichiara il pieno accordo.”

Un osservatore casuale, aggiunge il segretario, il cui resoconto ci è stato di grande aiuto – un osservatore casuale forse non avrebbe notato nulla di straordinario nella testa calva e negli occhiali rotondi che erano fissi con attenzione sul viso del segretario durante la lettura delle risoluzioni sopra menzionate. Ma per coloro che sapevano che il gigantesco cervello di Pickwick era all’opera sotto quella fronte, e che gli occhi luminosi di Pickwick brillavano dietro quegli occhiali, la scena era davvero interessante. Lì sedeva l’uomo che aveva individuato le origini dei grandi laghi di Hampstead e aveva agitato il mondo scientifico con la sua Teoria dei Tittlebats; sembrava calmo e immobile, come le acque profonde di un lago in una giornata gelida, o come un esemplare solitario di quel tipo di creatura nelle profondità di un vaso di terracotta. E la scena diventava ancora più interessante quando, improvvisamente, con un coro che chiamava “Pickwick”, quell’illustre uomo si alzò lentamente dalla sedia su cui era seduto e si rivolse direttamente al club che aveva fondato. Che soggetto straordinario per un artista! L’eloquente Pickwick, con una mano nascosta elegantemente dietro la gonna del suo abito, l’altra che gesticolava nell’aria per accompagnare le sue parole appassionate; la sua posizione elevata rivelava quei calzamani e quelle calze a rete che, se indossati da un uomo comune, sarebbero passati inosservati, ma che, quando li indossava Pickwick, be’, ispiravano involontariamente ammirazione e rispetto. Era circondato dagli uomini che avevano volontariamente condiviso i pericoli dei suoi viaggi e che erano destinati a partecipare alle glorie delle sue scoperte. A destra di lui sedeva il signor Tracy Tupman, quel troppo sensibile Tupman, il quale, oltre alla saggezza e all’esperienza degli anni maturi, possedeva anche l’entusiasmo e la passione di un ragazzo, nella debolezza umana più interessante e perdonabile: l’amore. Il tempo e le abitudini alimentari avevano modificato quel fisico un tempo romantico; il gilet di seta nera si era ulteriormente espanso, centimetro dopo centimetro, la catena dell’orologio d’oro era scomparsa dalla vista di Tupman, e gradualmente, il suo mento carnoso aveva iniziato a invadere i bordi della cravatta bianca. Ma l’anima di Tupman non era cambiata: l’ammirazione per il gentil sesso rimaneva la sua passione dominante. A sinistra del suo grande leader sedeva il poetico Snodgrass, e vicino a lui Winkle, appassionato di sport; il primo era avvolto in un misterioso mantello blu con colletto di pelle di cane, il secondo, invece, donava ulteriore splendore al suo nuovo cappotto verde, al fazzoletto da collo a scacchi e ai suoi abiti attillati.

Mr. Pickwick’s oration upon this occasion, together with the debate thereon, is entered on the Transactions of the Club. Both bear a strong affinity to the discussions of other celebrated bodies; and, as it is always interesting to trace a resemblance between the proceedings of great men, we transfer the entry to these pages.

‘Mr. Pickwick observed (says the secretary) that fame was dear to the heart of every man. Poetic fame was dear to the heart of his friend Snodgrass; the fame of conquest was equally dear to his friend Tupman; and the desire of earning fame in the sports of the field, the air, and the water was uppermost in the breast of his friend Winkle. He (Mr. Pickwick) would not deny that he was influenced by human passions and human feelings (cheers)—possibly by human weaknesses (loud cries of “No”); but this he would say, that if ever the fire of self-importance broke out in his bosom, the desire to benefit the human race in preference effectually quenched it. The praise of mankind was his swing; philanthropy was his insurance office. (Vehement cheering.) He had felt some pride—he acknowledged it freely, and let his enemies make the most of it—he had felt some pride when he presented his Tittlebatian Theory to the world; it might be celebrated or it might not. (A cry of “It is,” and great cheering.) He would take the assertion of that honourable Pickwickian whose voice he had just heard—it was celebrated; but if the fame of that treatise were to extend to the farthest confines of the known world, the pride with which he should reflect on the authorship of that production would be as nothing compared with the pride with which he looked around him, on this, the proudest moment of his existence. (Cheers.) He was a humble individual. (“No, no.”) Still he could not but feel that they had selected him for a service of great honour, and of some danger. Travelling was in a troubled state, and the minds of coachmen were unsettled. Let them look abroad and contemplate the scenes which were enacting around them. Stage-coaches were upsetting in all directions, horses were bolting, boats were overturning, and boilers were bursting. (Cheers—a voice “No.”) No! (Cheers.) Let that honourable Pickwickian who cried “No” so loudly come forward and deny it, if he could. (Cheers.) Who was it that cried “No”? (Enthusiastic cheering.) Was it some vain and disappointed man—he would not say haberdasher (loud cheers)—who, jealous of the praise which had been—perhaps undeservedly—bestowed on his (Mr. Pickwick’s) researches, and smarting under the censure which had been heaped upon his own feeble attempts at rivalry, now took this vile and calumnious mode of—

‘MR. BLOTTON (of Aldgate) rose to order. Did the honourable Pickwickian allude to him? (Cries of “Order,” “Chair,” “Yes,” “No,” “Go on,” “Leave off,” etc.)

‘MR. PICKWICK would not put up to be put down by clamour. He had alluded to the honourable gentleman. (Great excitement.)

‘MR. BLOTTON would only say then, that he repelled the hon. gent.’s false and scurrilous accusation, with profound contempt. (Great cheering.) The hon. gent. was a humbug. (Immense confusion, and loud cries of “Chair,” and “Order.”)

‘Mr. A. SNODGRASS rose to order. He threw himself upon the chair. (Hear.) He wished to know whether this disgraceful contest between two members of that club should be allowed to continue. (Hear, hear.)

‘The CHAIRMAN was quite sure the hon. Pickwickian would withdraw the expression he had just made use of.

‘MR. BLOTTON, with all possible respect for the chair, was quite sure he would not.

‘The CHAIRMAN felt it his imperative duty to demand of the honourable gentleman, whether he had used the expression which had just escaped him in a common sense.

‘MR. BLOTTON had no hesitation in saying that he had not—he had used the word in its Pickwickian sense. (Hear, hear.) He was bound to acknowledge that, personally, he entertained the highest regard and esteem for the honourable gentleman; he had merely considered him a humbug in a Pickwickian point of view. (Hear, hear.)

‘MR. PICKWICK felt much gratified by the fair, candid, and full explanation of his honourable friend. He begged it to be at once understood, that his own observations had been merely intended to bear a Pickwickian construction. (Cheers.)’

Here the entry terminates, as we have no doubt the debate did also, after arriving at such a highly satisfactory and intelligible point. We have no official statement of the facts which the reader will find recorded in the next chapter, but they have been carefully collated from letters and other MS. authorities, so unquestionably genuine as to justify their narration in a connected form.

CHAPTER II. THE FIRST DAY’S JOURNEY, AND THE FIRST EVENING’S ADVENTURES; WITH THEIR CONSEQUENCES

That punctual servant of all work, the sun, had just risen, and begun to strike a light on the morning of the thirteenth of May, one thousand eight hundred and twenty-seven, when Mr. Samuel Pickwick burst like another sun from his slumbers, threw open his chamber window, and looked out upon the world beneath. Goswell Street was at his feet, Goswell Street was on his right hand—as far as the eye could reach, Goswell Street extended on his left; and the opposite side of Goswell Street was over the way. ‘Such,’ thought Mr. Pickwick, ‘are the narrow views of those philosophers who, content with examining the things that lie before them, look not to the truths which are hidden beyond. As well might I be content to gaze on Goswell Street for ever, without one effort to penetrate to the hidden countries which on every side surround it.’ And having given vent to this beautiful reflection, Mr. Pickwick proceeded to put himself into his clothes, and his clothes into his portmanteau. Great men are seldom over scrupulous in the arrangement of their attire; the operation of shaving, dressing, and coffee-imbibing was soon performed; and, in another hour, Mr. Pickwick, with his portmanteau in his hand, his telescope in his greatcoat pocket, and his note-book in his waistcoat, ready for the reception of any discoveries worthy of being noted down, had arrived at the coach-stand in St. Martin’s-le-Grand.

L’orazione di Mr. Pickwick in questa occasione, insieme al debatto che ne seguì, è riportata nelle “Transactions del Club”. Entrambe presentano una forte affinità con le discussioni di altre celebri organizzazioni; e poiché è sempre interessante individuare somiglianze tra le azioni dei grandi uomini, trasferiamo questa informazione su queste pagine.

‘Il signor Pickwick osservò (dice il segretario) che la fama è preziosa nel cuore di ogni uomo. La fama poetica era preziosa per il cuore del suo amico Snodgrass; la fama derivante dalle conquiste lo era altrettanto per il suo amico Tupman; mentre il desiderio di guadagnare fama attraverso sport che si svolgono sulla terra, nell’aria e sull’acqua era particolarmente forte nel cuore del suo amico Winkle. Lui (il signor Pickwick) non negava di essere influenzato dalle passioni umane e dai sentimenti umani, forse anche dalle debolezze umane; ma sosteneva che, se mai il fuoco dell’egoismo fosse scaturito nel suo petto, il desiderio di beneficiare l’umanità avrebbe immediatamente spento quel fuoco. Lodi da parte dell’umanità era la sua motivazione principale; la filantropia rappresentava per lui una sorta di “ufficio assicurazioni”. (Applausi entusiasti.) Aveva provato un certo orgoglio, lo ammetteva apertamente, permettendo ai suoi nemici di sfruttarlo al massimo, aveva provato orgoglio quando aveva presentato la sua teoria al mondo; che venisse celebrata o meno, (Gridi di “Sì!” e applausi.) Accettava senza problemi l’approvazione di quel nobile rappresentante del carattere pickwickiano di cui aveva appena sentito parlare, quella teoria era stata infatti celebrata; ma anche se la fama di quel trattato si fosse diffusa fino ai confini più remoti del mondo conosciuto, l’orgoglio che avrebbe provato nel riconoscere di essere il suo autore sarebbe stato nulla in confronto all’orgoglio che provava in quel momento, il momento più fiero della sua esistenza. (Applausi.) Era un uomo umile, (“No, no, ”). Eppure non poteva negare di sentirsi scelto per un compito di grande onore, e anche piuttosto pericoloso. I viaggi in quel periodo erano pieni di difficoltà: i cocchieri erano nervosi e imprevedibili. Guardassero intorno a loro: le carrozze si ribaltavano in tutte le direzioni, i cavalli scappavano, le barche si capovolgevano, i caldaie esplodevano, (Applausi, una voce che dice “No”.) No! (Applausi.) Che quel nobile rappresentante del carattere pickwickiano che aveva gridato “No” con tanta forza si faccia avanti e lo neghi, se ne ha il coraggio, (Applausi.) Chi era stato a gridare “No”? (Applausi entusiasti.) Forse era qualche uomo vanitoso e deluso, non avrebbe mai detto che si trattasse di un commerciante di abbigliamento, (Applausi fragorosi, ), che, geloso delle lodi ricevute dalle ricerche del signor Pickwick – forse anche ingiustamente – e offeso dalle critiche ricevute dai suoi deboli tentativi di competere con lui, aveva ora scelto questo modo vile e calunnioso per.

“Il signor Blotton (di Aldgate) si è alzato per fare una domanda. Il nobile Pickwickiano si riferiva a lui? (Grida di “Ordine”, “Sedia”, “Sì”, “No”, “Continui”, “Lasciate perdere”, ecc.)”

“Il signor Pickwick non avrebbe mai permesso che il clamore lo sopraffacesse. Aveva fatto riferimento a quel gentiluomo onorevole, (Grande eccitazione.)”

“Il signor Blotton si limitò a dichiarare che respingeva con profondo disprezzo quelle false e calunniose accuse rivolte contro di lui.” (Grandi applausi.) Quell’uomo era un impostore. (Enorme confusione, con grida di “Presidente” e “Ordine”).

“Il signor A. SNODGRASS ha chiesto una rosa su ordinazione. Si è gettato sulla sedia. Voleva sapere se si dovesse permettere che continuasse questa vergognosa contesa tra due membri di quel club, ” (Ascoltate.)

Il PRESIDENTE era abbastanza sicuro che il signor Pickwickian avrebbe ritirato l’espressione che aveva appena usato.

“Signor Blotton, con tutto il rispetto dovuto alla presidenza, era assolutamente certo che non lo avrebbe fatto.”

“Il PRESIDENTE ritenne suo dovere imperativo chiedere all’onorevole gentiluomo se avesse usato quell’espressione nel senso comune del termine.”

‘Il signor Blotton non esitò affatto nel dichiarare che non aveva, aveva usato quella parola nel senso tipico del personaggio di Pickwick. (Ascoltate, ascoltate.) Era costretto ad ammettere che, personalmente, nutriva la massima stima e rispetto per quell’onorevole gentiluomo; aveva semplicemente considerato lui un truffatore, dal punto di vista tipico del personaggio di Pickwick. (Ascoltate, ascoltate.)’

‘Il signor PICKWICK fu molto soddisfatto di quella spiegazione chiara, onesta e completa riguardo al suo onorevole amico. Chiese che si capisse immediatamente che le sue osservazioni erano state intese soltanto per essere interpretate in modo “pickwickiano”. (Applausi.)’

Qui l’argomento si conclude, poiché non abbiamo alcun >dubbio che anche la debatte sia giunta a una fase altrettanto soddisfacente e comprensibile. Non esiste alcuna dichiarazione ufficiale sui fatti, che il lettore troverà registrati nel prossimo capitolo; tuttavia questi sono stati attentamente raccolti da lettere e altre fonti manoscritte, e si possono considerare senza dubbio autentici, tanto da giustificare la loro narrazione in forma coerente.

CAPITOLO II. Il viaggio del primo giorno e le avventure della prima sera; con le loro conseguenze.

Quel sollecito servitore di ogni attività, il sole, era appena sorto e iniziava a illuminare la mattina del tredicesimo maggio milleottocentoventisette, quando il signor Samuel Pickwick si svegliò come un altro sole dai suoi sonni, aprì la finestra della sua stanza e guardò fuori verso il mondo sottostante. Goswell Street si estendeva ai suoi piedi, a destra; per quanto l’occhio potesse vedere, Goswell Street continuava a sinistra; l’altra parte di Goswell Street era proprio di fronte a lui. “Ecco,” pensò il signor Pickwick, “le ristrette visioni di quei filosofi che si accontentano di esaminare solo ciò che hanno davanti a loro, senza cercare le verità nascoste al di là. Potrei anche io accontentarmi di guardare per sempre Goswell Street, senza mai sforzarmi di scoprire i regni nascosti che la circondano su tutti i lati, ” Dopo aver espresso questo pensiero, il signor Pickwick iniziò a vestirsi e a prepararsi per la giornata. I grandi uomini di solito non sono troppo meticolosi nell’organizzare i propri abiti; in poco tempo si fece la barba, si vestì e bevve il caffè; un’ora dopo, con il borsone in mano, il telescopio nella tasca del cappotto e il taccuino nel gilet, era pronto ad accogliere qualsiasi scoperta degna di essere annotata. Arrivò così alla stazione dei cocchi di St. Martin’s-le-Grand.

‘Cab!’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Here you are, sir,’ shouted a strange specimen of the human race, in a sackcloth coat, and apron of the same, who, with a brass label and number round his neck, looked as if he were catalogued in some collection of rarities. This was the waterman. ‘Here you are, sir. Now, then, fust cab!’ And the first cab having been fetched from the public- house, where he had been smoking his first pipe, Mr. Pickwick and his portmanteau were thrown into the vehicle.

‘Golden Cross,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Only a bob’s vorth, Tommy,’ cried the driver sulkily, for the information of his friend the waterman, as the cab drove off.

‘How old is that horse, my friend?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his nose with the shilling he had reserved for the fare.

‘Forty-two,’ replied the driver, eyeing him askant.

‘What!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, laying his hand upon his note-book. The driver reiterated his former statement. Mr. Pickwick looked very hard at the man’s face, but his features were immovable, so he noted down the fact forthwith.

‘And how long do you keep him out at a time?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, searching for further information.

‘Two or three veeks,’ replied the man.

‘Weeks!’ said Mr. Pickwick in astonishment, and out came the note-book again.

‘He lives at Pentonwil when he’s at home,’ observed the driver coolly, ‘but we seldom takes him home, on account of his weakness.’

‘On account of his weakness!’ reiterated the perplexed Mr. Pickwick.

‘He always falls down when he’s took out o’ the cab,’ continued the driver, ‘but when he’s in it, we bears him up werry tight, and takes him in werry short, so as he can’t werry well fall down; and we’ve got a pair o’ precious large wheels on, so ven he does move, they run after him, and he must go on—he can’t help it.’

Mr. Pickwick entered every word of this statement in his note-book, with the view of communicating it to the club, as a singular instance of the tenacity of life in horses under trying circumstances. The entry was scarcely completed when they reached the Golden Cross. Down jumped the driver, and out got Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Tupman, Mr. Snodgrass, and Mr. Winkle, who had been anxiously waiting the arrival of their illustrious leader, crowded to welcome him.

‘Here’s your fare,’ said Mr. Pickwick, holding out the shilling to the driver.

What was the learned man’s astonishment, when that unaccountable person flung the money on the pavement, and requested in figurative terms to be allowed the pleasure of fighting him (Mr. Pickwick) for the amount!

‘You are mad,’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

‘Or drunk,’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘Or both,’ said Mr. Tupman.

‘Come on!’ said the cab-driver, sparring away like clockwork. ‘Come on— all four on you.’

‘Here’s a lark!’ shouted half a dozen hackney coachmen. ‘Go to vork, Sam!—and they crowded with great glee round the party.

‘What’s the row, Sam?’ inquired one gentleman in black calico sleeves.

‘Row!’ replied the cabman, ‘what did he want my number for?’

‘I didn’t want your number,’ said the astonished Mr. Pickwick.

‘What did you take it for, then?’ inquired the cabman.

‘I didn’t take it,’ said Mr. Pickwick indignantly.

‘Would anybody believe,’ continued the cab-driver, appealing to the crowd, ‘would anybody believe as an informer’ud go about in a man’s cab, not only takin’ down his number, but ev’ry word he says into the bargain’ (a light flashed upon Mr. Pickwick—it was the note-book).

‘Did he though?’ inquired another cabman.

‘Yes, did he,’ replied the first; ‘and then arter aggerawatin’ me to assault him, gets three witnesses here to prove it. But I’ll give it him, if I’ve six months for it. Come on!’ and the cabman dashed his hat upon the ground, with a reckless disregard of his own private property, and knocked Mr. Pickwick’s spectacles off, and followed up the attack with a blow on Mr. Pickwick’s nose, and another on Mr. Pickwick’s chest, and a third in Mr. Snodgrass’s eye, and a fourth, by way of variety, in Mr. Tupman’s waistcoat, and then danced into the road, and then back again to the pavement, and finally dashed the whole temporary supply of breath out of Mr. Winkle’s body; and all in half a dozen seconds.

‘Where’s an officer?’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

‘Put ‘em under the pump,’ suggested a hot-pieman.

‘You shall smart for this,’ gasped Mr. Pickwick.

‘Informers!’ shouted the crowd.

‘Come on,’ cried the cabman, who had been sparring without cessation the whole time.

The mob hitherto had been passive spectators of the scene, but as the intelligence of the Pickwickians being informers was spread among them, they began to canvass with considerable vivacity the propriety of enforcing the heated pastry-vendor’s proposition: and there is no saying what acts of personal aggression they might have committed, had not the affray been unexpectedly terminated by the interposition of a new-comer.

‘What’s the fun?’ said a rather tall, thin, young man, in a green coat, emerging suddenly from the coach-yard.

‘Informers!’ shouted the crowd again.

‘We are not,’ roared Mr. Pickwick, in a tone which, to any dispassionate listener, carried conviction with it.

‘Ain’t you, though—ain’t you?’ said the young man, appealing to Mr. Pickwick, and making his way through the crowd by the infallible process of elbowing the countenances of its component members.

That learned man in a few hurried words explained the real state of the case.

‘Come along, then,’ said he of the green coat, lugging Mr. Pickwick after him by main force, and talking the whole way. Here, No. 924, take your fare, and take yourself off—respectable gentleman—know him well— none of your nonsense—this way, sir—where’s your friends?—all a mistake, I see—never mind—accidents will happen—best regulated families—never say die—down upon your luck—Pull him up—Put that in his pipe—like the flavour—damned rascals.’ And with a lengthened string of similar broken sentences, delivered with extraordinary volubility, the stranger led the way to the traveller’s waiting-room, whither he was closely followed by Mr. Pickwick and his disciples.

“Taxi!”, disse il signor Pickwick.

“Ecco qua, signore,” gridò uno strano esemplare della razza umana, vestito con un cappotto di canapa e un grembiule dello stesso materiale; con un’etichetta di rame e un numero attorno al collo, sembrava essere catalogato in qualche collezione di rarità. Questo era il barcaiolo. “Ecco qua, signore. Ora, andiamo in una vettura a noleggio!” Non appena fu chiamata la prima vettura dal pub, dove il signor Pickwick aveva fumato la sua prima pipa, lui e il suo baule furono gettati all’interno del veicolo.

“La ‘Croce d’Oro’”, disse il signor Pickwick.

“Solo il valore di un penny, Tommy,” gridò il tassista in tono malinconico, per informare il suo amico, il barcaiolo, mentre la cabina si allontanava.

“Quanti anni ha quel cavallo, amico mio?”, chiese il signor Pickwick, strofinandosi il naso con lo scellino che aveva riservato per il biglietto.

“ Quarantadue,” rispose il conducente, guardandolo di sottecchi.

“Che cosa!” esclamò il signor Pickwick, mettendo una mano sul suo taccuino. Il conducente ripeté la sua precedente dichiarazione. Il signor Pickwick osservò attentamente il volto dell’uomo, ma i suoi tratti rimasero immobili; quindi annotò immediatamente l’informazione.

“E per quanto tempo lo tenete fuori, a quest’ora?” chiese il signor Pickwick, cercando di ottenere ulteriori informazioni.

“Due o tre settimane,” rispose l’uomo.

“Settimane!” esclamò il signor Pickwick, stupito; e di nuovo tirò fuori il taccuino.

“Quando è a casa, vive a Pentonwil,” osservò freddamente il conducente, “ma raramente lo portiamo lì a causa della sua debolezza.”

“A causa della sua debolezza!”, ripeté il confuso signor Pickwick.

“Sempre cade quando viene fatto scendere dal taxi,” continuò il conducente, “ma quando è dentro, lo teniamo ben fermo e lo portiamo molto velocemente, così che non possa cadere facilmente; inoltre abbiamo montato due ruote molto grandi, quindi anche se si muove, queste ruote lo seguono e lui è costretto ad andare avanti. Non può fare altrimenti.”

Il signor Pickwick trascrisse ogni parola di questa dichiarazione nel suo taccuino, con l’intenzione di condividerla con il club come un esempio straordinario della tenacia dei cavalli in circostanze difficili. L’annotazione non era ancora stata completata quando arrivarono alla Golden Cross. Il cocchiere saltò giù dal carro e il signor Pickwick ne uscì subito dopo. Il signor Tupman, il signor Snodgrass e il signor Winkle, che avevano atteso con ansia l’arrivo del loro illustre leader, si affollarono intorno a lui per dargli il benvenuto.

“Ecco la tua tariffa,” disse il signor Pickwick, porgendo lo scellino al conducente.

Quanto fu grande lo stupore di quell’uomo colto quando quella persona inspiegabile gettò i soldi sul marciapiede e, in termini figurati, chiese il permesso di poter combattere contro di lui (il signor Pickwick) per quel denaro!

“Sei pazzo,” disse il signor Snodgrass.

“O ubriaco,” disse il signor Winkle.

“O entrambi,” disse il signor Tupman.

“Forza!” disse il tassista, continuando a parlare senza sosta. “Forza, ci sono quattro persone su di voi.”

“Ecco una sorpresa!” gridarono mezza dozzina di cocchieri. “Vai a prendere il cibo, Sam!, ” E si affollarono intorno al gruppo con grande gioia.

“Che c’è che non va, Sam?”, chiese un gentiluomo con le maniche di batista nera.

“Remare!”, rispose il barcaiolo. “Perché voleva il mio numero?”

“Non volevo il tuo numero,” disse lo stupito signor Pickwick.

“Allora, per cosa l’hai preso?” chiese il autista di taxi.

“Non l’ho preso,” disse il signor Pickwick con indignazione.

“Chi mai ci crederebbe,” continuò il tassista, rivolgendosi alla folla, “chi mai penserebbe che uno che si fa passare per informatore possa viaggiare in una cabina di taxi, non solo prendendo il numero del conducente, ma anche annotando ogni parola che dice durante la conversazione, ” (Un lampo illuminò il viso di Mr. Pickwick. Era il suo taccuino.)

“Ma l’ha davvero fatto?”, chiese un altro autista di taxi.

“Sì, proprio così,” rispose il primo; “e dopo avermi convinto ad attaccarlo, trova addirittura tre testimoni per provarlo. Ma glielo darò, se mi danno sei mesi di tempo. Andiamo!” E il cocchiere gettò il proprio cappello a terra, senza alcun riguardo per la propria proprietà personale, colpì gli occhiali del signor Pickwick, lo colpì ancora al naso e al petto, poi al viso di Mr. Snodgrass, e infine, per variare, anche sul gilet di Mr. Tupman. Poi corse via per la strada, tornò indietro sul marciapiede, e in meno di sei secondi fece perdere completamente il respiro al signor Winkle.

“Dov’è un ufficiale?”, chiese il signor Snodgrass.

“Metteteli sotto pressione,” suggerì un venditore di hot-dog.

“Ne pagherai le conseguenze,” ansimò il signor Pickwick.

“Informatori!” gridò la folla.

“Forza,” gridò il autista, che non aveva smesso di litigare per tutto il tempo.

La folla fino ad allora era stata solo un pubblico passivo di quella scena, ma quando si diffuse tra loro la notizia che i membri del gruppo dei Pickwickiani erano informatori, iniziarono a discutere con grande fervore se fosse opportuno attuare la proposta del venditore di pasticceria arrabbiato. Non si sa quali atti di aggressione avrebbero potuto compiere, se non fosse stato per l’intervento improvviso di un nuovo arrivato che pose fine alla rissa.

“Qual è il divertimento?” disse un giovane piuttosto alto e magro, con un cappotto verde, emergendo all’improvviso dal cortile delle stalle.

“Informatori!” gridò di nuovo la folla.

“Non lo siamo,” gridò il signor Pickwick con un tono che, per qualsiasi ascoltatore imparziale, trasmetteva certezza.

“Non è vero, però, non è vero?” disse il giovane, rivolgendosi al signor Pickwick e facendosi strada tra la folla con l’infallibile metodo di spingere via le persone che gli ostacolavano il passaggio.

Quell’uomo erudito, con poche parole affrettate, spiegò la vera situazione della questione.

“Allora, vieni con me,” disse, rivolgendosi al signore in abito verde, trascinando il signor Pickwick dietro di sé con forza e parlando senza sosta lungo la strada. “Ecco, numero 924: prendi il tuo compenso e vattene. Un gentiluomo rispettabile. Lo conosci bene. Niente sciocchezze. Da questa parte, signore. Dove sono i tuoi amici?. Ah, è tutto un errore. Non importa. Gli incidenti possono succedere. Le famiglie più ordinate. Mai dire mai. Speriamo nella tua fortuna, ” E con una serie di frasi interrotte e incoerenti, pronunciate con estrema loquacità, lo sconosciuto guidò il viaggiatore verso la sala d’attesa, dove fu immediatamente seguito dal signor Pickwick e dai suoi compagni.

‘Here, waiter!’ shouted the stranger, ringing the bell with tremendous violence, ‘glasses round—brandy-and-water, hot and strong, and sweet, and plenty,—eye damaged, Sir? Waiter! raw beef-steak for the gentleman’s eye—nothing like raw beef-steak for a bruise, sir; cold lamp-post very good, but lamp-post inconvenient—damned odd standing in the open street half an hour, with your eye against a lamp-post—eh,— very good—ha! ha!’ And the stranger, without stopping to take breath, swallowed at a draught full half a pint of the reeking brandy-and-water, and flung himself into a chair with as much ease as if nothing uncommon had occurred.

While his three companions were busily engaged in proffering their thanks to their new acquaintance, Mr. Pickwick had leisure to examine his costume and appearance.

He was about the middle height, but the thinness of his body, and the length of his legs, gave him the appearance of being much taller. The green coat had been a smart dress garment in the days of swallow-tails, but had evidently in those times adorned a much shorter man than the stranger, for the soiled and faded sleeves scarcely reached to his wrists. It was buttoned closely up to his chin, at the imminent hazard of splitting the back; and an old stock, without a vestige of shirt collar, ornamented his neck. His scanty black trousers displayed here and there those shiny patches which bespeak long service, and were strapped very tightly over a pair of patched and mended shoes, as if to conceal the dirty white stockings, which were nevertheless distinctly visible. His long, black hair escaped in negligent waves from beneath each side of his old pinched-up hat; and glimpses of his bare wrists might be observed between the tops of his gloves and the cuffs of his coat sleeves. His face was thin and haggard; but an indescribable air of jaunty impudence and perfect self-possession pervaded the whole man.

Such was the individual on whom Mr. Pickwick gazed through his spectacles (which he had fortunately recovered), and to whom he proceeded, when his friends had exhausted themselves, to return in chosen terms his warmest thanks for his recent assistance.

‘Never mind,’ said the stranger, cutting the address very short, ‘said enough—no more; smart chap that cabman—handled his fives well; but if I’d been your friend in the green jemmy—damn me—punch his head,—‘cod I would,—pig’s whisper—pieman too,—no gammon.’

This coherent speech was interrupted by the entrance of the Rochester coachman, to announce that ‘the Commodore’ was on the point of starting.

‘Commodore!’ said the stranger, starting up, ‘my coach—place booked,— one outside—leave you to pay for the brandy-and-water,—want change for a five,—bad silver—Brummagem buttons—won’t do—no go—eh?’ and he shook his head most knowingly.

Now it so happened that Mr. Pickwick and his three companions had resolved to make Rochester their first halting-place too; and having intimated to their new-found acquaintance that they were journeying to the same city, they agreed to occupy the seat at the back of the coach, where they could all sit together.

‘Up with you,’ said the stranger, assisting Mr. Pickwick on to the roof with so much precipitation as to impair the gravity of that gentleman’s deportment very materially.

‘Any luggage, Sir?’ inquired the coachman.

‘Who—I? Brown paper parcel here, that’s all—other luggage gone by water—packing-cases, nailed up—big as houses—heavy, heavy, damned heavy,’ replied the stranger, as he forced into his pocket as much as he could of the brown paper parcel, which presented most suspicious indications of containing one shirt and a handkerchief.

‘Heads, heads—take care of your heads!’ cried the loquacious stranger, as they came out under the low archway, which in those days formed the entrance to the coach-yard. ‘Terrible place—dangerous work—other day— five children—mother—tall lady, eating sandwiches—forgot the arch— crash—knock—children look round—mother’s head off—sandwich in her hand—no mouth to put it in—head of a family off—shocking, shocking! Looking at Whitehall, sir?—fine place—little window—somebody else’s head off there, eh, sir?—he didn’t keep a sharp look-out enough either- -eh, Sir, eh?’

‘I am ruminating,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘on the strange mutability of human affairs.’

‘Ah! I see—in at the palace door one day, out at the window the next. Philosopher, Sir?’

‘An observer of human nature, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Ah, so am I. Most people are when they’ve little to do and less to get. Poet, Sir?’

‘My friend Mr. Snodgrass has a strong poetic turn,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘So have I,’ said the stranger. ‘Epic poem—ten thousand lines— revolution of July—composed it on the spot—Mars by day, Apollo by night—bang the field-piece, twang the lyre.’

‘You were present at that glorious scene, sir?’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

‘Present! think I was;* fired a musket—fired with an idea—rushed into wine shop—wrote it down—back again—whiz, bang—another idea—wine shop again—pen and ink—back again—cut and slash—noble time, Sir. Sportsman, sir?’ abruptly turning to Mr. Winkle.

• A remarkable instance of the prophetic force of Mr. Jingle’s imagination; this dialogue occurring in the year 1827, and the Revolution in 1830.

‘A little, Sir,’ replied that gentleman.

‘Fine pursuit, sir—fine pursuit.—Dogs, Sir?’

‘Not just now,’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘Ah! you should keep dogs—fine animals—sagacious creatures—dog of my own once—pointer—surprising instinct—out shooting one day—entering inclosure—whistled—dog stopped—whistled again—Ponto—no go; stock still—called him—Ponto, Ponto—wouldn’t move—dog transfixed—staring at a board—looked up, saw an inscription—“Gamekeeper has orders to shoot all dogs found in this inclosure”—wouldn’t pass it—wonderful dog—valuable dog that—very.’

“Ehi, cameriere!” gridò lo sconosciuto, suonando il campanello con estrema violenza. “Portate bicchieri, brandy e acqua, caldo e forte, dolce. E abbondante! Il signore ha gli occhi danneggiati? Cameriere! Una bistecca di manzo cruda per gli occhi del signore. Niente meglio della bistecca di manzo cruda per un livido, signore. Un palo del lampione freddo va bene, ma è scomodo. Che strano stare in mezzo alla strada aperta per mezz’ora con l’occhio premuto contro un palo del lampione. Eh. Molto efficace. Ah! Ah!” E lo sconosciuto, senza nemmeno fermarsi a prendere fiato, trangugiò d’un fiato quasi mezzo litro di quel disgustoso brandy e acqua, poi si lasciò cadere su una sedia con la stessa facilità con cui se n’era alzato.

Mentre i suoi tre compagni erano impegnati a ringraziare il loro nuovo conoscente, il signor Pickwick aveva il tempo di esaminare il proprio abbigliamento e l’aspetto esteriore.

Era di statura media, ma la magrezza del suo -corpo e la lunghezza delle sue gambe gli davano l’aspetto di essere molto più alto. Quel cappotto verde, un tempo considerato un abito elegante nei tempi delle code a “swallow”, evidentemente apparteneva a un uomo molto più basso dello sconosciuto, poiché le maniche sporche e sbiadite a malapena raggiungevano i suoi polsi. Era abbottonato fino al mento, con il rischio evidente che si strappasse sulla schiena; intorno al collo portava un vecchio colletto senza traccia di camicia. I suoi pantaloni neri, logori in alcuni punti, erano stretti intorno a delle scarpe rattoppatissime, come se volessero nascondere le calze bianche sporche, comunque ben visibili. I suoi lunghi capelli neri sfuggivano negligentemente da sotto il vecchio cappello; tra la parte superiore dei guanti e i polsini del cappotto si intravedevano i suoi polsi nudi. Il suo volto era magro e segnato dalla stanchezza, ma un’aria di spavalderia, impudenza e totale padronanza di sé permeava tutto il suo aspetto.

Ecco l’uomo su cui il signor Pickwick fissò lo sguardo attraverso i suoi occhiali (che fortunatamente aveva ritrovato), e a cui, dopo che i suoi amici si erano esauriti in ringraziamenti, rivolse le sue più sincere parole di gratitudine per l’aiuto appena ricevuto.

“Non importa,” disse lo sconosciuto, interrompendo bruscamente il discorso, “abbastanza detto – nient’altro; quel autista di taxi è davvero un ragazzo in gamba, ha gestito la situazione molto bene. Ma se fossi stato tuo amico, dannazione, gli avrei spaccato la testa, senza esitare, nemmeno se fosse stato un cantante, niente pietà.”

Questo discorso coerente fu interrotto dall’arrivo del cocchiere di Rochester, che annunciò che “il Comandante” stava per partire.

“Comandante!” disse lo sconosciuto alzandosi in piedi, “il mio calesse è prenotato; c’è un altro fuori. Lascio a voi pagare il brandy e l’acqua. Avete bisogno di resto per una banconota da cinque. Argento scadente. Bottoni di Brummagem. Non vanno bene. Niente da fare. Eh?” E scosse la testa con aria molto compresa.

Accadde che il signor Pickwick e i suoi tre compagni avessero deciso di fare di Rochester la loro prima tappa; essendo stati informati del fatto che anche il loro nuovo conoscente si stava dirigendo verso la stessa >città, decisero di occupare gli posti posteriori della carrozza, in modo da poter sedere tutti insieme.

“Salga su con me,” disse lo sconosciuto, aiutando il signor Pickwick a salire sul tetto con tale fretta da compromettere notevolmente l’equilibrio di quel gentiluomo.

“Ha qualche bagaglio, signore?”, chiese il cocchiere.

“Chi, io? Solo un pacco avvolto in carta marrone, nient’altro, il resto dei bagagli è stato spedito via acqua, casse imballate, fissate con chiodi, grandi come case, pesantissime,” rispose lo sconosciuto, infilando nella tasca tutto ciò che riusciva del pacco di carta marrone, il quale presentava chiaramente segni sospetti: conteneva soltanto una camicia e un fazzoletto.

“Teste, teste, fate attenzione alle vostre teste!” gridò lo straniero loquace mentre uscivano sotto l’arco basso che all’epoca fungeva da ingresso al cortile delle carrozze. “Un posto terribile, un lavoro pericoloso. L’altro giorno, cinque bambini, la madre, una donna alta che mangiava dei panini. Ha dimenticato l’arco. Bang! I bambini si girano. La testa della madre è spazzata via. Il panino ancora nella sua mano. Nessuna bocca per metterlo dentro. La testa di una famiglia distrutta. Spaventoso, davvero spaventoso!” “Guardate Whitehall, signore. Un bel posto. Una piccola finestra. Lì, forse, c’è stata un’altra testa spazzata via, eh, signore? Anche lui non ha fatto abbastanza attenzione. Eh, signore, ”

“Sto riflettendo,” disse il signor Pickwick, “sulla strana mutabilità degli affari umani.”

“Ah! Capisco. Un giorno entra dalla porta del palazzo, il giorno dopo esce dalla finestra. Filosofo, vero?”

“Un osservatore della natura umana, signore,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Ah, anch’io. La maggior parte delle persone è così quando hanno poco da fare e ancora meno da ottenere. Poeta, lei?”

“Mio amico il signor Snodgrass ha una forte inclinazione per la poesia,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Lo so anch’io,” disse lo sconosciuto. “Un poema epico, diecimila versi. La rivoluzione di luglio. L’ho composto lì sul posto: il giorno rappresentavo Marte, la notte Apollo. Bang! Il cannone tuona. Twang! La lira suona, ”

“Eravate presente a quella meravigliosa scena, signore?” chiese il signor Snodgrass.

“Presente! Credo di sì. Ho sparato con un fucile, ho avuto un’idea, sono corso nel negozio di vini, l’ho scritta giù, poi indietro, velocemente, con decisione, un’altra idea, di nuovo al negozio di vini, penna e inchiostro, ancora indietro, tagli e modifiche. Un momento davvero nobile, signore. Un vero sportivo, signore?” disse improvvisamente rivolgendosi a Mr. Winkle.

Un esempio notevole della forza profetica dell’immaginazione del signor Jingle: questo dialogo avviene nel 1827, mentre la Rivoluzione ha luogo nel 1830.

“Un po’, signore”, rispose quel gentiluomo.

“Buona caccia, signore, buona caccia. – >Cani, signore?”

“Non solo ora,” disse il signor Winkle.

‘Ah! Dovresti tenere i >cani, ottimi animali, creature sagge. Avevo un cane mio, una volta: un levriero, con un istinto sorprendente. Un giorno superò tutti gli altri in velocità. Entrò in un recinto. Gli soffiai nel naso. Il cane si fermò. Soffiai di nuovo, “Ponto”. Ma non si muoveva. Era completamente immobile, fissava solo un cartello. Alzò lo sguardo e vide una iscrizione: “Il guardiacaccia ha l’ordine di sparare a tutti i cani trovati in questo recinto”. Non volle nemmeno avvicinarsi. Un cane meraviglioso. Un cane davvero prezioso, ’

‘Singular circumstance that,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Will you allow me to make a note of it?’

‘Certainly, Sir, certainly—hundred more anecdotes of the same animal.— Fine girl, Sir’ (to Mr. Tracy Tupman, who had been bestowing sundry anti-Pickwickian glances on a young lady by the roadside).

‘Very!’ said Mr. Tupman.

‘English girls not so fine as Spanish—noble creatures—jet hair—black eyes—lovely forms—sweet creatures—beautiful.’

‘You have been in Spain, sir?’ said Mr. Tracy Tupman.

‘Lived there—ages.’

‘Many conquests, sir?’ inquired Mr. Tupman.

‘Conquests! Thousands. Don Bolaro Fizzgig—grandee—only daughter—Donna Christina—splendid creature—loved me to distraction—jealous father— high-souled daughter—handsome Englishman—Donna Christina in despair— prussic acid—stomach pump in my portmanteau—operation performed—old Bolaro in ecstasies—consent to our union—join hands and floods of tears—romantic story—very.’

‘Is the lady in England now, sir?’ inquired Mr. Tupman, on whom the description of her charms had produced a powerful impression.

‘Dead, sir—dead,’ said the stranger, applying to his right eye the brief remnant of a very old cambric handkerchief. ‘Never recovered the stomach pump—undermined constitution—fell a victim.’

‘And her father?’ inquired the poetic Snodgrass.

‘Remorse and misery,’ replied the stranger. ‘Sudden disappearance—talk of the whole city—search made everywhere without success—public fountain in the great square suddenly ceased playing—weeks elapsed— still a stoppage—workmen employed to clean it—water drawn off—father- in-law discovered sticking head first in the main pipe, with a full confession in his right boot—took him out, and the fountain played away again, as well as ever.’

‘Will you allow me to note that little romance down, Sir?’ said Mr. Snodgrass, deeply affected.

‘Certainly, Sir, certainly—fifty more if you like to hear ‘em—strange life mine—rather curious history—not extraordinary, but singular.’

In this strain, with an occasional glass of ale, by way of parenthesis, when the coach changed horses, did the stranger proceed, until they reached Rochester bridge, by which time the note-books, both of Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Snodgrass, were completely filled with selections from his adventures.

‘Magnificent ruin!’ said Mr. Augustus Snodgrass, with all the poetic fervour that distinguished him, when they came in sight of the fine old castle.

‘What a study for an antiquarian!’ were the very words which fell from Mr. Pickwick’s mouth, as he applied his telescope to his eye.

‘Ah! fine place,’ said the stranger, ‘glorious pile—frowning walls— tottering arches—dark nooks—crumbling staircases—old cathedral too— earthy smell—pilgrims’ feet wore away the old steps—little Saxon doors—confessionals like money-takers’ boxes at theatres—queer customers those monks—popes, and lord treasurers, and all sorts of old fellows, with great red faces, and broken noses, turning up every day— buff jerkins too—match-locks—sarcophagus—fine place—old legends too- -strange stories: capital;’ and the stranger continued to soliloquise until they reached the Bull Inn, in the High Street, where the coach stopped.

‘Do you remain here, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Nathaniel Winkle.

‘Here—not I—but you’d better—good house—nice beds—Wright’s next house, dear—very dear—half-a-crown in the bill if you look at the waiter—charge you more if you dine at a friend’s than they would if you dined in the coffee-room—rum fellows—very.’

Mr. Winkle turned to Mr. Pickwick, and murmured a few words; a whisper passed from Mr. Pickwick to Mr. Snodgrass, from Mr. Snodgrass to Mr. Tupman, and nods of assent were exchanged. Mr. Pickwick addressed the stranger.

‘You rendered us a very important service this morning, sir,’ said he, ‘will you allow us to offer a slight mark of our gratitude by begging the favour of your company at dinner?’

‘Great pleasure—not presume to dictate, but broiled fowl and mushrooms- -capital thing! What time?’

‘Let me see,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, referring to his watch, ‘it is now nearly three. Shall we say five?’

‘Suit me excellently,’ said the stranger, ‘five precisely—till then— care of yourselves;’ and lifting the pinched-up hat a few inches from his head, and carelessly replacing it very much on one side, the stranger, with half the brown paper parcel sticking out of his pocket, walked briskly up the yard, and turned into the High Street.

‘Evidently a traveller in many countries, and a close observer of men and things,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘I should like to see his poem,’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

‘I should like to have seen that dog,’ said Mr. Winkle.

Mr. Tupman said nothing; but he thought of Donna Christina, the stomach pump, and the fountain; and his eyes filled with tears.

A private sitting-room having been engaged, bedrooms inspected, and dinner ordered, the party walked out to view the city and adjoining neighbourhood.

We do not find, from a careful perusal of Mr. Pickwick’s notes of the four towns, Stroud, Rochester, Chatham, and Brompton, that his impressions of their appearance differ in any material point from those of other travellers who have gone over the same ground. His general description is easily abridged.

‘The principal productions of these towns,’ says Mr. Pickwick, ‘appear to be soldiers, sailors, Jews, chalk, shrimps, officers, and dockyard men. The commodities chiefly exposed for sale in the public streets are marine stores, hard-bake, apples, flat-fish, and oysters. The streets present a lively and animated appearance, occasioned chiefly by the conviviality of the military. It is truly delightful to a philanthropic mind to see these gallant men staggering along under the influence of an overflow both of animal and ardent spirits; more especially when we remember that the following them about, and jesting with them, affords a cheap and innocent amusement for the boy population. Nothing,’ adds Mr. Pickwick, ‘can exceed their good-humour. It was but the day before my arrival that one of them had been most grossly insulted in the house of a publican. The barmaid had positively refused to draw him any more liquor; in return for which he had (merely in playfulness) drawn his bayonet, and wounded the girl in the shoulder. And yet this fine fellow was the very first to go down to the house next morning and express his readiness to overlook the matter, and forget what had occurred!

“Una circostanza davvero singolare,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Mi permetterete di annotarla?”

“Certamente, signore, certamente, altre cento aneddoti sullo stesso animale. Brava ragazza, signora” (rivolto a Mr. Tracy Tupman, che aveva lanciato diversi sguardi ostili verso una giovane donna accanto alla strada).

“Molto bene!”, disse il signor Tupman.

“Le ragazze inglesi non sono così belle come quelle spagnole, creature nobili, capelli corti, occhi neri, forme incantevoli, creature deliziose e bellissime.”

“Avete viaggiato in Spagna, signore?”, chiese il signor Tracy Tupman.

vissuto lì, per anni.

“Molte conquiste, signore?” chiese il signor Tupman.

“Conquiste! Migliaia. Don Bolaro Fizzgig – nobile; sua unica figlia, Donna Christina, una creatura meravigliosa. Mi amava perdutamente. Un padre geloso. Una donna dal cuore nobile. Un affascinante inglese. Donna Christina nella disperazione. Acido prussico. Una pompa gastrica nel mio borsone. L’intervento è riuscito. Il vecchio Bolaro in estasi. Ha dato il suo consenso al nostro matrimonio. Ci siamo uniti, e lacrime di gioia hanno inondato i nostri occhi. Una storia romantica. Davvero.”

“La signora si trova ora in Inghilterra, signore?”, chiese il signor Tupman, su di lui la descrizione dei suoi pregi aveva avuto un forte effetto.

“Morto, signore, morto,” disse lo sconosciuto, applicando al proprio occhio destro l’ultimo brandello di un vecchissimo fazzoletto di cambric. “Non è mai riuscito a riprendersi dalla malattia, una costituzione debole, è diventato una vittima.”

“E suo padre?” chiese la poetica Snodgrass.

“Remorso e miseria,” rispose lo sconosciuto. “Scomparsa improvvisa, parliamo di un’intera >città, ricerche in tutti i luoghi senza alcun successo, la fontana pubblica nella piazza principale smise improvvisamente di funzionare, passarono settimane, il problema persisteva, furono chiamati gli operai per pulirla, l’acqua fu rimosso, si scoprì che lo suocero era annegato nella tubazione principale, con una confessione completa nel suo stivale destro, lo tirarono fuori e la fontana riprese a funzionare, come prima.”

“Permetterete che io annoti questo piccolo romanzo, signore?”, disse il signor Snodgrass, profondamente commosso.

“Certamente, signore, certamente. Cinquanta storie in più, se desiderate ascoltarle. Una vita strana la mia. Una storia piuttosto curiosa. Niente di eccezionale, ma certamente insolita.”

In questo viaggio, di tanto in tanto accompagnato da un bicchiere di birra, quando il calesse cambiava cavalli, lo straniero proseguì il suo percorso fino a raggiungere il ponte di Rochester; a quel punto, sia i taccuini del signor Pickwick che quelli del signor Snodgrass erano ormai completamente pieni di racconti tratti dalle sue avventure.

“Una rovina magnifica!”, esclamò il signor Augustus Snodgrass con tutto il fervore poetico che lo caratterizzava, quando videro apparire quel bellissimo vecchio castello.

“Che oggetto di studio per un antiquario!” furono esattamente le parole che uscirono dalla bocca del signor Pickwick mentre puntava il suo telescopio verso l’oggetto in questione.

“Ah! Che bel posto,” disse lo sconosciuto, “quelle maestose mura, quegli archi traballanti, quei angoli bui, quelle scale fatiscenti. Anche l’antica cattedrale. Quel profumo terroso. I passi dei pellegrini hanno consumato i vecchi gradini. Quei piccoli portali sassoni. Gli confessionali, simili alle casse dove si raccoglie il denaro nei teatri. Che strani clienti quei monaci. Papi, tesoriari reali, e ogni sorta di vecchi individui, con facce rosse e nasi rotti, che arrivano tutti i giorni. Giacche di cuoio. Pistole a percussore. Sarcofagi. Che bel posto. E anche antiche leggende. Storie strane. Davvero un luogo eccezionale, ” E lo sconosciuto continuò a parlare da solo fino a quando non arrivarono alla Bull Inn, in High Street, dove il calesse si fermò.

“Rimarrete qui, signore?”, chiese il signor Nathaniel Winkle.

“Ecco, non io, ma sarebbe meglio che sceglieste questa casa: letti comodi, la prossima proprietà di Wright, carina davvero, mezzo corone in meno sul conto se parlate con il cameriere, vi faranno pagare di più se mangiate da un amico piuttosto che nel ristorante interno, tipi strani, davvero.”

Il signor Winkle si rivolse al signor Pickwick e mormorò alcune parole; un sussurro passò dal signor Pickwick al signor Snodgrass, dal signor Snodgrass al signor Tupman, e si scambiarono cenni di assenso. Il signor Pickwick si rivolse quindi allo sconosciuto.

“Questo mattino ci ha reso un servizio molto importante, signore,” disse lui, “le permetteremmo di accettare un piccolo segno della nostra gratitudine invitandola a cena con noi?”

“Molto piacere. Non oso suggerire nulla, ma pollo arrosto con funghi. Davvero ottimo! A che ora?”

“Lasciami controllare,” rispose il signor Pickwick guardando l’orologio, “sono quasi le tre. Diciamo alle cinque?”

“Mi va perfettamente,” disse lo sconosciuto, “cinque esattamente, fino ad allora, prendetevi cura di voi stessi.” Alzando leggermente il cappello che teneva premuto contro la testa e rimettendolo poi con noncuranza da un lato, lo sconosciuto, con metà del pacchetto avvolto in carta marrone ancora fuori dalla tasca, si incamminò rapidamente verso il cortile e svanì nella strada principale.

“Evidentemente un viaggiatore che ha visitato molti paesi, e un osservatore attento delle persone e delle cose,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Mi piacerebbe leggere la sua poesia,” disse il signor Snodgrass.

“Avrei voluto vedere quel cane,” disse il signor Winkle.

Il signor Tupman non disse nulla; ma pensò a Donna Christina, alla pompa per lo stomaco e alla fontana; e i suoi occhi si riempirono di lacrime.

Dopo aver prenotato una sala da pranzo privata, ispezionato le camere da letto e ordinato la cena, il gruppo uscì per ammirare la >città e i quartieri circostanti.

Dalla lettura attenta delle note del signor Pickwick riguardo alle quattro città – Stroud, Rochester, Chatham e Brompton – non risulta che le sue impressioni sul loro aspetto differiscano in alcun modo sostanziale da quelle di altri viaggiatori che hanno percorso lo stesso itinerario. La sua descrizione generale può essere facilmente riassunta.

“Le principali attività produttive di queste città,” dice il signor Pickwick, “sembrano essere legate a soldati, marinai, ebrei, nonché alla produzione di gesso, gamberetti, ufficiali e personale dei cantieri navali. I prodotti principali in vendita per le strade sono articoli marittimi, mele secche, pesci piatti e ostriche. Le strade presentano un’atmosfera vivace e animata, soprattutto a causa dell’allegria dei militari. È davvero delizioso, per una mente filantropica, vedere questi uomini coraggiosi sotto l’influenza di uno spirito gioioso e appassionato; ancora più piacevole è notare come i bambini, che li seguono e scherzano con loro, trovino un divertimento semplice ed innocente. Niente,” aggiunge il signor Pickwick, “può eguagliare il loro ottimo umorismo. Solo il giorno prima del mio arrivo, uno di loro era stato gravemente insultato in una taverna: la cameriera si era rifiutata di servirgli da bere; in risposta, lui (solo per scherzo) aveva estratto la baionetta e ferito la ragazza alla spalla. Eppure, il giorno dopo, è stato proprio lui il primo ad andare nella stessa taverna per dichiararsi disposto a perdonare l’incidente e dimenticare quanto accaduto!”

‘The consumption of tobacco in these towns,’ continues Mr. Pickwick, ‘must be very great, and the smell which pervades the streets must be exceedingly delicious to those who are extremely fond of smoking. A superficial traveller might object to the dirt, which is their leading characteristic; but to those who view it as an indication of traffic and commercial prosperity, it is truly gratifying.’

Punctual to five o’clock came the stranger, and shortly afterwards the dinner. He had divested himself of his brown paper parcel, but had made no alteration in his attire, and was, if possible, more loquacious than ever.

‘What’s that?’ he inquired, as the waiter removed one of the covers.

‘Soles, Sir.’

‘Soles—ah!—capital fish—all come from London-stage-coach proprietors get up political dinners—carriage of soles—dozens of baskets—cunning fellows. Glass of wine, Sir.’

‘With pleasure,’ said Mr. Pickwick; and the stranger took wine, first with him, and then with Mr. Snodgrass, and then with Mr. Tupman, and then with Mr. Winkle, and then with the whole party together, almost as rapidly as he talked.

‘Devil of a mess on the staircase, waiter,’ said the stranger. ‘Forms going up—carpenters coming down—lamps, glasses, harps. What’s going forward?’

‘Ball, Sir,’ said the waiter.

‘Assembly, eh?’

‘No, Sir, not assembly, Sir. Ball for the benefit of a charity, Sir.’

‘Many fine women in this town, do you know, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Tupman, with great interest.

‘Splendid—capital. Kent, sir—everybody knows Kent—apples, cherries, hops, and women. Glass of wine, Sir!’

‘With great pleasure,’ replied Mr. Tupman. The stranger filled, and emptied.

‘I should very much like to go,’ said Mr. Tupman, resuming the subject of the ball, ‘very much.’

‘Tickets at the bar, Sir,’ interposed the waiter; ‘half-a-guinea each, Sir.’

Mr. Tupman again expressed an earnest wish to be present at the festivity; but meeting with no response in the darkened eye of Mr. Snodgrass, or the abstracted gaze of Mr. Pickwick, he applied himself with great interest to the port wine and dessert, which had just been placed on the table. The waiter withdrew, and the party were left to enjoy the cosy couple of hours succeeding dinner.

‘Beg your pardon, sir,’ said the stranger, ‘bottle stands—pass it round—way of the sun—through the button-hole—no heeltaps,’ and he emptied his glass, which he had filled about two minutes before, and poured out another, with the air of a man who was used to it.

The wine was passed, and a fresh supply ordered. The visitor talked, the Pickwickians listened. Mr. Tupman felt every moment more disposed for the ball. Mr. Pickwick’s countenance glowed with an expression of universal philanthropy, and Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass fell fast asleep.

‘They’re beginning upstairs,’ said the stranger—‘hear the company— fiddles tuning—now the harp—there they go.’ The various sounds which found their way downstairs announced the commencement of the first quadrille.

‘How I should like to go,’ said Mr. Tupman again.

‘So should I,’ said the stranger—‘confounded luggage,—heavy smacks— nothing to go in—odd, ain’t it?’

Now general benevolence was one of the leading features of the Pickwickian theory, and no one was more remarkable for the zealous manner in which he observed so noble a principle than Mr. Tracy Tupman. The number of instances recorded on the Transactions of the Society, in which that excellent man referred objects of charity to the houses of other members for left-off garments or pecuniary relief is almost incredible.

‘I should be very happy to lend you a change of apparel for the purpose,’ said Mr. Tracy Tupman, ‘but you are rather slim, and I am—’

‘Rather fat—grown-up Bacchus—cut the leaves—dismounted from the tub, and adopted kersey, eh?—not double distilled, but double milled—ha! ha! pass the wine.’

Whether Mr. Tupman was somewhat indignant at the peremptory tone in which he was desired to pass the wine which the stranger passed so quickly away, or whether he felt very properly scandalised at an influential member of the Pickwick Club being ignominiously compared to a dismounted Bacchus, is a fact not yet completely ascertained. He passed the wine, coughed twice, and looked at the stranger for several seconds with a stern intensity; as that individual, however, appeared perfectly collected, and quite calm under his searching glance, he gradually relaxed, and reverted to the subject of the ball.

‘I was about to observe, Sir,’ he said, ‘that though my apparel would be too large, a suit of my friend Mr. Winkle’s would, perhaps, fit you better.’

The stranger took Mr. Winkle’s measure with his eye, and that feature glistened with satisfaction as he said, ‘Just the thing.’

Mr. Tupman looked round him. The wine, which had exerted its somniferous influence over Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle, had stolen upon the senses of Mr. Pickwick. That gentleman had gradually passed through the various stages which precede the lethargy produced by dinner, and its consequences. He had undergone the ordinary transitions from the height of conviviality to the depth of misery, and from the depth of misery to the height of conviviality. Like a gas-lamp in the street, with the wind in the pipe, he had exhibited for a moment an unnatural brilliancy, then sank so low as to be scarcely discernible; after a short interval, he had burst out again, to enlighten for a moment; then flickered with an uncertain, staggering sort of light, and then gone out altogether. His head was sunk upon his bosom, and perpetual snoring, with a partial choke occasionally, were the only audible indications of the great man’s presence.

The temptation to be present at the ball, and to form his first impressions of the beauty of the Kentish ladies, was strong upon Mr. Tupman. The temptation to take the stranger with him was equally great. He was wholly unacquainted with the place and its inhabitants, and the stranger seemed to possess as great a knowledge of both as if he had lived there from his infancy. Mr. Winkle was asleep, and Mr. Tupman had had sufficient experience in such matters to know that the moment he awoke he would, in the ordinary course of nature, roll heavily to bed. He was undecided. ‘Fill your glass, and pass the wine,’ said the indefatigable visitor.

“La consumazione di tabacco in queste città,” continua il signor Pickwick, “deve essere molto elevata, e l’odore che pervade le strade deve essere davvero delizioso per coloro che amano fumare. Un viaggiatore superficiale potrebbe lamentarsi della sporcizia, che rappresenta la loro caratteristica principale; ma per chi considera tale situazione un segno di attività commerciale e prosperità economica, è davvero gratificante.”

Alle cinque in punto arrivò lo sconosciuto; poco dopo fu servita la cena. Si era tolto il pacco avvolto nella carta marrone, ma non aveva cambiato nulla nel proprio abbigliamento ed, anzi, sembrava ancora più loquace del solito.

“Cos’è questo?” chiese lui, mentre il cameriere toglieva uno dei copripiatti.

“Le suole, signore.”

“Le suole, ah!, quei pesce pregiato, provengono tutti dai proprietari delle carrozze da teatro di Londra. Organizzano cene politiche, il trasporto delle suole, dozzine di cesti, individui astuti. Un bicchiere di vino, signore.”

“Con piacere,” disse il signor Pickwick; e lo sconosciuto bevve vino, prima con lui, poi con il signor Snodgrass, poi con il signor Tupman, poi con il signor Winkle, e infine con l’intero gruppo, quasi altrettanto rapidamente quanto parlava.

“Che disordine terribile sulle scale, cameriere,” disse lo sconosciuto. “Cassoni che vengono su, carpentieri che scendono, lampade, bicchieri, arpe. Cosa sta succedendo?”

“Balli, signore,” disse il cameriere.

“Assemblea, eh?”

“No, signore, non si tratta di un’assemblea, signore. È una festa in beneficenza per una organizzazione di carità, signore.”

“Ci sono molte donne perbene in questa città, lo sa, signore?”, chiese il signor Tupman con grande interesse.

“Meraviglioso, davvero eccezionale. Kent, signore, tutti conoscono Kent: mele, ciliegie, orzo e donne. Un bicchiere di vino, signore!”

“Con grande piacere,” rispose il signor Tupman. Lo sconosciuto riempì il bicchiere e lo svuotò.

“Mi piacerebbe molto andarci,” disse il signor Tupman, riprendendo l’argomento del ballo, “davvero molto.”

“Biglietti al bancone, signore,” intervenne il cameriere; “mezzo guinea ciascuno, signore.”

Il signor Tupman esprimette nuovamente il suo sincero desiderio di partecipare alla festività; ma non ricevendo alcuna risposta né nello sguardo cupo del signor Snodgrass, né nell’atteggiamento distaccato del signor Pickwick, si dedicò con grande interesse al porto e ai dolci appena serviti sul tavolo. Il cameriere se ne andò, e il gruppo poté godersi quelle due ore piacevoli che seguirono la cena.

“Perdonatemi, signore,” disse lo sconosciuto, “la bottiglia sta lì, passatela in giro, lungo il percorso del sole, attraverso il foro della cerniera, senza lasciare tracce di passi, ” Poi svuotò il bicchiere che aveva riempito circa due minuti prima, e ne versò un altro, con l’aria di chi fosse abituato a farlo.

Il vino venne servito e ne fu ordinata una nuova scorta. Il visitatore parlava, mentre i membri del gruppo di Pickwick ascoltavano attentamente. Il signor Tupman si sentiva sempre più propenso a partecipare al ballo. Il volto del signor Pickwick brillava di un’espressione di vera e propria filantropia, mentre il signor Winkle e il signor Snodgrass si addormentarono rapidamente.

“Stanno iniziando di sopra,” disse lo sconosciuto, “sentite il suono degli strumenti, le violini si stanno accordando, ora c’è anche l’arpa, ecco che hanno iniziato.” I vari suoni che raggiunsero il piano inferiore annunciavano l’inizio della prima quadriglia.

“Quanto mi piacerebbe andare,” disse di nuovo il signor Tupman.

“Dovrei proprio farlo,” disse lo sconosciuto, “questo bagaglio così disordinato, colpi pesanti, niente che possa entrare dentro, strano, non trovi?”

La generosità era senz’altro una delle caratteristiche principali della teoria pickwickiana, e nessuno si distingueva più per l’impegno con cui attuava un principio così nobile di quanto il signor Tracy Tupman. Il numero di casi registrati negli Atti della Società in cui quell’eccellente uomo indirizzava persone bisognose a altri membri della società per ottenere abiti o aiuti finanziari è quasi incredibile.

“Sarei molto felice di prestarti alcuni vestiti per l’occasione,” disse il signor Tracy Tupman, “ma sei piuttosto snello, e io, ”

“Piuttosto grasso, un Bacchus adulto, ha tagliato le foglie, si è sceso dalla vasca, e ha adottato il tessuto di lana, eh? Non è stato distillato due volte, ma macinato due volte. Ah! Ah! Passami il vino.”

Se il signor Tupman fosse stato un po’ offeso dal tono perentorio con cui gli veniva chiesto di passare il vino che lo sconosciuto aveva rapidamente portato via, o se si sentisse davvero scandalizzato dal fatto che un membro influente del Pickwick Club venisse ignominiosamente paragonato a un Bacchus dismontato, questo non è ancora stato completamente accertato. Comunque, passò il vino, tossì due volte e fissò lo sconosciuto per diversi secondi con uno sguardo severo; tuttavia, poiché quell’uomo sembrava perfettamente calmo sotto il suo esame attento, il signor Tupman gradualmente si rilassò e tornò a parlare dell’argomento della festa.

“Stavo per osservare, signore,” disse, “che sebbene i miei abiti fossero troppo grandi, forse un completo del mio amico il signor Winkle vi starebbe meglio.”

Lo sconosciuto misurò con lo sguardo il signor Winkle; un sorriso di soddisfazione apparve sul suo volto quando disse: “Esattamente quello che cercavo.”

Il signor Tupman guardò intorno a sé. Il vino, che aveva esercitato il proprio effetto sonnifero su Mr. Snodgrass e Mr. Winkle, aveva già influenzato anche i sensi del signor Pickwick. Quel gentiluomo aveva gradualmente attraversato tutte le fasi che precedono la letargia indotta dal pasto serale e le sue conseguenze: era passato dall’apice della convivialità alla profondità della miseria, e poi di nuovo all’apice della convivialità. Come una lampada a gas per strada, quando il vento soffia nel tubo, aveva mostrato per un momento un bagliore innaturale; poi si era spenta quasi del tutto; dopo poco era tornata ad accendersi, per illuminare ancora per un istante; infine aveva tremolato con una luce incerta e vacillante, fino a spegnersi definitivamente. La sua testa era appoggiata sul petto, e il russare continuo, interrotto occasionalmente da qualche colpo di tosse, erano gli unici segni visibili della sua presenza.

La tentazione di partecipare al ballo e di farsi un’idea della bellezza delle signore del Kent era molto forte per il signor Tupman. La tentazione di portare con sé lo sconosciuto era altrettanto grande. Non conosceva affatto quel luogo né i suoi abitanti, mentre lo sconosciuto sembrava possedere una conoscenza approfondita di entrambi, come se vi avesse vissuto fin dall’infanzia. Il signor Winkle dormiva profondamente, e il signor Tupman, avendo molta esperienza in simili situazioni, sapeva che non appena si fosse svegliato, per natura, sarebbe ricaduto immediatamente a letto. Era indeciso, “Riempite il vostro bicchiere e passate il vino,” disse lo instancabile visitatore.

Mr. Tupman did as he was requested; and the additional stimulus of the last glass settled his determination.

‘Winkle’s bedroom is inside mine,’ said Mr. Tupman; ‘I couldn’t make him understand what I wanted, if I woke him now, but I know he has a dress- suit in a carpet bag; and supposing you wore it to the ball, and took it off when we returned, I could replace it without troubling him at all about the matter.’

‘Capital,’ said the stranger, ‘famous plan—damned odd situation— fourteen coats in the packing-cases, and obliged to wear another man’s— very good notion, that—very.’

‘We must purchase our tickets,’ said Mr. Tupman.

‘Not worth while splitting a guinea,’ said the stranger, ‘toss who shall pay for both—I call; you spin—first time—woman—woman—bewitching woman,’ and down came the sovereign with the dragon (called by courtesy a woman) uppermost.

Mr. Tupman rang the bell, purchased the tickets, and ordered chamber candlesticks. In another quarter of an hour the stranger was completely arrayed in a full suit of Mr. Nathaniel Winkle’s.

‘It’s a new coat,’ said Mr. Tupman, as the stranger surveyed himself with great complacency in a cheval glass; ‘the first that’s been made with our club button,’ and he called his companions’ attention to the large gilt button which displayed a bust of Mr. Pickwick in the centre, and the letters ‘P. C.’ on either side.

‘“P. C.”’ said the stranger—‘queer set out—old fellow’s likeness, and “P. C.”—What does “P. C.” stand for—Peculiar Coat, eh?’ Mr. Tupman, with rising indignation and great importance, explained the mystic device.

‘Rather short in the waist, ain’t it?’ said the stranger, screwing himself round to catch a glimpse in the glass of the waist buttons, which were half-way up his back. ‘Like a general postman’s coat—queer coats those—made by contract—no measuring—mysterious dispensations of Providence—all the short men get long coats—all the long men short ones.’ Running on in this way, Mr. Tupman’s new companion adjusted his dress, or rather the dress of Mr. Winkle; and, accompanied by Mr. Tupman, ascended the staircase leading to the ballroom.

‘What names, sir?’ said the man at the door. Mr. Tracy Tupman was stepping forward to announce his own titles, when the stranger prevented him.

‘No names at all;’ and then he whispered Mr. Tupman, ‘names won’t do— not known—very good names in their way, but not great ones—capital names for a small party, but won’t make an impression in public assemblies—incog. the thing—gentlemen from London—distinguished foreigners—anything.’ The door was thrown open, and Mr. Tracy Tupman and the stranger entered the ballroom.

It was a long room, with crimson-covered benches, and wax candles in glass chandeliers. The musicians were securely confined in an elevated den, and quadrilles were being systematically got through by two or three sets of dancers. Two card-tables were made up in the adjoining card-room, and two pair of old ladies, and a corresponding number of stout gentlemen, were executing whist therein.

The finale concluded, the dancers promenaded the room, and Mr. Tupman and his companion stationed themselves in a corner to observe the company.

‘Charming women,’ said Mr. Tupman.

‘Wait a minute,’ said the stranger, ‘fun presently—nobs not come yet— queer place—dockyard people of upper rank don’t know dockyard people of lower rank—dockyard people of lower rank don’t know small gentry—small gentry don’t know tradespeople—commissioner don’t know anybody.’

‘Who’s that little boy with the light hair and pink eyes, in a fancy dress?’ inquired Mr. Tupman.

‘Hush, pray—pink eyes—fancy dress—little boy—nonsense—ensign 97th— Honourable Wilmot Snipe—great family—Snipes—very.’

‘Sir Thomas Clubber, Lady Clubber, and the Misses Clubber!’ shouted the man at the door in a stentorian voice. A great sensation was created throughout the room by the entrance of a tall gentleman in a blue coat and bright buttons, a large lady in blue satin, and two young ladies, on a similar scale, in fashionably-made dresses of the same hue.

‘Commissioner—head of the yard—great man—remarkably great man,’ whispered the stranger in Mr. Tupman’s ear, as the charitable committee ushered Sir Thomas Clubber and family to the top of the room. The Honourable Wilmot Snipe, and other distinguished gentlemen crowded to render homage to the Misses Clubber; and Sir Thomas Clubber stood bolt upright, and looked majestically over his black kerchief at the assembled company.

‘Mr. Smithie, Mrs. Smithie, and the Misses Smithie,’ was the next announcement.

‘What’s Mr. Smithie?’ inquired Mr. Tracy Tupman.

‘Something in the yard,’ replied the stranger. Mr. Smithie bowed deferentially to Sir Thomas Clubber; and Sir Thomas Clubber acknowledged the salute with conscious condescension. Lady Clubber took a telescopic view of Mrs. Smithie and family through her eye-glass and Mrs. Smithie stared in her turn at Mrs. Somebody-else, whose husband was not in the dockyard at all.

‘Colonel Bulder, Mrs. Colonel Bulder, and Miss Bulder,’ were the next arrivals.

‘Head of the garrison,’ said the stranger, in reply to Mr. Tupman’s inquiring look.

Miss Bulder was warmly welcomed by the Misses Clubber; the greeting between Mrs. Colonel Bulder and Lady Clubber was of the most affectionate description; Colonel Bulder and Sir Thomas Clubber exchanged snuff-boxes, and looked very much like a pair of Alexander Selkirks—‘Monarchs of all they surveyed.’

While the aristocracy of the place—the Bulders, and Clubbers, and Snipes—were thus preserving their dignity at the upper end of the room, the other classes of society were imitating their example in other parts of it. The less aristocratic officers of the 97th devoted themselves to the families of the less important functionaries from the dockyard. The solicitors’ wives, and the wine-merchant’s wife, headed another grade (the brewer’s wife visited the Bulders); and Mrs. Tomlinson, the post- office keeper, seemed by mutual consent to have been chosen the leader of the trade party.

Il signor Tupman fece ciò che gli era stato chiesto; inoltre, l’effetto stimolante dell’ultimo bicchiere rafforzò ulteriormente la sua determinazione.

“La camera da letto di Winkle è dentro la mia,” disse il signor Tupman; “non riuscirei a fargli capire cosa voglio se lo svegliassi adesso, ma so che ha un abito da sera in una borsa di velluto; e se tu lo indossassi al ballo e lo togliessi quando tornassimo, potrei sostituirlo senza causargli alcun problema.”

“Capitale,” disse lo sconosciuto, “un piano davvero geniale, ma una situazione davvero strana: quattordici cappotti nelle valigie, e si è costretti a indossare quello di un altro. Ottima idea, davvero.”

“Dobbiamo acquistare i nostri biglietti,” disse il signor Tupman.

“Non vale la pena dividere una ghinea,” disse lo sconosciuto, “tiriamo a sorte chi pagherà entrambe. Io lancio; tu giri la moneta. La prima volta, donna, donna, una donna incantevole, ” E così cadde la sovrana, con il drago (chiamato, per gentilezza, “donna”) rivolto verso l’alto.

Il signor Tupman suonò il campanello, acquistò i biglietti e ordinò candelabri da tavolo. Un altro quarto d’ora dopo, lo sconosciuto era completamente vestito con l’intero abbigliamento del signor Nathaniel Winkle.

“È un nuovo cappotto,” disse il signor Tupman mentre lo sconosciuto si ammirava con grande compiacimento nello specchio da bar; “è il primo che sia stato realizzato con il nostro bottone a forma di club”; poi attirò l’attenzione dei suoi compagni sul grande bottone dorato, su cui al centro era raffigurato il busto del signor Pickwick e ai lati le lettere ‘P. C.’

“‘P. C.’” disse lo sconosciuto – “Che strana combinazione. Assomiglia a quell’uomo anziano. E ‘P. C.’. Che cosa significa ‘P. C.’? Forse ‘Cappotto Strano’, eh?” Il signor Tupman, con crescente indignazione e aria molto solenne, spiegò il significato di quel misterioso simbolo.

“Abbastanza corto in vita, vero?” disse lo sconosciuto, girandosi per dare un’occhiata attraverso i bottoni della vita, che si trovavano a metà schiena. “Come i cappotti dei postini, strani cappotti, fatti su commissione, senza misurazioni, misteriose disposizioni della Provvidenza, tutti gli uomini bassi ottengono cappotti lunghi, tutti quelli alti quelli corti.” Continuando in questo modo, il nuovo compagno di Mr. Tupman sistemò i propri abiti, o meglio, quelli di Mr. Winkle; poi, accompagnato da Mr. Tupman, salì la scala che conduceva al salone da ballo.

“Quali nomi, signore?” chiese l’uomo alla porta. Il signor Tracy Tupman stava per annunciare i propri titoli quando lo sconosciuto lo fermò.

“Nessun nome affatto,” disse poi sussurrando a Mr. Tupman, “i nomi non vanno bene. Non conosciuti. Nomi piuttosto buoni, in un certo senso, ma non eccezionali. Nomi adatti per un piccolo gruppo di persone, ma che non lascerebbero un’impressione nelle assemblee pubbliche. Meglio rimanere anonimi. Gentiluomini di Londra. Stranieri distinti. Qualsiasi cosa, ” La porta si aprì e Mr. Tracy Tupman insieme allo sconosciuto entrarono nella sala da ballo.

Era una stanza lunga, con panche rivestite di rosso scuro e candele di cera in candelabri di vetro. I musicisti erano al sicuro in un angolo rialzato della stanza, mentre due o tre gruppi di ballerini eseguivano sistematicamente le danze quadrille. Nella sala da gioco adiacente erano stati allestiti due tavoli da carte; lì due coppie di signore anziane e un numero corrispondente di gentiluomini robusti stavano giocando a whist.

Il finale si concluse; i ballerini passeggiarono per la sala, mentre il signor Tupman e la sua compagna si posizionarono in un angolo per osservare l’intera compagnia.

“Donne affascinanti,” disse il signor Tupman.

“Aspetta un attimo,” disse lo sconosciuto, “tra poco sarà divertente. I nobili non sono ancora arrivati. Un posto strano. Le persone di rango più alto del cantiere navale non conoscono quelle di rango inferiore. Le persone di rango inferiore non conoscono la piccola nobiltà. La piccola nobiltà non conosce i commercianti. Il commissario non conosce nessuno.”

“Chi è quel bambino con i capelli biondi e gli occhi rosa, che indossa un vestito così elegante?” chiese il signor Tupman.

“Zitta, prega, occhi rosa, abito da fantasia, bambino piccolo, sciocchezze, tenente della 97ª compagnia. Onorevole Wilmot Snipe, grande famiglia. Snipe, davvero.”

“Sir Thomas Clubber, Lady Clubber e le signorine Clubber!”, gridò l’uomo alla porta con voce tonante. L’ingresso di un alto gentiluomo in abito blu con bottoni brillanti, di una grande dama in raso blu e di due giovani donne dall’aspetto simile, vestite con abiti eleganti dello stesso colore, suscitò grande scalpore in tutta la stanza.

“Commissario, capo del cantiere, un grande uomo, davvero un grande uomo,” sussurrò lo sconosciuto all’orecchio di Mr. Tupman, mentre il comitato di beneficenza accompagnava Sir Thomas Clubber e la sua famiglia in fondo alla sala. L’onorevole Wilmot Snipe e altri gentiluomini distinti si affollarono intorno alle signorine Clubber per render loro omaggio; Sir Thomas Clubber, invece, rimase fermo in piedi, guardando con aria maestosa tutta l’assemblea attraverso il suo fazzoletto nero.

“Signor Smithie, Signora Smithie e le signorine Smithie,” fu il prossimo annuncio.

“Chi è il signor Smithie?”, chiese il signor Tracy Tupman.

“C’è qualcosa nel cortile,” rispose lo sconosciuto. Il signor Smithie fece un inchino deferente a Sir Thomas Clubber; e Sir Thomas Clubber ricambiò il saluto con una evidente aria di condiscendenza. La signora Clubber osservò la famiglia del signor Smithie attraverso il suo binocolo, mentre la signora Smithie a sua volta fissava quella donna il cui marito, in realtà, non si trovava affatto nel cantiere navale.

“Colonnello Bulder, signora Colonnello Bulder e signorina Bulder” furono i successivi arrivati.

“Capo della guarnigione,” rispose lo sconosciuto, di fronte allo sguardo curioso del signor Tupman.

La signorina Bulder fu accolta con calore dal club delle signore Clubber; il saluto tra la signora colonnello Bulder e lady Clubber fu di estrema affettuosità; il colonnello Bulder e sir Thomas Clubber si scambiarono i portasnoffi, e sembravano davvero una coppia degna dei titoli di “monarchi di tutto ciò che li circondava”.

Mentre l’aristocrazia del luogo – i Bulders, i Clubbers e gli Snipes – conservava così la propria dignità nella parte superiore della sala, le altre classi sociali imitavano il loro esempio nelle altre zone della stanza. Gli ufficiali meno aristocratici del 97° reggimento si dedicavano alle famiglie dei funzionari meno importanti dello stabilimento navale. Le mogli degli avvocati e quella del commerciante di vini rappresentavano un altro gruppo; la moglie del birraio, invece, frequentava i Bulders. E la signora Tomlinson, l’addetta all’ufficio postale, sembrava essere stata scelta, per consenso reciproco, a guidare questo gruppo sociale.

One of the most popular personages, in his own circle, present, was a little fat man, with a ring of upright black hair round his head, and an extensive bald plain on the top of it—Doctor Slammer, surgeon to the 97th. The doctor took snuff with everybody, chatted with everybody, laughed, danced, made jokes, played whist, did everything, and was everywhere. To these pursuits, multifarious as they were, the little doctor added a more important one than any—he was indefatigable in paying the most unremitting and devoted attention to a little old widow, whose rich dress and profusion of ornament bespoke her a most desirable addition to a limited income.

Upon the doctor, and the widow, the eyes of both Mr. Tupman and his companion had been fixed for some time, when the stranger broke silence.

‘Lots of money—old girl—pompous doctor—not a bad idea—good fun,’ were the intelligible sentences which issued from his lips. Mr. Tupman looked inquisitively in his face.

‘I’ll dance with the widow,’ said the stranger.

‘Who is she?’ inquired Mr. Tupman.

‘Don’t know—never saw her in all my life—cut out the doctor—here goes.’ And the stranger forthwith crossed the room; and, leaning against a mantel-piece, commenced gazing with an air of respectful and melancholy admiration on the fat countenance of the little old lady. Mr. Tupman looked on, in mute astonishment. The stranger progressed rapidly; the little doctor danced with another lady; the widow dropped her fan; the stranger picked it up, and presented it—a smile—a bow—a curtsey— a few words of conversation. The stranger walked boldly up to, and returned with, the master of the ceremonies; a little introductory pantomime; and the stranger and Mrs. Budger took their places in a quadrille.

The surprise of Mr. Tupman at this summary proceeding, great as it was, was immeasurably exceeded by the astonishment of the doctor. The stranger was young, and the widow was flattered. The doctor’s attentions were unheeded by the widow; and the doctor’s indignation was wholly lost on his imperturbable rival. Doctor Slammer was paralysed. He, Doctor Slammer, of the 97th, to be extinguished in a moment, by a man whom nobody had ever seen before, and whom nobody knew even now! Doctor Slammer—Doctor Slammer of the 97th rejected! Impossible! It could not be! Yes, it was; there they were. What! introducing his friend! Could he believe his eyes! He looked again, and was under the painful necessity of admitting the veracity of his optics; Mrs. Budger was dancing with Mr. Tracy Tupman; there was no mistaking the fact. There was the widow before him, bouncing bodily here and there, with unwonted vigour; and Mr. Tracy Tupman hopping about, with a face expressive of the most intense solemnity, dancing (as a good many people do) as if a quadrille were not a thing to be laughed at, but a severe trial to the feelings, which it requires inflexible resolution to encounter.

Silently and patiently did the doctor bear all this, and all the handings of negus, and watching for glasses, and darting for biscuits, and coquetting, that ensued; but, a few seconds after the stranger had disappeared to lead Mrs. Budger to her carriage, he darted swiftly from the room with every particle of his hitherto-bottled-up indignation effervescing, from all parts of his countenance, in a perspiration of passion.

The stranger was returning, and Mr. Tupman was beside him. He spoke in a low tone, and laughed. The little doctor thirsted for his life. He was exulting. He had triumphed.

‘Sir!’ said the doctor, in an awful voice, producing a card, and retiring into an angle of the passage, ‘my name is Slammer, Doctor Slammer, sir—97th Regiment—Chatham Barracks—my card, Sir, my card.’ He would have added more, but his indignation choked him.

‘Ah!’ replied the stranger coolly, ‘Slammer—much obliged—polite attention—not ill now, Slammer—but when I am—knock you up.’

‘You—you’re a shuffler, sir,’ gasped the furious doctor, ‘a poltroon—a coward—a liar—a—a—will nothing induce you to give me your card, sir!’

‘Oh! I see,’ said the stranger, half aside, ‘negus too strong here— liberal landlord—very foolish—very—lemonade much better—hot rooms— elderly gentlemen—suffer for it in the morning—cruel—cruel;’ and he moved on a step or two.

‘You are stopping in this house, Sir,’ said the indignant little man; ‘you are intoxicated now, Sir; you shall hear from me in the morning, sir. I shall find you out, sir; I shall find you out.’

‘Rather you found me out than found me at home,’ replied the unmoved stranger.

Doctor Slammer looked unutterable ferocity, as he fixed his hat on his head with an indignant knock; and the stranger and Mr. Tupman ascended to the bedroom of the latter to restore the borrowed plumage to the unconscious Winkle.

That gentleman was fast asleep; the restoration was soon made. The stranger was extremely jocose; and Mr. Tracy Tupman, being quite bewildered with wine, negus, lights, and ladies, thought the whole affair was an exquisite joke. His new friend departed; and, after experiencing some slight difficulty in finding the orifice in his nightcap, originally intended for the reception of his head, and finally overturning his candlestick in his struggles to put it on, Mr. Tracy Tupman managed to get into bed by a series of complicated evolutions, and shortly afterwards sank into repose.

Seven o’clock had hardly ceased striking on the following morning, when Mr. Pickwick’s comprehensive mind was aroused from the state of unconsciousness, in which slumber had plunged it, by a loud knocking at his chamber door.

‘Who’s there?’ said Mr. Pickwick, starting up in bed.

‘Boots, sir.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Please, sir, can you tell me which gentleman of your party wears a bright blue dress-coat, with a gilt button with “P. C.” on it?’

‘It’s been given out to brush,’ thought Mr. Pickwick, ‘and the man has forgotten whom it belongs to.’

Uno dei personaggi più popolari, nel suo stesso ambiente, era un ometto grassoccio, con una ciocca di capelli neri dritti intorno alla testa e una vasta area calva sulla sommità della stessa – il Dottor Slammer, chirurgo del 97° reggimento. Il dottore sniffava tabacco con tutti, chiacchierava con tutti, rideva, ballava, faceva battute, giocava a carte, faceva di tutto e si trovava ovunque. A queste attività, così variegate, il piccolo dottore ne aggiungeva una ancora più importante: dedicava un’attenzione instancabile e devota a una vecchia vedova, la cui ricca vestizione e i numerosi ornamenti indicavano chiaramente che rappresentava un’aggiunta molto desiderabile per un reddito limitato.

Il dottore e la vedova attiravano da un po’ l’attenzione di sia il signor Tupman che del suo compagno, quando lo sconosciuto ruppe il silenzio.

“Tanto denaro, una vecchia signora, un dottore presuntuoso, non è una cattiva idea, divertente,” furono le frasi comprensibili che uscirono dalle sue labbra. Il signor Tupman lo guardò con curiosità.

“Danzerò con la vedova,” disse lo sconosciuto.

“Chi è lei?” chiese il signor Tupman.

“Non so. Non l’ho mai vista in tutta la mia vita. Lasciate perdere il dottore. Ecco qua.” E subito lo sconosciuto attraversò la stanza; appoggiandosi al caminetto, iniziò a fissare con un’espressione di rispettoso e melanconico ammiramento il viso paffuto della vecchietta. Il signor Tupman osservava tutto, in silenziosa meraviglia. Lo sconosciuto procedette rapidamente; il piccolo dottore ballò con un’altra donna; la vedova lasciò cadere il ventaglio; lo sconosciuto lo raccolse e glielo porse. Un sorriso, un inchino, una riverenza. Poi qualche parola di conversazione. Lo sconosciuto si avvicinò con decisione al padrone di casa e ne tornò insieme a lui; dopo una breve pantomima introduttiva, lo sconosciuto e la signora Budger presero posto per ballare il quadrille.

La sorpresa del signor Tupman di fronte a questa improvvisa situazione, per quanto grande fosse, fu di gran lunga superata dall’orrore del dottore. Lo sconosciuto era giovane, e la vedova ne era lusingata. Le attenzioni del dottore, tuttavia, venivano ignorate dalla vedova; la sua indignazione finiva per svanire di fronte al suo rivale imperturbabile. Il dottor Slammer era paralizzato. Lui, il dottor Slammer della 97ª strada, destinato a essere spazzato via in un istante da un uomo che nessuno aveva mai visto prima, e che nemmeno ora si conosceva. Il dottor Slammer, rifiutato! Impossibile. Non poteva essere vero. Sì, invece era vero: lì c’erano davanti ai suoi occhi. Che cosa? Stava presentando il proprio amico. Poteva credere a ciò che vedeva? Guardò di nuovo, e dovette riconoscere la veridicità di ciò che i suoi occhi gli mostravano: la signora Budger stava ballando con il signor Tracy Tupman. Non c’era alcun dubbio al riguardo. Lì c’era la vedova, che saltellava avanti e indietro con un vigore insolito; e il signor Tracy Tupman, che si muoveva intorno a lei con un’espressione di estrema serietà. Ballavano, come fanno molte persone, come se una quadriglia non fosse qualcosa da ridere di, ma piuttosto una prova difficile per i sentimenti umani, che richiede una risoluzione ferma e incondizionata per essere affrontata.

In silenzio e con pazienza il dottore sopportò tutto ciò: le continue richieste del negus, l’attesa dei occhiali, i rapidi tentativi di ottenere biscotti, nonché tutte le altre attività che ne derivarono; ma pochi secondi dopo che lo sconosciuto se n’era andato a portare la signora Budger alla sua carrozza, egli uscì rapidamente dalla stanza, con tutta l’indignazione fino ad allora repressa che esplose in ogni parte del suo volto, sotto forma di un’espressione piena di passione.

Lo sconosciuto stava tornando, e il signor Tupman era al suo fianco. Parlava a bassa voce e rideva. Il piccolo dottore desiderava ardentemente la sua vita. Era esultante: aveva trionfato.

“Signore!” disse il dottore con una voce terribile, mostrando una carta e ritirandosi in un angolo del corridoio, “il mio nome è Slammer, Dottor Slammer, signore, 97° Reggimento. Chatham Barracks. Ecco la mia carta, signore.” Avrebbe voluto aggiungere altro, ma l’indignazione gli impedì di parlare.

“Ah!”, rispose lo sconosciuto con calma, “Slammer, molto gentile da parte tua, un’attenzione davvero cortese. Al momento non sto male, Slammer, ma quando lo sarò, ti farò pentire.”

“Voi, voi siete un codardo, signore,” ansimò il medico furioso, “un vigliacco, un bugiardo, niente riuscirà a farvi consegnare la vostra carta d’identità, signore!”

“Ah, capisco,” disse lo sconosciuto, parlando a mezza voce, “un padrone di casa troppo autoritario, un ospite generoso, molto sciocco, la limonata sarebbe molto meglio, stanze calde, signori anziani, ne soffrono al mattino, crudele, davvero crudele, ” E proseguì camminando di qualche passo.

“Si fermerà in questa casa, signore,” disse il piccolo uomo indignato;
“Ora è ubriaco, signore; la sentirò domani mattina. La scoprirò, signore.”

“Meglio che mi abbiate scoperto qui piuttosto che a casa mia,” rispose lo sconosciuto, imperturbabile.

Il Dottor Slammer sembrava emanare una ferocia inesprimibile; si sistemò il cappello sulla testa con un colpo indignato, e lo sconosciuto insieme al signor Tupman salirono nella camera da letto di quest’ultimo per restituire le piume “prestate” a Winkle, che era privo di sensi.

Quel signore dormiva profondamente; il “restauro” fu effettuato rapidamente. Lo straniero era estremamente scherzoso; e il signor Tracy Tupman, essendo completamente confuso a causa del vino, delle luci e delle donne, pensò che tutta quella situazione fosse un’ottima barzelletta. Il suo nuovo amico se ne andò; e, dopo aver avuto qualche difficoltà a trovare l’apertura nella sua berretta da notte – originariamente progettata per contenere la testa – e dopo aver rovesciato addirittura il candelabro nel tentativo di indossarla, il signor Tracy Tupman riuscì comunque a mettersi a letto attraverso una serie di movimenti complicati, e poco dopo si addormentò.

Appena le sette suonarono la mattina seguente, la mente acuta del signor Pickwick fu destata dallo stato di incoscienza in cui il sonno l’aveva immerso, da un forte bussare alla porta della sua stanza.

“Chi c’è?” disse il signor Pickwick, alzandosi a sedere nel letto.

“Stivali, signore.”

“Cosa vuoi?”

“Per favore, signore, potrebbe dirmi quale gentiluomo del suo gruppo indossa un abito da sera di colore blu brillante, con un bottone dorato su cui è scritto ‘P. C.’?”

“Dev’essere stato dato via per essere usato come spazzola,” pensò il signor Pickwick, “e quell’uomo si è dimenticato a chi appartiene.”

Mr. Winkle,’ he called out, ‘next room but two, on the right hand.’

‘Thank’ee, sir,’ said the Boots, and away he went.

‘What’s the matter?’ cried Mr. Tupman, as a loud knocking at his door roused him from his oblivious repose.

‘Can I speak to Mr. Winkle, sir?’ replied Boots from the outside.

‘Winkle—Winkle!’ shouted Mr. Tupman, calling into the inner room.

‘Hollo!’ replied a faint voice from within the bed-clothes.

‘You’re wanted—some one at the door;’ and, having exerted himself to articulate thus much, Mr. Tracy Tupman turned round and fell fast asleep again.

‘Wanted!’ said Mr. Winkle, hastily jumping out of bed, and putting on a few articles of clothing; ‘wanted! at this distance from town—who on earth can want me?’

‘Gentleman in the coffee-room, sir,’ replied the Boots, as Mr. Winkle opened the door and confronted him; ‘gentleman says he’ll not detain you a moment, Sir, but he can take no denial.’

‘Very odd!’ said Mr. Winkle; ‘I’ll be down directly.’

He hurriedly wrapped himself in a travelling-shawl and dressing-gown, and proceeded downstairs. An old woman and a couple of waiters were cleaning the coffee-room, and an officer in undress uniform was looking out of the window. He turned round as Mr. Winkle entered, and made a stiff inclination of the head. Having ordered the attendants to retire, and closed the door very carefully, he said, ‘Mr. Winkle, I presume?’

‘My name is Winkle, sir.’

‘You will not be surprised, sir, when I inform you that I have called here this morning on behalf of my friend, Doctor Slammer, of the 97th.’

‘Doctor Slammer!’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘Doctor Slammer. He begged me to express his opinion that your conduct of last evening was of a description which no gentleman could endure; and’ (he added) ‘which no one gentleman would pursue towards another.’

Mr. Winkle’s astonishment was too real, and too evident, to escape the observation of Doctor Slammer’s friend; he therefore proceeded—

‘My friend, Doctor Slammer, requested me to add, that he was firmly persuaded you were intoxicated during a portion of the evening, and possibly unconscious of the extent of the insult you were guilty of. He commissioned me to say, that should this be pleaded as an excuse for your behaviour, he will consent to accept a written apology, to be penned by you, from my dictation.’

‘A written apology!’ repeated Mr. Winkle, in the most emphatic tone of amazement possible.

‘Of course you know the alternative,’ replied the visitor coolly.

‘Were you intrusted with this message to me by name?’ inquired Mr. Winkle, whose intellects were hopelessly confused by this extraordinary conversation.

‘I was not present myself,’ replied the visitor, ‘and in consequence of your firm refusal to give your card to Doctor Slammer, I was desired by that gentleman to identify the wearer of a very uncommon coat—a bright blue dress-coat, with a gilt button displaying a bust, and the letters “P. C.”’

Mr. Winkle actually staggered with astonishment as he heard his own costume thus minutely described. Doctor Slammer’s friend proceeded:— ‘From the inquiries I made at the bar, just now, I was convinced that the owner of the coat in question arrived here, with three gentlemen, yesterday afternoon. I immediately sent up to the gentleman who was described as appearing the head of the party, and he at once referred me to you.’

If the principal tower of Rochester Castle had suddenly walked from its foundation, and stationed itself opposite the coffee-room window, Mr. Winkle’s surprise would have been as nothing compared with the profound astonishment with which he had heard this address. His first impression was that his coat had been stolen. ‘Will you allow me to detain you one moment?’ said he.

‘Certainly,’ replied the unwelcome visitor.

Mr. Winkle ran hastily upstairs, and with a trembling hand opened the bag. There was the coat in its usual place, but exhibiting, on a close inspection, evident tokens of having been worn on the preceding night.

‘It must be so,’ said Mr. Winkle, letting the coat fall from his hands. ‘I took too much wine after dinner, and have a very vague recollection of walking about the streets, and smoking a cigar afterwards. The fact is, I was very drunk;—I must have changed my coat—gone somewhere—and insulted somebody—I have no doubt of it; and this message is the terrible consequence.’ Saying which, Mr. Winkle retraced his steps in the direction of the coffee-room, with the gloomy and dreadful resolve of accepting the challenge of the warlike Doctor Slammer, and abiding by the worst consequences that might ensue.

To this determination Mr. Winkle was urged by a variety of considerations, the first of which was his reputation with the club. He had always been looked up to as a high authority on all matters of amusement and dexterity, whether offensive, defensive, or inoffensive; and if, on this very first occasion of being put to the test, he shrunk back from the trial, beneath his leader’s eye, his name and standing were lost for ever. Besides, he remembered to have heard it frequently surmised by the uninitiated in such matters that by an understood arrangement between the seconds, the pistols were seldom loaded with ball; and, furthermore, he reflected that if he applied to Mr. Snodgrass to act as his second, and depicted the danger in glowing terms, that gentleman might possibly communicate the intelligence to Mr. Pickwick, who would certainly lose no time in transmitting it to the local authorities, and thus prevent the killing or maiming of his follower.

Such were his thoughts when he returned to the coffee-room, and intimated his intention of accepting the doctor’s challenge.

‘Will you refer me to a friend, to arrange the time and place of meeting?’ said the officer.

‘Quite unnecessary,’ replied Mr. Winkle; ‘name them to me, and I can procure the attendance of a friend afterwards.’

‘Shall we say—sunset this evening?’ inquired the officer, in a careless tone.

“Signor Winkle,” gridò, “è nella stanza dopo la seconda, a destra.”

“Grazie mille, signore,” disse il ragazzo con le scarpe, e poi se ne andò.

“Che c’è?” gridò il signor Tupman, quando un forte bussare alla sua porta lo svegliò dal suo tranquillo sonno.

“Posso parlare con il signor Winkle, per favore?” rispose Boots dall’esterno.

“Winkle–Winkle!” gridò il signor Tupman, chiamando verso la stanza interna.

“Salve!”, rispose una voce debole proveniente dall’interno delle coperte del letto.

“Vi cercano, c’è qualcuno alla porta”; e dopo aver fatto uno sforzo per pronunciare queste parole, il signor Tracy Tupman si girò e si addormentò di nuovo.

“Cercato!” esclamò il signor Winkle, saltando in fretta giù dal letto e indossando alcuni vestiti; “Cercato, a così poca distanza dalla città, chi diavolo potrebbe volermi?”

“Signore, un gentiluomo è nella sala da caffè,” rispose il cameriere mentre il signor Winkle apriva la porta e si trovava di fronte a lui; “il gentiluomo dice che non vi tratterrà nemmeno per un momento, signore, ma insiste nel volervi parlare.”

“Molto strano!”, disse il signor Winkle; “Scenderò subito”.

Si avvolse in fretta in uno scialle da viaggio e una vestaglia, poi scese al piano di sotto. Una vecchia donna e un paio di camerieri stavano pulendo la sala da caffè, mentre un ufficiale in uniforme da riposo stava guardando fuori dalla finestra. Si girò quando entrò il signor Winkle e fece un rigido inchino. Dopo aver fatto allontanare i servitori e aver chiuso la porta con molta attenzione, disse: “Suppongo sia lei, il signor Winkle, ”

“Mi chiamo Winkle, signore.”

“Non sarà sorpreso, signore, se le dico che sono venuto qui stamattina per conto del mio amico, il Dottor Slammer del 97° Reggimento.”

“Dottor Slammer!”, disse il signor Winkle.

“Dottor Slammer. Mi ha supplicato di esprimere il suo parere secondo cui il vostro comportamento di ieri sera era di quel genere che nessun gentiluomo potrebbe sopportare; e, ” (aggiunse) “che nessun gentiluomo si comporterebbe mai in quel modo con un altro.”

Lo stupore del signor Winkle era troppo reale e troppo evidente per non essere notato dall’amico del dottor Slammer; pertanto, questi proseguì.

“Mio amico, il Dottor Slammer, mi ha chiesto di aggiungere che è fermamente convinto che tu fossi ubriaco per una parte della serata, e che forse non fossi consapevole dell’entità dell’insulto che hai commesso. Mi ha incaricato di dire che, se questo dovesse essere addotto come scusa per il tuo comportamento, accetterebbe una scusa scritta da te, redatta seguendo le mie indicazioni.”

“Un’scusa scritta!”, ripeté il signor Winkle con il tono più enfatico di meraviglia possibile.

“Certo che conosci l’alternativa,” rispose il visitatore in tono freddo.

“Vi è stato affidato questo messaggio espressamente per me?” chiese il signor Winkle, il cui intelletto era ormai completamente confuso da questa straordinaria conversazione.

“Non ero presente io stesso,” rispose il visitatore, “e a causa del vostro deciso rifiuto di dare il vostro biglietto da visita al Dottor Slammer, quel signore mi ha chiesto di identificare la persona che indossava un cappotto molto insolito: un abito da sera di colore blu brillante, con un bottone dorato raffigurante un busto e le lettere ‘P. C.’”

Il signor Winkle rimase davvero sbalordito nell’ascoltare la descrizione così dettagliata del proprio abito. L’amico del dottor Slammer proseguì: “Dalle indagini che ho condotto poco fa al bar, sono stato convinto che il proprietario di quel cappotto sia arrivato qui ieri pomeriggio insieme a tre signori. Ho immediatamente contattato il signore descritto come il capo del gruppo, e lui mi ha subito indirizzato verso di voi.”

Se la principale torre del Castello di Rochester fosse improvvisamente uscita dalle sue fondamenta e si fosse posizionata di fronte alla finestra della sala da caffè, la sorpresa del signor Winkle sarebbe stata nulla in confronto all’immensa meraviglia che provò ascoltando quel discorso. La sua prima impressione fu che il suo cappotto fosse stato rubato. “Le permetterebbe di trattenermi un momento?” disse.

“Certamente,” rispose il visitatore indesiderato.

Il signor Winkle corse di sopra in fretta e, con una mano tremante, aprì il borsone. Il cappotto era al solito posto, ma, osservandolo attentamente, si potevano notare chiari segni del fatto che fosse stato indossato la sera precedente.

“Deve essere così,” disse il signor Winkle, lasciando che il cappotto gli cadesse dalle mani. “Ho bevuto troppo vino dopo cena, e ricordo molto vagamente di aver camminato per le strade e poi fumato un sigaro. In realtà, ero completamente ubriaco; devo aver cambiato cappotto, essere andato da qualche parte, e aver insultato qualcuno. Non ne ho alcun >dubbio; e questo messaggio è la terribile conseguenza di tutto ciò.” Detto questo, il signor Winkle tornò indietro nella direzione del salotto da caffè, con la risoluzione cupa e spaventosa di accettare la sfida del bellicoso dottor Slammer, nonostante le peggiori conseguenze che ne potessero derivare.

A prendere questa decisione il signor Winkle fu spinto da diversi motivi; il primo di questi era la sua reputazione all’interno del club. Era sempre stato considerato un’autorità in materia di divertimenti e abilità, sia offensive che difensive o semplicemente non pericolose. Se, proprio in questa prima occasione in cui veniva messo alla prova, si fosse tirato indietro sotto gli occhi del suo capo, la sua reputazione sarebbe andata perduta per sempre. Inoltre, ricordava di aver spesso sentito gli inesperti insinuare che, per un accordo tacito tra i partecipanti, le pistole venissero raramente caricate con proiettili veri; in più, rifletté che se avesse chiesto al signor Snodgrass di fargli da secondo e avesse descritto il pericolo in termini drammatici, quel gentiluomo avrebbe potuto comunicare l’informazione al signor Pickwick, il quale senza dubbio non avrebbe perso tempo a informare le autorità locali, evitando così che il suo seguace venisse ucciso o ferito.

Ecco quali erano i suoi pensieri quando tornò nel salotto da caffè e comunicò la sua intenzione di accettare la sfida del dottore.

“Potrebbe presentarmi un amico per concordare l’orario e il luogo dell’incontro?”, chiese l’ufficiale.

“Del tutto inutile,” rispose il signor Winkle; “ditemi i loro nomi e dopo potrò far venire un mio amico.”

“Diremmo, il tramonto di stasera?” chiese l’ufficiale con tono noncurante.

‘Very good,’ replied Mr. Winkle, thinking in his heart it was very bad.

‘You know Fort Pitt?’

‘Yes; I saw it yesterday.’

‘If you will take the trouble to turn into the field which borders the trench, take the foot-path to the left when you arrive at an angle of the fortification, and keep straight on, till you see me, I will precede you to a secluded place, where the affair can be conducted without fear of interruption.’

‘Fear of interruption!’ thought Mr. Winkle.

‘Nothing more to arrange, I think,’ said the officer.

‘I am not aware of anything more,’ replied Mr. Winkle. ‘Good-morning.’

‘Good-morning;’ and the officer whistled a lively air as he strode away.

That morning’s breakfast passed heavily off. Mr. Tupman was not in a condition to rise, after the unwonted dissipation of the previous night; Mr. Snodgrass appeared to labour under a poetical depression of spirits; and even Mr. Pickwick evinced an unusual attachment to silence and soda- water. Mr. Winkle eagerly watched his opportunity: it was not long wanting. Mr. Snodgrass proposed a visit to the castle, and as Mr. Winkle was the only other member of the party disposed to walk, they went out together.

‘Snodgrass,’ said Mr. Winkle, when they had turned out of the public street.’Snodgrass, my dear fellow, can I rely upon your secrecy?’ As he said this, he most devoutly and earnestly hoped he could not.

‘You can,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass. ‘Hear me swear—’

‘No, no,’ interrupted Winkle, terrified at the idea of his companion’s unconsciously pledging himself not to give information; ‘don’t swear, don’t swear; it’s quite unnecessary.’

Mr. Snodgrass dropped the hand which he had, in the spirit of poesy, raised towards the clouds as he made the above appeal, and assumed an attitude of attention.

‘I want your assistance, my dear fellow, in an affair of honour,’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘You shall have it,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass, clasping his friend’s hand.

‘With a doctor—Doctor Slammer, of the 97th,’ said Mr. Winkle, wishing to make the matter appear as solemn as possible; ‘an affair with an officer, seconded by another officer, at sunset this evening, in a lonely field beyond Fort Pitt.’

‘I will attend you,’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

He was astonished, but by no means dismayed. It is extraordinary how cool any party but the principal can be in such cases. Mr. Winkle had forgotten this. He had judged of his friend’s feelings by his own.

‘The consequences may be dreadful,’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘I hope not,’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

‘The doctor, I believe, is a very good shot,’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘Most of these military men are,’ observed Mr. Snodgrass calmly; ‘but so are you, ain’t you?’

Mr. Winkle replied in the affirmative; and perceiving that he had not alarmed his companion sufficiently, changed his ground.

‘Snodgrass,’ he said, in a voice tremulous with emotion, ‘if I fall, you will find in a packet which I shall place in your hands a note for my— for my father.’

This attack was a failure also. Mr. Snodgrass was affected, but he undertook the delivery of the note as readily as if he had been a twopenny postman.

‘If I fall,’ said Mr. Winkle, ‘or if the doctor falls, you, my dear friend, will be tried as an accessory before the fact. Shall I involve my friend in transportation—possibly for life!’

Mr. Snodgrass winced a little at this, but his heroism was invincible. ‘In the cause of friendship,’ he fervently exclaimed, ‘I would brave all dangers.’

How Mr. Winkle cursed his companion’s devoted friendship internally, as they walked silently along, side by side, for some minutes, each immersed in his own meditations! The morning was wearing away; he grew desperate.

‘Snodgrass,’ he said, stopping suddenly, ‘do not let me be balked in this matter—do not give information to the local authorities—do not obtain the assistance of several peace officers, to take either me or Doctor Slammer, of the 97th Regiment, at present quartered in Chatham Barracks, into custody, and thus prevent this duel!—I say, do not.’

Mr. Snodgrass seized his friend’s hand warmly, as he enthusiastically replied, ‘Not for worlds!’

A thrill passed over Mr. Winkle’s frame as the conviction that he had nothing to hope from his friend’s fears, and that he was destined to become an animated target, rushed forcibly upon him.

The state of the case having been formally explained to Mr. Snodgrass, and a case of satisfactory pistols, with the satisfactory accompaniments of powder, ball, and caps, having been hired from a manufacturer in Rochester, the two friends returned to their inn; Mr. Winkle to ruminate on the approaching struggle, and Mr. Snodgrass to arrange the weapons of war, and put them into proper order for immediate use.

It was a dull and heavy evening when they again sallied forth on their awkward errand. Mr. Winkle was muffled up in a huge cloak to escape observation, and Mr. Snodgrass bore under his the instruments of destruction.

‘Have you got everything?’ said Mr. Winkle, in an agitated tone.

‘Everything,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass; ‘plenty of ammunition, in case the shots don’t take effect. There’s a quarter of a pound of powder in the case, and I have got two newspapers in my pocket for the loadings.’

These were instances of friendship for which any man might reasonably feel most grateful. The presumption is, that the gratitude of Mr. Winkle was too powerful for utterance, as he said nothing, but continued to walk on—rather slowly.

‘We are in excellent time,’ said Mr. Snodgrass, as they climbed the fence of the first field; ‘the sun is just going down.’ Mr. Winkle looked up at the declining orb and painfully thought of the probability of his ‘going down’ himself, before long.

‘There’s the officer,’ exclaimed Mr. Winkle, after a few minutes walking.

‘Where?’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

‘There—the gentleman in the blue cloak.’ Mr. Snodgrass looked in the direction indicated by the forefinger of his friend, and observed a figure, muffled up, as he had described. The officer evinced his consciousness of their presence by slightly beckoning with his hand; and the two friends followed him at a little distance, as he walked away.

“Molto bene,” rispose il signor Winkle, pensando dentro di sé che in realtà fosse molto male.

“Conosci Fort Pitt?”

“Sì, l’ho visto ieri.”

“Se vi degnerete di recarvi nel campo che confina con la trincea, prendete il sentiero a sinistra non appena arriverete all’angolo della fortificazione, e proseguite dritti fino a quando non mi vedrete. Vi precederò in un luogo appartato, dove l’operazione potrà essere svolta senza alcun pericolo di interruzioni.”

“La >paura di essere interrotto!”, pensò il signor Winkle.

“Non c’è più nulla da organizzare, penso,” disse l’ufficiale.

“Non so nulla di più,” rispose il signor Winkle. “Buongiorno.”

“Buongiorno,” disse l’ufficiale, poi si allontanò suonando una melodia allegra.

La colazione di quella mattina passò in modo molto tranquillo. Il signor Tupman non era nelle condizioni di alzarsi, dopo la strana dissipazione di energia avvenuta la sera precedente; il signor Snodgrass sembrava afflitto da una sorta di malinconia poetica; persino il signor Pickwick mostrò un’insolita preferenza per il silenzio e l’acqua tonica. Il signor Winkle aspettava con impazienza l’occasione giusta. E questa non tardò ad arrivare. Il signor Snodgrass propose una visita al castello, e poiché il signor Winkle era l’unico altro membro del gruppo disposto a camminare, partirono insieme.

“Snodgrass,” disse il signor Winkle quando uscirono dalla strada principale. “Snodgrass, mio caro amico, posso contare sulla tua discrezione?” Mentre lo diceva, sperava con tutto il cuore che non potesse farlo.

“Puoi farlo,” rispose il signor Snodgrass. “Ascoltate come giuro, ”

“No, no,” intervenne Winkle, terrorizzato all’idea che il suo compagno potesse aver promesso inconsciamente di non rivelare alcuna informazione; “non giurare, non giurare. È del tutto inutile.”

Il signor Snodgrass lasciò cadere la mano che, nello spirito della poesia, aveva alzato verso le nuvole mentre formulava quel appello, e assunse un atteggiamento di attenzione.

“Ho bisogno del tuo aiuto, caro amico, in una questione di onore”, disse il signor Winkle.

“Te lo darò,” rispose il signor Snodgrass, stringendo la mano del suo amico.

“Con un dottore, il Dottor Slammer, del 97° Reggimento,” disse il signor Winkle, desiderando rendere la situazione il più solenne possibile; “un incontro tra un ufficiale e un altro ufficiale, avvenuto al tramonto di stasera, in un campo desolato oltre Fort Pitt.”

“Vi accompagnerò,” disse il signor Snodgrass.

Era sorpreso, ma assolutamente non scoraggiato. È straordinario quanto possano rimanere calmi, in situazioni del genere, tutti tranne il protagonista principale. Il signor Winkle aveva dimenticato questo aspetto; aveva giudicato i sentimenti del suo amico in base ai propri.

“Le conseguenze potrebbero essere terribili,” disse il signor Winkle.

“Non lo spero affatto,” disse il signor Snodgrass.

“Credo che il dottore sia un ottimo tiratore,” disse il signor Winkle.

“La maggior parte di questi uomini militari lo sono,” osservò calmo il signor Snodgrass; “ma lo siete anche voi, vero?”

Il signor Winkle rispose affermativamente; e, rendendosi conto che non aveva allarmato abbastanza il suo compagno, cambiò tattica.

“Snodgrass,” disse lui, con una voce tremante per l’emozione, “se dovesse succedermi qualcosa, troverai in un pacchetto che ti consegnerò una lettera, per mio padre.”

Anche questo attacco fallì. Il signor Snodgrass ne fu colpito, ma portò a termine la consegna del biglietto con la stessa sollecitudine di un normale postino.

“Se io cado,” disse il signor Winkle, “o se cade il dottore, tu, mio caro amico, sarai processato come complice di reato. Devo forse coinvolgere il mio amico in un viaggio che potrebbe rivelarsi pericoloso, persino per la vita?”

Il signor Snodgrass fece una piccola smorfia al sentirlo dire, ma il suo eroismo era invincibile. “Per la causa dell’amicizia,” esclamò con fervore, “affronterei qualsiasi pericolo.”

Quanto Mr. Winkle maledicesse interiormente l’affettuosa amicizia del suo compagno, mentre camminavano in silenzio uno accanto all’altro per alcuni minuti, ognuno immerso nelle proprie riflessioni. La mattina stava volgendo al termine; lui diventava sempre più disperato.

“Snodgrass,” disse lui, fermandosi all’improvviso, “non permettere che io venga ostacolato in questa faccenda. Non dare informazioni alle autorità locali. Non chiedere l’aiuto di nessun agente di polizia per far arrestare me o il Dottor Slammer, del 97° Reggimento attualmente acquartierato nelle caserme di Chatham Barracks. In questo modo si impedirebbe lo svolgersi di questo duello. Ti dico: non farlo.”

Il signor Snodgrass strinse calorosamente la mano del suo amico, rispondendo con entusiasmo: “Assolutamente no!”

Un brivido attraversò il corpo del signor Winkle quando si rese conto con forza che non aveva alcuna speranza nelle paure del suo amico, e che era destinato a diventare un bersaglio per gli attacchi altrui.

Dopo che lo stato della situazione era stato formalmente spiegato a Mr. Snodgrass, e dopo aver noleggiato delle pistole di qualità, insieme a polvere da sparo, proiettili e bossoli presso un produttore di Rochester, i due amici tornarono alla loro locanda: Mr. Winkle per riflettere sulla battaglia imminente, mentre Mr. Snodgrass per preparare le armi in modo che fossero pronte all’uso immediato.

Era una serata noiosa e cupa quando uscirono di nuovo per compiere quella loro impresa goffa. Il signor Winkle era avvolto in un enorme mantello per evitare di essere notato, mentre il signor Snodgrass portava con sé gli strumenti della distruzione.

“Hai preso tutto?” chiese il signor Winkle con tono ansioso.

“Tutto,” rispose il signor Snodgrass; “abbiamo abbondante munizione, nel caso che i colpi non avessero effetto. Nella scatola c’è un quarto di libbra di polvere da sparo, e ho due giornali in tasca per caricare le armi.”

Questi erano esempi di amicizia per cui qualsiasi uomo avrebbe potuto provare grande gratitudine. Si può presumere che la gratitudine del signor Winkle fosse così intensa da non trovare parole per esprimerla; infatti, non disse nulla e continuò semplicemente a camminare, piuttosto lentamente.

“Siamo in un momento eccellente,” disse il signor Snodgrass mentre salivano la recinzione del primo campo; “il sole sta appena tramontando.” Il signor Winkle alzò lo sguardo verso il disco solare che si abbassava, pensando con angoscia alla probabilità che anche lui, molto presto, “tramontasse” a sua volta.

“Ecco l’ufficiale,” esclamò il signor Winkle dopo aver camminato per alcuni minuti.

“Dove?” disse il signor Snodgrass.

“Lì, il gentiluomo con il mantello blu.” Il signor Snodgrass guardò nella direzione indicata dal dito indice del suo amico e notò una figura avvolta in indumenti che la nascondevano completamente, proprio come aveva descritto. L’ufficiale mostrò di essersi accorto della loro presenza facendo un leggero cenno con la mano; i due amici lo seguirono a distanza mentre si allontanava.

The evening grew more dull every moment, and a melancholy wind sounded through the deserted fields, like a distant giant whistling for his house-dog. The sadness of the scene imparted a sombre tinge to the feelings of Mr. Winkle. He started as they passed the angle of the trench—it looked like a colossal grave.

The officer turned suddenly from the path, and after climbing a paling, and scaling a hedge, entered a secluded field. Two gentlemen were waiting in it; one was a little, fat man, with black hair; and the other—a portly personage in a braided surtout—was sitting with perfect equanimity on a camp-stool.

‘The other party, and a surgeon, I suppose,’ said Mr. Snodgrass; ‘take a drop of brandy.’ Mr. Winkle seized the wicker bottle which his friend proffered, and took a lengthened pull at the exhilarating liquid.

‘My friend, Sir, Mr. Snodgrass,’ said Mr. Winkle, as the officer approached. Doctor Slammer’s friend bowed, and produced a case similar to that which Mr. Snodgrass carried.

‘We have nothing further to say, Sir, I think,’ he coldly remarked, as he opened the case; ‘an apology has been resolutely declined.’

‘Nothing, Sir,’ said Mr. Snodgrass, who began to feel rather uncomfortable himself.

‘Will you step forward?’ said the officer.

‘Certainly,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass. The ground was measured, and preliminaries arranged.

‘You will find these better than your own,’ said the opposite second, producing his pistols. ‘You saw me load them. Do you object to use them?’

‘Certainly not,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass. The offer relieved him from considerable embarrassment, for his previous notions of loading a pistol were rather vague and undefined.

‘We may place our men, then, I think,’ observed the officer, with as much indifference as if the principals were chess-men, and the seconds players.

‘I think we may,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass; who would have assented to any proposition, because he knew nothing about the matter. The officer crossed to Doctor Slammer, and Mr. Snodgrass went up to Mr. Winkle.

‘It’s all ready,’ said he, offering the pistol. ‘Give me your cloak.’

‘You have got the packet, my dear fellow,’ said poor Winkle.

‘All right,’ said Mr. Snodgrass. ‘Be steady, and wing him.’

It occurred to Mr. Winkle that this advice was very like that which bystanders invariably give to the smallest boy in a street fight, namely, ‘Go in, and win’—an admirable thing to recommend, if you only know how to do it. He took off his cloak, however, in silence—it always took a long time to undo that cloak—and accepted the pistol. The seconds retired, the gentleman on the camp-stool did the same, and the belligerents approached each other.

Mr. Winkle was always remarkable for extreme humanity. It is conjectured that his unwillingness to hurt a fellow-creature intentionally was the cause of his shutting his eyes when he arrived at the fatal spot; and that the circumstance of his eyes being closed, prevented his observing the very extraordinary and unaccountable demeanour of Doctor Slammer. That gentleman started, stared, retreated, rubbed his eyes, stared again, and, finally, shouted, ‘Stop, stop!’

‘What’s all this?’ said Doctor Slammer, as his friend and Mr. Snodgrass came running up; ‘that’s not the man.’

‘Not the man!’ said Doctor Slammer’s second.

‘Not the man!’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

‘Not the man!’ said the gentleman with the camp-stool in his hand.

‘Certainly not,’ replied the little doctor. ‘That’s not the person who insulted me last night.’

‘Very extraordinary!’ exclaimed the officer.

‘Very,’ said the gentleman with the camp-stool. ‘The only question is, whether the gentleman, being on the ground, must not be considered, as a matter of form, to be the individual who insulted our friend, Doctor Slammer, yesterday evening, whether he is really that individual or not;’ and having delivered this suggestion, with a very sage and mysterious air, the man with the camp-stool took a large pinch of snuff, and looked profoundly round, with the air of an authority in such matters.

Now Mr. Winkle had opened his eyes, and his ears too, when he heard his adversary call out for a cessation of hostilities; and perceiving by what he had afterwards said that there was, beyond all question, some mistake in the matter, he at once foresaw the increase of reputation he should inevitably acquire by concealing the real motive of his coming out; he therefore stepped boldly forward, and said—

‘I am not the person. I know it.’

‘Then, that,’ said the man with the camp-stool, ‘is an affront to Doctor Slammer, and a sufficient reason for proceeding immediately.’

‘Pray be quiet, Payne,’ said the doctor’s second. ‘Why did you not communicate this fact to me this morning, Sir?’

‘To be sure—to be sure,’ said the man with the camp-stool indignantly.

‘I entreat you to be quiet, Payne,’ said the other. ‘May I repeat my question, Sir?’

‘Because, Sir,’ replied Mr. Winkle, who had had time to deliberate upon his answer, ‘because, Sir, you described an intoxicated and ungentlemanly person as wearing a coat which I have the honour, not only to wear but to have invented—the proposed uniform, Sir, of the Pickwick Club in London. The honour of that uniform I feel bound to maintain, and I therefore, without inquiry, accepted the challenge which you offered me.’

‘My dear Sir,’ said the good-humoured little doctor advancing with extended hand, ‘I honour your gallantry. Permit me to say, Sir, that I highly admire your conduct, and extremely regret having caused you the inconvenience of this meeting, to no purpose.’

‘I beg you won’t mention it, Sir,’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘I shall feel proud of your acquaintance, Sir,’ said the little doctor.

‘It will afford me the greatest pleasure to know you, sir,’ replied Mr. Winkle. Thereupon the doctor and Mr. Winkle shook hands, and then Mr. Winkle and Lieutenant Tappleton (the doctor’s second), and then Mr. Winkle and the man with the camp-stool, and, finally, Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass—the last-named gentleman in an excess of admiration at the noble conduct of his heroic friend.

‘I think we may adjourn,’ said Lieutenant Tappleton.

‘Certainly,’ added the doctor.

‘Unless,’ interposed the man with the camp-stool, ‘unless Mr. Winkle feels himself aggrieved by the challenge; in which case, I submit, he has a right to satisfaction.’

Mr. Winkle, with great self-denial, expressed himself quite satisfied already.

‘Or possibly,’ said the man with the camp-stool, ‘the gentleman’s second may feel himself affronted with some observations which fell from me at an early period of this meeting; if so, I shall be happy to give him satisfaction immediately.’

Mr. Snodgrass hastily professed himself very much obliged with the handsome offer of the gentleman who had spoken last, which he was only induced to decline by his entire contentment with the whole proceedings. The two seconds adjusted the cases, and the whole party left the ground in a much more lively manner than they had proceeded to it.

‘Do you remain long here?’ inquired Doctor Slammer of Mr. Winkle, as they walked on most amicably together.

‘I think we shall leave here the day after to-morrow,’ was the reply.

‘I trust I shall have the pleasure of seeing you and your friend at my rooms, and of spending a pleasant evening with you, after this awkward mistake,’ said the little doctor; ‘are you disengaged this evening?’

‘We have some friends here,’ replied Mr. Winkle, ‘and I should not like to leave them to-night. Perhaps you and your friend will join us at the Bull.’

‘With great pleasure,’ said the little doctor; ‘will ten o’clock be too late to look in for half an hour?’

‘Oh dear, no,’ said Mr. Winkle. ‘I shall be most happy to introduce you to my friends, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman.’

‘It will give me great pleasure, I am sure,’ replied Doctor Slammer, little suspecting who Mr. Tupman was.

‘You will be sure to come?’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

‘Oh, certainly.’

By this time they had reached the road. Cordial farewells were exchanged, and the party separated. Doctor Slammer and his friends repaired to the barracks, and Mr. Winkle, accompanied by Mr. Snodgrass, returned to their inn.

La sera diventava sempre più triste; un melancolico >vento soffiava attraverso i campi deserti, come se un gigante lontano stesse fischiando per chiamare il suo cane. La tristezza di quella scena imprestava un tono cupo ai sentimenti del signor Winkle. Quando passarono all’angolo della trincea, questa sembrò una colossale >tomba.

L’ufficiale deviò improvvisamente dal sentiero, salì su un palo e superò una siepe, per poi entrare in un campo isolato. Lì lo aspettavano due signori: uno era un uomo piccolo e grassoccio con i capelli neri; l’altro, un individuo robusto vestito con un soprabito intrecciato, sedeva tranquillamente su una sedia da campeggio.

“L’altra parte, e suppongo anche un chirurgo,” disse il signor Snodgrass; “bevano un goccio di brandy.” Il signor Winkle afferrò la bottiglia di vimini che il suo amico gli porgeva e bevve una lunga sorsata di quel liquido inebriante.

“Mio caro amico, signore, il signor Snodgrass,” disse il signor Winkle quando l’ufficiale si avvicinò. L’amico del dottor Slammer fece un inchino e tirò fuori una borsa simile a quella che portava il signor Snodgrass.

“Non abbiamo altro da dire, signore, credo,” osservò freddamente mentre apriva la valigia; “le scuse sono state decisamente rifiutate.”

“Niente, signore,” disse il signor Snodgrass, che iniziava a sentirsi piuttosto a disagio.

“Vuole farsi avanti?” chiese l’ufficiale.

“Certamente,” rispose il signor Snodgrass. Il terreno fu misurato e furono presi gli accordi preliminari necessari.

“Troverete che queste sono migliori delle vostre,” disse il secondo uomo, estraendo le sue pistole. “Avete visto come le ho caricate. Vi dispiace usarle?”

“Certamente no,” rispose il signor Snodgrass. Quell’offerta lo liberò da una notevole imbarazzo, poiché le sue precedenti idee riguardo al caricamento di una >pistola erano piuttosto vaghe e poco definite.

“Allora possiamo schierare i nostri uomini,” osservò l’ufficiale con la stessa indifferenza di chi considerasse i giocatori principali semplici pedine scacchistiche e quelli secondari soltanto avversari minori.

“Penso che possiamo farlo,” rispose il signor Snodgrass; avrebbe accettato qualsiasi proposta, perché non sapeva nulla sull’argomento. L’ufficiale si avvicinò al dottor Slammer, mentre il signor Snodgrass andò dal signor Winkle.

“È tutto pronto,” disse lui, porgendo la >pistola. “Dammi il tuo mantello.”

“Hai il pacchetto, caro amico,” disse povero Winkle.

“Bene,” disse il signor Snodgrass. “Stai fermo e colpiscilo con forza.”

A Mr. Winkle venne in mente che questo consiglio assomigliava molto a quello che gli spettatori danno sempre al bambino più piccolo in una rissa di strada, cioè: “Vai dentro e vinci”. Un consiglio ammirevole, se solo si sapesse come metterlo in atto. Tuttavia, si tolse il mantello in silenzio. Ci voleva sempre molto tempo per slacciarlo. E poi prese la >pistola. Gli secondi passarono, anche il signore seduto sulla sedia da campeggio fece lo stesso, e i due avversari si avvicinarono l’uno all’altro.

Il signor Winkle era sempre noto per la sua estrema umanità. Si ipotizza che il suo rifiuto di ferire intenzionalmente un altro essere vivente sia stato la ragione per cui chiuse gli occhi quando arrivò nel luogo fatale; e che proprio questo fatto gli impedì di osservare il comportamento estremamente strano e inspiegabile del dottor Slammer. Quel gentiluomo iniziò a guardarsi intorno, fissò qualcosa, indietreggiò, si strofinò gli occhi, fissò di nuovo, e infine gridò: “Fermatevi, fermatevi!”

“Che cosa sta succedendo?” disse il Dottor Slammer mentre suo amico e il signor Snodgrass correvano verso di lui; “quello non è l’uomo giusto.”

“Non è quell’uomo!”, disse il secondo dei dottori Slammer.

“Non è quell’uomo!”, disse il signor Snodgrass.

“Non è quell’uomo!”, disse il gentiluomo tenendo in mano la sedia da campeggio.

“Certamente no,” rispose il piccolo dottore. “Non è quella la persona che mi ha insultato l’altra notte.”

“Davvero straordinario!”, esclamò l’ufficiale.

“Molto bene,” disse il signore con la sedia da campeggio. “L’unica domanda è: poiché quell’uomo si trovava a terra, non dovrebbe forse essere considerato, per pura formalità, l’individuo che ieri sera ha insultato il nostro amico, il Dottor Slammer. Anche se in realtà non lo sia davvero.” Dopo aver espresso questo pensiero con un tono molto saggio e misterioso, l’uomo con la sedia da campeggio prese una grande quantità di tabacco da naso e guardò intorno con aria autoritaria, come se fosse un esperto in tali questioni.

Ora il signor Winkle aveva aperto gli occhi, e anche le orecchie, quando sentì il suo avversario chiedere la cessazione delle ostilità. Notando, dal resto di ciò che fu detto in seguito, che c’era senza dubbio qualche errore nella situazione, intuì immediatamente che nascondendo il vero motivo della sua venuta avrebbe inevitabilmente guadagnato in reputazione. Così, si fece avanti con decisione e disse.

“Non sono la persona giusta. Lo so.”

“Allora, questo,” disse l’uomo con la sedia da campeggio, “è un insulto verso il Dottor Slammer, e una ragione sufficiente per agire immediatamente.”

“Per favore stia in silenzio, Payne,” disse il secondo assistente del dottore. “Perché non mi ha comunicato questo fatto stamattina, signore?”

“Certo, certo,” disse l’uomo con lo sgabello da campeggio, in tono offeso.

“La prego di stare in silenzio, Payne,” disse l’altro. “Posso ripetere la mia domanda, signore?”

“Perché, signore,” rispose il signor Winkle, che aveva avuto il tempo di riflettere sulla sua risposta, “perché, signore, voi avete descritto una persona ubriaca e scortese come indossante un abito che io ho l’onore non solo di indossare, ma anche di aver inventato: l’uniforme proposta per il Club Pickwick di )Londra. Sento di dover difendere l’onore di quell’uniforme, e per questo ho accettato senza esitazione la sfida che mi avete rivolto.”

“Mio caro signore,” disse il piccolo dottore dal buon umore, avvicinandosi con la mano tesa, “apprezzo molto la sua cortesia. Permetta che le dica, signore, che ammiro profondamente il suo comportamento e mi dispiace enormemente di averle causato l’incomodo di questo incontro, senza alcun motivo.”

“La prego, non ne parli, signore,” disse il signor Winkle.

“Sarò orgoglioso di conoscervi, signore,” disse il piccolo dottore.

“Mi farà grande piacere conoscervi, signore,” rispose il signor Winkle. Allora il dottore e il signor Winkle si strinsero la mano; poi il signor Winkle strinse la mano al tenente Tappleton (il secondo assistente del dottore), quindi a quell’uomo con lo sgabello da campeggio, e infine al signor Snodgrass – quest’ultimo, per l’eccesso di ammirazione verso il nobile comportamento del suo eroico amico.

“Credo che possiamo concludere la riunione”, disse il tenente Tappleton.

“Certamente,” aggiunse il dottore.

“Tranne che,” intervenne l’uomo con la sedia da campeggio, “tranne che il signor Winkle non si senta offeso da questa sfida; in tal caso, ritengo che abbia il diritto di ottenere soddisfazione.”

Il signor Winkle, con grande auto-sacrificio, si dichiarò già molto soddisfatto.

“O forse,” disse l’uomo con la sedia da campeggio, “il secondo accompagnatore del signore potrebbe sentirsi offeso da alcune osservazioni che ho fatto all’inizio di questa riunione; in tal caso, sarò felice di dargli immediatamente soddisfazione.”

Il signor Snodgrass si dichiarò immediatamente molto grato per l’offerta generosa dell’uomo che aveva parlato prima, ma decise di rifiutarla perché era assolutamente soddisfatto di tutto ciò che era accaduto. I due secondi in questione sistemarono nuovamente le cose e l’intero gruppo lasciò il luogo in modo molto più allegramente di come vi fosse arrivato.

“Rimarrai qui a lungo?” chiese il Dottor Slammer al signor Winkle mentre camminavano insieme in modo molto amichevole.

“Penso che partiremo da qui il giorno dopo domani,” fu la risposta.

“Spero di avere il piacere di vedervi voi e vostro amico nelle mie stanze, e di trascorrere una serata piacevole insieme, dopo questo imbarazzante errore,” disse il piccolo dottore; “siete liberi stasera?”

“Abbiamo alcuni amici qui,” rispose il signor Winkle, “e non vorrei lasciarli da soli per la notte. Forse voi e il vostro amico potreste unirvi a noi al Bull.”

“Con grande piacere,” disse il piccolo dottore; “sarà troppo tardi alle dieci per fare una visita di mezz’ora?”

“Oh mio Dio, no,” disse il signor Winkle. “Sarò molto felice di presentarvi ai miei amici, il signor Pickwick e il signor Tupman.”

“Mi darà grande piacere, ne sono sicuro,” rispose il Dottor Slammer, senza sospettare minimamente chi fosse il signor Tupman.

“Verrai sicuramente, vero?” disse il signor Snodgrass.

“Certo, senza dubbio.”

A quell’ora avevano già raggiunto la strada. Si scambiarono cordiali addii e il gruppo si separò. Il dottor Slammer e i suoi amici tornarono alle caserme, mentre il signor Winkle, accompagnato dal signor Snodgrass, rientrò nella loro locanda.

CHAPTER III. A NEW ACQUAINTANCE—THE STROLLER’S TALE—A DISAGREEABLE INTERRUPTION, AND AN UNPLEASANT ENCOUNTER

Mr. Pickwick had felt some apprehensions in consequence of the unusual absence of his two friends, which their mysterious behaviour during the whole morning had by no means tended to diminish. It was, therefore, with more than ordinary pleasure that he rose to greet them when they again entered; and with more than ordinary interest that he inquired what had occurred to detain them from his society. In reply to his questions on this point, Mr. Snodgrass was about to offer an historical account of the circumstances just now detailed, when he was suddenly checked by observing that there were present, not only Mr. Tupman and their stage-coach companion of the preceding day, but another stranger of equally singular appearance. It was a careworn-looking man, whose sallow face, and deeply-sunken eyes, were rendered still more striking than Nature had made them, by the straight black hair which hung in matted disorder half-way down his face. His eyes were almost unnaturally bright and piercing; his cheek-bones were high and prominent; and his jaws were so long and lank, that an observer would have supposed that he was drawing the flesh of his face in, for a moment, by some contraction of the muscles, if his half-opened mouth and immovable expression had not announced that it was his ordinary appearance. Round his neck he wore a green shawl, with the large ends straggling over his chest, and making their appearance occasionally beneath the worn button-holes of his old waistcoat. His upper garment was a long black surtout; and below it he wore wide drab trousers, and large boots, running rapidly to seed.

It was on this uncouth-looking person that Mr. Winkle’s eye rested, and it was towards him that Mr. Pickwick extended his hand when he said, ‘A friend of our friend’s here. We discovered this morning that our friend was connected with the theatre in this place, though he is not desirous to have it generally known, and this gentleman is a member of the same profession. He was about to favour us with a little anecdote connected with it, when you entered.’

‘Lots of anecdote,’ said the green-coated stranger of the day before, advancing to Mr. Winkle and speaking in a low and confidential tone. ‘Rum fellow—does the heavy business—no actor—strange man—all sorts of miseries—Dismal Jemmy, we call him on the circuit.’ Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass politely welcomed the gentleman, elegantly designated as ‘Dismal Jemmy’; and calling for brandy-and-water, in imitation of the remainder of the company, seated themselves at the table.

‘Now sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘will you oblige us by proceeding with what you were going to relate?’

The dismal individual took a dirty roll of paper from his pocket, and turning to Mr. Snodgrass, who had just taken out his note-book, said in a hollow voice, perfectly in keeping with his outward man—‘Are you the poet?’

‘I—I do a little in that way,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass, rather taken aback by the abruptness of the question.

‘Ah! poetry makes life what light and music do the stage—strip the one of the false embellishments, and the other of its illusions, and what is there real in either to live or care for?’

‘Very true, Sir,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass.

‘To be before the footlights,’ continued the dismal man, ‘is like sitting at a grand court show, and admiring the silken dresses of the gaudy throng; to be behind them is to be the people who make that finery, uncared for and unknown, and left to sink or swim, to starve or live, as fortune wills it.’

‘Certainly,’ said Mr. Snodgrass: for the sunken eye of the dismal man rested on him, and he felt it necessary to say something.

‘Go on, Jemmy,’ said the Spanish traveller, ‘like black-eyed Susan—all in the Downs—no croaking—speak out—look lively.’

‘Will you make another glass before you begin, Sir?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

The dismal man took the hint, and having mixed a glass of brandy-and- water, and slowly swallowed half of it, opened the roll of paper and proceeded, partly to read, and partly to relate, the following incident, which we find recorded on the Transactions of the Club as ‘The Stroller’s Tale.’

THE STROLLER’S TALE

‘There is nothing of the marvellous in what I am going to relate,’ said the dismal man; ‘there is nothing even uncommon in it. Want and sickness are too common in many stations of life to deserve more notice than is usually bestowed on the most ordinary vicissitudes of human nature. I have thrown these few notes together, because the subject of them was well known to me for many years. I traced his progress downwards, step by step, until at last he reached that excess of destitution from which he never rose again.

‘The man of whom I speak was a low pantomime actor; and, like many people of his class, an habitual drunkard. In his better days, before he had become enfeebled by dissipation and emaciated by disease, he had been in the receipt of a good salary, which, if he had been careful and prudent, he might have continued to receive for some years—not many; because these men either die early, or by unnaturally taxing their bodily energies, lose, prematurely, those physical powers on which alone they can depend for subsistence. His besetting sin gained so fast upon him, however, that it was found impossible to employ him in the situations in which he really was useful to the theatre. The public- house had a fascination for him which he could not resist. Neglected disease and hopeless poverty were as certain to be his portion as death itself, if he persevered in the same course; yet he did persevere, and the result may be guessed. He could obtain no engagement, and he wanted bread.

‘Everybody who is at all acquainted with theatrical matters knows what a host of shabby, poverty-stricken men hang about the stage of a large establishment—not regularly engaged actors, but ballet people, procession men, tumblers, and so forth, who are taken on during the run of a pantomime, or an Easter piece, and are then discharged, until the production of some heavy spectacle occasions a new demand for their services. To this mode of life the man was compelled to resort; and taking the chair every night, at some low theatrical house, at once put him in possession of a few more shillings weekly, and enabled him to gratify his old propensity. Even this resource shortly failed him; his irregularities were too great to admit of his earning the wretched pittance he might thus have procured, and he was actually reduced to a state bordering on starvation, only procuring a trifle occasionally by borrowing it of some old companion, or by obtaining an appearance at one or other of the commonest of the minor theatres; and when he did earn anything it was spent in the old way.

CAPITOLO III. UNA NUOVA CONOSCENZA – LA STORIA DELLA PARELLINA – UN INTERRUZIONE Sgradevole E UN INCONTRO DISPIACENTE

Il signor Pickwick provava alcune preoccupazioni a causa dell’insolita assenza dei suoi due amici, e il loro comportamento misterioso per tutta la mattina non aveva affatto contribuito a tranquillizzarlo. Pertanto, fu con un piacere insolito che si alzò per salutarli quando rientrarono; e con un interesse ancora maggiore chiese cosa li avesse trattenuti lontano da lui. In risposta alle sue domande, il signor Snodgrass stava per fornire una spiegazione dettagliata degli eventi appena accaduti, quando fu improvvisamente interrotto: nella stanza c’erano non solo il signor Tupman e il loro compagno di viaggio del giorno precedente, ma anche un altro estraneo dall’aspetto altrettanto singolare. Si trattava di un uomo dall’aspetto stanco e logoro; il suo viso giallastro e gli occhi profondamente incassati diventavano ancora più evidenti a causa dei capelli neri, arruffati e disordinati che gli pendevano fino a metà faccia. I suoi occhi erano quasi innaturalmente luminosi e penetranti; le sue ossa zigomatiche erano alte e sporgenti; le mascelle erano così lunghe e sottili che, se non fosse stato per la bocca semiaperta e l’espressione immobile del suo volto, si sarebbe potuto pensare che stesse contraendo i muscoli per modificare il proprio aspetto. Intorno al collo portava uno scialle verde, le cui estremità gli pendevano sul petto, spuntando di tanto in tanto fuori dalle tasche logore del suo vecchio gilet. Il suo abito superiore era un lungo soprabito nero; sotto di esso indossava pantaloni larghi e scuri, nonché stivali grandi e malconci.

Fu su questa persona dall’aspetto rustico che si posò lo sguardo del signor Winkle; fu verso di lui che il signor Pickwick tese la mano quando disse: “Ecco un amico dell’amico nostro. Questa mattina abbiamo scoperto che il nostro amico aveva a che fare con questo teatro, anche se non desidera che si sappia in giro; questo signore appartiene alla stessa professione. Stava per raccontarci una piccola aneddota al riguardo, quando siete entrati voi.”

“Molte aneddoti, ”, disse lo sconosciuto in abito verde del giorno prima, avvicinandosi a Mr. Winkle e parlando con voce bassa e confidenziale. “Un tipo strano, si occupa di affari poco puliti, non è un attore, una persona misteriosa, ha vissuto ogni sorta di miserie. Lo chiamiamo ‘Dismal Jemmy’ in giro per le città.” Mr. Winkle e Mr. Snodgrass accolsero educatamente questo signore, elegantemente definito “Dismal Jemmy”; poi, ordinando brandy e acqua, si sedettero al tavolo insieme agli altri ospiti.

“Ora, signore,” disse il signor Pickwick, “potrebbe gentilmente continuare a raccontarci ciò che stava per dirci?”

Quell’uomo cupo tirò fuori dalla tasca un rotolo di carta sporco e, rivolgendosi al signor Snodgrass che aveva appena estratto il suo taccuino, disse con una voce vuota, in perfetta armonia con il suo aspetto esteriore: “Lei è il poeta?”

“Cioè, faccio un po’ così,” rispose il signor Snodgrass, piuttosto sorpreso dall’improvvisità della domanda.

“Ah! La poesia rende la vita ciò che la luce e la musica fanno per il palcoscenico: togliendo alla prima gli ornamenti falsi e alla seconda le sue illusioni, cosa rimane davvero di significativo in entrambi da vivere o a cui prestare attenzione?”

“Assolutamente vero, signore,” rispose il signor Snodgrass.

“Essere sotto i riflettori,” continuò quell’uomo cupo, “è come sedersi a una grandiosa mostra di corte e ammirare gli abiti di seta della folla vistosa; essere dietro di loro significa essere quelle persone che creano tutta quella magnificenza, ignorate e sconosciute, lasciate a cavarsela da sole, a morire di fame o a vivere, secondo quanto decide il destino.”

“Certamente,” disse il signor Snodgrass: perché lo sguardo vuoto di quell’uomo triste era fisso su di lui, e sentì di dover dire qualcosa.

“Vai avanti, Jemmy,” disse il viaggiatore spagnolo, “come Black-eyed Susan, tutto d’un fiato, senza esitazioni, parla chiaramente, sii più vivace.”

“Prima di iniziare, vorrebbe prepararmi un altro bicchiere, signore?” chiese il signor Pickwick.

L’uomo malinconico capì allusione e, dopo aver preparato un bicchiere di brandy mescolato con acqua, ne bevve lentamente metà. Poi aprì il rotolo di carta e iniziò a leggere, alternando il testo alle sue stesse descrizioni, l’episodio seguente, che troviamo registrato nei “Transactions of the Club” con il titolo “La storia del passeggiatore”.

la storia del passeggino

“Non c’è nulla di meraviglioso in ciò che sto per raccontare,” disse quell’uomo cupo; “anzi, non c’è nemmeno nulla di insolito. Povertà e malattia sono troppo comuni in molte situazioni della vita per meritare un’attenzione maggiore di quella che di solito viene riservata alle più ordinarie vicissitudini della >natura umana. Ho raccolto queste poche note perché l’argomento mi era ben noto da molti anni; ho seguito passo dopo passo il suo declino, fino a quando non è arrivato a quel punto estremo di povertà dal quale non si è mai più ripreso.”

“L’uomo di cui parlo era un attore di pantomima di basso rango; e, come molte persone della sua classe, un alcolizzato abituale. Nei suoi giorni migliori, prima che la dissolutezza lo indebolisse e la malattia lo riducesse in condizioni precarie, guadagnava uno stipendio decente; se solo fosse stato più attento e prudente, avrebbe potuto continuare a riceverlo per alcuni anni, ma non molti. Infatti, queste persone o muoiono giovani, oppure, esaurendo in modo innaturale le proprie energie fisiche, perdono precocemente quelle forze su cui unicamente possono contare per sopravvivere. Tuttavia, il vizio che lo assillava progredì così rapidamente che divenne impossibile impiegarlo in quei ruoli in cui avrebbe potuto essere davvero utile al teatro. Il pubblico aveva una sorta di fascino per lui, al quale non riusciva a resistere. Malattie trascurate e povertà senza speranza erano destinate ad accompagnarlo inevitabilmente, proprio come la morte stessa, se avesse continuato per la stessa strada. Eppure continuò. E il risultato è facile da immaginare: non riuscì a ottenere alcun ingaggio e aveva bisogno di cibo.”

Chiunque abbia anche solo una vaga conoscenza degli affari teatrali sa quanta gente misera e povera si aggiri intorno al palco di un grande teatro: non attori a contratto fisso, ma ballerini, acrobati, equilibristi, ecc., che vengono assunti durante la durata di una pantomima o di uno spettacolo pasquale e poi licenziati, fino a quando non arriva l’occasione di un nuovo spettacolo che richieda nuovamente i loro servizi. Questo era il modo di vita a cui quell’uomo fu costretto ad affidarsi; recandosi ogni sera in qualche teatro modesto, riusciva comunque a guadagnare qualche soldo in più alla settimana, permettendogli così di soddisfare la sua vecchia passione. Tuttavia anche questa risorsa gli venne presto meno: le sue irregolarità erano troppo gravi per permettergli di guadagnare quella misera somma, e finì per ritrovarsi in condizioni quasi di fame, riuscendo a procurarsi qualche soldo solo occasionalmente, prestandolo ad alcuni vecchi compagni o ottenendo un piccolo ruolo in uno dei teatri più modesti. E quando riusciva davvero a guadagnare qualcosa, lo spendeva sempre nello stesso modo di prima.

‘About this time, and when he had been existing for upwards of a year no one knew how, I had a short engagement at one of the theatres on the Surrey side of the water, and here I saw this man, whom I had lost sight of for some time; for I had been travelling in the provinces, and he had been skulking in the lanes and alleys of London. I was dressed to leave the house, and was crossing the stage on my way out, when he tapped me on the shoulder. Never shall I forget the repulsive sight that met my eye when I turned round. He was dressed for the pantomimes in all the absurdity of a clown’s costume. The spectral figures in the Dance of Death, the most frightful shapes that the ablest painter ever portrayed on canvas, never presented an appearance half so ghastly. His bloated body and shrunken legs—their deformity enhanced a hundredfold by the fantastic dress—the glassy eyes, contrasting fearfully with the thick white paint with which the face was besmeared; the grotesquely- ornamented head, trembling with paralysis, and the long skinny hands, rubbed with white chalk—all gave him a hideous and unnatural appearance, of which no description could convey an adequate idea, and which, to this day, I shudder to think of. His voice was hollow and tremulous as he took me aside, and in broken words recounted a long catalogue of sickness and privations, terminating as usual with an urgent request for the loan of a trifling sum of money. I put a few shillings in his hand, and as I turned away I heard the roar of laughter which followed his first tumble on the stage.

‘A few nights afterwards, a boy put a dirty scrap of paper in my hand, on which were scrawled a few words in pencil, intimating that the man was dangerously ill, and begging me, after the performance, to see him at his lodgings in some street—I forget the name of it now—at no great distance from the theatre. I promised to comply, as soon as I could get away; and after the curtain fell, sallied forth on my melancholy errand.

‘It was late, for I had been playing in the last piece; and, as it was a benefit night, the performances had been protracted to an unusual length. It was a dark, cold night, with a chill, damp wind, which blew the rain heavily against the windows and house-fronts. Pools of water had collected in the narrow and little-frequented streets, and as many of the thinly-scattered oil-lamps had been blown out by the violence of the wind, the walk was not only a comfortless, but most uncertain one. I had fortunately taken the right course, however, and succeeded, after a little difficulty, in finding the house to which I had been directed—a coal-shed, with one storey above it, in the back room of which lay the object of my search.

‘A wretched-looking woman, the man’s wife, met me on the stairs, and, telling me that he had just fallen into a kind of doze, led me softly in, and placed a chair for me at the bedside. The sick man was lying with his face turned towards the wall; and as he took no heed of my presence, I had leisure to observe the place in which I found myself.

‘He was lying on an old bedstead, which turned up during the day. The tattered remains of a checked curtain were drawn round the bed’s head, to exclude the wind, which, however, made its way into the comfortless room through the numerous chinks in the door, and blew it to and fro every instant. There was a low cinder fire in a rusty, unfixed grate; and an old three-cornered stained table, with some medicine bottles, a broken glass, and a few other domestic articles, was drawn out before it. A little child was sleeping on a temporary bed which had been made for it on the floor, and the woman sat on a chair by its side. There were a couple of shelves, with a few plates and cups and saucers; and a pair of stage shoes and a couple of foils hung beneath them. With the exception of little heaps of rags and bundles which had been carelessly thrown into the corners of the room, these were the only things in the apartment.

‘I had had time to note these little particulars, and to mark the heavy breathing and feverish startings of the sick man, before he was aware of my presence. In the restless attempts to procure some easy resting-place for his head, he tossed his hand out of the bed, and it fell on mine. He started up, and stared eagerly in my face.

‘“Mr. Hutley, John,” said his wife; “Mr. Hutley, that you sent for to- night, you know.”

‘“Ah!” said the invalid, passing his hand across his forehead; “Hutley— Hutley—let me see.” He seemed endeavouring to collect his thoughts for a few seconds, and then grasping me tightly by the wrist said, “Don’t leave me—don’t leave me, old fellow. She’ll murder me; I know she will.”

‘“Has he been long so?” said I, addressing his weeping wife.

‘“Since yesterday night,” she replied. “John, John, don’t you know me?”

‘“Don’t let her come near me,” said the man, with a shudder, as she stooped over him. “Drive her away; I can’t bear her near me.” He stared wildly at her, with a look of deadly apprehension, and then whispered in my ear, “I beat her, Jem; I beat her yesterday, and many times before. I have starved her and the boy too; and now I am weak and helpless, Jem, she’ll murder me for it; I know she will. If you’d seen her cry, as I have, you’d know it too. Keep her off.” He relaxed his grasp, and sank back exhausted on the pillow.

‘I knew but too well what all this meant. If I could have entertained any doubt of it, for an instant, one glance at the woman’s pale face and wasted form would have sufficiently explained the real state of the case. “You had better stand aside,” said I to the poor creature. “You can do him no good. Perhaps he will be calmer, if he does not see you.” She retired out of the man’s sight. He opened his eyes after a few seconds, and looked anxiously round.

‘Intorno a questa ora, quando ormai era da più di un anno che esisteva senza che nessuno sapesse come, ebbi un breve impegno in uno dei teatri situati sul lato del fiume del Surrey; fu lì che vidi quest’uomo, di cui non avevo più notizie da qualche tempo, poiché ero stato via per le province, mentre lui si nascondeva nei vicoli e nelle stradine di Londra. Ero vestito per andarmene e stavo attraversando il palco quando mi diede una pacca sulla spalla. Non dimenticherò mai la vista orribile che mi si presentò quando mi girai: era vestito come un clown, con tutti gli elementi assurdi tipici di quel costume. Le figure spettrali della Danza della Morte, le forme più terribili che qualsiasi pittore abile avesse mai ritratto sulla tela, niente di tutto ciò presentava un aspetto così orrendo. Il suo corpo gonfio, le gambe deformi, resi ancora più spaventosi dal costume fantastico; gli occhi vitrei, in netto contrasto con il trucco bianco che copriva il viso; la testa stranamente decorata, tremante per la paralisi, tutte queste cose gli conferivano un aspetto orribile e innaturale. Nessuna descrizione potrebbe rendere adeguatamente l’immagine, e ancora oggi provo ribrezzo al solo pensarci. La sua voce era rauca e tremante quando mi portò da parte; con parole spezzate raccontò una lunga serie di sofferenze e privazioni, concludendo come al solito con la richiesta urgente di un piccolo prestito in denaro. Gli diedi qualche scellino, e mentre me ne andavo sentii le risate che seguirono il suo primo inciampo sul palco.’

‘Qualche notte dopo, un ragazzo mi mise in mano un pezzo di carta sporco, su cui erano scarabocchiati alcuni parole a matita; vi si indicava che quell’uomo era gravemente malato e si mi pregava, dopo lo spettacolo, di andarlo a trovare nel suo alloggio, situato in una strada. Ora non ricordo il nome. Non molto lontano dal teatro. Promisi di farlo non appena avessi potuto liberarmi; e dopo la chiusura del sipario, mi misi in cammino per compiere quella mia melanconica missione.’

Era tardi, poiché avevo suonato nell’ultima parte del concerto; e, essendo una serata di beneficenza, le esibizioni si erano prolungate oltre il solito. Era una notte buia e fredda, con un vento gelido e umido che soffiava forte, facendo cadere la pioggia contro le finestre e i fronti delle case. Nelle strade strette e poco frequentate si erano formate pozzanghere d’acqua; inoltre, molte delle rare lampade a olio erano state spente dal vento violento, rendendo il cammino non solo scomodo ma anche molto pericoloso. Fortunatamente avevo preso la direzione giusta e, dopo qualche difficoltà, riuscii a trovare la casa che mi era stata indicata: un magazzino per il carbone, con un piano superiore; nell’ultima stanza di quel magazzino si trovava l’oggetto della mia ricerca.

“Una donna di aspetto misero, la moglie dell’uomo, mi incontrò sulle scale e, dicendomi che lui aveva appena cominciato a sonnecchiare, mi guidò dolcemente all’interno della casa e mi mise una sedia accanto al letto. L’uomo malato giaceva con il viso rivolto verso il muro; poiché non prestava alcuna attenzione alla mia presenza, ebbi il tempo di osservare l’ambiente in cui mi trovavo.”

Giaceva su un vecchio letto che era stato trovato durante il giorno; i resti strappati di una tenda a quadri erano stati tirati intorno alla testiera del letto per tenere fuori il vento, che tuttavia riusciva comunque a entrare nella stanza, attraverso le numerose fessure della porta, soffiando incessantemente avanti e indietro. C’era un piccolo fuoco di cenere in una grata arrugginita e non fissata; davanti ad esso era stato tirato fuori un vecchio tavolo a tre angoli, macchiato, su cui si trovavano alcune bottiglie di medicine, un pezzo di vetro rotto e alcuni altri oggetti domestici. Un piccolo >bambino dormiva su un letto improvvisato fatto sul pavimento, mentre la donna sedeva su una sedia accanto a lui. C’erano anche un paio di scaffali con alcune stoviglie; sotto di essi erano appese un paio di scarpe da teatro e alcuni fogli di cartone. A parte piccoli mucchi di stracci gettati in modo disordinato negli angoli della stanza, queste erano le uniche cose presenti nell’appartamento.

Avevo avuto il tempo di notare questi piccoli dettagli, nonché i respiri affannosi e le crisi febbrili del malato, prima che lui si accorgesse della mia presenza. Nel tentativo disperato di trovare un posto comodo dove appoggiare la testa, allungò una mano fuori dal letto e la posò sulla mia. Si svegliò di scatto e mi fissò con aria ansiosa.

“Signor Hutley, John,” disse sua moglie; “il signor Hutley che avete chiamato stasera, lo sapete bene.”

“Ah!” disse l’infermo, passandosi la mano sulla fronte; “Hutley. Hutley, lasciami pensare un attimo.” Sembrava cercare di raccogliere i propri pensieri per qualche secondo, poi afferrò saldamente il mio polso e disse: “Non lasciarmi. Non lasciarmi, vecchio amico. Mi ucciderà. Lo so che lo farà.”

“È già da molto tempo che è via?” dissi, rivolgendomi a sua moglie in lacrime.

“Da ieri sera,” rispose lei. “John, John, non mi riconosci forse?”

“Non lasciate che si avvicini a me,” disse l’uomo, tremando, mentre lei si chinava su di lui. “Scacciatela via; non posso sopportare che sia vicina a me.” La fissò con uno sguardo folle, pieno di terrore mortale, poi sussurrò nel mio orecchio: “L’ho picchiata, Jem; l’ho picchiata ieri, e molte volte prima. L’ho anche lasciata morire di fame, insieme al ragazzo. Ora sono debole e indifeso. Lei mi ucciderà per questo; lo so che lo farà. Se aveste visto piangere come ho fatto io, capireste anche voi. Tenetela lontana da me.” Allentò la presa e si abbandonò esausto sul cuscino.

“Sapevo fin troppo bene cosa significasse tutto questo. Se avessi avuto anche solo il minimo dubbio, uno sguardo al viso pallido e alla figura emaciata di quella donna sarebbe stato sufficiente per comprendere la vera situazione. ‘È meglio che ti allontani,’ le dissi. ‘Non puoi aiutarlo in alcun modo. Forse starà più calmo se non ti vede.’ Si allontanò dalla sua vista. Dopo alcuni secondi, lui aprì gli occhi e guardò intorno con ansia.”

‘“Is she gone?” he eagerly inquired.

‘“Yes—yes,” said I; “she shall not hurt you.”

‘“I’ll tell you what, Jem,” said the man, in a low voice, “she does hurt me. There’s something in her eyes wakes such a dreadful fear in my heart, that it drives me mad. All last night, her large, staring eyes and pale face were close to mine; wherever I turned, they turned; and whenever I started up from my sleep, she was at the bedside looking at me.” He drew me closer to him, as he said in a deep alarmed whisper, “Jem, she must be an evil spirit—a devil! Hush! I know she is. If she had been a woman she would have died long ago. No woman could have borne what she has.”

‘I sickened at the thought of the long course of cruelty and neglect which must have occurred to produce such an impression on such a man. I could say nothing in reply; for who could offer hope, or consolation, to the abject being before me?

‘I sat there for upwards of two hours, during which time he tossed about, murmuring exclamations of pain or impatience, restlessly throwing his arms here and there, and turning constantly from side to side. At length he fell into that state of partial unconsciousness, in which the mind wanders uneasily from scene to scene, and from place to place, without the control of reason, but still without being able to divest itself of an indescribable sense of present suffering. Finding from his incoherent wanderings that this was the case, and knowing that in all probability the fever would not grow immediately worse, I left him, promising his miserable wife that I would repeat my visit next evening, and, if necessary, sit up with the patient during the night.

‘I kept my promise. The last four-and-twenty hours had produced a frightful alteration. The eyes, though deeply sunk and heavy, shone with a lustre frightful to behold. The lips were parched, and cracked in many places; the hard, dry skin glowed with a burning heat; and there was an almost unearthly air of wild anxiety in the man’s face, indicating even more strongly the ravages of the disease. The fever was at its height.

‘I took the seat I had occupied the night before, and there I sat for hours, listening to sounds which must strike deep to the heart of the most callous among human beings—the awful ravings of a dying man. From what I had heard of the medical attendant’s opinion, I knew there was no hope for him: I was sitting by his death-bed. I saw the wasted limbs— which a few hours before had been distorted for the amusement of a boisterous gallery, writhing under the tortures of a burning fever—I heard the clown’s shrill laugh, blending with the low murmurings of the dying man.

‘It is a touching thing to hear the mind reverting to the ordinary occupations and pursuits of health, when the body lies before you weak and helpless; but when those occupations are of a character the most strongly opposed to anything we associate with grave and solemn ideas, the impression produced is infinitely more powerful. The theatre and the public-house were the chief themes of the wretched man’s wanderings. It was evening, he fancied; he had a part to play that night; it was late, and he must leave home instantly. Why did they hold him, and prevent his going?—he should lose the money—he must go. No! they would not let him. He hid his face in his burning hands, and feebly bemoaned his own weakness, and the cruelty of his persecutors. A short pause, and he shouted out a few doggerel rhymes—the last he had ever learned. He rose in bed, drew up his withered limbs, and rolled about in uncouth positions; he was acting—he was at the theatre. A minute’s silence, and he murmured the burden of some roaring song. He had reached the old house at last—how hot the room was. He had been ill, very ill, but he was well now, and happy. Fill up his glass. Who was that, that dashed it from his lips? It was the same persecutor that had followed him before. He fell back upon his pillow and moaned aloud. A short period of oblivion, and he was wandering through a tedious maze of low-arched rooms—so low, sometimes, that he must creep upon his hands and knees to make his way along; it was close and dark, and every way he turned, some obstacle impeded his progress. There were insects, too, hideous crawling things, with eyes that stared upon him, and filled the very air around, glistening horribly amidst the thick darkness of the place. The walls and ceiling were alive with reptiles—the vault expanded to an enormous size—frightful figures flitted to and fro—and the faces of men he knew, rendered hideous by gibing and mouthing, peered out from among them; they were searing him with heated irons, and binding his head with cords till the blood started; and he struggled madly for life.

‘At the close of one of these paroxysms, when I had with great difficulty held him down in his bed, he sank into what appeared to be a slumber. Overpowered with watching and exertion, I had closed my eyes for a few minutes, when I felt a violent clutch on my shoulder. I awoke instantly. He had raised himself up, so as to seat himself in bed—a dreadful change had come over his face, but consciousness had returned, for he evidently knew me. The child, who had been long since disturbed by his ravings, rose from its little bed, and ran towards its father, screaming with fright—the mother hastily caught it in her arms, lest he should injure it in the violence of his insanity; but, terrified by the alteration of his features, stood transfixed by the bedside. He grasped my shoulder convulsively, and, striking his breast with the other hand, made a desperate attempt to articulate. It was unavailing; he extended his arm towards them, and made another violent effort. There was a rattling noise in the throat—a glare of the eye—a short stifled groan- -and he fell back—dead!’

“È andata via?” chiese con impazienza.

“Sì, sì”, dissi; “non ti farà del male”.

“Ti dico una cosa, Jem,” disse l’uomo a bassa voce, “mi fa davvero soffrire. C’è qualcosa nei suoi occhi che suscita in me un terribile terrore, tanto da rendermi pazzo. Tutta la scorsa notte, i suoi grandi occhi fissi e il suo viso pallido erano vicini a me; doveunque mi girassi, lei seguiva i miei movimenti; e ogni volta che mi svegliavo dal [sogno, lei era lì, seduta accanto al letto a guardarmi.” Mi avvicinò ancora di più a sé e continuò sussurrando con voce preoccupata: “Jem, deve essere uno spirito malvagio, un demone! Zitta. So che lo è. Se fosse una donna, sarebbe morta da tempo. Nessuna donna potrebbe sopportare ciò che lei ha subito.”

“Mi sentii disgustato al pensiero di tutto quel lungo percorso di crudeltà e negligenza che doveva essersi verificato per lasciare un tale segno su quell’uomo. Non riuscivo a dire nulla in risposta; perché chi avrebbe potuto offrire >speranza o conforto a quella creatura disperata davanti a me?”

Rimasi lì per oltre due ore; durante quel tempo lui si agitava continuamente, emettendo esclamazioni di dolore o impazienza, muovendo le braccia in modo disordinato e girandosi da una parte all’altra. Alla fine cadde in quello stato di semicoscienza in cui la mente vaga senza controllo da un luogo all’altro, senza che la ragione possa intervenire per fermarla, ma continuando comunque a provare un indescrivibile dolore presente. Notando che questa era la situazione e sapendo che con ogni probabilità la febbre non peggiorerebbe immediatamente, lo lasciai, promettendo alla sua povera moglie che sarei tornato la sera seguente e, se necessario, avrei vegliato il paziente per tutta la notte.

Ho mantenuto la mia promessa. Le ultime ventiquattro ore avevano causato un terribile cambiamento in lui: gli occhi, sebbene profondamente incavati e pesanti, brillavano di una luce spaventosa da vedere; le labbra erano secche e screpolate in molti punti; la pelle dura e asciutta emetteva un calore ardente; sul suo viso si leggeva un’ansia selvaggia, quasi soprannaturale, che evidenziava ancora di più i danni causati dalla malattia. La febbre era al suo apice.

“Presi il posto che avevo occupato la notte precedente e rimasi lì seduto per ore, ascoltando suoni che dovevano toccare profondamente il cuore anche del più insensibile tra gli esseri umani: le terribili grida di un uomo morente. Da quanto avevo sentito dire sull’opinione del medico, sapevo che non c’era alcuna >speranza per lui. Ero lì, al suo letto di morte. Vedevo quelle membra consumate, poche ore prima ancora erano state utilizzate per intrattenere un pubblico rumoroso. Si contorcevano sotto i tormenti di una febbre ardente. Sentivo la risata stridula di quel clown, mescolarsi ai deboli sussurri dell’uomo morente.”

È commovente ascoltare come la mente ritorni alle normali occupazioni e attività legate alla salute, quando il corpo giace davanti a noi debole e indifeso; ma quando queste occupazioni hanno un carattere profondamente in contrasto con tutto ciò che associamo a idee serie e solenni, l’impressione prodotta diventa infinitamente più intensa. Il teatro e la sala da concerto erano i principali oggetti dei vagabondaggi di quell’uomo sventurato. Era sera; doveva recitare in uno spettacolo quella notte; era tardi, e doveva andarsene immediatamente. Perché lo trattenevano, impedendogli di partire? Avrebbe perso i soldi. Doveva andare. No! Non glielo permettevano. Si nascose il viso tra le mani ardenti, lamentando debolmente la propria debolezza e la crudeltà dei suoi persecutori. Dopo un breve silenzio, iniziò a recitare alcune poesie scritte in modo approssimativo. Le ultime che avesse mai imparato. Si alzò dal letto, stirò le sue membra indebolite e si rotolò in posizioni goffe. Stava recitando. Era nel teatro. Dopo un minuto di silenzio, mormorò le parole di una canzone roboante. Aveva finalmente raggiunto quella vecchia casa. Che caldo c’era lì dentro. Era stato malato, molto malato. Ma ora stava bene, ed era felice. Gli riempirono il bicchiere. Chi era quella persona che glielo strappò dalle labbra? Era lo stesso persecutore che lo aveva seguito fin lì. Si abbandonò di nuovo sul cuscino e gemette ad alta voce. Dopo un breve periodo di oblio, iniziò a vagare in un labirinto di stanze dal soffitto basso. A volte così basso che doveva strisciare sulle mani e sulle ginocchia per procedere. Era buio e stretto. Ogni volta che girava, qualche ostacolo gli impediva di andare avanti. C’erano anche insetti orribili, creature che strisciavano dappertutto, con occhi che lo fissavano. Il soffitto e le pareti erano pieni di rettili. L’ambiente si allargava in modo enorme. Figure spaventose volavano avanti e indietro. E i volti di persone che conosceva apparivano tra di loro, trasformati in cose orribili dal disprezzo e dalle derisioni. Gli bruciavano il corpo con ferri roventi. Gli legavano la testa con corde fino a far sgorgare il sangue. Lottava disperatamente per sopravvivere.

‘Alla fine di uno di questi attacchi, quando con grande difficoltà riuscivo a tenerlo fermo a letto, sembrò addormentarsi. Sopraffatta dalla stanchezza e dall’angoscia, chiusi gli occhi per qualche minuto. Quando li riaprii, sentii una stretta violenta sulla spalla. Mi svegliai immediatamente: si era alzato a sedere sul letto. Il suo viso aveva subito un cambiamento terribile, ma era ancora cosciente, perché mi riconobbe chiaramente. Il bambino, già da tempo disturbato dai suoi deliri, saltò giù dal lettino e corse verso suo padre, urlando di paura. La madre lo afferrò subito tra le braccia, per evitare che si ferisse nell’impeto della sua follia. Ma, terrorizzata dal cambiamento nei tratti del suo volto, rimase immobile accanto al letto. Lui afferrò convulsivamente la mia spalla e, colpendosi il petto con l’altra mano, cercò disperatamente di parlare. Ma non ci riuscì. Allungò un braccio verso di loro e fece un altro tentativo disperato. Si udì un suono stridulo nella sua gola. Un bagliore negli occhi. Un gemito soffocato. E poi cadde a terra. Morto.’

It would afford us the highest gratification to be enabled to record Mr. Pickwick’s opinion of the foregoing anecdote. We have little doubt that we should have been enabled to present it to our readers, but for a most unfortunate occurrence.

Mr. Pickwick had replaced on the table the glass which, during the last few sentences of the tale, he had retained in his hand; and had just made up his mind to speak—indeed, we have the authority of Mr. Snodgrass’s note-book for stating, that he had actually opened his mouth—when the waiter entered the room, and said—

‘Some gentlemen, Sir.’

It has been conjectured that Mr. Pickwick was on the point of delivering some remarks which would have enlightened the world, if not the Thames, when he was thus interrupted; for he gazed sternly on the waiter’s countenance, and then looked round on the company generally, as if seeking for information relative to the new-comers.

‘Oh!’ said Mr. Winkle, rising, ‘some friends of mine—show them in. Very pleasant fellows,’ added Mr. Winkle, after the waiter had retired— ‘officers of the 97th, whose acquaintance I made rather oddly this morning. You will like them very much.’

Mr. Pickwick’s equanimity was at once restored. The waiter returned, and ushered three gentlemen into the room.

‘Lieutenant Tappleton,’ said Mr. Winkle, ‘Lieutenant Tappleton, Mr. Pickwick—Doctor Payne, Mr. Pickwick—Mr. Snodgrass you have seen before, my friend Mr. Tupman, Doctor Payne—Doctor Slammer, Mr. Pickwick—Mr. Tupman, Doctor Slam—’

Here Mr. Winkle suddenly paused; for strong emotion was visible on the countenance both of Mr. Tupman and the doctor.

‘I have met this gentleman before,’ said the Doctor, with marked emphasis.

‘Indeed!’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘And—and that person, too, if I am not mistaken,’ said the doctor, bestowing a scrutinising glance on the green-coated stranger. ‘I think I gave that person a very pressing invitation last night, which he thought proper to decline.’ Saying which the doctor scowled magnanimously on the stranger, and whispered his friend Lieutenant Tappleton.

‘You don’t say so,’ said that gentleman, at the conclusion of the whisper.

‘I do, indeed,’ replied Doctor Slammer.

‘You are bound to kick him on the spot,’ murmured the owner of the camp- stool, with great importance.

‘Do be quiet, Payne,’ interposed the lieutenant. ‘Will you allow me to ask you, sir,’ he said, addressing Mr. Pickwick, who was considerably mystified by this very unpolite by-play—‘will you allow me to ask you, Sir, whether that person belongs to your party?’

‘No, Sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘he is a guest of ours.’

‘He is a member of your club, or I am mistaken?’ said the lieutenant inquiringly.

‘Certainly not,’ responded Mr. Pickwick.

‘And never wears your club-button?’ said the lieutenant.

‘No—never!’ replied the astonished Mr. Pickwick.

Lieutenant Tappleton turned round to his friend Doctor Slammer, with a scarcely perceptible shrug of the shoulder, as if implying some doubt of the accuracy of his recollection. The little doctor looked wrathful, but confounded; and Mr. Payne gazed with a ferocious aspect on the beaming countenance of the unconscious Pickwick.

‘Sir,’ said the doctor, suddenly addressing Mr. Tupman, in a tone which made that gentleman start as perceptibly as if a pin had been cunningly inserted in the calf of his leg, ‘you were at the ball here last night!’

Mr. Tupman gasped a faint affirmative, looking very hard at Mr. Pickwick all the while.

‘That person was your companion,’ said the doctor, pointing to the still unmoved stranger.

Mr. Tupman admitted the fact.

‘Now, sir,’ said the doctor to the stranger, ‘I ask you once again, in the presence of these gentlemen, whether you choose to give me your card, and to receive the treatment of a gentleman; or whether you impose upon me the necessity of personally chastising you on the spot?’

‘Stay, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I really cannot allow this matter to go any further without some explanation. Tupman, recount the circumstances.’

Mr. Tupman, thus solemnly adjured, stated the case in a few words; touched slightly on the borrowing of the coat; expatiated largely on its having been done ‘after dinner’; wound up with a little penitence on his own account; and left the stranger to clear himself as best he could.

He was apparently about to proceed to do so, when Lieutenant Tappleton, who had been eyeing him with great curiosity, said with considerable scorn, ‘Haven’t I seen you at the theatre, Sir?’

‘Certainly,’ replied the unabashed stranger.

‘He is a strolling actor!’ said the lieutenant contemptuously, turning to Doctor Slammer.—‘He acts in the piece that the officers of the 52nd get up at the Rochester Theatre to-morrow night. You cannot proceed in this affair, Slammer—impossible!’

‘Quite!’ said the dignified Payne.

‘Sorry to have placed you in this disagreeable situation,’ said Lieutenant Tappleton, addressing Mr. Pickwick; ‘allow me to suggest, that the best way of avoiding a recurrence of such scenes in future will be to be more select in the choice of your companions. Good-evening, Sir!’ and the lieutenant bounced out of the room.

‘And allow me to say, Sir,’ said the irascible Doctor Payne, ‘that if I had been Tappleton, or if I had been Slammer, I would have pulled your nose, Sir, and the nose of every man in this company. I would, sir— every man. Payne is my name, sir—Doctor Payne of the 43rd. Good- evening, Sir.’ Having concluded this speech, and uttered the last three words in a loud key, he stalked majestically after his friend, closely followed by Doctor Slammer, who said nothing, but contented himself by withering the company with a look.

Rising rage and extreme bewilderment had swelled the noble breast of Mr. Pickwick, almost to the bursting of his waistcoat, during the delivery of the above defiance. He stood transfixed to the spot, gazing on vacancy. The closing of the door recalled him to himself. He rushed forward with fury in his looks, and fire in his eye. His hand was upon the lock of the door; in another instant it would have been on the throat of Doctor Payne of the 43rd, had not Mr. Snodgrass seized his revered leader by the coat tail, and dragged him backwards.

‘Restrain him,’ cried Mr. Snodgrass; ‘Winkle, Tupman—he must not peril his distinguished life in such a cause as this.’

‘Let me go,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Hold him tight,’ shouted Mr. Snodgrass; and by the united efforts of the whole company, Mr. Pickwick was forced into an arm-chair.

‘Leave him alone,’ said the green-coated stranger; ‘brandy-and-water— jolly old gentleman—lots of pluck—swallow this—ah!—capital stuff.’ Having previously tested the virtues of a bumper, which had been mixed by the dismal man, the stranger applied the glass to Mr. Pickwick’s mouth; and the remainder of its contents rapidly disappeared.

There was a short pause; the brandy-and-water had done its work; the amiable countenance of Mr. Pickwick was fast recovering its customary expression.

‘They are not worth your notice,’ said the dismal man.

‘You are right, sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘they are not. I am ashamed to have been betrayed into this warmth of feeling. Draw your chair up to the table, Sir.’

The dismal man readily complied; a circle was again formed round the table, and harmony once more prevailed. Some lingering irritability appeared to find a resting-place in Mr. Winkle’s bosom, occasioned possibly by the temporary abstraction of his coat—though it is scarcely reasonable to suppose that so slight a circumstance can have excited even a passing feeling of anger in a Pickwickian’s breast. With this exception, their good-humour was completely restored; and the evening concluded with the conviviality with which it had begun.

Ci darebbe la massima soddisfazione poter registrare l’opinione del signor Pickwick su questa aneddota. Non abbiamo alcun >dubbio che saremmo riusciti a presentarla ai nostri lettori, se non fosse stato per un evento molto sfortunato.

Il signor Pickwick aveva rimesso sul tavolo il bicchiere che, nelle ultime frasi del racconto, teneva in mano; stava proprio per parlare. Anzi, abbiamo la testimonianza del quaderno di appunti del signor Snodgrass, che afferma chiaramente che aveva effettivamente aperto bocca, quando il cameriere entrò nella stanza e disse:

“Alcuni signori, signore.”

Si è ipotizzato che il signor Pickwick stesse per fare alcune osservazioni che avrebbero illuminato il mondo, se non almeno il fiume Tamigi, quando fu interrotto; infatti fissò con severità il volto del cameriere, poi guardò intorno alla compagnia, come se cercasse informazioni riguardo ai nuovi arrivati.

“Oh!” disse il signor Winkle alzandosi, “alcuni miei amici, fateli entrare. Sono persone molto piacevoli,” aggiunse dopo che il cameriere se ne fu andato; “ufficiali del 97° reggimento, che ho conosciuto in modo piuttosto strano stamattina. Vi piaceranno molto.”

La calma di Mr. Pickwick fu immediatamente ripristinata. Il cameriere tornò e fece entrare nella stanza tre signori.

“Tenente Tappleton,” disse il signor Winkle, “tenente Tappleton, il signor Pickwick, il dottor Payne, il signor Pickwick, il signor Snodgrass che avete già visto prima, mio caro amico il signor Tupman, il dottor Payne, il dottor Slammer, il signor Pickwick, il signor Tupman, il dottor Slam, ”

A questo punto, il signor Winkle fece una pausa improvvisa; poiché un forte sentimento era evidente sul volto sia del signor Tupman che del dottore.

“Ho già incontrato questo signore,” disse il Dottore, ponendo particolare enfasi su quelle parole.

“Certamente!” disse il signor Winkle.

“E, e anche quella persona, se non mi sbaglio,” disse il dottore, lanciando uno sguardo attento allo straniero in abito verde. “Credo di avergli fatto un invito molto insistente la scorsa notte; lui, però, ha ritenuto opportuno rifiutarlo.” Detto questo, il dottore fissò lo straniero con un’espressione magnanima e sussurrò qualcosa al suo amico, il tenente Tappleton.

“Non direi proprio,” disse quel gentiluomo alla fine di quel sussurro.

“Sì, davvero,” rispose il Dottor Slammer.

“Senza dubbio lo prenderai a calci sul posto,” mormorò il proprietario della sedia da campeggio con grande serietà.

“Per favore, stia zitto, Payne,” intervenne il tenente. “Le permetterà di chiederglielo, signore?” disse, rivolgendosi a Mr. Pickwick, che era piuttosto perplesso da questa scena così poco educata, “Le permetterà di chiederglielo, signore, se quella persona appartiene al suo gruppo?”

“No, signore,” rispose il signor Pickwick, “è un nostro ospite.”

“È un membro del vostro club, o mi sbaglio?” chiese il tenente con aria interrogativa.

“Certamente no,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

“E non indossi mai il bottone del tuo club?” chiese il tenente.

“No, mai!” rispose sorpreso il signor Pickwick.

Il tenente Tappleton si girò verso il suo amico, il dottor Slammer, scuotendo appena le spalle, come se avesse qualche >dubbio sull’accuratezza dei suoi ricordi. Il piccolo dottore sembrava arrabbiato e confuso; mentre il signor Payne fissava con un’espressione minacciosa il volto sorridente di Pickwick, che era privo di coscienza.

“Signore,” disse il dottore, rivolgendosi improvvisamente al signor Tupman con un tono tale che fece sussultare quell’uomo come se qualcuno gli avesse abilmente infilato un chiodo nella gamba, “lei era alla festa qui la scorsa notte!”

Il signor Tupman emise un debole sì, fissando intensamente il signor Pickwick per tutto il tempo.

“Quella persona era il tuo compagno,” disse il dottore, indicando lo sconosciuto ancora immobile.

Il signor Tupman ammise il fatto.

“Ora, signore,” disse il dottore allo sconosciuto, “vi chiedo ancora una volta, in presenza di questi gentiluomini, se desiderate darmi la vostra carta e ricevere un trattamento degno di un gentiluomo; oppure se preferite che io vi punisca personalmente sul posto.”

“Resti, signore,” disse il signor Pickwick, “non posso davvero permettere che questa situazione continui senza alcuna spiegazione. Tupman, racconti i fatti.”

Il signor Tupman, dopo aver pronunciato tale solenne giuramento, espose la situazione in poche parole; menzionò brevemente l’episodio del prestito del cappotto; si soffermò a lungo sul fatto che ciò fosse avvenuto “dopo cena”; concluse con un po’ di pentimento da parte sua; e lasciò che lo sconosciuto si difendesse come meglio poteva.

Sembrava proprio che stesse per procedere a farlo, quando il tenente Tappleton, che lo aveva osservato con grande curiosità, disse con notevole disprezzo: “Non vi ho visto al teatro, signore?”

“Certamente,” rispose l’estraneo senza alcuna esitazione.

“È un attore che gira per le strade!” disse il tenente con disprezzo, rivolgendosi al Dottor Slammer. “Partecipa all’opera che gli ufficiali del 52° reggimento metteranno in scena domani sera al Rochester Theatre. Non puoi procedere con questa faccenda, Slammer. È impossibile!”

“Assolutamente!” disse il nobile Payne.

“Mi dispiace di avervi messo in questa sgradevole situazione,” disse il tenente Tappleton rivolgendosi al signor Pickwick; “permettetemi di suggerire che il modo migliore per evitare che tali scene si ripetano in futuro sia scegliere con maggiore attenzione i propri compagni. Buonasera, signore!” e il tenente uscì dalla stanza.

“E permettetemi di dire, signore,” disse il collerico Dottor Payne, “che se fossi stato Tappleton, o Slammer, vi avrei tirato il naso, signore, e il naso di ogni uomo in questa compagnia. Lo avrei fatto, signore, ogni uomo. Il mio nome è Payne, signore. Dottor Payne del 43° Reggimento. Buonasera, signore.” Dopo aver pronunciato queste parole, con l’ultima frase gridata ad alta voce, si allontanò maestosamente insieme al suo amico, seguito da vicino dal Dottor Slammer, il quale non disse nulla, limitandosi a fissare tutti con uno sguardo gelido.

Un’ira crescente e un profondo sbalordimento avevano riempito il nobile petto del signor Pickwick durante l’espressione di quel disprezzo. Rimase immobile sul posto, a fissare il vuoto davanti a sé; solo quando la porta si chiuse tornò in sé. Si precipitò avanti con lo sguardo furioso e gli occhi pieni di fiamma. La sua mano era già sulla maniglia della porta. In un altro istante sarebbe arrivata alla gola del dottor Payne del 43° distretto, se il signor Snodgrass non avesse afferrato il rispettato leader per la coda del suo abito e lo avesse trascinato indietro.

“Trattenetelo!”, gridò il signor Snodgrass; “Winkle, Tupman. Non deve rischiare la sua preziosa vita per una causa del genere.”

“Lasciatemi andare,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Tienilo stretto,” gridò il signor Snodgrass; e grazie agli sforzi congiunti di tutto il gruppo, il signor Pickwick fu costretto a sedersi in una poltrona.

“Lasciatelo in pace,” disse lo sconosciuto in abito verde; “brandy e acqua, un vero signore coraggioso, inghiottite tutto questo, ah, roba eccellente.” Dopo aver precedentemente testato le proprietà di quel liquido preparato dall’uomo cupo, lo sconosciuto portò il bicchiere alle labbra del signor Pickwick; il resto del contenuto scomparve rapidamente.

Ci fu una breve pausa; il brandy mescolato con l’acqua aveva fatto il suo effetto; il volto amichevole del signor Pickwick stava rapidamente riprendendo la sua espressione abituale.

“Non meritano la tua attenzione,” disse l’uomo cupo.

“Avete ragione, signore,” rispose il signor Pickwick, “non lo sono. Mi vergogno di essere stato indotto a provare tali sentimenti calorosi. Avvicinatevi al tavolo, per favore.”

L’uomo malinconico obbedì prontamente; un cerchio si formò di nuovo intorno al tavolo e l’armonia tornò a regnare. Sembrava che una certa irritabilità residua trovasse sollievo nel petto del signor Winkle, forse a causa della temporanea assenza del suo cappotto, anche se è difficile credere che un motivo così insignificante potesse suscitare in uno come Pickwick un minimo di rabbia. A parte questo piccolo episodio, il loro buon umore fu completamente ripristinato; e la serata terminò con lo stesso spirito conviviale con cui era iniziata.

CHAPTER IV. A FIELD DAY AND BIVOUAC—MORE NEW FRIENDS—AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY

Many authors entertain, not only a foolish, but a really dishonest objection to acknowledge the sources whence they derive much valuable information. We have no such feeling. We are merely endeavouring to discharge, in an upright manner, the responsible duties of our editorial functions; and whatever ambition we might have felt under other circumstances to lay claim to the authorship of these adventures, a regard for truth forbids us to do more than claim the merit of their judicious arrangement and impartial narration. The Pickwick papers are our New River Head; and we may be compared to the New River Company. The labours of others have raised for us an immense reservoir of important facts. We merely lay them on, and communicate them, in a clear and gentle stream, through the medium of these pages, to a world thirsting for Pickwickian knowledge.

Acting in this spirit, and resolutely proceeding on our determination to avow our obligations to the authorities we have consulted, we frankly say, that to the note-book of Mr. Snodgrass are we indebted for the particulars recorded in this and the succeeding chapter—particulars which, now that we have disburdened our consciences, we shall proceed to detail without further comment.

The whole population of Rochester and the adjoining towns rose from their beds at an early hour of the following morning, in a state of the utmost bustle and excitement. A grand review was to take place upon the lines. The manoeuvres of half a dozen regiments were to be inspected by the eagle eye of the commander-in-chief; temporary fortifications had been erected, the citadel was to be attacked and taken, and a mine was to be sprung.

Mr. Pickwick was, as our readers may have gathered from the slight extract we gave from his description of Chatham, an enthusiastic admirer of the army. Nothing could have been more delightful to him—nothing could have harmonised so well with the peculiar feeling of each of his companions—as this sight. Accordingly they were soon afoot, and walking in the direction of the scene of action, towards which crowds of people were already pouring from a variety of quarters.

The appearance of everything on the lines denoted that the approaching ceremony was one of the utmost grandeur and importance. There were sentries posted to keep the ground for the troops, and servants on the batteries keeping places for the ladies, and sergeants running to and fro, with vellum-covered books under their arms, and Colonel Bulder, in full military uniform, on horseback, galloping first to one place and then to another, and backing his horse among the people, and prancing, and curvetting, and shouting in a most alarming manner, and making himself very hoarse in the voice, and very red in the face, without any assignable cause or reason whatever. Officers were running backwards and forwards, first communicating with Colonel Bulder, and then ordering the sergeants, and then running away altogether; and even the very privates themselves looked from behind their glazed stocks with an air of mysterious solemnity, which sufficiently bespoke the special nature of the occasion.

Mr. Pickwick and his three companions stationed themselves in the front of the crowd, and patiently awaited the commencement of the proceedings. The throng was increasing every moment; and the efforts they were compelled to make, to retain the position they had gained, sufficiently occupied their attention during the two hours that ensued. At one time there was a sudden pressure from behind, and then Mr. Pickwick was jerked forward for several yards, with a degree of speed and elasticity highly inconsistent with the general gravity of his demeanour; at another moment there was a request to ‘keep back’ from the front, and then the butt-end of a musket was either dropped upon Mr. Pickwick’s toe, to remind him of the demand, or thrust into his chest, to insure its being complied with. Then some facetious gentlemen on the left, after pressing sideways in a body, and squeezing Mr. Snodgrass into the very last extreme of human torture, would request to know ‘vere he vos a shovin’ to’; and when Mr. Winkle had done expressing his excessive indignation at witnessing this unprovoked assault, some person behind would knock his hat over his eyes, and beg the favour of his putting his head in his pocket. These, and other practical witticisms, coupled with the unaccountable absence of Mr. Tupman (who had suddenly disappeared, and was nowhere to be found), rendered their situation upon the whole rather more uncomfortable than pleasing or desirable.

At length that low roar of many voices ran through the crowd which usually announces the arrival of whatever they have been waiting for. All eyes were turned in the direction of the sally-port. A few moments of eager expectation, and colours were seen fluttering gaily in the air, arms glistened brightly in the sun, column after column poured on to the plain. The troops halted and formed; the word of command rang through the line; there was a general clash of muskets as arms were presented; and the commander-in-chief, attended by Colonel Bulder and numerous officers, cantered to the front. The military bands struck up altogether; the horses stood upon two legs each, cantered backwards, and whisked their tails about in all directions; the dogs barked, the mob screamed, the troops recovered, and nothing was to be seen on either side, as far as the eye could reach, but a long perspective of red coats and white trousers, fixed and motionless.

Mr. Pickwick had been so fully occupied in falling about, and disentangling himself, miraculously, from between the legs of horses, that he had not enjoyed sufficient leisure to observe the scene before him, until it assumed the appearance we have just described. When he was at last enabled to stand firmly on his legs, his gratification and delight were unbounded.

CAPITOLO IV. UN GIORNO ALL’APERTO E IL CAMPEGGIO – ALTRI NUOVI AMICI – UN INVITO IN CAMPAGNA

Molti autori nutrono non solo un’obiezione sciocca, ma anche una vera e propria disonestà nel riconoscere le fonti da cui traggono molte informazioni preziose. Noi non proviamo tale sentimento. Ci sforziamo semplicemente di adempiere in modo onesto alle nostre responsabilità editoriali; e qualsiasi ambizione potessimo aver avuto in altre circostanze per rivendicare la paternità di queste opere, il rispetto per la verità ci impedisce di fare di più che riconoscere il merito della loro organizzazione accurata e della loro narrazione imparziale. I saggi de “Il signor Pickwick” rappresentano il nostro nuovo “New River Head”; possiamo essere paragonati alla New River Company. Il lavoro altrui ci ha fornito un enorme serbatoio di fatti importanti; noi li presentiamo semplicemente, trasmettendoli attraverso queste pagine a un mondo assetato di conoscenze “pickwickiane”.

Agendo con questo spirito e proseguendo con determinazione nella nostra intenzione di riconoscere le nostre obbligazioni verso le autorità con cui abbiamo consultato, dichiariamo apertamente che sono proprio i appunti del signor Snodgrass a fornirci i dettagli registrati in questo e nei capitoli successivi; dettagli che, ora che abbiamo liberato la nostra coscienza, procederemo a illustrare senza ulteriori commenti.

L’intera popolazione di Rochester e delle città adiacenti si alzò dai letti molto presto la mattina seguente, in uno stato di grande agitazione ed eccitazione. Si sarebbe tenuta una grandiosa parata lungo le linee di battaglia; le manovre di mezza dozzina di reggimenti avrebbero dovuto essere ispezionate dall’occhio attento del comandante in capo; erano state erette fortificazioni temporanee, la cittadella sarebbe stata assalita e conquistata, e si sarebbe fatto esplodere una mina.

Il signor Pickwick, come i nostri lettori avranno probabilmente intuito dai brevi estratti che abbiamo fornito della sua descrizione di Chatham, era un appassionato ammiratore dell’esercito. Niente avrebbe potuto rallegrarlo di più; niente avrebbe potuto armonizzare meglio con il particolare modo di vedere le cose dei suoi compagni. Così, presto si misero in cammino, dirigendosi verso il luogo degli eventi, dove già folle di persone provenienti da varie direzioni stavano affluendo.

L’aspetto di tutto ciò che si vedeva indicava chiaramente che la cerimonia imminente era di estrema grandezza e importanza. C’erano sentinelle incaricate di tenere libero il passaggio per le truppe, servitori addetti a occuparsi delle signore nei punti designati, sergenti che andavano avanti e indietro con libri rilegati in pergamena sotto il braccio; il Colonnello Bulder, in uniforme militare completa, cavalcava avanti e indietro, facendo impennare il proprio cavallo tra la folla, nitrendo e gridando in modo davvero allarmante, fino a diventare rauco e con il viso rosso fuoco, senza alcuna ragione apparente. Gli ufficiali correvano avanti e indietro, prima comunicando con il Colonnello Bulder, poi dando ordini ai sergenti, per poi allontanarsi di nuovo; persino i semplici soldati guardavano intorno con un’aria di misteriosa solennità, che testimoniava appieno la particolare natura dell’occasione.

Il signor Pickwick e i suoi tre compagni si posizionarono davanti alla folla, aspettando pazientemente l’inizio delle procedure. La calca aumentava di minuto in minuto; gli sforzi che dovettero compiere per mantenere la loro posizione occupavano interamente la loro attenzione durante le due ore successive. A un certo punto ci fu una pressione improvvisa da dietro, e il signor Pickwick fu spinto in avanti con una velocità e un’elasticità del tutto insolite, data la sua solita compostezza; in un altro momento qualcuno chiese loro di “tenersi indietro”, e allora la canna di un fucile venne posata sul piede del signor Pickwick per ricordargli l’ordine, oppure gli fu puntata contro il petto per assicurarsi che fosse obbedito. Poi, alcuni gentiluomini scherzosi a sinistra, dopo averlo spinto lateralmente e aver costretto il signor Snodgrass in condizioni estremamente scomode, gli chiesero se stesse cercando di “spingere qualcuno”. Quando il signor Winkle esprimeva la sua indignazione per queste aggressioni ingiustificate, qualcuno dietro di lui gli rovesciava il cappello sugli occhi e gli chiedeva di mettersi la testa in tasca. Tutti questi scherzi, uniti all’assenza inspiegabile del signor Tupman (che era improvvisamente scomparso senza lasciare traccia), rendevano la loro situazione nel complesso piuttosto sgradevole, piuttosto che confortevole o desiderabile.

Finalmente, quel basso ruggito di molte voci risuonò nella folla: segnale dell’arrivo di ciò che tutti aspettavano con ansia. Tutti gli sguardi si rivolsero verso l’ingresso principale. Dopo alcuni momenti di attesa trepidante, si videro colori brillanti svolazzare nell’aria; le armi scintillarono al sole mentre le truppe avanzavano ordinatamente verso il campo aperto. Le truppe si fermarono e presero posizione; l’ordine fu dato e i fucili vennero pronti all’uso. Il comandante in capo, affiancato dal colonnello Bulder e da numerosi ufficiali, si avvicinò al fronte a cavallo. Le bande musicali intonarono un’inno militare; i cavalli si misero sulle zampe posteriori e iniziarono a muoversi all’indietro, scuotendo la coda in tutte le direzioni; i cani abbaiavano, la folla gridava. Le truppe ripresero il controllo della situazione; non si vedeva nulla, fino all’orizzonte, se non una lunga distesa di uniformi rosse e pantaloni bianchi, immobili e ordinate.

Il signor Pickwick era stato così completamente assorbito dal tentativo di cadere e di liberarsi, in modo miracoloso, tra le gambe dei cavalli, che non aveva avuto il tempo di osservare la scena davanti a sé, fino a quando questa non assunse l’aspetto che abbiamo appena descritto. Quando finalmente riuscì a stare in piedi con fermezza, la sua soddisfazione e il suo piacere furono infiniti.

‘Can anything be finer or more delightful?’ he inquired of Mr. Winkle.

‘Nothing,’ replied that gentleman, who had had a short man standing on each of his feet for the quarter of an hour immediately preceding.

‘It is indeed a noble and a brilliant sight,’ said Mr. Snodgrass, in whose bosom a blaze of poetry was rapidly bursting forth, ‘to see the gallant defenders of their country drawn up in brilliant array before its peaceful citizens; their faces beaming—not with warlike ferocity, but with civilised gentleness; their eyes flashing—not with the rude fire of rapine or revenge, but with the soft light of humanity and intelligence.’

Mr. Pickwick fully entered into the spirit of this eulogium, but he could not exactly re-echo its terms; for the soft light of intelligence burned rather feebly in the eyes of the warriors, inasmuch as the command ‘eyes front’ had been given, and all the spectator saw before him was several thousand pair of optics, staring straight forward, wholly divested of any expression whatever.

‘We are in a capital situation now,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking round him. The crowd had gradually dispersed in their immediate vicinity, and they were nearly alone.

‘Capital!’ echoed both Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle.

‘What are they doing now?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, adjusting his spectacles.

‘I—I—rather think,’ said Mr. Winkle, changing colour—‘I rather think they’re going to fire.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Mr. Pickwick hastily.

‘I—I—really think they are,’ urged Mr. Snodgrass, somewhat alarmed.

‘Impossible,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. He had hardly uttered the word, when the whole half-dozen regiments levelled their muskets as if they had but one common object, and that object the Pickwickians, and burst forth with the most awful and tremendous discharge that ever shook the earth to its centres, or an elderly gentleman off his.

It was in this trying situation, exposed to a galling fire of blank cartridges, and harassed by the operations of the military, a fresh body of whom had begun to fall in on the opposite side, that Mr. Pickwick displayed that perfect coolness and self-possession, which are the indispensable accompaniments of a great mind. He seized Mr. Winkle by the arm, and placing himself between that gentleman and Mr. Snodgrass, earnestly besought them to remember that beyond the possibility of being rendered deaf by the noise, there was no immediate danger to be apprehended from the firing.

‘But—but—suppose some of the men should happen to have ball cartridges by mistake,’ remonstrated Mr. Winkle, pallid at the supposition he was himself conjuring up. ‘I heard something whistle through the air now—so sharp; close to my ear.’

‘We had better throw ourselves on our faces, hadn’t we?’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

‘No, no—it’s over now,’ said Mr. Pickwick. His lip might quiver, and his cheek might blanch, but no expression of fear or concern escaped the lips of that immortal man.

Mr. Pickwick was right—the firing ceased; but he had scarcely time to congratulate himself on the accuracy of his opinion, when a quick movement was visible in the line; the hoarse shout of the word of command ran along it, and before either of the party could form a guess at the meaning of this new manoeuvre, the whole of the half-dozen regiments, with fixed bayonets, charged at double-quick time down upon the very spot on which Mr. Pickwick and his friends were stationed.

Man is but mortal; and there is a point beyond which human courage cannot extend. Mr. Pickwick gazed through his spectacles for an instant on the advancing mass, and then fairly turned his back and—we will not say fled; firstly, because it is an ignoble term, and, secondly, because Mr. Pickwick’s figure was by no means adapted for that mode of retreat— he trotted away, at as quick a rate as his legs would convey him; so quickly, indeed, that he did not perceive the awkwardness of his situation, to the full extent, until too late.

The opposite troops, whose falling-in had perplexed Mr. Pickwick a few seconds before, were drawn up to repel the mimic attack of the sham besiegers of the citadel; and the consequence was that Mr. Pickwick and his two companions found themselves suddenly inclosed between two lines of great length, the one advancing at a rapid pace, and the other firmly waiting the collision in hostile array.

‘Hoi!’ shouted the officers of the advancing line.

‘Get out of the way!’ cried the officers of the stationary one.

‘Where are we to go to?’ screamed the agitated Pickwickians.

‘Hoi—hoi—hoi!’ was the only reply. There was a moment of intense bewilderment, a heavy tramp of footsteps, a violent concussion, a smothered laugh; the half-dozen regiments were half a thousand yards off, and the soles of Mr. Pickwick’s boots were elevated in air.

Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle had each performed a compulsory somerset with remarkable agility, when the first object that met the eyes of the latter as he sat on the ground, staunching with a yellow silk handkerchief the stream of life which issued from his nose, was his venerated leader at some distance off, running after his own hat, which was gambolling playfully away in perspective.

There are very few moments in a man’s existence when he experiences so much ludicrous distress, or meets with so little charitable commiseration, as when he is in pursuit of his own hat. A vast deal of coolness, and a peculiar degree of judgment, are requisite in catching a hat. A man must not be precipitate, or he runs over it; he must not rush into the opposite extreme, or he loses it altogether. The best way is to keep gently up with the object of pursuit, to be wary and cautious, to watch your opportunity well, get gradually before it, then make a rapid dive, seize it by the crown, and stick it firmly on your head; smiling pleasantly all the time, as if you thought it as good a joke as anybody else.

“Può esserci qualcosa di più bello o piacevole?” chiese al signor Winkle.

“Niente,” rispose quel gentiluomo, il quale, poco prima, aveva avuto un uomo di statura bassa in piedi su ciascuna delle sue gambe per un quarto d’ora.

“È davvero una scena nobile e splendida,” disse il signor Snodgrass, nel cui petto stava rapidamente sbocciando un fuoco di poesia, “vedere i valorosi difensori della loro patria schierati in ordine perfetto davanti ai suoi cittadini pacifici; i loro volti splendono non di ferocia bellicosa, ma di gentilezza civile; i loro occhi brillano non della crudele fiamma della rapina o della vendetta, ma della tenue luce dell’umanità e dell’intelligenza.”

Il signor Pickwick si immerse completamente nello spirito di questo elogio, ma non riuscì a ripetere esattamente le sue parole; infatti, la tenue luce dell’intelligenza brillava debolmente negli occhi dei guerrieri, poiché era stata data l’ordine di “tenere lo sguardo dritto davanti a sé”; tutto ciò che gli spettatori vedevano erano migliaia di paia di occhi fissi direttamente davanti a loro, privi completamente di qualsiasi espressione.

“Ora ci troviamo in una situazione critica,” disse il signor Pickwick guardandosi intorno. La folla si era gradualmente dispersa nelle vicinanze, e loro erano quasi soli.

“Capitale!”, esclamarono sia il signor Snodgrass che il signor Winkle.

“Cosa stanno facendo adesso?”, chiese il signor Pickwick, sistemando i suoi occhiali.

“P–penso di sì,” disse il signor Winkle, cambiando colore, “penso proprio che li licenzieranno.”

“Sciocchezze,” disse prontamente il signor Pickwick.

“Credo davvero che lo siano,” insistette il signor Snodgrass, piuttosto allarmato.

“Impossibile,” rispose il signor Pickwick. Appena ebbe pronunciato quelle parole, tutti e sei i reggimenti puntarono le loro moschette come se avessero un solo obiettivo in comune: i membri del gruppo di Pickwick. E scatenarono una salva così terribile e potente che fece tremare la terra fino alle sue profondità, o, per meglio dire, fece cadere da cavallo un anziano gentiluomo.

Fu in questa difficile situazione, esposto al tormento delle pallottole vuote e alle molestie causate dalle operazioni militari, quando un gran numero di persone aveva iniziato a passare dalla parte opposta, che il signor Pickwick dimostrò quella perfetta calma e quella padronanza di sé che sono gli elementi indispensabili di una grande mente. Afferrò il signor Winkle per il braccio e, mettendosi tra quel gentiluomo e il signor Snodgrass, li esortò con insistenza a ricordare che, oltre al rischio di diventare sordi a causa del rumore, non c’era alcun pericolo immediato da temere legato ai colpi d’arma da fuoco.

“Ma, ma, supponiamo che alcuni di quegli uomini abbiano per caso delle cartucce,” obiettò il signor Winkle, pallido all’idea che stesse lui stesso immaginando quella possibilità. “Ho appena sentito qualcosa volare nell’aria, così velocemente, vicino al mio orecchio.”

“Dovremmo proprio umiliarci, non credi?”, disse il signor Snodgrass.

“No, no, ora è finito tutto,” disse il signor Pickwick. La sua labbra potevano tremare e le sue guance impallidire, ma nessuna espressione di >paura o preoccupazione trapelò dalle sue parole.

Il signor Pickwick aveva ragione: il fuoco si era interrotto; ma non ebbe nemmeno il tempo di congratularsi per l’accuratezza della sua previsione, quando nella formazione nemica si notò un movimento rapido. L’ordine gridato con voce rauca venne trasmesso lungo tutta la linea, e prima che qualcuno potesse capire il significato di questa nuova manovra, l’intera squadra di sei reggimenti, con le baionette pronte, caricò a velocità doppia proprio verso il punto in cui si trovavano il signor Pickwick e i suoi amici.

L’uomo è soltanto mortale; esiste un limite oltre il quale il coraggio umano non può estendersi. Il signor Pickwick guardò per un istante attraverso i suoi occhiali la massa che si avvicinava, poi si girò decisamente le spalle, e non diremo che fuggì; innanzitutto perché tale termine sarebbe ignobile, e in secondo luogo perché la figura del signor Pickwick certamente non era adatta a quel modo di ritirarsi. Si allontanò al trotto, il più velocemente possibile; così rapidamente, anzi, che non si rese pienamente conto dell’imbarazzo della sua situazione fino a quando non fu troppo tardi.

Le truppe avversarie, il cui schieramento aveva lasciato perplesso il signor Pickwick pochi secondi prima, si misero in formazione per respingere l’attacco simulato dei presunti assalitori della fortezza; di conseguenza, il signor Pickwick e i suoi due compagni si ritrovarono improvvisamente stretti tra due linee di truppe molto lunghe: una avanzava a velocità rapida, l’altra aspettava con determinazione lo scontro in formazione ostile.

“Ehi!” gridarono gli ufficiali della linea d’assalto in avanzamento.

“Fatevi da parte!” gridarono gli ufficiali della nave ferma.

“Dove dobbiamo andare?” gridarono gli agitati membri del gruppo di Pickwick.

“Ehi—ehi—ehi!” fu l’unica risposta. Ci fu un momento di intensa confusione, il rumore pesante di passi che si avvicinavano rapidamente, uno schianto violento, e poi una risata soffocata; i sei reggimenti erano a mezzo miglio di distanza, mentre le suole delle scarpe del signor Pickwick si trovavano ora sospese in aria.

Il signor Snodgrass e il signor Winkle avevano entrambi eseguito con notevole agilità un compito obbligatorio; quando però il signor Winkle, seduto a terra e intento a fermare con un fazzoletto di seta gialla il flusso di sangue che gli usciva dal naso, vide davanti a sé il suo rispettato leader che correva all’inseguimento del proprio cappello, che si allontanava giocosamente nella distanza.

Ci sono pochissimi momenti nella vita di un uomo in cui egli prova un tale disagio ridicolo, o riceve così poca compassione da parte degli altri, quanto quando cerca di riprendere il proprio cappello. Per riuscirci, è necessaria molta calma e un certo grado di giudizio: non si deve essere affrettati, altrimenti lo si calpesta; né si deve esagerare nell’opposto, altrimenti lo si perde del tutto. Il modo migliore è seguire lentamente l’oggetto della propria ricerca, essere attenti e cauti, cogliere l’occasione giusta, avvicinarsi gradualmente a esso e poi afferrarlo rapidamente, sistemandolo saldamente sulla testa; tutto questo sorridendo felicemente, come se si trattasse di una battuta divertente.

There was a fine gentle wind, and Mr. Pickwick’s hat rolled sportively before it. The wind puffed, and Mr. Pickwick puffed, and the hat rolled over and over as merrily as a lively porpoise in a strong tide: and on it might have rolled, far beyond Mr. Pickwick’s reach, had not its course been providentially stopped, just as that gentleman was on the point of resigning it to its fate.

Mr. Pickwick, we say, was completely exhausted, and about to give up the chase, when the hat was blown with some violence against the wheel of a carriage, which was drawn up in a line with half a dozen other vehicles on the spot to which his steps had been directed. Mr. Pickwick, perceiving his advantage, darted briskly forward, secured his property, planted it on his head, and paused to take breath. He had not been stationary half a minute, when he heard his own name eagerly pronounced by a voice, which he at once recognised as Mr. Tupman’s, and, looking upwards, he beheld a sight which filled him with surprise and pleasure.

In an open barouche, the horses of which had been taken out, the better to accommodate it to the crowded place, stood a stout old gentleman, in a blue coat and bright buttons, corduroy breeches and top-boots, two young ladies in scarfs and feathers, a young gentleman apparently enamoured of one of the young ladies in scarfs and feathers, a lady of doubtful age, probably the aunt of the aforesaid, and Mr. Tupman, as easy and unconcerned as if he had belonged to the family from the first moments of his infancy. Fastened up behind the barouche was a hamper of spacious dimensions—one of those hampers which always awakens in a contemplative mind associations connected with cold fowls, tongues, and bottles of wine—and on the box sat a fat and red-faced boy, in a state of somnolency, whom no speculative observer could have regarded for an instant without setting down as the official dispenser of the contents of the before-mentioned hamper, when the proper time for their consumption should arrive.

Mr. Pickwick had bestowed a hasty glance on these interesting objects, when he was again greeted by his faithful disciple.

‘Pickwick—Pickwick,’ said Mr. Tupman; ‘come up here. Make haste.’

‘Come along, Sir. Pray, come up,’ said the stout gentleman. ‘Joe!—damn that boy, he’s gone to sleep again.—Joe, let down the steps.’ The fat boy rolled slowly off the box, let down the steps, and held the carriage door invitingly open. Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle came up at the moment.

‘Room for you all, gentlemen,’ said the stout man. ‘Two inside, and one out. Joe, make room for one of these gentlemen on the box. Now, Sir, come along;’ and the stout gentleman extended his arm, and pulled first Mr. Pickwick, and then Mr. Snodgrass, into the barouche by main force. Mr. Winkle mounted to the box, the fat boy waddled to the same perch, and fell fast asleep instantly.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ said the stout man, ‘very glad to see you. Know you very well, gentlemen, though you mayn’t remember me. I spent some ev’nin’s at your club last winter—picked up my friend Mr. Tupman here this morning, and very glad I was to see him. Well, Sir, and how are you? You do look uncommon well, to be sure.’

Mr. Pickwick acknowledged the compliment, and cordially shook hands with the stout gentleman in the top-boots.

‘Well, and how are you, sir?’ said the stout gentleman, addressing Mr. Snodgrass with paternal anxiety. ‘Charming, eh? Well, that’s right— that’s right. And how are you, sir (to Mr. Winkle)? Well, I am glad to hear you say you are well; very glad I am, to be sure. My daughters, gentlemen—my gals these are; and that’s my sister, Miss Rachael Wardle. She’s a Miss, she is; and yet she ain’t a Miss—eh, Sir, eh?’ And the stout gentleman playfully inserted his elbow between the ribs of Mr. Pickwick, and laughed very heartily.

‘Lor, brother!’ said Miss Wardle, with a deprecating smile.

‘True, true,’ said the stout gentleman; ‘no one can deny it. Gentlemen, I beg your pardon; this is my friend Mr. Trundle. And now you all know each other, let’s be comfortable and happy, and see what’s going forward; that’s what I say.’ So the stout gentleman put on his spectacles, and Mr. Pickwick pulled out his glass, and everybody stood up in the carriage, and looked over somebody else’s shoulder at the evolutions of the military.

Astounding evolutions they were, one rank firing over the heads of another rank, and then running away; and then the other rank firing over the heads of another rank, and running away in their turn; and then forming squares, with officers in the centre; and then descending the trench on one side with scaling-ladders, and ascending it on the other again by the same means; and knocking down barricades of baskets, and behaving in the most gallant manner possible. Then there was such a ramming down of the contents of enormous guns on the battery, with instruments like magnified mops; such a preparation before they were let off, and such an awful noise when they did go, that the air resounded with the screams of ladies. The young Misses Wardle were so frightened, that Mr. Trundle was actually obliged to hold one of them up in the carriage, while Mr. Snodgrass supported the other; and Mr. Wardle’s sister suffered under such a dreadful state of nervous alarm, that Mr. Tupman found it indispensably necessary to put his arm round her waist, to keep her up at all. Everybody was excited, except the fat boy, and he slept as soundly as if the roaring of cannon were his ordinary lullaby.

‘Joe, Joe!’ said the stout gentleman, when the citadel was taken, and the besiegers and besieged sat down to dinner. ‘Damn that boy, he’s gone to sleep again. Be good enough to pinch him, sir—in the leg, if you please; nothing else wakes him—thank you. Undo the hamper, Joe.’

C’era una dolce e leggera >vento, e il cappello del signor Pickwick rotolava gioiosamente al suo seguito. La >vento soffiava, il signor Pickwick respirava affannosamente, e il cappello continuava a rotolare, come un vivace delfino nella corrente forte. Avrebbe potuto rotolare lontano, al di fuori della portata del signor Pickwick, se non fosse stato fermato per caso, proprio nel momento in cui quell’uomo stava per lasciarlo al suo destino.

Si dice che il signor Pickwick fosse completamente esaurito e stesse per arrendersi all’inseguimento, quando il cappello fu colpito con forza contro la Ruota di una carrozza; quella carrozza, insieme ad altre sei, si trovava proprio nel punto verso cui erano diretti i suoi passi. Il signor Pickwick, avendo notato questa opportunità, si precipitò in avanti, recuperò il suo cappello e se lo mise subito in testa, poi si fermò per riprendere fiato. Non era ancora fermo da un minuto quando sentì il proprio nome pronunciato con impazienza da una voce che riconobbe immediatamente come quella del signor Tupman; alzando lo sguardo, vide qualcosa che lo riempì di sorpresa e gioia.

In una barouche aperta, i cui cavalli erano stati portati via per farle spazio nel luogo affollato, c’era un robusto signore anziano, vestito con un cappotto blu e bottoni brillanti, pantaloni di velluto e stivali alti; due giovani donne con sciarpe e piume; un giovane che sembrava essere innamorato di una delle giovani donne in questione; una signora di età dubbia, probabilmente zia delle precedenti; e il signor Tupman, che appariva così rilassato e disinvolto come se facesse parte della famiglia fin dai primi momenti della sua infanzia. Dietro la barouche era fissata una cesta di dimensioni notevoli – di quelle ceste che inevitabilmente suscitano in chi le osserva associazioni legate a polli freddi, lingue e bottiglie di vino – e sul cestino sedeva un ragazzo grassoccio e dal viso rosso, profondamente addormentato; qualsiasi osservatore attento avrebbe immediatamente riconosciuto in lui il responsabile ufficiale della distribuzione del contenuto della suddetta cesta, non appena fosse arrivato il momento appropriato per consumarlo.

Il signor Pickwick aveva dato un’occhiata rapida a questi oggetti interessanti, quando fu nuovamente accolto dal suo fedele discepolo.

“‘Pickwick––Pickwick,’ disse il signor Tupman; ‘vieni su qui, sbrigati.’”

“Venga pure, signore. Per favore, salga,” disse il gentiluomo robusto. “Joe, maledetto ragazzo, si è addormentato di nuovo. Joe, abbassa le scale.” Il ragazzo grassoccio scivolò lentamente giù dalla cassa, abbassò le scale e tenne la porta della carrozza aperta con un gesto invitante. In quel momento arrivarono anche il signor Snodgrass e il signor Winkle.

“C’è posto per tutti voi, signori,” disse l’uomo robusto. “Due all’interno e uno fuori. Joe, fai spazio a uno di questi signori sul sedile sopraelevato. Ora, venite pure, ” E così, tendendo il braccio, trascinò prima il signor Pickwick e poi il signor Snodgrass dentro la berlina con forza. Il signor Winkle salì sul sedile sopraelevato, mentre il ragazzo grasso si arrampicò lì accanto e cadde immediatamente in un sonno profondo.

“Beh, signori,” disse l’uomo robusto, “sono molto felice di vedervi. Vi conosco molto bene, anche se forse non vi ricordate di me. L’ultima inverno ho trascorso qualche serata nel vostro club; stamattina ho incontrato qui il mio amico il signor Tupman e sono stato davvero contento di rivederlo. Beh, signore, come state? Sembrate davvero in ottima forma.”

Il signor Pickwick ringraziò per il complimento e strinse cordialmente la mano al gentiluomo robusto che indossava stivali alti.

“Beh, e come sta lei, signore?” disse il gentiluomo robusto, rivolgendosi a Mr. Snodgrass con un’ansia paterna. “Deliziosa, vero? Beh, esatto. Esatto. E come sta lei, signore (parlando di Mr. Winkle)? Beh, sono molto contento di sentire che sta bene; davvero molto contento. Le mie figlie, signori, queste sono le mie ragazze; e questa è mia sorella, Miss Rachael Wardle. È una signorina, sì, ma in realtà non lo è del tutto, eh, signore?” E il gentiluomo robusto, scherzosamente, infilò il gomito tra le costole di Mr. Pickwick e rise molto di cuore.

“Lor, fratello mio!”, disse la signorina Wardle con un sorriso di disapprovazione.

“Vero, vero,” disse il gentiluomo robusto; “nessuno può negarlo. Signori, mi scusino: questo è mio amico il signor Trundle. Ora che ci conosciamo tutti, mettiamoci a nostro agio e vediamo cosa succederà; questa è la mia idea.” Così il gentiluomo robusto si mise gli occhiali, il signor Pickwick tirò fuori il suo bicchiere, e tutti si alzarono nel vagone per guardare, attraverso le spalle degli altri, le manovre delle truppe.

Evoluzioni davvero sorprendenti: una truppa sparava sopra la testa dell’altra per poi fuggire; un’altra truppa faceva lo stesso, e poi ancora altre formavano quadrati con gli ufficiali al centro; scendevano dalle trincee da un lato usando scale d’assalto e risalivano dall’altro con lo stesso mezzo; abbattevano barricate di cesti e si comportavano in modo davvero valoroso. Poi c’era il momento in cui il contenuto delle enormi cannonate veniva scaricato sulla batteria, utilizzando strumenti simili a scope ingrandite; tutto ciò avveniva dopo una preparazione meticolosa, e il rumore prodotto era così terribile che l’aria risuonava dei grida delle signore. Le giovani signorine Wardle erano così spaventate che il signor Trundle dovette tenere su una di loro mentre il signor Snodgrass sosteneva l’altra; la sorella del signor Wardle, invece, era talmente in preda al panico nervoso che il signor Tupman ritenne indispensabile metterle un braccio intorno alla vita per farla rimanere in piedi. Tutti erano eccitati, tranne quel ragazzo grasso, che dormiva serenamente, come se il rumore dei cannoni fosse la sua solita ninna nanna.

“Joe, Joe!” disse il gentiluomo robusto quando la cittadella fu presa e i assedianti e gli assediati si misero a tavola per cena. “Maledetto quel ragazzo, è andato di nuovo a dormire. Per favore, potreste dargli una pinzata, sulla gamba, se vi va bene; nient’altro lo sveglia. Grazie. Ora aprite il cesto, Joe.”

The fat boy, who had been effectually roused by the compression of a portion of his leg between the finger and thumb of Mr. Winkle, rolled off the box once again, and proceeded to unpack the hamper with more expedition than could have been expected from his previous inactivity.

‘Now we must sit close,’ said the stout gentleman. After a great many jokes about squeezing the ladies’ sleeves, and a vast quantity of blushing at sundry jocose proposals, that the ladies should sit in the gentlemen’s laps, the whole party were stowed down in the barouche; and the stout gentleman proceeded to hand the things from the fat boy (who had mounted up behind for the purpose) into the carriage.

‘Now, Joe, knives and forks.’ The knives and forks were handed in, and the ladies and gentlemen inside, and Mr. Winkle on the box, were each furnished with those useful instruments.

‘Plates, Joe, plates.’ A similar process employed in the distribution of the crockery.

‘Now, Joe, the fowls. Damn that boy; he’s gone to sleep again. Joe! Joe!’ (Sundry taps on the head with a stick, and the fat boy, with some difficulty, roused from his lethargy.) ‘Come, hand in the eatables.’

There was something in the sound of the last word which roused the unctuous boy. He jumped up, and the leaden eyes which twinkled behind his mountainous cheeks leered horribly upon the food as he unpacked it from the basket.

‘Now make haste,’ said Mr. Wardle; for the fat boy was hanging fondly over a capon, which he seemed wholly unable to part with. The boy sighed deeply, and, bestowing an ardent gaze upon its plumpness, unwillingly consigned it to his master.

‘That’s right—look sharp. Now the tongue—now the pigeon pie. Take care of that veal and ham—mind the lobsters—take the salad out of the cloth—give me the dressing.’ Such were the hurried orders which issued from the lips of Mr. Wardle, as he handed in the different articles described, and placed dishes in everybody’s hands, and on everybody’s knees, in endless number.

‘Now ain’t this capital?’ inquired that jolly personage, when the work of destruction had commenced.

‘Capital!’ said Mr. Winkle, who was carving a fowl on the box.

‘Glass of wine?’

‘With the greatest pleasure.’

‘You’d better have a bottle to yourself up there, hadn’t you?’

‘You’re very good.’

‘Joe!’

‘Yes, Sir.’ (He wasn’t asleep this time, having just succeeded in abstracting a veal patty.)

‘Bottle of wine to the gentleman on the box. Glad to see you, Sir.’

‘Thank’ee.’ Mr. Winkle emptied his glass, and placed the bottle on the coach-box, by his side.

‘Will you permit me to have the pleasure, Sir?’ said Mr. Trundle to Mr. Winkle.

‘With great pleasure,’ replied Mr. Winkle to Mr. Trundle, and then the two gentlemen took wine, after which they took a glass of wine round, ladies and all.

‘How dear Emily is flirting with the strange gentleman,’ whispered the spinster aunt, with true spinster-aunt-like envy, to her brother, Mr. Wardle.

‘Oh! I don’t know,’ said the jolly old gentleman; ‘all very natural, I dare say—nothing unusual. Mr. Pickwick, some wine, Sir?’ Mr. Pickwick, who had been deeply investigating the interior of the pigeon-pie, readily assented.

‘Emily, my dear,’ said the spinster aunt, with a patronising air, ‘don’t talk so loud, love.’

‘Lor, aunt!’

‘Aunt and the little old gentleman want to have it all to themselves, I think,’ whispered Miss Isabella Wardle to her sister Emily. The young ladies laughed very heartily, and the old one tried to look amiable, but couldn’t manage it.

‘Young girls have such spirits,’ said Miss Wardle to Mr. Tupman, with an air of gentle commiseration, as if animal spirits were contraband, and their possession without a permit a high crime and misdemeanour.

‘Oh, they have,’ replied Mr. Tupman, not exactly making the sort of reply that was expected from him. ‘It’s quite delightful.’

‘Hem!’ said Miss Wardle, rather dubiously.

‘Will you permit me?’ said Mr. Tupman, in his blandest manner, touching the enchanting Rachael’s wrist with one hand, and gently elevating the bottle with the other. ‘Will you permit me?’

‘Oh, sir!’ Mr. Tupman looked most impressive; and Rachael expressed her fear that more guns were going off, in which case, of course, she should have required support again.

‘Do you think my dear nieces pretty?’ whispered their affectionate aunt to Mr. Tupman.

‘I should, if their aunt wasn’t here,’ replied the ready Pickwickian, with a passionate glance.

‘Oh, you naughty man—but really, if their complexions were a little better, don’t you think they would be nice-looking girls—by candlelight?’

‘Yes; I think they would,’ said Mr. Tupman, with an air of indifference.

‘Oh, you quiz—I know what you were going to say.’

‘What?’ inquired Mr. Tupman, who had not precisely made up his mind to say anything at all.

‘You were going to say that Isabel stoops—I know you were—you men are such observers. Well, so she does; it can’t be denied; and, certainly, if there is one thing more than another that makes a girl look ugly it is stooping. I often tell her that when she gets a little older she’ll be quite frightful. Well, you are a quiz!’

Mr. Tupman had no objection to earning the reputation at so cheap a rate: so he looked very knowing, and smiled mysteriously.

‘What a sarcastic smile,’ said the admiring Rachael; ‘I declare I’m quite afraid of you.’

‘Afraid of me!’

‘Oh, you can’t disguise anything from me—I know what that smile means very well.’

‘What?’ said Mr. Tupman, who had not the slightest notion himself.

‘You mean,’ said the amiable aunt, sinking her voice still lower—‘you mean, that you don’t think Isabella’s stooping is as bad as Emily’s boldness. Well, she is bold! You cannot think how wretched it makes me sometimes—I’m sure I cry about it for hours together—my dear brother is so good, and so unsuspicious, that he never sees it; if he did, I’m quite certain it would break his heart. I wish I could think it was only manner—I hope it may be—’ (Here the affectionate relative heaved a deep sigh, and shook her head despondingly).

Il ragazzo grasso, che era stato effettivamente svegliato dal fatto che una parte della sua gamba era stata schiacciata tra il dito indice e il pollice del signor Winkle, rotolò di nuovo giù dalla scatola e iniziò a disfare il cesto con molta più fretta di quanto ci si sarebbe potuti aspettare, considerando la sua precedente inattività.

“Ora dobbiamo sederci vicini,” disse il gentiluomo robusto. Dopo molte battute riguardanti la necessità di “stringere” le maniche delle signore, e dopo un numero considerevole di rossori causati da proposte scherzose per farle sedere sulle ginocchia degli uomini, l’intero gruppo si sistemò nella berlina; il gentiluomo robusto iniziò quindi a passare gli oggetti al ragazzo grassoccio (che si era arrampicato sul retro della vettura a tale scopo) per farli entrare nell’auto.

“Ora, Joe, forchette e coltelli.” Le forchette e i coltelli furono consegnati, e tutte le signore e i signori presenti, nonché il signor Winkle sul palco, ricevettero ciascuno uno di quegli utili strumenti.

“Piatti, Joe, piatti, ” Un processo simile veniva utilizzato anche nella distribuzione della ceramica.

“Ora, Joe, occupiamoci delle galline. Maledetto quel ragazzo; si è addormentato di nuovo. Joe! Joe!” (Varie colpi sulla testa con un bastone; il ragazzo grasso, con qualche difficoltà, si sveglia dalla sua letargia.) “Vieni, dammi il cibo.”

C’era qualcosa nel suono dell’ultima parola che risvegliò quel ragazzo untuoso. Si alzò di scatto, e quegli occhi cupi e brillanti dietro le sue guance carnose fissarono con orrore il cibo mentre lo estraeva dal cesto.

“Ora sbrigati,” disse il signor Wardle; perché il ragazzo grassoccio era molto affezionato a quel caprone, e sembrava assolutamente incapace di separarsene. Il ragazzo sospirò profondamente, lanciò uno sguardo appassionato alla sua rotondità e, con riluttanza, lo consegnò al suo padrone.

“Esatto – fate attenzione. Ora la lingua, ora il pasticcio di piccioni. Prendete cura di quella vitella e del prosciutto, badate ai gamberi, togliete la insalata dal panno, datemi la salsa.” Queste erano le ordini affrettati che uscivano dalle labbra del signor Wardle, mentre consegnava gli ingredienti descritti, mettendo piatti nelle mani di tutti e sui loro ginocchi, in un numero infinito.

“Ora non è forse questo il massimo dell’eleganza?”, chiese quella persona allegra quando i lavori di distruzione ebbero inizio.

“Capitale!”, disse il signor Winkle, che stava intagliando un pollo sulla scatola.

“Un bicchiere di vino?”

Con grande piacere.

“Meglio che tu abbia una bottiglia tutta per te lassù, no?”

“Sei davvero bravo.”

“Joe!”

“Sì, signore.” (Quella volta non stava dormendo; aveva appena riuscito a preparare una polpetta di vitello.)

“Una bottiglia di vino per il gentiluomo sulla scatola. Piacere di rivedervi, signore.”

“Grazie.” Il signor Winkle svuotò il suo bicchiere e posizionò la bottiglia sul sedile del vagone, accanto a sé.

“Le permetterà di godere di questo piacere, signore?” chiese il signor Trundle al signor Winkle.

“Con grande piacere,” rispose il signor Winkle al signor Trundle, e poi i due gentiluomini bevvero del vino; in seguito offrirono un bicchiere di vino anche alle signore.

“Com’è cara Emily a flirtare con quel gentiluomo sconosciuto, ”, sussurrò la zia zitella, con quell’invidia tipica delle zie zitelle, al suo fratello, il signor Wardle.

“Oh! Non lo so,” disse il gentile vecchio signore; “tutto molto naturale, direi, niente di insolito. Signor Pickwick, desidera un po’ di vino, signore?” Il signor Pickwick, che stava esaminando attentamente l’interno della torta a forma di colomba, acconsentì prontamente.

“Emily, mia cara,” disse la zia zitella con tono condiscendente, “non parlare così ad alta voce, amore mio.”

“Lor, zia!”

“Credo che zia e quel vecchio gentiluomo vogliano tenerlo tutto per sé,” sussurrò la signorina Isabella Wardle alla sua sorella Emily. Le giovani donne risero molto di cuore, mentre l’anziana cercò di sembrare amichevole, ma non ci riuscì.

“Le giovani ragazze hanno davvero uno spirito così vivace,” disse la signorina Wardle al signor Tupman, con un tono di dolce comprensione, come se lo spirito animale fosse considerato contrabbando e il possederlo senza autorizzazione rappresentasse un grave crimine o una trasgressione.

“Ah, sì che ce l’hanno,” rispose il signor Tupman, non esattamente con la risposta che si aspettava da lui. “È davvero delizioso.”

“Ehm!”, disse la signorina Wardle, con un certo scetticismo.

“Mi permetterete?” disse il signor Tupman con il suo tono più gentile, toccando con una mano il polso incantevole di Rachael e sollevando delicatamente la bottiglia con l’altra. “Mi permetterete?”

“Oh, signore!” Il signor Tupman sembrava davvero imponente; e Rachael esprimeva la sua >paura che potessero sparare altre armi, nel qual caso, ovviamente, avrebbe dovuto chiedere di nuovo aiuto.

“Pensi che le mie adorate nipoti siano carine?”, sussurrò la loro affettuosa zia al signor Tupman.

“Dovrei farlo, se solo la loro zia non fosse qui,” rispose il pronto Pickwickiano, lanciando uno sguardo appassionato.

“Oh, tu uomo birichino. Ma davvero, se la loro pelle fosse un po’ più bella, non pensi che sarebbero ragazze molto attraenti, alla luce delle candele?”

“Sì; penso che lo farebbero,” disse il signor Tupman con un tono indifferente.

“Ah, sei davvero astuto. So esattamente cosa stavi per dire.”

“Cosa?”, chiese il signor Tupman, che in realtà non aveva ancora deciso cosa dire.

“Volevi dire che Isabel si china. Lo so che volevi. Voi uomini siete davvero osservatori attenti. Beh, sì, si china; non si può negare. E certamente, se c’è qualcosa che rende una ragazza brutta, è proprio il fatto di curvarsi in avanti. Le dico spesso che, quando crescerà un po’, diventerà davvero orribile. Beh, sei davvero curioso!”

Il signor Tupman non aveva obiezioni ad acquisire quella reputazione a un prezzo così basso; quindi sembrava molto comprensivo e sorrideva in modo misterioso.

“Che sorriso sarcastico, ”, disse Rachael, ammirata; “Devo ammettere che ho davvero paura di te.”

“Spaventati di me!”

“Oh, non puoi nascondermi nulla. So perfettamente cosa significa quel sorriso.”

“Cosa?” disse il signor Tupman, che non ne aveva la minima idea nemmeno lui.

“Voi volete dire, ”, disse l’amabile zia, abbassando ancora di più la voce, “volete dire che non ritenete che l’umiltà di Isabella sia altrettanto grave quanto la sfacciataggine di Emily. Beh, lei è davvero sfacciata! Non potete immaginare quanto questo mi renda infelice a volte. Sono sicura che piango per ore al riguardo. Mio caro fratello è così buono e così ingenuo che non se ne accorge mai; se lo facesse, sono certa che gli spezzerebbe il cuore. Vorrei tanto poter pensare che si tratti soltanto di una questione di comportamento. Spero davvero che sia così, ” (Qui la affettuosa parente emise un profondo sospiro e scosse la testa con rassegnazione).

‘I’m sure aunt’s talking about us,’ whispered Miss Emily Wardle to her sister—‘I’m quite certain of it—she looks so malicious.’

‘Is she?’ replied Isabella.—‘Hem! aunt, dear!’

‘Yes, my dear love!’

‘I’m so afraid you’ll catch cold, aunt—have a silk handkerchief to tie round your dear old head—you really should take care of yourself— consider your age!’

However well deserved this piece of retaliation might have been, it was as vindictive a one as could well have been resorted to. There is no guessing in what form of reply the aunt’s indignation would have vented itself, had not Mr. Wardle unconsciously changed the subject, by calling emphatically for Joe.

‘Damn that boy,’ said the old gentleman, ‘he’s gone to sleep again.’

‘Very extraordinary boy, that,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘does he always sleep in this way?’

‘Sleep!’ said the old gentleman, ‘he’s always asleep. Goes on errands fast asleep, and snores as he waits at table.’

‘How very odd!’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Ah! odd indeed,’ returned the old gentleman; ‘I’m proud of that boy— wouldn’t part with him on any account—he’s a natural curiosity! Here, Joe—Joe—take these things away, and open another bottle—d’ye hear?’

The fat boy rose, opened his eyes, swallowed the huge piece of pie he had been in the act of masticating when he last fell asleep, and slowly obeyed his master’s orders—gloating languidly over the remains of the feast, as he removed the plates, and deposited them in the hamper. The fresh bottle was produced, and speedily emptied: the hamper was made fast in its old place—the fat boy once more mounted the box—the spectacles and pocket-glass were again adjusted—and the evolutions of the military recommenced. There was a great fizzing and banging of guns, and starting of ladies—and then a mine was sprung, to the gratification of everybody—and when the mine had gone off, the military and the company followed its example, and went off too.

‘Now, mind,’ said the old gentleman, as he shook hands with Mr. Pickwick at the conclusion of a conversation which had been carried on at intervals, during the conclusion of the proceedings, ‘we shall see you all to-morrow.’

‘Most certainly,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘You have got the address?’

‘Manor Farm, Dingley Dell,’ said Mr. Pickwick, consulting his pocket- book.

‘That’s it,’ said the old gentleman. ‘I don’t let you off, mind, under a week; and undertake that you shall see everything worth seeing. If you’ve come down for a country life, come to me, and I’ll give you plenty of it. Joe—damn that boy, he’s gone to sleep again—Joe, help Tom put in the horses.’

The horses were put in—the driver mounted—the fat boy clambered up by his side—farewells were exchanged—and the carriage rattled off. As the Pickwickians turned round to take a last glimpse of it, the setting sun cast a rich glow on the faces of their entertainers, and fell upon the form of the fat boy. His head was sunk upon his bosom; and he slumbered again.

CHAPTER V. A SHORT ONE—SHOWING, AMONG OTHER MATTERS, HOW Mr. PICKWICK UNDERTOOK TO DRIVE, AND MR. WINKLE TO RIDE, AND HOW THEY BOTH DID IT

Bright and pleasant was the sky, balmy the air, and beautiful the appearance of every object around, as Mr. Pickwick leaned over the balustrades of Rochester Bridge, contemplating nature, and waiting for breakfast. The scene was indeed one which might well have charmed a far less reflective mind, than that to which it was presented.

On the left of the spectator lay the ruined wall, broken in many places, and in some, overhanging the narrow beach below in rude and heavy masses. Huge knots of seaweed hung upon the jagged and pointed stones, trembling in every breath of wind; and the green ivy clung mournfully round the dark and ruined battlements. Behind it rose the ancient castle, its towers roofless, and its massive walls crumbling away, but telling us proudly of its old might and strength, as when, seven hundred years ago, it rang with the clash of arms, or resounded with the noise of feasting and revelry. On either side, the banks of the Medway, covered with cornfields and pastures, with here and there a windmill, or a distant church, stretched away as far as the eye could see, presenting a rich and varied landscape, rendered more beautiful by the changing shadows which passed swiftly across it as the thin and half-formed clouds skimmed away in the light of the morning sun. The river, reflecting the clear blue of the sky, glistened and sparkled as it flowed noiselessly on; and the oars of the fishermen dipped into the water with a clear and liquid sound, as their heavy but picturesque boats glided slowly down the stream.

Mr. Pickwick was roused from the agreeable reverie into which he had been led by the objects before him, by a deep sigh, and a touch on his shoulder. He turned round: and the dismal man was at his side.

‘Contemplating the scene?’ inquired the dismal man.

‘I was,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘And congratulating yourself on being up so soon?’

Mr. Pickwick nodded assent.

‘Ah! people need to rise early, to see the sun in all his splendour, for his brightness seldom lasts the day through. The morning of day and the morning of life are but too much alike.’

‘You speak truly, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘How common the saying,’ continued the dismal man, ‘“The morning’s too fine to last.” How well might it be applied to our everyday existence. God! what would I forfeit to have the days of my childhood restored, or to be able to forget them for ever!’

‘You have seen much trouble, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick compassionately.

‘I have,’ said the dismal man hurriedly; ‘I have. More than those who see me now would believe possible.’ He paused for an instant, and then said abruptly—

‘Did it ever strike you, on such a morning as this, that drowning would be happiness and peace?’

“Sono sicura che zia stia parlando di noi,” sussurrò la signorina Emily Wardle a sua sorella, “Ne sono assolutamente certa, sembra così maliziosa.”

“È davvero lei?” rispose Isabella. “Ehm, zia cara!”

“Sì, mio caro amore!”

“Ho tanta paura che ti raffreddi, zia, prendi un fazzoletto di seta per avvolgerti intorno alla testa. Devi davvero prenderti cura di te stessa, pensa alla tua età!”

Per quanto meritata potesse essere questa rappresaglia, era comunque una vendetta estrema e crudele. Non si può nemmeno immaginare in quale forma l’indignazione della zia si sarebbe sfogata, se non fosse stato per il fatto che il signor Wardle, inconsapevolmente, cambiò argomento chiamando con insistenza Joe.

“Maledetto quel ragazzo,” disse il vecchio signore, “è andato a dormire di nuovo.”

“Un ragazzo davvero straordinario,” disse il signor Pickwick; “dorme sempre in questo modo?”

“‘Dormire!’, disse il vecchio signore, ‘è sempre addormentato. Va a svolgere i suoi compiti mentre dorme profondamente, e russa anche mentre aspetta a tavola.’”

“Che strano!” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Ah! Davvero strano,” rispose il vecchio signore; “Sono orgoglioso di quel ragazzo. Non lo darei mai via per nulla. È davvero una curiosità naturale! Ecco, Joe. Prendi queste cose e apri un’altra bottiglia. Hai capito?”

Il ragazzo grasso aprì gli occhi, ingoiò quel enorme pezzo di torta che stava masticando quando si era addormentato l’ultima volta, e lentamente obbedì agli ordini del suo padrone: si compiacque con aria languida dei resti della festa, poi raccolse i piatti e li mise nel cestino. La bottiglia fresca fu tirata fuori e svuotata rapidamente; il cestino venne rimesso al suo posto originale; il ragazzo grasso risalì sulla scatola; gli occhiali e lo specchio da tasca furono di nuovo sistemati. E le “manovre militari” ripresero. Ci fu un gran rumore di spari, le signore iniziarono a muoversi freneticamente. Poi esplose una mina, per la gioia di tutti. E quando la mina si fu spenta, anche i soldati e il resto del gruppo seguirono il suo esempio, e esplosero anch’essi.

“Ora, attenzione,” disse il vecchio signore stringendo la mano al signor Pickwick alla fine di una conversazione che si era svolta a intervalli durante tutta la durata delle procedure. “Vi rivedremo tutti domani.”

“Certamente,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

“Hai già l’indirizzo?”

“Manor Farm, Dingley Dell,” disse il signor Pickwick, consultando il suo taccuino.

“Basta così,” disse il vecchio signore. “Non ti lascio andare prima di una settimana; e devi promettermi che vedrai tutto ciò che vale la pena vedere. Se sei venuto qui per vivere una vita rurale, vieni da me: ti offrirò molto di ciò che desideri. Joe, maledetto ragazzo, si è addormentato di nuovo. Joe, aiuta Tom a mettere i cavalli in movimento.”

I cavalli furono messi in movimento; il cocchiere montò a cassetta; il ragazzo grasso si arrampicò al suo fianco; si scambiarono gli addii e la carrozza partì sobbalzando. Mentre i compagni di Pickwick si girarono per dare un ultimo sguardo, il sole al tramonto gettava una luce intensa sui volti dei loro accompagnatori, illuminando anche la figura del ragazzo grasso. La sua testa era appoggiata sul petto; stava dormendo di nuovo.

CAPITOLO V. Un capitolo breve – che mostra, tra le altre cose, come il signor Pickwick si dedicasse alla guida e il signor Winkle al cavallo, e come entrambi procedessero nelle loro attività.

Il cielo era luminoso e piacevole, l’aria fresca e profumata; ogni oggetto intorno appariva incantevole mentre il signor Pickwick si appoggiava alle ringhiere del ponte di Rochester, ammirando la >natura in attesa della colazione. Quella scena avrebbe certamente incantato anche una mente meno riflessiva di quella a cui veniva presentata.

A sinistra dello spettatore si estendeva il muro in rovina, spezzato in molti punti; in alcuni tratti, le sue masse massicce e irregolari si protendevano sopra la stretta spiaggia sottostante. Enormi grappoli di alghe pendevano dalle pietre taglienti e appuntite, tremando ad ogni soffio di vento; l’edera verde si attaccava tristemente alle mura scure e in rovina. Dietro di esso sorgeva l’antico castello, le cui torri erano prive di tetto e i cui massicci muri stavano crollando, ma che ancora raccontavano con orgoglio della loro antica potenza e forza. Come se, settecento anni prima, risuonassero ancora il clangore delle armi o il rumore delle feste e dei banchetti. Ai lati si estendevano le rive del Medway, coperte di campi di grano e pascoli; qua e là si vedevano mulini a vento o chiese lontane, fino dove l’occhio poteva arrivare. Un paesaggio ricco e variegato, reso ancora più bello dalle ombre mutevoli che passavano rapidamente al sopraggiungere delle nuvole sottili e semiformate sotto la luce del sole mattutino. Il fiume, riflettendo il cielo azzurro, brillava mentre scorreva silenziosamente; le pale dei pescatori affondavano nell’acqua con un suono chiaro e liquido, mentre i loro pesanti ma pittoreschi barchi scivolavano lentamente lungo il corso d’acqua.

Il signor Pickwick fu destato dal piacevole sogno a cui lo avevano indotto gli oggetti davanti a lui da un profondo sospiro e da una carezza sulla spalla. Si girò: l’uomo cupo era al suo fianco.

“Stai contemplando la scena?” chiese l’uomo cupo.

“Lo ero,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“E ti compiaci già di esserti alzato così presto?”

Il signor Pickwick annuì in segno di accordo.

“Ah! Le persone devono alzarsi presto per vedere il sole nel suo tutto splendore, perché la sua luce raramente dura per tutta la giornata. La mattina del giorno e la mattina della vita sono troppo simili tra loro.”

“Parlate davvero con sincerità, signore,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Quanto comune è questo detto,” continuò l’uomo cupo, “‘La mattina è troppo bella per durare.’ Quanto bene potrebbe essere applicato alla nostra vita quotidiana. Dio! Cosa sarei disposto a sacrificare pur di riavere indietro i giorni della mia infanzia, o almeno di poterli dimenticare per sempre!”

“Avete affrontato molte difficoltà, signore,” disse il signor Pickwick con compassione.

“L’ho fatto,” disse l’uomo cupo in fretta; “l’ho fatto. Più di quelli che mi vedono ora crederebbero che sia possibile.” Fece una pausa per un istante, poi aggiunse bruscamente:

“Ti è mai venuto in mente, in una mattina come questa, che annegare potrebbe rappresentare felicità e pace?”

‘God bless me, no!’ replied Mr. Pickwick, edging a little from the balustrade, as the possibility of the dismal man’s tipping him over, by way of experiment, occurred to him rather forcibly.

‘I have thought so, often,’ said the dismal man, without noticing the action. ‘The calm, cool water seems to me to murmur an invitation to repose and rest. A bound, a splash, a brief struggle; there is an eddy for an instant, it gradually subsides into a gentle ripple; the waters have closed above your head, and the world has closed upon your miseries and misfortunes for ever.’ The sunken eye of the dismal man flashed brightly as he spoke, but the momentary excitement quickly subsided; and he turned calmly away, as he said—

‘There—enough of that. I wish to see you on another subject. You invited me to read that paper, the night before last, and listened attentively while I did so.’

‘I did,’ replied Mr. Pickwick; ‘and I certainly thought—’

‘I asked for no opinion,’ said the dismal man, interrupting him, ‘and I want none. You are travelling for amusement and instruction. Suppose I forward you a curious manuscript—observe, not curious because wild or improbable, but curious as a leaf from the romance of real life—would you communicate it to the club, of which you have spoken so frequently?’

‘Certainly,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘if you wished it; and it would be entered on their transactions.’

‘You shall have it,’ replied the dismal man. ‘Your address;’ and, Mr. Pickwick having communicated their probable route, the dismal man carefully noted it down in a greasy pocket-book, and, resisting Mr. Pickwick’s pressing invitation to breakfast, left that gentleman at his inn, and walked slowly away.

Mr. Pickwick found that his three companions had risen, and were waiting his arrival to commence breakfast, which was ready laid in tempting display. They sat down to the meal; and broiled ham, eggs, tea, coffee and sundries, began to disappear with a rapidity which at once bore testimony to the excellence of the fare, and the appetites of its consumers.

‘Now, about Manor Farm,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘How shall we go?’

‘We had better consult the waiter, perhaps,’ said Mr. Tupman; and the waiter was summoned accordingly.

‘Dingley Dell, gentlemen—fifteen miles, gentlemen—cross road—post- chaise, sir?’

‘Post-chaise won’t hold more than two,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘True, sir—beg your pardon, sir.—Very nice four-wheel chaise, sir— seat for two behind—one in front for the gentleman that drives—oh! beg your pardon, sir—that’ll only hold three.’

‘What’s to be done?’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

‘Perhaps one of the gentlemen would like to ride, sir?’ suggested the waiter, looking towards Mr. Winkle; ‘very good saddle-horses, sir—any of Mr. Wardle’s men coming to Rochester, bring ‘em back, Sir.’

‘The very thing,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Winkle, will you go on horseback?’

Now Mr. Winkle did entertain considerable misgivings in the very lowest recesses of his own heart, relative to his equestrian skill; but, as he would not have them even suspected, on any account, he at once replied with great hardihood, ‘Certainly. I should enjoy it of all things.’

Mr. Winkle had rushed upon his fate; there was no resource.

‘Let them be at the door by eleven,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Very well, sir,’ replied the waiter.

The waiter retired; the breakfast concluded; and the travellers ascended to their respective bedrooms, to prepare a change of clothing, to take with them on their approaching expedition.

Mr. Pickwick had made his preliminary arrangements, and was looking over the coffee-room blinds at the passengers in the street, when the waiter entered, and announced that the chaise was ready—an announcement which the vehicle itself confirmed, by forthwith appearing before the coffee- room blinds aforesaid.

It was a curious little green box on four wheels, with a low place like a wine-bin for two behind, and an elevated perch for one in front, drawn by an immense brown horse, displaying great symmetry of bone. An hostler stood near, holding by the bridle another immense horse—apparently a near relative of the animal in the chaise—ready saddled for Mr. Winkle.

‘Bless my soul!’ said Mr. Pickwick, as they stood upon the pavement while the coats were being put in. ‘Bless my soul! who’s to drive? I never thought of that.’

‘Oh! you, of course,’ said Mr. Tupman.

‘Of course,’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

‘I!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

‘Not the slightest fear, Sir,’ interposed the hostler. ‘Warrant him quiet, Sir; a hinfant in arms might drive him.’

‘He don’t shy, does he?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Shy, sir?-he wouldn’t shy if he was to meet a vagin-load of monkeys with their tails burned off.’

The last recommendation was indisputable. Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass got into the bin; Mr. Pickwick ascended to his perch, and deposited his feet on a floor-clothed shelf, erected beneath it for that purpose.

‘Now, shiny Villiam,’ said the hostler to the deputy hostler, ‘give the gen’lm’n the ribbons.’

Shiny Villiam’—so called, probably, from his sleek hair and oily countenance—placed the reins in Mr. Pickwick’s left hand; and the upper hostler thrust a whip into his right.

‘Wo-o!’ cried Mr. Pickwick, as the tall quadruped evinced a decided inclination to back into the coffee-room window.

‘Wo-o!’ echoed Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass, from the bin.

‘Only his playfulness, gen’lm’n,’ said the head hostler encouragingly; ‘jist kitch hold on him, Villiam.’ The deputy restrained the animal’s impetuosity, and the principal ran to assist Mr. Winkle in mounting.

‘T’other side, sir, if you please.’

‘Blowed if the gen’lm’n worn’t a-gettin’ up on the wrong side,’ whispered a grinning post-boy to the inexpressibly gratified waiter.

Mr. Winkle, thus instructed, climbed into his saddle, with about as much difficulty as he would have experienced in getting up the side of a first-rate man-of-war.

“Dio mi salvi, no!” rispose il signor Pickwick, allontanandosi leggermente dalla balaustra, poiché gli venne in mente con notevole forza l’eventualità che quell’uomo cupo potesse provare a farlo cadere, per pura curiosità.

“Lo penso spesso,” disse l’uomo cupo, senza notare ciò che stava accadendo. “L’acqua calma e fresca sembra sussurrarmi di riposare, di concedermi sollievo. Un tuffo, un movimento rapido, una breve lotta. Poi un vortice per un istante, e infine le acque si chiudono sopra di te, e il mondo nasconde per sempre le tue sofferenze e i tuoi mali.” Gli occhi spenti dell’uomo cupo brillarono per un attimo mentre parlava, ma quell’emozione fugace svanì rapidamente; poi si allontanò con calma, dicendo.

“Basta. Voglio parlare con te di un altro argomento. Mi hai invitato a leggere quel articolo la notte scorsa e mi hai ascoltato attentamente mentre lo leggevo.”

“Lo ho fatto,” rispose il signor Pickwick; “e di certo pensavo, ”

“Non ho chiesto alcun parere,” disse l’uomo cupo interrompendolo, “e non ne voglio nessuno. Tu viaggi per divertimento e per apprendere. Supponiamo che ti invii un manoscritto curioso, osserva: non perché sia strano o improbabile, ma perché rappresenta una ‘pagina’ del romanzo della vita reale, lo condivideresti con il club di cui parli così spesso?”

“Certamente,” rispose il signor Pickwick, “se lo desiderate; e verrà registrato nelle loro transazioni.”

“Te la darò,” rispose quell’uomo cupo. “Il tuo indirizzo, ” E dopo che il signor Pickwick gli ebbe comunicato la loro probabile rotta, l’uomo cupo la annotò con cura in un taccuino unto, rifiutando l’insistente invito del signor Pickwick a pranzare, lasciò quel gentiluomo nella sua locanda e se ne andò lentamente.

Il signor Pickwick vide che i suoi tre compagni si erano già alzati e aspettavano il suo arrivo per iniziare la colazione, che era stata preparata in modo molto attraente. Si sedettero a tavola; prosciutto arrosto, uova, tè, caffè e altre delizie cominciarono a scomparire con una rapidità che testimoniava immediatamente la qualità dei cibi e l’appetito dei loro consumatori.

“Ora, riguardo alla Manor Farm,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Come dovremmo andarci?”

“Forse sarebbe meglio consultare il cameriere,” disse il signor Tupman; e così fu chiamato il cameriere.

“Dingley Dell, signori, quindici miglia, signori, attraverso la strada, una posta in carrozza, signore?”

“Una carrozza a posti non può trasportare più di due persone,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Vero, signore, scusi per l’interruzione, signore. Una bellissima carrozza a quattro ruote, signore: due posti sul retro e uno davanti per il conducente. Oh! Scusi ancora, signore. In realtà, ci stanno solo tre persone.”

“Cosa si deve fare?”, disse il signor Snodgrass.

“Forse uno degli signori vorrebbe fare un giro a cavallo, signore?” suggerì il cameriere, guardando verso il signor Winkle; “Sono cavalli molto buoni. Se qualcuno dei domestici del signor Wardle dovesse venire a Rochester, portateli indietro, per favore.”

“Proprio quello,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Winkle, andrai a cavallo?”

Ora, nel profondo del suo cuore, il signor Winkle nutriva notevoli dubbi riguardo alle sue capacità equestri; ma poiché non voleva che nessuno se ne accorgesse, rispose immediatamente con grande determinazione: “Certo. Lo troverei molto divertente.”

Il signor Winkle aveva affrontato il proprio destino senza alcuna possibilità di scelta.

“Facciano in modo di essere alla porta entro le undici,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Molto bene, signore,” rispose il cameriere.

Il cameriere si ritirò; la colazione terminò; e i viaggiatori salirono nelle rispettive camere per cambiarsi d’abito, pronti per l’esplorazione imminente.

Il signor Pickwick aveva già fatto i suoi preparativi preliminari e stava osservando i passeggeri in strada attraverso le tende della sala da caffè, quando il cameriere entrò e annunciò che la carrozza era pronta; un annuncio che venne confermato anche dalla stessa carrozza, che subito dopo apparve davanti alle suddette tende.

Era una curiosa scatola verde su quattro ruote: aveva una parte bassa, simile a un vaso per il vino, per due cavalli posti dietro, e una parte rialzata per uno davanti; veniva trainata da un enorme cavallo marrone, che mostrava una notevole armonia strutturale. Un stalliere stava vicino, tenendo per la briglia un altro enorme cavallo – apparentemente un parente stretto di quello nella carrozza – pronto per essere montato dal signor Winkle.

“Che la mia ‘anima sia benedetta!” disse il signor Pickwick mentre stavano sul marciapiede in attesa che gli mettessero i cappotti. “Che la mia ‘anima sia benedetta, chi sarà a guidare? Non ci avevo mai pensato.”

“Ah! Tu, naturalmente,” disse il signor Tupman.

“Certo,” disse il signor Snodgrass.

“Ah!” esclamò il signor Pickwick.

“Nessun minimo timore, signore,” intervenne l’ostiere. “Lasciatelo stare in pace, signore; anche un bambino armato riuscirebbe a scacciarlo.”

“Non si imbarazza mai, vero?”, chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Timido, signore? Non sarebbe timido nemmeno se incontrasse un branco di scimmie con la coda bruciata, ”

L’ultima raccomandazione era indiscutibile. Il signor Tupman e il signor Snodgrass furono esclusi; il signor Pickwick salì al suo posto e posizionò i piedi su uno scaffale rivestito di stoffa, eretto appositamente per quell’uso.

“Ora, brillante Villiam,” disse il custode al vice-custode, “dai ai signori le nastri.”

Il lucido Villiam – probabilmente chiamato così per i suoi capelli lisci e il viso oleoso – mise le redini nella mano sinistra del signor Pickwick; mentre il postiglione di sopra gli infilò un frustino nella mano destra.

“Wooo!” gridò il signor Pickwick quando l’alto quadrupede mostrò una chiara intenzione di infilarsi dalla finestra della sala da caffè.

“Woo-o!” echeggiarono le voci di Mr. Tupman e Mr. Snodgrass dal bidone.

“Solo la sua vivacità, davvero,” disse il capo stalliere incoraggiandolo;
“Basta che tu lo tenga a bada, Villiam.” Il vice-stalliere controllò l’impetuosità dell’animale, e il capo stalliere corse ad aiutare il signor Winkle a montare.

“L’altra parte, per favore, signore.”

“Se quel tizio non si alzasse sempre dal lato sbagliato, ”, sussurrò con un sorriso il ragazzo che consegnava i messaggi al cameriere, visibilmente compiaciuto.

Il signor Winkle, così istruito, montò sul suo cavallo con la stessa difficoltà che avrebbe incontrato nel tentativo di salire lungo il fianco di una nave da guerra di prima classe.

‘All right?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, with an inward presentiment that it was all wrong.

‘All right,’ replied Mr. Winkle faintly.

‘Let ‘em go,’ cried the hostler.—‘Hold him in, sir;’ and away went the chaise, and the saddle-horse, with Mr. Pickwick on the box of the one, and Mr. Winkle on the back of the other, to the delight and gratification of the whole inn-yard.

‘What makes him go sideways?’ said Mr. Snodgrass in the bin, to Mr. Winkle in the saddle.

‘I can’t imagine,’ replied Mr. Winkle. His horse was drifting up the street in the most mysterious manner—side first, with his head towards one side of the way, and his tail towards the other.

Mr. Pickwick had no leisure to observe either this or any other particular, the whole of his faculties being concentrated in the management of the animal attached to the chaise, who displayed various peculiarities, highly interesting to a bystander, but by no means equally amusing to any one seated behind him. Besides constantly jerking his head up, in a very unpleasant and uncomfortable manner, and tugging at the reins to an extent which rendered it a matter of great difficulty for Mr. Pickwick to hold them, he had a singular propensity for darting suddenly every now and then to the side of the road, then stopping short, and then rushing forward for some minutes, at a speed which it was wholly impossible to control.

‘What can he mean by this?’ said Mr. Snodgrass, when the horse had executed this manoeuvre for the twentieth time.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Mr. Tupman; ‘it looks very like shying, don’t it?’ Mr. Snodgrass was about to reply, when he was interrupted by a shout from Mr. Pickwick.

‘Woo!’ said that gentleman; ‘I have dropped my whip.’

‘Winkle,’ said Mr. Snodgrass, as the equestrian came trotting up on the tall horse, with his hat over his ears, and shaking all over, as if he would shake to pieces, with the violence of the exercise, ‘pick up the whip, there’s a good fellow.’ Mr. Winkle pulled at the bridle of the tall horse till he was black in the face; and having at length succeeded in stopping him, dismounted, handed the whip to Mr. Pickwick, and grasping the reins, prepared to remount.

Now whether the tall horse, in the natural playfulness of his disposition, was desirous of having a little innocent recreation with Mr. Winkle, or whether it occurred to him that he could perform the journey as much to his own satisfaction without a rider as with one, are points upon which, of course, we can arrive at no definite and distinct conclusion. By whatever motives the animal was actuated, certain it is that Mr. Winkle had no sooner touched the reins, than he slipped them over his head, and darted backwards to their full length.

‘Poor fellow,’ said Mr. Winkle soothingly—‘poor fellow—good old horse.’ The ‘poor fellow’ was proof against flattery; the more Mr. Winkle tried to get nearer him, the more he sidled away; and, notwithstanding all kinds of coaxing and wheedling, there were Mr. Winkle and the horse going round and round each other for ten minutes, at the end of which time each was at precisely the same distance from the other as when they first commenced—an unsatisfactory sort of thing under any circumstances, but particularly so in a lonely road, where no assistance can be procured.

‘What am I to do?’ shouted Mr. Winkle, after the dodging had been prolonged for a considerable time. ‘What am I to do? I can’t get on him.’

‘You had better lead him till we come to a turnpike,’ replied Mr. Pickwick from the chaise.

‘But he won’t come!’ roared Mr. Winkle. ‘Do come and hold him.’

Mr. Pickwick was the very personation of kindness and humanity: he threw the reins on the horse’s back, and having descended from his seat, carefully drew the chaise into the hedge, lest anything should come along the road, and stepped back to the assistance of his distressed companion, leaving Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass in the vehicle.

The horse no sooner beheld Mr. Pickwick advancing towards him with the chaise whip in his hand, than he exchanged the rotary motion in which he had previously indulged, for a retrograde movement of so very determined a character, that it at once drew Mr. Winkle, who was still at the end of the bridle, at a rather quicker rate than fast walking, in the direction from which they had just come. Mr. Pickwick ran to his assistance, but the faster Mr. Pickwick ran forward, the faster the horse ran backward. There was a great scraping of feet, and kicking up of the dust; and at last Mr. Winkle, his arms being nearly pulled out of their sockets, fairly let go his hold. The horse paused, stared, shook his head, turned round, and quietly trotted home to Rochester, leaving Mr. Winkle and Mr. Pickwick gazing on each other with countenances of blank dismay. A rattling noise at a little distance attracted their attention. They looked up.

‘Bless my soul!’ exclaimed the agonised Mr. Pickwick; ‘there’s the other horse running away!’

It was but too true. The animal was startled by the noise, and the reins were on his back. The results may be guessed. He tore off with the four- wheeled chaise behind him, and Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass in the four- wheeled chaise. The heat was a short one. Mr. Tupman threw himself into the hedge, Mr. Snodgrass followed his example, the horse dashed the four—wheeled chaise against a wooden bridge, separated the wheels from the body, and the bin from the perch; and finally stood stock still to gaze upon the ruin he had made.

The first care of the two unspilt friends was to extricate their unfortunate companions from their bed of quickset—a process which gave them the unspeakable satisfaction of discovering that they had sustained no injury, beyond sundry rents in their garments, and various lacerations from the brambles. The next thing to be done was to unharness the horse. This complicated process having been effected, the party walked slowly forward, leading the horse among them, and abandoning the chaise to its fate.

“Va bene?”, chiese il signor Pickwick, con un presentimento interno che qualcosa non andasse per il verso giusto.

“Va bene,” rispose debolmente il signor Winkle.

“Lasciateli andare,” gridò il padrone di locanda. “Tenetelo fermo, signore, ” E via furono la carrozza e il cavallo da sella: il signor Pickwick sul sedile anteriore, il signor Winkle su quello posteriore. A grande gioia di tutta la piazza della locanda.

“Cosa lo fa comportare in quel modo?” chiese il signor Snodgrass dal carro, rivolto al signor Winkle in sella.

“Non riesco a immaginarlo,” rispose il signor Winkle. Il suo cavallo stava avanzando per la strada in modo davvero misterioso: con il dorso rivolto verso l’alto, la testa rivolta da una parte e la coda dall’altra.

Il signor Pickwick non aveva il tempo di osservare né questo né altri dettagli: tutte le sue attenzioni erano concentrate nel controllare l’animale legato alla carrozza, che mostrava varie peculiarità molto interessanti per chi stava a guardare, ma assolutamente noiose per chi si trovava seduto dietro di lui. Oltre a sollevare continuamente la testa in modo molto sgradevole e fastidioso, e a tirare le redini con tale forza da rendere estremamente difficile per il signor Pickwick tenerle sotto controllo, l’animale aveva anche la strana abitudine di improvvisamente deviare verso il lato della strada, poi fermarsi all’improvviso e poi ripartire di corsa per alcuni minuti, a una velocità del tutto impossibile da regolare.

“Cosa può voler dire con questo?”, disse il signor Snodgrass quando il cavallo eseguì questa manovra per la ventesima volta.

“Non lo so,” rispose il signor Tupman; “sembra proprio che stia schivando, non è vero?” Il signor Snodgrass stava per rispondere, quando fu interrotto da un grido del signor Pickwick.

“Uau!”, esclamò quel gentiluomo; “Ho perso la mia frusta”.

“Winkle,” disse il signor Snodgrass mentre il cavaliere si avvicinava al trotto sul suo alto cavallo, con il cappello calato sugli orecchi e tremando in tutto il corpo, come se stesse per spezzarsi a causa dello sforzo fisico, “Prendi la frusta, bravo ragazzo.” Il signor Winkle tirò forte le redini del cavallo fino a diventare pallido in volto; finalmente riuscito a fermarlo, scese di sella, passò la frusta al signor Pickwick e, afferrando le redini, si preparò a rimontare a cavallo.

Ora, se il alto cavallo, per natura giocosa e vivace, desiderasse divertirsi un po’ in modo “innocente” con il signor Winkle, o se gli venisse in mente che potesse compiere quel viaggio altrettanto bene senza cavaliere quanto con uno, sono questioni su cui, ovviamente, non possiamo giungere a conclusioni definitive e chiare. Qualunque fosse la motivazione che guidasse l’animale, è certo che non appena il signor Winkle afferrò le redini, queste gli scivolarono sulla testa e il cavallo si allontanò di corsa per tutta la loro lunghezza.

“Povero animale,” disse il signor Winkle con tono consolatorio, “povero vecchio, ” L’“animale povero” era insensibile alle lusinghe; più il signor Winkle cercava di avvicinarsi a lui, più quello si allontanava. Nonostante tutti i tentativi di persuasione e blandimento, per dieci minuti il signor Winkle e il cavallo continuarono a girare in tondo l’uno attorno all’altro, finché alla fine non si trovarono esattamente alla stessa distanza di partenza. Una situazione del tutto insoddisfacente, soprattutto in una solitaria strada, dove non era possibile chiedere aiuto.

“Cosa devo fare?” gridò il signor Winkle, dopo che le sue tentativi di colpirlo erano durati per un bel po’. “Cosa devo fare? Non riesco a prenderlo.”

“È meglio che tu lo guidi fino a quando non arriviamo a un pedaggio,” rispose il signor Pickwick dalla carrozza.

“Ma non verrà mai!”, gridò il signor Winkle. “Venite pure e trattenerlo voi”.

Il signor Pickwick era l’incarnazione stessa della gentilezza e dell’umanità: mise le redini sul dorso del cavallo, scese dalla carrozza e sistemò con cura il veicolo contro la siepe, per evitare che qualcosa potesse passargli davanti lungo la strada, poi tornò ad aiutare il suo compagno in difficoltà, lasciando i signori Tupman e Snodgrass all’interno della carrozza.

Non appena il cavallo vide il signor Pickwick avvicinarsi a lui con la frusta in mano, interruppe immediatamente il movimento rotatorio che stava eseguendo e iniziò a muoversi all’indietro con tale determinazione che il signor Winkle, ancora attaccato alla briglia, fu trascinato nella direzione opposta a quella da cui erano venuti, a una velocità decisamente superiore a quella di un normale passo. Il signor Pickwick cercò di aiutarlo, ma più lui correva avanti, più il cavallo si allontanava indietro. Si udì un forte stridore di zoccoli e una nuvola di polvere si alzò nell’aria; alla fine, con le braccia quasi strappate dalle articolazioni, il signor Winkle riuscì a liberarsi della briglia. Il cavallo si fermò, scosse la testa, girò su se stesso e tornò tranquillamente a casa a Rochester, lasciando i due uomini a fissarsi l’un l’altro con espressioni di totale sconcerto. A una certa distanza, un rumore stridulo attirò la loro attenzione; alzarono lo sguardo.

“Che la mia ‘anima sia benedetta!”, esclamò il povero signor Pickwick; “l’altro cavallo sta scappando!”

Era una verità troppo dolorosa da accettare. L’animale fu spaventato dal rumore e le redini gli furono attaccate al dorso. Si possono facilmente immaginare le conseguenze: partì di corsa, trascinando con sé la carrozza a quattro ruote, insieme a Mr. Tupman e Mr. Snodgrass a bordo. La corsa fu breve. Mr. Tupman si gettò nel fossato, Mr. Snodgrass lo imitò; l’cavallo sbatté la carrozza contro un ponte di legno, separando le ruote dal resto della struttura. Alla fine, si fermò completamente per osservare il disastro che aveva causato.

La prima cosa che i due amici fecero fu liberare i loro sfortunati compagni dal letto di rovi e cespugli; questo processo li rese estremamente sollevati nel scoprire di non essere rimasti feriti, se non per alcuni strappi nei vestiti e diverse lacerazioni causate dai rovi. Dopo aver slegato il cavallo, continuarono il loro cammino lentamente, conducendolo con loro, lasciando la carrozza al suo destino.

An hour’s walk brought the travellers to a little road-side public- house, with two elm-trees, a horse trough, and a signpost, in front; one or two deformed hay-ricks behind, a kitchen garden at the side, and rotten sheds and mouldering outhouses jumbled in strange confusion all about it. A red-headed man was working in the garden; and to him Mr. Pickwick called lustily, ‘Hollo there!’

The red-headed man raised his body, shaded his eyes with his hand, and stared, long and coolly, at Mr. Pickwick and his companions.

‘Hollo there!’ repeated Mr. Pickwick.

‘Hollo!’ was the red-headed man’s reply.

‘How far is it to Dingley Dell?’

‘Better er seven mile.’

‘Is it a good road?’

‘No, ‘tain’t.’ Having uttered this brief reply, and apparently satisfied himself with another scrutiny, the red-headed man resumed his work. ‘We want to put this horse up here,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘I suppose we can, can’t we?’

Want to put that ere horse up, do ee?’ repeated the red-headed man, leaning on his spade.

‘Of course,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, who had by this time advanced, horse in hand, to the garden rails.

‘Missus’—roared the man with the red head, emerging from the garden, and looking very hard at the horse—‘missus!’

A tall, bony woman—straight all the way down—in a coarse, blue pelisse, with the waist an inch or two below her arm-pits, responded to the call.

‘Can we put this horse up here, my good woman?’ said Mr. Tupman, advancing, and speaking in his most seductive tones. The woman looked very hard at the whole party; and the red-headed man whispered something in her ear.

‘No,’ replied the woman, after a little consideration, ‘I’m afeerd on it.’

‘Afraid!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, ‘what’s the woman afraid of?’

‘It got us in trouble last time,’ said the woman, turning into the house; ‘I woan’t have nothin’ to say to ‘un.’

‘Most extraordinary thing I have ever met with in my life,’ said the astonished Mr. Pickwick.

‘I—I—really believe,’ whispered Mr. Winkle, as his friends gathered round him, ‘that they think we have come by this horse in some dishonest manner.’

‘What!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, in a storm of indignation. Mr. Winkle modestly repeated his suggestion.

‘Hollo, you fellow,’ said the angry Mr. Pickwick, ‘do you think we stole the horse?’

‘I’m sure ye did,’ replied the red-headed man, with a grin which agitated his countenance from one auricular organ to the other. Saying which he turned into the house and banged the door after him.

‘It’s like a dream,’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, ‘a hideous dream. The idea of a man’s walking about all day with a dreadful horse that he can’t get rid of!’ The depressed Pickwickians turned moodily away, with the tall quadruped, for which they all felt the most unmitigated disgust, following slowly at their heels.

It was late in the afternoon when the four friends and their four-footed companion turned into the lane leading to Manor Farm; and even when they were so near their place of destination, the pleasure they would otherwise have experienced was materially damped as they reflected on the singularity of their appearance, and the absurdity of their situation. Torn clothes, lacerated faces, dusty shoes, exhausted looks, and, above all, the horse. Oh, how Mr. Pickwick cursed that horse: he had eyed the noble animal from time to time with looks expressive of hatred and revenge; more than once he had calculated the probable amount of the expense he would incur by cutting his throat; and now the temptation to destroy him, or to cast him loose upon the world, rushed upon his mind with tenfold force. He was roused from a meditation on these dire imaginings by the sudden appearance of two figures at a turn of the lane. It was Mr. Wardle, and his faithful attendant, the fat boy.

‘Why, where have you been?’ said the hospitable old gentleman; ‘I’ve been waiting for you all day. Well, you do look tired. What! Scratches! Not hurt, I hope—eh? Well, I am glad to hear that—very. So you’ve been spilt, eh? Never mind. Common accident in these parts. Joe—he’s asleep again!—Joe, take that horse from the gentlemen, and lead it into the stable.’

The fat boy sauntered heavily behind them with the animal; and the old gentleman, condoling with his guests in homely phrase on so much of the day’s adventures as they thought proper to communicate, led the way to the kitchen.

‘We’ll have you put to rights here,’ said the old gentleman, ‘and then I’ll introduce you to the people in the parlour. Emma, bring out the cherry brandy; now, Jane, a needle and thread here; towels and water, Mary. Come, girls, bustle about.’

Three or four buxom girls speedily dispersed in search of the different articles in requisition, while a couple of large-headed, circular- visaged males rose from their seats in the chimney-corner (for although it was a May evening their attachment to the wood fire appeared as cordial as if it were Christmas), and dived into some obscure recesses, from which they speedily produced a bottle of blacking, and some half- dozen brushes.

‘Bustle!’ said the old gentleman again, but the admonition was quite unnecessary, for one of the girls poured out the cherry brandy, and another brought in the towels, and one of the men suddenly seizing Mr. Pickwick by the leg, at imminent hazard of throwing him off his balance, brushed away at his boot till his corns were red-hot; while the other shampooed Mr. Winkle with a heavy clothes-brush, indulging, during the operation, in that hissing sound which hostlers are wont to produce when engaged in rubbing down a horse.

Mr. Snodgrass, having concluded his ablutions, took a survey of the room, while standing with his back to the fire, sipping his cherry brandy with heartfelt satisfaction. He describes it as a large apartment, with a red brick floor and a capacious chimney; the ceiling garnished with hams, sides of bacon, and ropes of onions. The walls were decorated with several hunting-whips, two or three bridles, a saddle, and an old rusty blunderbuss, with an inscription below it, intimating that it was ‘Loaded’—as it had been, on the same authority, for half a century at least. An old eight-day clock, of solemn and sedate demeanour, ticked gravely in one corner; and a silver watch, of equal antiquity, dangled from one of the many hooks which ornamented the dresser.

‘Ready?’ said the old gentleman inquiringly, when his guests had been washed, mended, brushed, and brandied.

‘Quite,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Come along, then;’ and the party having traversed several dark passages, and being joined by Mr. Tupman, who had lingered behind to snatch a kiss from Emma, for which he had been duly rewarded with sundry pushings and scratchings, arrived at the parlour door.

‘Welcome,’ said their hospitable host, throwing it open and stepping forward to announce them, ‘welcome, gentlemen, to Manor Farm.’

Dopo un’ora di cammino, i viaggiatori arrivarono davanti a una piccola casa pubblica situata lungo la strada, circondata da due olmi, un abbeveratoio per cavalli e un cartello indicatore; dietro c’erano uno o due mucchi di paglia deformi, un giardino annesso alla cucina, e capanne in rovina e stalle fatiscenti disposte in modo disordinato intorno al tutto. Un uomo con i capelli rossi stava lavorando nel giardino; Mr. Pickwick lo chiamò ad alta voce: “Ehi, là!”

L’uomo dai capelli rossi sollevò il proprio -corpo, si schermì gli occhi con la mano e fissò, a lungo e con freddezza, il signor Pickwick e i suoi compagni.

“Ehi lì!” ripeté il signor Pickwick.

“Salve!” fu la risposta dell’uomo dai capelli rossi.

“Quanto distanza c’è da Dingley Dell?”

“Meglio sette miglia.”

“È una buona strada?”

“No, non è possibile.” Dopo aver dato questa breve risposta e apparentemente essersi accontentato di un altro esame, l’uomo dai capelli rossi riprese il suo lavoro. “Vogliamo mettere questo cavallo qui sopra,” disse il signor Pickwick; “Penso che possiamo farlo, vero?”

“Vuoi mettere su quel cavallo lì, vero?” ripeté l’uomo dai capelli rossi, appoggiandosi alla sua pala.

“Certo,” rispose il signor Pickwick, che intanto aveva raggiunto le recinzioni del giardino, tenendo in mano il suo cavallo.

“Signora!” gridò l’uomo con la testa rossa, uscendo dal giardino e fissando attentamente il cavallo. “Signora!”

Una donna alta e magra, dritta in tutto il corpo, vestita con un mantello blu grezzo, la vita un paio di pollici sotto le ascelle, rispose alla chiamata.

“Possiamo mettere questo cavallo qui sopra, mia cara signora?” disse il signor Tupman, avvicinandosi e parlando con i suoi toni più seducenti. La donna osservò attentamente l’intero gruppo; l’uomo dai capelli rossi le sussurrò qualcosa all’orecchio.

“No,” rispose la donna, dopo un attimo di riflessione, “ho paura.”

“Spaventata!”, esclamò il signor Pickwick, “di cosa ha paura questa donna?”

“Ci ha messi nei guai l’ultima volta,” disse la donna entrando nella casa; “Non ho nulla da dire su di lui.”

“La cosa più straordinaria che abbia mai incontrato nella mia vita,” disse lo stupito signor Pickwick.

“Credo davvero,” sussurrò il signor Winkle mentre i suoi amici si radunavano intorno a lui, “che pensino che abbiamo ottenuto questo cavallo in qualche modo disonesto.”

“Che cosa!” esclamò il signor Pickwick, in un’onda di indignazione. Il signor Winkle ripeté modestamente la sua proposta.

“Ehi, tu,” disse il furioso signor Pickwick, “pensi davvero che abbiamo rubato quel cavallo”?”

“Ne sono sicuro,” rispose l’uomo dai capelli rossi, con un sorriso che gli alterava il viso da un orecchio all’altro. Dopo aver detto questo, entrò nella casa e sbatté la porta dietro di sé.

“È come un sogno”, esclamò il signor Pickwick, “un orribile sogno. L’idea che un uomo debba passare tutto il giorno in giro con un terribile >cavallo di cui non riesce a liberarsi, ” I depressi compagni di Pickwick si allontanarono in silenzio, mentre l’alto quadrupede, per il quale provavano tutti un profondo disgusto, li seguiva lentamente.

Era già tardi pomeriggio quando i quattro amici e il loro compagno a quattro zampe svoltarono nella strada che conduceva alla Manor Farm; e anche trovandosi così vicini al loro destinazione, la gioia che avrebbero normalmente provato venne notevolmente attenuata dal pensiero all’aspetto bizzarro del loro aspetto e all’assurdità della loro situazione. Abiti strappati, facce lacerate, scarpe polverose, espressioni stanche. E soprattutto quel cavallo. Oh, quanto Mr. Pickwick maledisse quel cavallo: aveva osservato quell’animale nobile con sguardi pieni di odio e vendetta; più volte aveva calcolato la somma che avrebbe dovuto spendere per ucciderlo. Ora, la tentazione di distruggerlo o di lasciarlo libero nel mondo gli balenò nella mente con dieci volte maggiore intensità. Fu distolto da queste orribili riflessioni dall’apparizione improvvisa di due figure all’angolo della strada: erano Mr. Wardle e il suo fedele attendente, il ragazzo grasso.

“Ma dove sei stato?” disse il gentile vecchio signore; “Ti aspetto da tutto il giorno. Beh, sembri davvero stanco. Che cos’è? Graffiature! Spero non ti sia fatto male. Bene, sono molto sollevato a saperlo. Allora, devi esserti fatto cadere il cavallo, eh? Non importa. È una cosa comune da queste parti. Joe, è di nuovo addormentato. Joe, prendi quel cavallo dai signori e portalo nella stalla.”

Il ragazzo grasso li seguiva pesantemente insieme all’animale; e il vecchio gentiluomo, consolando i suoi ospiti con frasi semplici riguardo alle avventure della giornata che riteneva opportuno condividere, li guidò verso la cucina.

“Vi sistemeremo qui,” disse il vecchio signore, “e poi vi presenterò alle persone nella sala. Emma, porta fuori il brandy di ciliegia; ora, Jane, portami un ago e del filo; asciugamani e acqua, Mary. Venite ragazze, mettetevi all’opera.”

Tre o quattro ragazze formose si dispersero rapidamente alla ricerca degli oggetti necessari, mentre un paio di uomini dal viso rotondo e dai capelli folti si alzarono dalle loro sedie nell’angolo del camino (poiché, nonostante fosse una serata di maggio, il loro attaccamento al fuoco sembrava davvero sincero, come se fosse Natale) e si infilarono in qualche angolo nascosto, da dove riemersero subito con una bottiglia di inchiostro nero e mezza dozzina di pennelli.

“Sbrigatevi!”, disse di nuovo il vecchio signore, ma quel rimprovero era del tutto superfluo: una delle ragazze versò il brandy alle ciliegie, un’altra portò gli asciugamani, e uno degli uomini afferrò improvvisamente il signor Pickwick per la gamba, rischiando di farlo perdere l’equilibrio, e strofinò con forza le sue scarpe fino a quando i calli non divennero rossi; intanto un altro gli lavava i piedi con uno spazzolone da bucato, producendo nel frattempo quel suono sibilante tipico dei lustrascarpe quando strofinano un cavallo.

Il signor Snodgrass, dopo essersi lavato, ispezionò la stanza, stando con le spalle rivolte verso il focolare e sorseggiando con sincera soddisfazione il suo brandy alle ciliegie. La descrisse come un appartamento ampio, con pavimenti in mattoni rossi e un camino capiente; il soffitto era decorato con prosciutti, fette di pancetta e strisce di cipolle. Le pareti erano adornate da diversi frustini da caccia, due o tre redini, una sella e un vecchio fucile arrugginito, sotto il quale c’era un’iscrizione che indicava chiaramente che era “carico”. E infatti lo era davvero; era stato caricato con quel proposito per almeno mezzo secolo. In un angolo, un vecchio orologio a molla ticchettava solennemente; e un orologio d’argento, altrettanto antico, pendeva da uno dei numerosi ganci che decoravano la toeletta.

“Pronti?” chiese il vecchio gentiluomo con curiosità, quando i suoi ospiti furono lavati, sistemati, spazzolati e, “arricchiti” con del brandy.

“Certamente,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

“Allora, andiamo,” disse il gruppo; dopo aver attraversato diversi passaggi bui e aver incontrato il signor Tupman, che si era trattenuto indietro per dare un bacio a Emma, ricevendo in cambio vari spintoni e graffi, arrivarono alla porta del salotto.

“Benvenuti,” disse il loro ospite ospitale, aprendo la porta e facendo un passo avanti per presentarli, “benvenuti, signori, a Manor Farm.”

CHAPTER VI. AN OLD-FASHIONED CARD-PARTY—THE CLERGYMAN’S VERSES—THE STORY OF THE CONVICT’S RETURN

Several guests who were assembled in the old parlour rose to greet Mr. Pickwick and his friends upon their entrance; and during the performance of the ceremony of introduction, with all due formalities, Mr. Pickwick had leisure to observe the appearance, and speculate upon the characters and pursuits, of the persons by whom he was surrounded—a habit in which he, in common with many other great men, delighted to indulge.

A very old lady, in a lofty cap and faded silk gown—no less a personage than Mr. Wardle’s mother—occupied the post of honour on the right-hand corner of the chimney-piece; and various certificates of her having been brought up in the way she should go when young, and of her not having departed from it when old, ornamented the walls, in the form of samplers of ancient date, worsted landscapes of equal antiquity, and crimson silk tea-kettle holders of a more modern period. The aunt, the two young ladies, and Mr. Wardle, each vying with the other in paying zealous and unremitting attentions to the old lady, crowded round her easy-chair, one holding her ear-trumpet, another an orange, and a third a smelling- bottle, while a fourth was busily engaged in patting and punching the pillows which were arranged for her support. On the opposite side sat a bald-headed old gentleman, with a good-humoured, benevolent face—the clergyman of Dingley Dell; and next him sat his wife, a stout, blooming old lady, who looked as if she were well skilled, not only in the art and mystery of manufacturing home-made cordials greatly to other people’s satisfaction, but of tasting them occasionally very much to her own. A little hard-headed, Ripstone pippin-faced man, was conversing with a fat old gentleman in one corner; and two or three more old gentlemen, and two or three more old ladies, sat bolt upright and motionless on their chairs, staring very hard at Mr. Pickwick and his fellow-voyagers.

‘Mr. Pickwick, mother,’ said Mr. Wardle, at the very top of his voice.

‘Ah!’ said the old lady, shaking her head; ‘I can’t hear you.’

‘Mr. Pickwick, grandma!’ screamed both the young ladies together.

‘Ah!’ exclaimed the old lady. ‘Well, it don’t much matter. He don’t care for an old ‘ooman like me, I dare say.’

‘I assure you, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick, grasping the old lady’s hand, and speaking so loud that the exertion imparted a crimson hue to his benevolent countenance—‘I assure you, ma’am, that nothing delights me more than to see a lady of your time of life heading so fine a family, and looking so young and well.’

‘Ah!’ said the old lady, after a short pause: ‘it’s all very fine, I dare say; but I can’t hear him.’

‘Grandma’s rather put out now,’ said Miss Isabella Wardle, in a low tone; ‘but she’ll talk to you presently.’

Mr. Pickwick nodded his readiness to humour the infirmities of age, and entered into a general conversation with the other members of the circle.

‘Delightful situation this,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Delightful!’ echoed Messrs. Snodgrass, Tupman, and Winkle.

‘Well, I think it is,’ said Mr. Wardle.

‘There ain’t a better spot o’ ground in all Kent, sir,’ said the hard- headed man with the pippin—face; ‘there ain’t indeed, sir—I’m sure there ain’t, Sir.’ The hard-headed man looked triumphantly round, as if he had been very much contradicted by somebody, but had got the better of him at last.

‘There ain’t a better spot o’ ground in all Kent,’ said the hard-headed man again, after a pause.

‘’Cept Mullins’s Meadows,’ observed the fat man solemnly.

‘Mullins’s Meadows!’ ejaculated the other, with profound contempt.

‘Ah, Mullins’s Meadows,’ repeated the fat man.

‘Reg’lar good land that,’ interposed another fat man.

‘And so it is, sure-ly,’ said a third fat man.

‘Everybody knows that,’ said the corpulent host.

The hard-headed man looked dubiously round, but finding himself in a minority, assumed a compassionate air and said no more.

‘What are they talking about?’ inquired the old lady of one of her granddaughters, in a very audible voice; for, like many deaf people, she never seemed to calculate on the possibility of other persons hearing what she said herself.

‘About the land, grandma.’

‘What about the land?—Nothing the matter, is there?’

‘No, no. Mr. Miller was saying our land was better than Mullins’s Meadows.’

‘How should he know anything about it?’ inquired the old lady indignantly. ‘Miller’s a conceited coxcomb, and you may tell him I said so.’ Saying which, the old lady, quite unconscious that she had spoken above a whisper, drew herself up, and looked carving-knives at the hard- headed delinquent.

‘Come, come,’ said the bustling host, with a natural anxiety to change the conversation, ‘what say you to a rubber, Mr. Pickwick?’

‘I should like it of all things,’ replied that gentleman; ‘but pray don’t make up one on my account.’

‘Oh, I assure you, mother’s very fond of a rubber,’ said Mr. Wardle; ‘ain’t you, mother?’

The old lady, who was much less deaf on this subject than on any other, replied in the affirmative.

‘Joe, Joe!’ said the gentleman; ‘Joe—damn that—oh, here he is; put out the card-tables.’

The lethargic youth contrived without any additional rousing to set out two card-tables; the one for Pope Joan, and the other for whist. The whist-players were Mr. Pickwick and the old lady, Mr. Miller and the fat gentleman. The round game comprised the rest of the company.

The rubber was conducted with all that gravity of deportment and sedateness of demeanour which befit the pursuit entitled ‘whist’—a solemn observance, to which, as it appears to us, the title of ‘game’ has been very irreverently and ignominiously applied. The round-game table, on the other hand, was so boisterously merry as materially to interrupt the contemplations of Mr. Miller, who, not being quite so much absorbed as he ought to have been, contrived to commit various high crimes and misdemeanours, which excited the wrath of the fat gentleman to a very great extent, and called forth the good-humour of the old lady in a proportionate degree.

CAPITOLO VI. UNA FESTA DI CARTE ALL’ANTICA MANIERA – I Versi Del Clerico – La Storia del Ritorno Del Prigioniero

Diversi ospiti radunati nel vecchio salotto si alzarono per salutare il signor Pickwick e i suoi amici al loro arrivo; durante la cerimonia di presentazione, con tutte le dovute formalità, il signor Pickwick ebbe il tempo di osservare l’aspetto delle persone che lo circondavano e di riflettere sulle loro caratteristiche e occupazioni. Un’abitudine a cui, come molti altri grandi uomini, indulgeva con piacere.

Una signora molto anziana, con un cappello alto e un abito di seta sbiadito – una persona non meno importante della madre del signor Wardle – occupava il posto d’onore nell’angolo destro del camino; vari certificati che attestavano come fosse stata educata secondo i principi morali corretti fin da giovane, e come non ne avesse mai deviato in età avanzata, decoravano le pareti: ritratti antichi, paesaggi dipinti allo stesso modo e supporti per teiere di seta cremisi, più moderni. La zia, le due giovani signore e il signor Wardle si contendevano l’onore di prestare attenzioni costanti e devote alla vecchia signora; le circondavano tutti intorno al suo divanetto: uno le teneva l’auricolare, un altro un’arancia, un terzo una bottiglia profumata, mentre un quarto si occupava con impegno di accarezzare e sistemare i cuscini su cui lei poteva appoggiarsi. Dall’altra parte sedeva un anziano calvo, dal viso gentile e benevolo: il pastore di Dingley Dell; accanto a lui sua moglie, una donna robusta e sana, che sembrava essere molto abile non solo nell’arte di preparare bevande medicinali casalinghe che soddisfacevano moltissimo gli altri, ma anche nel gustarle di tanto in tanto con grande piacere. In un angolo, un uomo dal viso duro e squadrato chiacchierava con un altro anziano grassoccio; altri due o tre anziani uomini e altrettante donne sedevano immobili sulle loro sedie, fissando intensamente il signor Pickwick e i suoi compagni di viaggio.

“Signor Pickwick, mamma,” disse il signor Wardle alzando la voce al massimo.

“Ah!” disse la vecchia signora scuotendo la testa; “Non riesco a sentirti.”

“Signor Pickwick, nonna!”, gridarono insieme le due giovani signore.

“Ah!” esclamò la vecchia signora. “Beh, in fondo non importa molto. Probabilmente a lui non interessa affatto una vecchia donna come me.”

“Vi assicuro, signora,” disse il signor Pickwick, stringendo la mano della vecchia signora e parlando così ad alta voce che lo sforzo gli fece assumere un colore rosso vivo sul volto benevolo, “Vi assicuro, signora, che nulla mi rende più felice di vedere una donna della vostra età guidare una famiglia così meravigliosa e apparire così giovane e in buona salute.”

“Ah!”, disse la vecchia signora dopo una breve pausa: “tutto va molto bene, oserei dire, ma non riesco a sentirlo.”

“Nonna è un po’ arrabbiata adesso,” disse la signorina Isabella Wardle, a bassa voce; “ma tra poco parlerà con te.”

Il signor Pickwick annuì, dimostrando di essere disposto ad accettare le “debolezze” legate all’età, e iniziò a conversare con gli altri membri del gruppo.

“Che situazione deliziosa,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Delizioso!” esclamarono insieme i signori Snodgrass, Tupman e Winkle.

“Beh, penso di sì,” disse il signor Wardle.

“Non c’è posto o terreno migliore in tutto l’Kent, signore,” disse quell’uomo deciso, con quel viso rotondo e serio; “davvero non ce n’è, signore. Ne sono sicuro.” L’uomo guardò intorno con aria trionfante, come se qualcuno lo avesse contraddetto aspramente, ma lui alla fine avesse avuto la meglio.

“Non c’è posto né terreno migliore in tutto l’Kent”, disse di nuovo quell’uomo pragmatico, dopo una pausa.

“Tranne i prati di Mullins,” osservò seriamente l’uomo grasso.

“Mullins’s Meadows!”, esclamò l’altro con profondo disprezzo.

“Ah, i prati di Mullins,” ripeté l’uomo grasso.

“Terreno davvero buono e regolare,” intervenne un altro uomo grasso.

“Ed è proprio così,” disse un terzo uomo grasso.

“Tutti lo sanno,” disse l’ospite corpulento.

L’uomo pragmatico guardò intorno con scetticismo, ma vedendosi in minoranza, assunse un tono compassionevole e non aggiunse altro.

“Di cosa stanno parlando?”, chiese la vecchia signora a una delle sue nipoti, a voce molto alta; perché, come molte persone sordhe, non sembrava mai prendere in considerazione la possibilità che altre persone potessero sentire ciò che lei stessa diceva.

“Del paese, nonna.”

“E la terra?. Non c’è nessun problema, vero?”

“No, no. Il signor Miller stava dicendo che la nostra terra è migliore di quella dei Mullins Meadows.”

“Come potrebbe sapere qualcosa al riguardo?” chiese la vecchia signora con indignazione. “Miller è un presuntuoso vanesio. Potete dirgli che l’ho detto io.” Detto questo, la vecchia signora, completamente ignara di aver parlato ad alta voce, si raddrizzò e fissò con sguardo severo quel delinquente testardo.

“Ma che cosa, ”, disse l’ospite impegnato, con un’ansia naturale di cambiare argomento, “che ne direste di una gomma, signor Pickwick?”

“Lo vorrei più di ogni altra cosa,” rispose quel gentiluomo; “ma per favore, non inventate nulla a mio nome.”

“Ah, vi assicuro, a mia madre piacciono molto i gommini, vero, mamma?” disse il signor Wardle.

La vecchia signora, che su questo argomento era molto meno sorda di su qualsiasi altro, rispose affermativamente.

“Joe, Joe!” disse il gentiluomo; “Joe, maledizione, eccolo qui; togliete via i tavoli da gioco.”

Il giovane apatico, senza alcun ulteriore incoraggiamento, preparò due tavoli da gioco: uno per il “Papa Giovanna” e l’altro per il whist. I giocatori di whist erano il signor Pickwick, la vecchia signora, il signor Miller e il gentiluomo grasso; il resto del gruppo partecipò al gioco a turno.

La partita a carte veniva giocata con tutta quella gravità di comportamento e quella calma nei modi che si addicevano a un’attività considerata “seria”; una cerimonia solenne, alla quale, a nostro parere, il termine “gioco” è stato applicato in modo molto irrispettoso e ignominioso. D’altra parte, la tavola da gioco era così animata e rumorosa che interrompeva di fatto le riflessioni del signor Miller, il quale, non essendo abbastanza concentrato come avrebbe dovuto essere, riuscì a commettere vari reati e comportamenti scorretti, suscitando così la grande ira del gentiluomo grasso, e, allo stesso tempo, provocando una dose proporzionata di buon umore nella vecchia signora.

‘There!’ said the criminal Miller triumphantly, as he took up the odd trick at the conclusion of a hand; ‘that could not have been played better, I flatter myself; impossible to have made another trick!’

‘Miller ought to have trumped the diamond, oughtn’t he, Sir?’ said the old lady.

Mr. Pickwick nodded assent.

‘Ought I, though?’ said the unfortunate, with a doubtful appeal to his partner.

‘You ought, Sir,’ said the fat gentleman, in an awful voice.

‘Very sorry,’ said the crestfallen Miller.

‘Much use that,’ growled the fat gentleman.

‘Two by honours—makes us eight,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Another hand. ‘Can you one?’ inquired the old lady.

‘I can,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘Double, single, and the rub.’

‘Never was such luck,’ said Mr. Miller.

‘Never was such cards,’ said the fat gentleman.

A solemn silence; Mr. Pickwick humorous, the old lady serious, the fat gentleman captious, and Mr. Miller timorous.

‘Another double,’ said the old lady, triumphantly making a memorandum of the circumstance, by placing one sixpence and a battered halfpenny under the candlestick.

‘A double, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Quite aware of the fact, Sir,’ replied the fat gentleman sharply.

Another game, with a similar result, was followed by a revoke from the unlucky Miller; on which the fat gentleman burst into a state of high personal excitement which lasted until the conclusion of the game, when he retired into a corner, and remained perfectly mute for one hour and twenty-seven minutes; at the end of which time he emerged from his retirement, and offered Mr. Pickwick a pinch of snuff with the air of a man who had made up his mind to a Christian forgiveness of injuries sustained. The old lady’s hearing decidedly improved and the unlucky Miller felt as much out of his element as a dolphin in a sentry-box.

Meanwhile the round game proceeded right merrily. Isabella Wardle and Mr. Trundle ‘went partners,’ and Emily Wardle and Mr. Snodgrass did the same; and even Mr. Tupman and the spinster aunt established a joint- stock company of fish and flattery. Old Mr. Wardle was in the very height of his jollity; and he was so funny in his management of the board, and the old ladies were so sharp after their winnings, that the whole table was in a perpetual roar of merriment and laughter. There was one old lady who always had about half a dozen cards to pay for, at which everybody laughed, regularly every round; and when the old lady looked cross at having to pay, they laughed louder than ever; on which the old lady’s face gradually brightened up, till at last she laughed louder than any of them, Then, when the spinster aunt got ‘matrimony,’ the young ladies laughed afresh, and the Spinster aunt seemed disposed to be pettish; till, feeling Mr. Tupman squeezing her hand under the table, she brightened up too, and looked rather knowing, as if matrimony in reality were not quite so far off as some people thought for; whereupon everybody laughed again, and especially old Mr. Wardle, who enjoyed a joke as much as the youngest. As to Mr. Snodgrass, he did nothing but whisper poetical sentiments into his partner’s ear, which made one old gentleman facetiously sly, about partnerships at cards and partnerships for life, and caused the aforesaid old gentleman to make some remarks thereupon, accompanied with divers winks and chuckles, which made the company very merry and the old gentleman’s wife especially so. And Mr. Winkle came out with jokes which are very well known in town, but are not all known in the country; and as everybody laughed at them very heartily, and said they were very capital, Mr. Winkle was in a state of great honour and glory. And the benevolent clergyman looked pleasantly on; for the happy faces which surrounded the table made the good old man feel happy too; and though the merriment was rather boisterous, still it came from the heart and not from the lips; and this is the right sort of merriment, after all.

The evening glided swiftly away, in these cheerful recreations; and when the substantial though homely supper had been despatched, and the little party formed a social circle round the fire, Mr. Pickwick thought he had never felt so happy in his life, and at no time so much disposed to enjoy, and make the most of, the passing moment.

‘Now this,’ said the hospitable host, who was sitting in great state next the old lady’s arm-chair, with her hand fast clasped in his—‘this is just what I like—the happiest moments of my life have been passed at this old fireside; and I am so attached to it, that I keep up a blazing fire here every evening, until it actually grows too hot to bear it. Why, my poor old mother, here, used to sit before this fireplace upon that little stool when she was a girl; didn’t you, mother?’

The tear which starts unbidden to the eye when the recollection of old times and the happiness of many years ago is suddenly recalled, stole down the old lady’s face as she shook her head with a melancholy smile.

‘You must excuse my talking about this old place, Mr. Pickwick,’ resumed the host, after a short pause, ‘for I love it dearly, and know no other- -the old houses and fields seem like living friends to me; and so does our little church with the ivy, about which, by the bye, our excellent friend there made a song when he first came amongst us. Mr. Snodgrass, have you anything in your glass?’

‘Plenty, thank you,’ replied that gentleman, whose poetic curiosity had been greatly excited by the last observation of his entertainer. ‘I beg your pardon, but you were talking about the song of the Ivy.’

‘You must ask our friend opposite about that,’ said the host knowingly, indicating the clergyman by a nod of his head.

‘May I say that I should like to hear you repeat it, sir?’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

“Ecco!” disse trionfante il criminale Miller, dopo aver eseguito con successo quell’astuto trucco alla fine della partita; “Non avrebbe potuto essere fatto meglio, mi lusingo; è impossibile eseguire un altro trucco altrettanto efficace!”

“Miller avrebbe dovuto giocare il diamante, non credete, signore?” disse la vecchia signora.

Il signor Pickwick annuì in segno di accordo.

“Dovrei davvero farlo?”, disse l’infortunato, rivolgendosi con esitazione al suo compagno.

“Dovreste farlo, signore,” disse il gentiluomo grasso con una voce terribile.

“Mi dispiace molto,” disse il Miller, con lo sguardo abbattuto.

“Che utilità può avere tutto ciò, ”, ringhiò il gentiluomo grasso.

“Due per onore, fa otto in totale,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Un’altra mano. Riesci a farlo?” chiese la vecchia signora.

“Posso farlo,” rispose il signor Pickwick. “Doppio, singolo, e anche il gioco del ‘rub’.”

“Non c’è mai stata fortuna del genere,” disse il signor Miller.

“Non si sono mai viste carte del genere,” disse il signore grasso.

Un solenne silenzio; il signor Pickwick era umoristico, la vecchia signora seria, il gentiluomo grasso pignolo, e il signor Miller timido.

“Un altro doppio”, disse la vecchia signora, annotando con soddisfazione l’evento, mettendo sotto il candelabro una moneta da sei penny e una mezza sterlina logora.

“Per due volte, signore,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Ne sono pienamente consapevole, signore,” rispose bruscamente il gentiluomo grasso.

Un altro gioco, con un risultato simile, fu seguito dalla revoca del diritto di partecipazione da parte del sfortunato Miller; a causa di ciò il gentiluomo grasso entrò in uno stato di grande eccitazione personale che durò fino alla fine del gioco. Allora si ritirò in un angolo e rimase completamente muto per un’ora e ventisette minuti; al termine di questo lasso di tempo uscì dal suo isolamento e offrì a Mr. Pickwick un pizzico di tabacco, con l’aria di chi avesse deciso di perdonare cristianamente le offese subite. L’udito della vecchia signora migliorò notevolmente, mentre il sfortunato Miller si sentì completamente fuori posto, come un delfino in una caserma di guardia.

Nel frattempo, il gioco continuava allegramente. Isabella Wardle e il signor Trundle divennero “partner”, così come Emily Wardle e il signor Snodgrass; persino il signor Tupman e la zia zitella fondarono una “società per azioni” basata su pesce e lusinghe. Il vecchio signor Wardle era al culmine della sua allegria: gestiva con grande abilità il gioco, mentre le anziane signore, non appena vincevano, ridevano ancora di più; l’intera tavola era pervasa da risate e scherzi. C’era un’anziana che ogni volta doveva pagare con mezza dozzina di carte, e tutti ridevano ad ogni turno; quando lei sembrava arrabbiata per dover pagare, ridevano ancora più forte; allora il suo viso si illuminava gradualmente, fino a quando rideva più forte di tutti. Quando poi la zia zitella “ottenne il matrimonio”, le giovani signore risero di nuovo, e la zia sembrò un po’ offesa; ma quando sentì il signor Tupman stringerle la mano sotto il tavolo, anche lei si rasserenò, con un’espressione che sembrava dire che il matrimonio, in realtà, non fosse così lontano come alcuni pensavano, e tutti risero di nuovo, soprattutto il vecchio signor Wardle, che apprezzava gli scherzi tanto quanto i più giovani. Quanto al signor Snodgrass, non faceva altro che sussurrare sentimenti poetici all’orecchio della sua compagna, il che fece ridere un anziano gentiluomo, che scherzò sulle “partnership” a carte e su quelle per la vita, e questo portò ad altri commenti, accompagnati da occhiolini e risate, rendendo l’atmosfera ancora più allegra, soprattutto per la moglie dell’anziano gentiluomo. Il signor Winkle, inoltre, raccontò alcuni scherzi molto noti in città, ma meno conosciuti in campagna; poiché tutti risero molto e li trovarono davvero divertenti, il signor Winkle si sentì molto onorato e felice. Il gentile clérigo osservava tutto con piacere: i volti sorridenti intorno al tavolo lo rendevano felice anche lui, e sebbene l’allegria fosse un po’ rumorosa, proveniva dal cuore, non dalle labbra, ed è proprio questo il tipo di allegria che conta davvero.

La serata trascorse rapidamente, tra queste piacevoli attività; e quando la cena semplice ma sostanziosa fu finita, e il piccolo gruppo si riunì intorno al focolare, il signor Pickwick pensò di non essersi mai sentito così felice in vita sua, e in nessun momento prima era stato così desideroso di godere appieno del momento presente.

“Ecco questo,” disse l’ospitale padrone di casa, seduto accanto alla poltrona dell’anziana signora, con la sua mano stretta nella sua – “proprio questo è ciò che mi piace: i momenti più felici della mia vita li ho trascorsi davanti a questo vecchio camino; e ci sono così legato che ogni sera mantengo il fuoco acceso fino a quando diventa davvero troppo caldo da sopportare. Sapete, mia povera vecchia madre, da ragazza sedeva proprio qui davanti al caminetto su quel piccolo sgabello. Non è vero, mamma?”

La lacrima che scivola involontariamente sul viso quando i ricordi di tempi passati e della felicità di tanti anni fa ritornano improvvisamente alla mente, corse lungo il volto della vecchia signora mentre lei scuoteva la testa con un sorriso malinconico.

“Deve scusarmi se parlo così spesso di questo vecchio posto, signor Pickwick,” riprese l’ospite dopo una breve pausa, “perché lo amo davvero molto e non conosco nessun altro posto simile. Le vecchie case e i campi mi sembrano veri amici; lo stesso vale per la nostra piccola chiesa ricoperta di edera. A proposito, il nostro eccellente amico ha composto una canzone su di essa quando è arrivato tra noi per la prima volta. Signor Snodgrass, ha qualcosa nel suo bicchiere?”

“Molte, grazie,” rispose quel gentiluomo, la cui curiosità poetica era stata profondamente stimolata dall’ultima osservazione fatta dalla sua interprete. “Perdonatemi, ma stavate parlando della canzone dell’Ivy.”

“Dovete chiederlo al nostro amico laggiù,” disse l’ospite con aria saputa, indicando il prete con un cenno del capo.

“Posso chiedervi di ripeterlo, signore?” disse il signor Snodgrass.

‘Why, really,’ replied the clergyman, ‘it’s a very slight affair; and the only excuse I have for having ever perpetrated it is, that I was a young man at the time. Such as it is, however, you shall hear it, if you wish.’

A murmur of curiosity was of course the reply; and the old gentleman proceeded to recite, with the aid of sundry promptings from his wife, the lines in question. ‘I call them,’ said he,

THE IVY GREEN

Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green, That creepeth o’er ruins old! Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim; And the mouldering dust that years have made, Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a staunch old heart has he. How closely he twineth, how tight he clings To his friend the huge Oak Tree! And slily he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, As he joyously hugs and crawleth round The rich mould of dead men’s graves. Creeping where grim death has been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Whole ages have fled and their works decayed, And nations have scattered been; But the stout old Ivy shall never fade, From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely days, Shall fatten upon the past; For the stateliest building man can raise, Is the Ivy’s food at last. Creeping on where time has been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

While the old gentleman repeated these lines a second time, to enable Mr. Snodgrass to note them down, Mr. Pickwick perused the lineaments of his face with an expression of great interest. The old gentleman having concluded his dictation, and Mr. Snodgrass having returned his note-book to his pocket, Mr. Pickwick said—

‘Excuse me, sir, for making the remark on so short an acquaintance; but a gentleman like yourself cannot fail, I should think, to have observed many scenes and incidents worth recording, in the course of your experience as a minister of the Gospel.’

‘I have witnessed some certainly,’ replied the old gentleman, ‘but the incidents and characters have been of a homely and ordinary nature, my sphere of action being so very limited.’

‘You did make some notes, I think, about John Edmunds, did you not?’ inquired Mr. Wardle, who appeared very desirous to draw his friend out, for the edification of his new visitors.

The old gentleman slightly nodded his head in token of assent, and was proceeding to change the subject, when Mr. Pickwick said—

‘I beg your pardon, sir, but pray, if I may venture to inquire, who was John Edmunds?’

‘The very thing I was about to ask,’ said Mr. Snodgrass eagerly.

‘You are fairly in for it,’ said the jolly host. ‘You must satisfy the curiosity of these gentlemen, sooner or later; so you had better take advantage of this favourable opportunity, and do so at once.’

The old gentleman smiled good-humouredly as he drew his chair forward— the remainder of the party drew their chairs closer together, especially Mr. Tupman and the spinster aunt, who were possibly rather hard of hearing; and the old lady’s ear-trumpet having been duly adjusted, and Mr. Miller (who had fallen asleep during the recital of the verses) roused from his slumbers by an admonitory pinch, administered beneath the table by his ex-partner the solemn fat man, the old gentleman, without further preface, commenced the following tale, to which we have taken the liberty of prefixing the title of

THE CONVICT’S RETURN

‘When I first settled in this village,’ said the old gentleman, ‘which is now just five-and-twenty years ago, the most notorious person among my parishioners was a man of the name of Edmunds, who leased a small farm near this spot. He was a morose, savage-hearted, bad man; idle and dissolute in his habits; cruel and ferocious in his disposition. Beyond the few lazy and reckless vagabonds with whom he sauntered away his time in the fields, or sotted in the ale-house, he had not a single friend or acquaintance; no one cared to speak to the man whom many feared, and every one detested—and Edmunds was shunned by all.

‘This man had a wife and one son, who, when I first came here, was about twelve years old. Of the acuteness of that woman’s sufferings, of the gentle and enduring manner in which she bore them, of the agony of solicitude with which she reared that boy, no one can form an adequate conception. Heaven forgive me the supposition, if it be an uncharitable one, but I do firmly and in my soul believe, that the man systematically tried for many years to break her heart; but she bore it all for her child’s sake, and, however strange it may seem to many, for his father’s too; for brute as he was, and cruelly as he had treated her, she had loved him once; and the recollection of what he had been to her, awakened feelings of forbearance and meekness under suffering in her bosom, to which all God’s creatures, but women, are strangers.

‘They were poor—they could not be otherwise when the man pursued such courses; but the woman’s unceasing and unwearied exertions, early and late, morning, noon, and night, kept them above actual want. These exertions were but ill repaid. People who passed the spot in the evening—sometimes at a late hour of the night—reported that they had heard the moans and sobs of a woman in distress, and the sound of blows; and more than once, when it was past midnight, the boy knocked softly at the door of a neighbour’s house, whither he had been sent, to escape the drunken fury of his unnatural father.

‘During the whole of this time, and when the poor creature often bore about her marks of ill-usage and violence which she could not wholly conceal, she was a constant attendant at our little church. Regularly every Sunday, morning and afternoon, she occupied the same seat with the boy at her side; and though they were both poorly dressed—much more so than many of their neighbours who were in a lower station—they were always neat and clean. Every one had a friendly nod and a kind word for “poor Mrs. Edmunds”; and sometimes, when she stopped to exchange a few words with a neighbour at the conclusion of the service in the little row of elm-trees which leads to the church porch, or lingered behind to gaze with a mother’s pride and fondness upon her healthy boy, as he sported before her with some little companions, her careworn face would lighten up with an expression of heartfelt gratitude; and she would look, if not cheerful and happy, at least tranquil and contented.

“Beh, in realtà, ”, rispose il prete, “è una cosa molto insignificante; l’unica scusa che ho per averla mai fatta è che all’epoca ero un giovane. Comunque, se lo desiderate, vi racconterò tutto.”

Un mormorio di curiosità fu naturalmente la risposta; e il vecchio signore proseguì a recitare, con l’aiuto di diversi suggerimenti da parte di sua moglie, i versi in questione. “Li chiamo, ” disse.

Il verde dell’edera

Oh, che deliziosa pianta è l’edera verde,
che si insinua tra le antiche rovine!
Cibo davvero adatto per lei sono i detriti,
nella sua cella solitaria e fredda. Il muro deve essere in rovina, la pietra decaduta,
per soddisfare il suo delicato capriccio;
E quella polvere muffita accumulata negli anni. è per lei un pasto delizioso.
Inserendosi nei luoghi dove non c’è vita,
l’edera verde è davvero una pianta rara e meravigliosa.

Velocemente si avvicina, anche se non possiede ali; ha un cuore fedele e antico. Si attacca con forza al suo amico, l’immenso Albero di Quercia. Si muove silenziosamente lungo il terreno, agitando dolcemente le sue foglie mentre si avvicina felice alle tombe degli uomini defunti. Strisciando nei luoghi dove ha regnato la cupa morte, cresce questa rara pianta verde. L’Edera.

Ere intere sono passate e le loro opere si sono deteriorate; nazioni intere si sono disperse. Ma l’antica ed robusta edera non appassirà mai, mantenendo il suo verde rigoglioso e sano. Quella nobile pianta, nei suoi giorni solitari, si nutre del passato; perché anche la costruzione più imponente che l’uomo possa erigere, alla fine diventa cibo per l’edera. Crescendo ovunque il tempo abbia lasciato le sue tracce, l’edera è davvero una pianta rara e preziosa.

Mentre il vecchio signore ripeteva queste frasi una seconda volta, affinché il signor Snodgrass potesse annotarle, il signor Pickwick osservava attentamente i tratti del suo volto con grande interesse. Una volta che il vecchio signore ebbe terminato la sua dettatura e il signor Snodgrass ripose il taccuino in tasca, il signor Pickwick disse.

“Scusi se oso fare questa osservazione dopo averla conosciuta solo da poco tempo, signore; ma un gentiluomo come lei deve sicuramente aver assistito a molte scene e avvenimenti degni di essere ricordati, nel corso della sua esperienza come ministro del Vangelo.”

“Ne ho visti alcuni, sicuramente,” rispose il vecchio signore, “ma gli episodi e i personaggi erano di natura semplice e ordinaria; il mio raggio d’azione è infatti molto limitato.”

“Penso che tu abbia preso qualche appunto su John Edmunds, vero?” chiese il signor Wardle, che sembrava molto desideroso di far parlare il suo amico al fine di istruire i suoi nuovi ospiti.

Il vecchio signore annuì leggermente in segno di assenso e stava per cambiare argomento, quando il signor Pickwick disse.

“Mi scusi, signore, ma posso chiedere chi fosse John Edmunds?”

“Proprio quello che stavo per chiedere,” disse con entusiasmo il signor Snodgrass.

“Ti aspetta davvero una bella situazione,” disse l’ospite allegro. “Prima o poi dovrai soddisfare la curiosità di questi signori; quindi è meglio che approfitti subito di questa opportunità favorevole e lo faccia senza indugiare.”

Il vecchio signore sorrise bonariamente mentre spostava la sua sedia in avanti; gli altri membri del gruppo avvicinarono le loro sedie l’una all’altra, soprattutto il signor Tupman e la zia zitella, che forse avevano problemi di udito. Dopo aver regolato adeguatamente il microfono della vecchia signora e dopo che il signor Miller – che si era addormentato durante la lettura dei versi – fu svegliato da una leggera pinzata inflitta sotto il tavolo dal suo ex compagno, quel solenne uomo grasso. Il vecchio signore, senza ulteriori preamboli, iniziò quindi a raccontare la seguente storia, alla quale abbiamo voluto aggiungere un titolo.

Il ritorno del condannato

“Quando mi stabilii per la prima volta in questo villaggio,” disse il vecchio signore, “cioè circa venticinque anni fa, la persona più nota per le sue cattive qualità tra i miei parrocchiani era un uomo di nome Edmunds, che affittava una piccola fattoria in quest’area. Era un individuo cupo, crudele e dissoluto; pigro e negligente nelle sue abitudini, spietato e violento nel suo carattere. Oltre a quei pochi vagabondi pigri e irresponsabili con cui trascorreva il tempo nei campi o nelle taverne, non aveva alcun amico né conoscente; nessuno voleva parlare con quell’uomo che molti temevano e tutti disprezzavano. E Edmunds veniva evitato da tutti.”

‘Quest’uomo aveva una moglie e un figlio; quando sono arrivato qui per la prima volta, il ragazzo aveva circa dodici anni. Nessuno può immaginare fino a che punto fossero gravi i dolori di quella donna, né con quale dolcezza e perseveranza li sopportasse, né con quanta angoscia si dedicasse alla crescita di quel bambino. Perdonatemi questa supposizione, se è ingiusta. Ma credo fermamente, con tutto il cuore mio, che quell’uomo abbia cercato sistematicamente, per molti anni, di spezzarle il cuore; lei, tuttavia, ha sopportato tutto per amore del suo figlio. E, anche se a molti possa sembrare strano, anche per amore di suo padre. Perché, per crudele e brutale che fosse stato con lei, un tempo l’aveva amata. E il ricordo di ciò che lui le aveva fatto suscitava in lei sentimenti di tolleranza e umiltà, sentimenti che tutte le creature di Dio, tranne le donne, non riescono a comprendere.’

Era poveri, non potevano essere altrimenti, visto che l’uomo seguiva simili comportamenti; ma gli sforzi incessanti e instancabili della donna, sia di giorno che di notte, li aiutavano a sfuggire alla vera povertà. Tuttavia, questi sforzi non ricevevano alcuna ricompensa. Le persone che passavano da quelle parti la sera, a volte anche molto tardi nella notte, riferivano di aver sentito i lamenti e i singhiozzi di una donna in difficoltà, nonché il suono di colpi; e più di una volta, dopo mezzanotte, il ragazzo bussava delicatamente alla porta della casa del vicino, vi era stato mandato per sfuggire alla furia ubriaca di suo padre.

“Per tutto questo periodo, e anche quando quella povera creatura portava spesso con sé i segni di maltrattamenti e violenza che non riusciva a nascondere del tutto, lei era sempre presente nella nostra piccola chiesa. Ogni domenica, sia al mattino che al pomeriggio, occupava lo stesso posto, con il ragazzo al suo fianco; e sebbene entrambi fossero vestiti in modo semplice – molto più semplicemente di molti dei loro vicini di condizione sociale inferiore – erano sempre puliti e ordinati. Tutti rivolgevano loro un cenno amichevole e parole gentili; e a volte, quando si fermava per scambiare qualche parola con un vicino alla fine della funzione, sotto quella piccola fila di olmi che conduce al portico della chiesa, o quando si soffermava ad osservare con orgoglio e affetto il suo sano figlio mentre giocava insieme ad altri bambini, il suo volto stanco si illuminava di un’espressione di sincera gratitudine; e sembrava, se non proprio felice, almeno serena e soddisfatta.”

‘Five or six years passed away; the boy had become a robust and well- grown youth. The time that had strengthened the child’s slight frame and knit his weak limbs into the strength of manhood had bowed his mother’s form, and enfeebled her steps; but the arm that should have supported her was no longer locked in hers; the face that should have cheered her, no more looked upon her own. She occupied her old seat, but there was a vacant one beside her. The Bible was kept as carefully as ever, the places were found and folded down as they used to be: but there was no one to read it with her; and the tears fell thick and fast upon the book, and blotted the words from her eyes. Neighbours were as kind as they were wont to be of old, but she shunned their greetings with averted head. There was no lingering among the old elm-trees now—no cheering anticipations of happiness yet in store. The desolate woman drew her bonnet closer over her face, and walked hurriedly away.

‘Shall I tell you that the young man, who, looking back to the earliest of his childhood’s days to which memory and consciousness extended, and carrying his recollection down to that moment, could remember nothing which was not in some way connected with a long series of voluntary privations suffered by his mother for his sake, with ill-usage, and insult, and violence, and all endured for him—shall I tell you, that he, with a reckless disregard for her breaking heart, and a sullen, wilful forgetfulness of all she had done and borne for him, had linked himself with depraved and abandoned men, and was madly pursuing a headlong career, which must bring death to him, and shame to her? Alas for human nature! You have anticipated it long since.

‘The measure of the unhappy woman’s misery and misfortune was about to be completed. Numerous offences had been committed in the neighbourhood; the perpetrators remained undiscovered, and their boldness increased. A robbery of a daring and aggravated nature occasioned a vigilance of pursuit, and a strictness of search, they had not calculated on. Young Edmunds was suspected, with three companions. He was apprehended— committed—tried—condemned—to die.

‘The wild and piercing shriek from a woman’s voice, which resounded through the court when the solemn sentence was pronounced, rings in my ears at this moment. That cry struck a terror to the culprit’s heart, which trial, condemnation—the approach of death itself, had failed to awaken. The lips which had been compressed in dogged sullenness throughout, quivered and parted involuntarily; the face turned ashy pale as the cold perspiration broke forth from every pore; the sturdy limbs of the felon trembled, and he staggered in the dock.

‘In the first transports of her mental anguish, the suffering mother threw herself on her knees at my feet, and fervently sought the Almighty Being who had hitherto supported her in all her troubles to release her from a world of woe and misery, and to spare the life of her only child. A burst of grief, and a violent struggle, such as I hope I may never have to witness again, succeeded. I knew that her heart was breaking from that hour; but I never once heard complaint or murmur escape her lips.

‘It was a piteous spectacle to see that woman in the prison-yard from day to day, eagerly and fervently attempting, by affection and entreaty, to soften the hard heart of her obdurate son. It was in vain. He remained moody, obstinate, and unmoved. Not even the unlooked-for commutation of his sentence to transportation for fourteen years, softened for an instant the sullen hardihood of his demeanour.

‘But the spirit of resignation and endurance that had so long upheld her, was unable to contend against bodily weakness and infirmity. She fell sick. She dragged her tottering limbs from the bed to visit her son once more, but her strength failed her, and she sank powerless on the ground.

‘And now the boasted coldness and indifference of the young man were tested indeed; and the retribution that fell heavily upon him nearly drove him mad. A day passed away and his mother was not there; another flew by, and she came not near him; a third evening arrived, and yet he had not seen her—, and in four-and-twenty hours he was to be separated from her, perhaps for ever. Oh! how the long-forgotten thoughts of former days rushed upon his mind, as he almost ran up and down the narrow yard—as if intelligence would arrive the sooner for his hurrying—and how bitterly a sense of his helplessness and desolation rushed upon him, when he heard the truth! His mother, the only parent he had ever known, lay ill—it might be, dying—within one mile of the ground he stood on; were he free and unfettered, a few minutes would place him by her side. He rushed to the gate, and grasping the iron rails with the energy of desperation, shook it till it rang again, and threw himself against the thick wall as if to force a passage through the stone; but the strong building mocked his feeble efforts, and he beat his hands together and wept like a child.

‘I bore the mother’s forgiveness and blessing to her son in prison; and I carried the solemn assurance of repentance, and his fervent supplication for pardon, to her sick-bed. I heard, with pity and compassion, the repentant man devise a thousand little plans for her comfort and support when he returned; but I knew that many months before he could reach his place of destination, his mother would be no longer of this world.

‘He was removed by night. A few weeks afterwards the poor woman’s soul took its flight, I confidently hope, and solemnly believe, to a place of eternal happiness and rest. I performed the burial service over her remains. She lies in our little churchyard. There is no stone at her grave’s head. Her sorrows were known to man; her virtues to God.

Trascorsero cinque o sei anni; il ragazzo era diventato un giovane robusto e ben cresciuto. Il tempo aveva rafforzato il corpo esile del bambino e trasformato le sue membra deboli nella forza tipica dell’uomo, ma aveva indebolito la figura di sua madre e reso i suoi passi più incerti. Tuttavia, il braccio che avrebbe dovuto sostenerla non era più lì; il volto che avrebbe dovuto rallegrarla non la guardava più. Lei occupava sempre lo stesso posto, ma ora c’era un posto vuoto accanto a lei. La Bibbia veniva custodita con cura come sempre, le pagine erano sistemate esattamente come prima, ma nessuno le leggeva più insieme. Le lacrime cadevano copiose sulla pagina, cancellando le parole dai suoi occhi. I vicini erano gentili come sempre, ma lei evitava i loro saluti, abbassando lo sguardo. Ora non c’era più nulla che potesse trattenerla, nessuna speranza di felicità nel futuro. Quella donna desolata si tirò il cappello più giù sul viso e se ne andò in fretta.

“Devo dirvi che quel giovane, ripensando ai primi giorni della sua infanzia, fino al momento in cui la sua memoria e la sua coscienza potevano risalire, non riusciva a ricordare nulla che non fosse in qualche modo legato a una lunga serie di privazioni volontarie subite da sua madre per amor suo, a maltrattamenti, insulti, violenze. Tutto ciò sopportato per lui. Devo dirvi che, con un disprezzo totale per il dolore di lei e con un’obliosa indifferenza verso tutto ciò che aveva fatto e sopportato per lui, si era legato a uomini depravati e abbandonati, intraprendendo una strada folle che lo porterà alla morte e alla vergogna di lei. Ahimè, per la natura umana! Voi l’avevate già previsto da tempo.”

La misura della sofferenza e del sfortunio di quella donna infelice stava per raggiungere il suo apice. Numerosi reati erano stati commessi nella zona; i colpevoli rimanevano ancora nascosti, e la loro audacia aumentava sempre di più. Un furto di natura particolarmente audace e grave scatenò un’indagine intensiva e ricerche approfondite, che non avevano previsto. Il giovane Edmunds fu sospettato insieme a tre compagni; venne arrestato, processato, condannato a morte.

“Quel grido selvaggio e straziante proveniente dalla voce di una donna, che risuonò per tutto il palazzo quando fu pronunciata la sentenza solenne, riecheggia ancora nelle mie orecchie in questo momento. Quel grido suscitò nel cuore del colpevole un terrore tale che nemmeno il processo, la condanna, né l’avvicinarsi della morte stessa erano riusciti a scatenarlo. Le labbra, fino ad allora serrate in un’espressione cupa e ostinata, tremarono e si aprirono involontariamente; il viso divenne pallido come la cenere, mentre il sudore freddo iniziò a sgorgare da ogni poro; le forti membra del criminale tremavano, e lui barcollò sul banco degli imputati.”

Nelle prime manifestazioni del suo dolore mentale, quella madre che soffriva si gettò in ginocchio ai miei piedi, cercando con fervore quell’Essere Onnipotente che fino ad allora l’aveva sostenuta in tutte le sue difficoltà, affinché la liberasse da un mondo di dolore e miseria e risparmiasse la vita del suo unico figlio. Seguì un attacco di disperazione e una lotta violenta, come spero di non dover mai più assistere. Sapevo che in quel momento il suo cuore si stava spezzando; ma non sentii mai alcuna lamentela o mormorio uscire dalle sue labbra.

Era uno spettacolo pietoso vedere quella donna, giorno dopo giorno, nel cortile della prigione, cercare con affetto e suppliche di addolcire il cuore duro di suo figlio ostinato. Ma era inutile: lui rimaneva cupo, testardo e indifferente. Nemmeno la improvvisa commutazione della sua pena in quattordici anni di esilio riuscì per un momento a mitigare la sua durezza e il suo comportamento ostile.

‘Ma lo spirito di resignazione e perseveranza che per tanto tempo l’aveva sostenuta, non fu in grado di contrastare la debolezza fisica e le malattie. Si ammalò. Trascinò le sue gambe tremolanti dal letto per andare a trovare suo figlio un’ultima volta, ma le forze le mancarono e si abbatté priva di energia sul pavimento.’

‘E ora la presunta freddezza e indifferenza di quel giovane venivano davvero messe alla prova; la punizione che gli piombò addosso quasi lo fece impazzire. Passò un giorno, e sua madre non si fece vedere; ne passò un altro, e ancora lei non si avvicinò a lui; arrivò una terza sera, e lui non l’aveva ancora vista. E in ventiquattro ore sarebbe stato separato da lei, forse per sempre. Oh! Quanti ricordi dimenticati da tempo gli affollarono la mente mentre camminava avanti e indietro nel cortile angusto. Come se il fatto di correre più velocemente potesse accelerare l’arrivo della verità. E quanto amaramente si rese conto della propria impotenza e desolazione quando scoprì la verità! Sua madre, l’unica persona che avesse mai conosciuto come genitore, era malata. Forse stava morendo, a soli un miglio da dove si trovava lui; se solo fosse stato libero, in pochi minuti sarebbe potuto essere al suo fianco. Corse verso il cancello, afferrò le sbarre di ferro con disperazione e le scosse con forza. Poi si gettò contro il muro spesso, come se volesse sfondarlo. Ma l’edificio robusto derise i suoi deboli sforzi. E lui iniziò a battere le mani insieme e a piangere come un bambino.’

‘Portai il perdono e la benedizione della madre al figlio in prigione; e portai con me la solenne dichiarazione di pentimento, nonché le sue fervide suppliche per il perdono, fino al suo letto di malata. Ascoltai, con pietà e compassione, l’uomo pentito ideare mille modi per confortarla e aiutarla quando sarebbe tornato; ma sapevo che molti mesi prima che potesse raggiungere la sua destinazione, sua madre non sarebbe più stata in questo mondo.’

‘Fu portato via durante la notte. Qualche settimana dopo, l’anima di quella povera donna volò verso un luogo di eterna felicità e riposo, ne sono convinta e ci credo fermamente. Ho celebrato i riti funebri per le sue spoglie; riposa nel nostro piccolo cimitero. Sulla sua >tomba non c’è alcuna pietra. Le sue sofferenze erano conosciute dagli uomini; le sue virtù, solo da Dio.’

‘It had been arranged previously to the convict’s departure, that he should write to his mother as soon as he could obtain permission, and that the letter should be addressed to me. The father had positively refused to see his son from the moment of his apprehension; and it was a matter of indifference to him whether he lived or died. Many years passed over without any intelligence of him; and when more than half his term of transportation had expired, and I had received no letter, I concluded him to be dead, as, indeed, I almost hoped he might be.

‘Edmunds, however, had been sent a considerable distance up the country on his arrival at the settlement; and to this circumstance, perhaps, may be attributed the fact, that though several letters were despatched, none of them ever reached my hands. He remained in the same place during the whole fourteen years. At the expiration of the term, steadily adhering to his old resolution and the pledge he gave his mother, he made his way back to England amidst innumerable difficulties, and returned, on foot, to his native place.

‘On a fine Sunday evening, in the month of August, John Edmunds set foot in the village he had left with shame and disgrace seventeen years before. His nearest way lay through the churchyard. The man’s heart swelled as he crossed the stile. The tall old elms, through whose branches the declining sun cast here and there a rich ray of light upon the shady part, awakened the associations of his earliest days. He pictured himself as he was then, clinging to his mother’s hand, and walking peacefully to church. He remembered how he used to look up into her pale face; and how her eyes would sometimes fill with tears as she gazed upon his features—tears which fell hot upon his forehead as she stooped to kiss him, and made him weep too, although he little knew then what bitter tears hers were. He thought how often he had run merrily down that path with some childish playfellow, looking back, ever and again, to catch his mother’s smile, or hear her gentle voice; and then a veil seemed lifted from his memory, and words of kindness unrequited, and warnings despised, and promises broken, thronged upon his recollection till his heart failed him, and he could bear it no longer.

‘He entered the church. The evening service was concluded and the congregation had dispersed, but it was not yet closed. His steps echoed through the low building with a hollow sound, and he almost feared to be alone, it was so still and quiet. He looked round him. Nothing was changed. The place seemed smaller than it used to be; but there were the old monuments on which he had gazed with childish awe a thousand times; the little pulpit with its faded cushion; the Communion table before which he had so often repeated the Commandments he had reverenced as a child, and forgotten as a man. He approached the old seat; it looked cold and desolate. The cushion had been removed, and the Bible was not there. Perhaps his mother now occupied a poorer seat, or possibly she had grown infirm and could not reach the church alone. He dared not think of what he feared. A cold feeling crept over him, and he trembled violently as he turned away. ‘An old man entered the porch just as he reached it. Edmunds started back, for he knew him well; many a time he had watched him digging graves in the churchyard. What would he say to the returned convict?

‘The old man raised his eyes to the stranger’s face, bade him “good- evening,” and walked slowly on. He had forgotten him.

‘He walked down the hill, and through the village. The weather was warm, and the people were sitting at their doors, or strolling in their little gardens as he passed, enjoying the serenity of the evening, and their rest from labour. Many a look was turned towards him, and many a doubtful glance he cast on either side to see whether any knew and shunned him. There were strange faces in almost every house; in some he recognised the burly form of some old schoolfellow—a boy when he last saw him—surrounded by a troop of merry children; in others he saw, seated in an easy-chair at a cottage door, a feeble and infirm old man, whom he only remembered as a hale and hearty labourer; but they had all forgotten him, and he passed on unknown.

‘The last soft light of the setting sun had fallen on the earth, casting a rich glow on the yellow corn sheaves, and lengthening the shadows of the orchard trees, as he stood before the old house—the home of his infancy—to which his heart had yearned with an intensity of affection not to be described, through long and weary years of captivity and sorrow. The paling was low, though he well remembered the time that it had seemed a high wall to him; and he looked over into the old garden. There were more seeds and gayer flowers than there used to be, but there were the old trees still—the very tree under which he had lain a thousand times when tired of playing in the sun, and felt the soft, mild sleep of happy boyhood steal gently upon him. There were voices within the house. He listened, but they fell strangely upon his ear; he knew them not. They were merry too; and he well knew that his poor old mother could not be cheerful, and he away. The door opened, and a group of little children bounded out, shouting and romping. The father, with a little boy in his arms, appeared at the door, and they crowded round him, clapping their tiny hands, and dragging him out, to join their joyous sports. The convict thought on the many times he had shrunk from his father’s sight in that very place. He remembered how often he had buried his trembling head beneath the bedclothes, and heard the harsh word, and the hard stripe, and his mother’s wailing; and though the man sobbed aloud with agony of mind as he left the spot, his fist was clenched, and his teeth were set, in a fierce and deadly passion.

Prima della partenza del condannato, era stato concordato che scrivesse a sua madre non appena avesse ottenuto il permesso, e che la lettera fosse indirizzata a me. Il padre aveva categoricamente rifiutato di vedere suo figlio fin dal momento del suo arresto; per lui non faceva alcuna differenza se vivesse o morisse. Passarono molti anni senza alcuna notizia su di lui; e quando più della metà della sua pena era trascorsa e io non avevo ricevuto nessuna lettera, conclusi che fosse morto. Anzi, in realtà speravo quasi che lo fosse.

‘Edmunds, tuttavia, era stato inviato lontano, nella parte più remota della regione al suo arrivo nella colonia; forse proprio a questa circostanza si può attribuire il fatto che, nonostante fossero state inviate diverse lettere, nessuna di esse arrivò mai nelle mie mani. Rimase nello stesso luogo per tutti i quattordici anni. Alla scadenza del periodo stabilito, attenendosi fedelmente alla sua vecchia decisione e al giuramento fatto a sua madre, tornò in Inghilterra nonostante innumerevoli difficoltà, raggiungendo a piedi la sua città natale.’

‘In una bella serata di )domenica, nel mese di agosto, John Edmunds mise piede nel villaggio che aveva lasciato diciassette anni prima, con vergogna e disonore. Il percorso più breve passava attraverso il cimitero. Il cuore dell’uomo si gonfiò di emozione mentre attraversava la recinzione. Gli alti olmi antichi, i cui rami lasciavano filtrare i raggi del sole morente su quella parte ombreggiata, risvegliarono in lui ricordi dei suoi primi anni. Si immaginò come fosse allora, tenendo per mano sua madre e camminando serenamente verso la chiesa. Ricordò come sollevasse lo sguardo sul suo viso pallido; e come a volte i suoi occhi si riempissero di lacrime mentre lo guardava. Lacrime che cadevano calde sulla sua fronte quando lei si chinava per baciarlo, facendolo piangere anche lui, sebbene allora non sapesse quanto amare fossero quelle lacrime. Pensò a quante volte avesse corso felicemente lungo quel sentiero insieme ad altri bambini, guardandosi indietro continuamente per scorgere il sorriso di sua madre o ascoltare la sua voce gentile. E allora, come se una cortina venisse sollevata dalla sua memoria, parole di affetto non ricambiato, avvertimenti disprezzati, promesse infrante, affollarono i suoi pensieri fino a quando il suo cuore non poté più sopportarlo.

Entrò nella chiesa. La funzione serale era finita e la congregazione si era dispersa, ma l’edificio non era ancora stato chiuso. I suoi passi risuonavano nel basso ambiente con un suono vuoto; quasi temeva di essere solo, tanto tutto era silenzioso e tranquillo. Guardò intorno: nulla era cambiato. Il luogo sembrava più piccolo di prima; c’erano ancora gli antichi monumenti che aveva osservato con timore infantile mille volte; il piccolo pulpito con il suo cuscino sbiadito; l’altare della Comunione davanti al quale aveva ripetuto tante volte i Comandamenti che da bambino rispettava, ma da adulto aveva dimenticato. Si avvicinò alla vecchia panca: sembrava fredda e desolata. Il cuscino era stato rimosso e la Bibbia non c’era più. Forse ora sua madre occupava una panca più semplice, o forse si era ammalata e non poteva più venire in chiesa da sola. Non osava pensare a ciò che temeva. Un senso di freddo lo invase; tremò violentemente mentre si allontanava. “Un vecchio entrò nel portico proprio nel momento in cui vi arrivò lui. Edmunds indietreggiò, perché lo conosceva bene: molte volte lo aveva visto scavare tombe nel cimitero della chiesa. Cosa avrebbe detto a quel condannato che era tornato?”

L’uomo anziano alzò lo sguardo sul volto dello sconosciuto, gli disse “buonasera” e proseguì lentamente per la sua strada. L’aveva dimenticato.

Scese lungo la collina e attraversò il villaggio. Il tempo era caldo; le persone sedevano davanti alle loro porte o passeggiavano nei loro piccoli giardini mentre lui passava, godendosi la serenità della sera e il riposo dopo il lavoro. Molti lo guardarono; lui, a sua volta, lanciò sguardi diffidenti intorno a sé per vedere se qualcuno lo riconoscesse e lo evitasse. In quasi ogni casa c’erano volti sconosciuti; in alcune riconobbe la figura robusta di un vecchio compagno di scuola – un ragazzo quando l’aveva visto l’ultima volta – circondato da un gruppo di bambini felici; in altre vide, seduto su una poltrona davanti alla porta di una capanna, un anziano debole e malato, che ricordava solo come un lavoratore robusto e sano. Ma tutti lo avevano dimenticato; lui proseguì il suo cammino, ignorato da tutti.

L’ultima luce tenue del tramonto si era posata sulla terra, diffondendo un bagliore intenso sui fasci di mais giallo e allungando le ombre degli alberi dell’orto. Lui stava davanti alla vecchia casa – la casa della sua infanzia – verso cui il suo cuore aveva anelato con un affetto indescrivibile, nonostante anni di prigionia e dolore. Il muro sembrava ora più basso di quanto ricordasse; guardò all’interno del vecchio giardino. C’erano più semi e fiori più vivaci di prima, ma gli alberi antichi erano ancora lì: proprio quell’albero sotto il quale aveva riposato mille volte, quando si stancava di giocare al sole e sentiva sopraggiungere dolcemente il sonno sereno dell’infanzia felice. Dentro la casa si udivano voci. Le ascoltò, ma sembravano strane alle sue orecchie; non le riconobbe. Erano voci gioiose. E lui sapeva bene che sua povera madre non poteva essere felice senza di lui. La porta si aprì e un gruppo di bambini uscì correndo, gridando e scherzando. Il padre, con un bambino in braccio, apparve sulla soglia; i bambini gli si affollarono intorno, battendo le manine e trascinandolo fuori per partecipare alle loro gioiose attività. Il prigioniero ricordò tutte le volte in cui aveva evitato di incontrare il padre proprio in quel luogo. Ricordava quanto spesso avesse nascosto la testa tremante sotto le coperte, sentendo parole dure e colpi violenti, e il pianto disperato di sua madre. Eppure, mentre lasciava quel posto, singhiozzava di dolore. Ma i suoi pugni erano stretti, i denti serrati, in un’ira feroce e mortale.

‘And such was the return to which he had looked through the weary perspective of many years, and for which he had undergone so much suffering! No face of welcome, no look of forgiveness, no house to receive, no hand to help him—and this too in the old village. What was his loneliness in the wild, thick woods, where man was never seen, to this!

‘He felt that in the distant land of his bondage and infamy, he had thought of his native place as it was when he left it; and not as it would be when he returned. The sad reality struck coldly at his heart, and his spirit sank within him. He had not courage to make inquiries, or to present himself to the only person who was likely to receive him with kindness and compassion. He walked slowly on; and shunning the roadside like a guilty man, turned into a meadow he well remembered; and covering his face with his hands, threw himself upon the grass.

‘He had not observed that a man was lying on the bank beside him; his garments rustled as he turned round to steal a look at the new-comer; and Edmunds raised his head.

‘The man had moved into a sitting posture. His body was much bent, and his face was wrinkled and yellow. His dress denoted him an inmate of the workhouse: he had the appearance of being very old, but it looked more the effect of dissipation or disease, than the length of years. He was staring hard at the stranger, and though his eyes were lustreless and heavy at first, they appeared to glow with an unnatural and alarmed expression after they had been fixed upon him for a short time, until they seemed to be starting from their sockets. Edmunds gradually raised himself to his knees, and looked more and more earnestly on the old man’s face. They gazed upon each other in silence.

‘The old man was ghastly pale. He shuddered and tottered to his feet. Edmunds sprang to his. He stepped back a pace or two. Edmunds advanced.

‘“Let me hear you speak,” said the convict, in a thick, broken voice.

‘“Stand off!” cried the old man, with a dreadful oath. The convict drew closer to him.

‘“Stand off!” shrieked the old man. Furious with terror, he raised his stick, and struck Edmunds a heavy blow across the face.

‘“Father—devil!” murmured the convict between his set teeth. He rushed wildly forward, and clenched the old man by the throat—but he was his father; and his arm fell powerless by his side.

‘The old man uttered a loud yell which rang through the lonely fields like the howl of an evil spirit. His face turned black, the gore rushed from his mouth and nose, and dyed the grass a deep, dark red, as he staggered and fell. He had ruptured a blood-vessel, and he was a dead man before his son could raise him.

‘In that corner of the churchyard,’ said the old gentleman, after a silence of a few moments, ‘in that corner of the churchyard of which I have before spoken, there lies buried a man who was in my employment for three years after this event, and who was truly contrite, penitent, and humbled, if ever man was. No one save myself knew in that man’s lifetime who he was, or whence he came—it was John Edmunds, the returned convict.’

‘Ed ecco il ritorno che aveva tanto desiderato, attraverso una lunga e faticosa attesa di molti anni, e per cui aveva sopportato tanta sofferenza! Nessun volto accogliente, nessuno sguardo pieno di perdono, nessuna casa pronta ad accoglierlo, nessuna mano disposta ad aiutarlo. E tutto questo nel suo vecchio villaggio. Quanto più grande doveva essere la sua solitudine in quei boschi selvaggi e densi, dove non si vedeva mai un essere umano, rispetto a questa situazione!’

“Sentiva che in quella lontana terra di schiavitù e disonore, aveva pensato al suo paese natale così com’era quando lo aveva lasciato, e non così com’era sicuramente che sarebbe stato al suo ritorno. La triste realtà lo colpì duramente nel cuore; il suo spirito si abbatté. Non aveva il coraggio di fare domande, né di presentarsi davanti all’unica persona che avrebbe potuto accoglierlo con gentilezza e compassione. Camminò lentamente, evitando i bordi della strada come un uomo colpevole, entrò in un prato che ricordava bene; si coprì il viso con le mani e si gettò sull’erba.”

Non si era accorto che c’era un uomo sdraiato sulla riva accanto a lui; i suoi vestiti frusciarono mentre si girava per dare un’occhiata al nuovo arrivato. E Edmunds sollevò la testa.

L’uomo si era messo a sedere. Il suo -corpo era molto curvo; il viso, pieno di rughe e pallido, lo identificava come un ospite dell’ospizio per poveri. Sembrava molto vecchio, ma quel aspetto era più dovuto al vizio o alla malattia che agli anni trascorsi. Stava fissando intensamente lo sconosciuto; sebbene all’inizio i suoi occhi fossero spenti e appesantiti, dopo averlo osservato per un po’ iniziarono a brillare di un’espressione innaturale e allarmata, quasi stessero per uscire dalle orbite. Edmunds si alzò lentamente in ginocchio e continuò a guardare con crescente attenzione il volto dell’uomo anziano. Si fissarono a vicenda in silenzio.

“L’uomo anziano era terribilmente pallido. Tremava e barcollò mentre cercava di alzarsi in piedi. Edmunds si precipitò verso di lui; fece un passo indietro, poi avanzò di nuovo.”

“Lasciami sentirti parlare,” disse il condannato, con una voce roca e spezzata.

“Allontanati!”, gridò l’uomo anziano, pronunciando una terribile maledizione. Il detenuto si avvicinò ancora di più a lui.

“Allontanatevi!”, gridò l’uomo anziano. Furioso per la paura, alzò il suo bastone e colpì Edmunds con un forte schiaffo in faccia.

“Padre, diavolo!” mormorò il condannato tra i denti serrati. Si lanciò verso di lui con violenza e afferrò l’uomo anziano per la gola, ma era suo padre; così il suo braccio ricadde inerente al suo fianco.

‘L’uomo anziano emise un grido forte che risuonò nei campi desolati, come il ululato di uno spirito malvagio. Il suo viso divenne nero; il sangue gli sgorgò dalla bocca e dal naso, tingendo l’erba di un rosso scuro intenso. Barcollò e cadde. Aveva rotto un vaso sanguigno ed era già morto prima che suo figlio potesse rialzarlo.’

“In quel angolo del cimitero,” disse il vecchio signore, dopo un breve silenzio, “in quell’angolo del cimitero di cui ho parlato prima, è sepolto un uomo che è stato al mio servizio per tre anni dopo quell’evento; un uomo davvero pentito, contrito e umile, come pochi altri. Nessuno, tranne me, sapeva chi fosse o da dove provenisse. Era John Edmunds, il condannato che era tornato in libertà.”

CHAPTER VII. HOW MR. WINKLE, INSTEAD OF SHOOTING AT THE PIGEON AND KILLING THE CROW, SHOT AT THE CROW AND WOUNDED THE PIGEON; HOW THE DINGLEY DELL CRICKET CLUB PLAYED ALL-MUGGLETON, AND HOW ALL-MUGGLETON DINED AT THE DINGLEY DELL EXPENSE; WITH OTHER INTERESTING AND INSTRUCTIVE MATTERS

The fatiguing adventures of the day or the somniferous influence of the clergyman’s tale operated so strongly on the drowsy tendencies of Mr. Pickwick, that in less than five minutes after he had been shown to his comfortable bedroom he fell into a sound and dreamless sleep, from which he was only awakened by the morning sun darting his bright beams reproachfully into the apartment. Mr. Pickwick was no sluggard, and he sprang like an ardent warrior from his tent-bedstead.

‘Pleasant, pleasant country,’ sighed the enthusiastic gentleman, as he opened his lattice window. ‘Who could live to gaze from day to day on bricks and slates who had once felt the influence of a scene like this? Who could continue to exist where there are no cows but the cows on the chimney-pots; nothing redolent of Pan but pan-tiles; no crop but stone crop? Who could bear to drag out a life in such a spot? Who, I ask, could endure it?’ and, having cross-examined solitude after the most approved precedents, at considerable length, Mr. Pickwick thrust his head out of the lattice and looked around him.

The rich, sweet smell of the hay-ricks rose to his chamber window; the hundred perfumes of the little flower-garden beneath scented the air around; the deep-green meadows shone in the morning dew that glistened on every leaf as it trembled in the gentle air; and the birds sang as if every sparkling drop were to them a fountain of inspiration. Mr. Pickwick fell into an enchanting and delicious reverie.

‘Hollo!’ was the sound that roused him.

He looked to the right, but he saw nobody; his eyes wandered to the left, and pierced the prospect; he stared into the sky, but he wasn’t wanted there; and then he did what a common mind would have done at once—looked into the garden, and there saw Mr. Wardle.

‘How are you?’ said the good-humoured individual, out of breath with his own anticipations of pleasure.’Beautiful morning, ain’t it? Glad to see you up so early. Make haste down, and come out. I’ll wait for you here.’

Mr. Pickwick needed no second invitation. Ten minutes sufficed for the completion of his toilet, and at the expiration of that time he was by the old gentleman’s side.

‘Hollo!’ said Mr. Pickwick in his turn, seeing that his companion was armed with a gun, and that another lay ready on the grass; ‘what’s going forward?’

‘Why, your friend and I,’ replied the host, ‘are going out rook-shooting before breakfast. He’s a very good shot, ain’t he?’

‘I’ve heard him say he’s a capital one,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘but I never saw him aim at anything.’

‘Well,’ said the host, ‘I wish he’d come. Joe—Joe!’

The fat boy, who under the exciting influence of the morning did not appear to be more than three parts and a fraction asleep, emerged from the house.

‘Go up, and call the gentleman, and tell him he’ll find me and Mr. Pickwick in the rookery. Show the gentleman the way there; d’ye hear?’

The boy departed to execute his commission; and the host, carrying both guns like a second Robinson Crusoe, led the way from the garden.

‘This is the place,’ said the old gentleman, pausing after a few minutes walking, in an avenue of trees. The information was unnecessary; for the incessant cawing of the unconscious rooks sufficiently indicated their whereabouts.

The old gentleman laid one gun on the ground, and loaded the other.

‘Here they are,’ said Mr. Pickwick; and, as he spoke, the forms of Mr. Tupman, Mr. Snodgrass, and Mr. Winkle appeared in the distance. The fat boy, not being quite certain which gentleman he was directed to call, had with peculiar sagacity, and to prevent the possibility of any mistake, called them all.

‘Come along,’ shouted the old gentleman, addressing Mr. Winkle; ‘a keen hand like you ought to have been up long ago, even to such poor work as this.’

Mr. Winkle responded with a forced smile, and took up the spare gun with an expression of countenance which a metaphysical rook, impressed with a foreboding of his approaching death by violence, may be supposed to assume. It might have been keenness, but it looked remarkably like misery.

The old gentleman nodded; and two ragged boys who had been marshalled to the spot under the direction of the infant Lambert, forthwith commenced climbing up two of the trees.

‘What are these lads for?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick abruptly. He was rather alarmed; for he was not quite certain but that the distress of the agricultural interest, about which he had often heard a great deal, might have compelled the small boys attached to the soil to earn a precarious and hazardous subsistence by making marks of themselves for inexperienced sportsmen.

‘Only to start the game,’ replied Mr. Wardle, laughing.

‘To what?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Why, in plain English, to frighten the rooks.’

‘Oh, is that all?’

‘You are satisfied?’

‘Quite.’

‘Very well. Shall I begin?’

‘If you please,’ said Mr. Winkle, glad of any respite.

‘Stand aside, then. Now for it.’

The boy shouted, and shook a branch with a nest on it. Half a dozen young rooks in violent conversation, flew out to ask what the matter was. The old gentleman fired by way of reply. Down fell one bird, and off flew the others.

‘Take him up, Joe,’ said the old gentleman.

There was a smile upon the youth’s face as he advanced. Indistinct visions of rook-pie floated through his imagination. He laughed as he retired with the bird—it was a plump one.

‘Now, Mr. Winkle,’ said the host, reloading his own gun. ‘Fire away.’

Mr. Winkle advanced, and levelled his gun. Mr. Pickwick and his friends cowered involuntarily to escape damage from the heavy fall of rooks, which they felt quite certain would be occasioned by the devastating barrel of their friend. There was a solemn pause—a shout—a flapping of wings—a faint click.

CAPITOLO VII. COME IL SIGNOR WINKLE, INVECE DI SPARARE AL PAVOLO E UCCIDERE LA CORVO, SPARÒ ALLA CORVO E FINÍ PER FERIRE IL PAVOLO; COME IL CLUB DI CRICKET DEL DINGLEY DELL GIOCÒ UN MATCH “TUTTI CONTRO TUTTI”, E COME IL GRUPPO “TUTTI CONTRO TUTTI” PRANZÒ A SPESA DEL DINGLEY DELL; CON ALTRO MATERIE INTERESSANTI E INFORMATIVE.

Le faticose avventure della giornata o l’effetto sonnolento del racconto del prete agirono così forte sulle tendenze sonnolente di Mr. Pickwick che, in meno di cinque minuti dopo essere stato accompagnato nella sua comoda camera da letto, cadde in un sonno profondo e senza sogni; si svegliò soltanto quando i raggi del sole mattutino iniziarono a penetrare nella stanza. Mr. Pickwick non era certo uno pigro: si alzò immediatamente, come un guerriero deciso.

“Che paesaggio piacevole, ”, sospirò il gentiluomo entusiasta mentre apriva la sua finestra a griglia. “Chi potrebbe vivere giorno dopo giorno davanti a mattoni e tegole che un tempo hanno conosciuto l’influenza di un ambiente del genere? Chi potrebbe continuare ad esistere in un posto dove non ci sono mucche, se non quelle sui comignoli; dove non c’è nulla che ricordi Pan, se non le tegole a forma di testa di Pan; dove non cresce alcuna coltura, se non pietre? Chi potrebbe sopportare di trascorrere la vita in un posto del genere? Chi, vi chiedo, riuscirebbe ad affrontarlo?” E dopo aver analizzato a lungo quella solitudine seguendo i criteri più accettati, il signor Pickwick sporse la testa fuori dalla finestra e guardò intorno.

Il profumo ricco e dolce dei mucchi di fieno raggiungeva la sua finestra; i centinaia di aromi dei piccoli fiori del giardino inondavano l’aria circostante; i prati di colore verde scuro brillavano nella rugiada mattutina che luccicava su ogni foglia mentre tremolava nella brezza leggera; e gli uccelli cantavano, come se ogni goccia scintillante fosse per loro una fonte di ispirazione. Il signor Pickwick cadde in un incantevole e delizioso sogno a occhi aperti.

“Allo!” fu il suono che lo svegliò.

Guardò a destra, ma non vide nessuno; i suoi occhi si spostarono a sinistra e scrutarono l’orizzonte; fissò il cielo, ma non era il posto adatto per lui; poi fece ciò che qualsiasi persona normale avrebbe fatto immediatamente: guardò nel giardino, e lì vide il signor Wardle.

“Come stai?” disse quell’uomo di buon umore, ancora senza fiato per l’anticipazione della gioia che provava. “Che bella mattina, vero? È bello vederti alzato così presto. Sbrigati a scendere e vieni fuori; ti aspetto qui.”

Il signor Pickwick non aveva bisogno di una seconda invito. Dieci minuti furono sufficienti per completare le sue necessità igieniche, e al termine di quel tempo era già accanto all’anziano gentiluomo.

“Salve!”, disse a sua volta il signor Pickwick, notando che il suo compagno era armato di una pistola e che un’altra giaceva pronta sull’erba; “che cosa sta succedendo?”

“Beh, io e il tuo amico,” rispose l’ospite, “andremo a cacciare le rane prima di colazione. Lui è un ottimo tiratore, vero?”

“Ho sentito dire che sia davvero bravo,” rispose il signor Pickwick, “ma non l’ho mai visto mirare a nulla.”

“Beh,” disse l’ospite, “vorrei che venisse. Joe. Joe!”

Il ragazzo grasso, che sotto l’effetto eccitante della mattina sembrava dormire solo in parte, uscì dalla casa.

“Vai su e chiama quel signore, digli che mi troverà insieme al signor Pickwick nel roveto. Guida il signore fino lì, hai capito?”

Il ragazzo partì per eseguire il suo incarico; e il gruppo, armato di entrambe le pistole come un secondo Robinson Crusoe, lo guidò fuori dal giardino.

“Questo è il posto,” disse il vecchio signore, dopo aver camminato per alcuni minuti lungo un viale alberato. Quella informazione era in realtà superflua; infatti, il continuo gracchiare dei corvi indicava chiaramente dove si trovavano.

Il vecchio signore posò una pistola a terra e caricò l’altra.

“Eccoli qui,” disse il signor Pickwick; e mentre parlava, le figure del signor Tupman, del signor Snodgrass e del signor Winkle apparvero in lontananza. Il ragazzo grasso, non essendo del tutto sicuro di quale gentiluomo dovesse chiamare, con particolare saggezza – e per evitare qualsiasi possibilità di errore – li chiamò tutti quanti.

“Vieni con me,” gridò il vecchio signore rivolgendosi a Mr. Winkle; “una mano abile come la tua avrebbe dovuto occuparsi di questo lavoro da molto tempo, anche se è così semplice.”

Il signor Winkle rispose con un sorriso forzato e prese l’arma di scorta, con un’espressione sul viso che si potrebbe immaginare assumere da una pedina metafisica, colpita dal presagio della propria imminente morte violenta. Quell’espressione poteva sembrare interesse, ma in realtà assomigliava molto alla sofferenza.

Il vecchio signore annuì; e due ragazzi in stracci, che erano stati radunati lì sotto la guida del piccolo Lambert, iniziarono immediatamente ad arrampicarsi su due degli alberi.

“Perché esistono questi ragazzi?” chiese improvvisamente il signor Pickwick. Era piuttosto allarmato; non era del tutto sicuro, infatti, che le difficoltà dell’agricoltura, di cui aveva spesso sentito parlare molto, potessero aver costretto questi bambini a guadagnarsi da vivere in modo precario e pericoloso, facendo da bersaglio per sportivi inesperti.

“Solo per iniziare il gioco,” rispose il signor Wardle ridendo.

“Verso cosa?”, chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Per spaventare i corvi, in parole povere.”

“Ah, è tutto qui?”

“Sei soddisfatto?”

“Proprio così.”

“Molto bene. Devo iniziare?”

“Se vi va bene,” disse il signor Winkle, felice di poter ottenere un po’ di tregua.

“Allora fai da parte, è il momento.”

Il ragazzo gridò e scosse un ramo su cui c’era un nido. Una mezza dozzina di giovani corvi, impegnati in una vivace conversazione, volarono fuori per chiedere cosa stesse succedendo. Il vecchio signore sparò in risposta; uno dei corvi cadde a terra e gli altri volarono via.

“Portalo su, Joe,” disse il vecchio signore.

C’era un sorriso sul volto del giovane mentre avanzava. Immagini vaghe di piccoli uccelli gli attraversavano l’immaginazione. Rise mentre si allontanava con quell’uccello: era davvero paffuto.

“Ora, signor Winkle,” disse l’ospite, ricaricando la propria pistola. “Faccia pure fuoco.”

Il signor Winkle fece un passo avanti e puntò il suo fucile. Il signor Pickwick e i suoi amici si ritrassero involontariamente, temendo di essere colpiti dai pesanti proiettili sparati dal fucile del loro amico. Erano certi che ciò sarebbe accaduto. Seguì un momento di silenzio solenne, poi un grido, il battito delle ali, e infine un debole clic.

‘Hollo!’ said the old gentleman.

‘Won’t it go?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Missed fire,’ said Mr. Winkle, who was very pale—probably from disappointment.

‘Odd,’ said the old gentleman, taking the gun. ‘Never knew one of them miss fire before. Why, I don’t see anything of the cap.’

Bless my soul!’ said Mr. Winkle, ‘I declare I forgot the cap!’

The slight omission was rectified. Mr. Pickwick crouched again. Mr. Winkle stepped forward with an air of determination and resolution; and Mr. Tupman looked out from behind a tree. The boy shouted; four birds flew out. Mr. Winkle fired. There was a scream as of an individual—not a rook—in corporal anguish. Mr. Tupman had saved the lives of innumerable unoffending birds by receiving a portion of the charge in his left arm.

To describe the confusion that ensued would be impossible. To tell how Mr. Pickwick in the first transports of emotion called Mr. Winkle ‘Wretch!’ how Mr. Tupman lay prostrate on the ground; and how Mr. Winkle knelt horror-stricken beside him; how Mr. Tupman called distractedly upon some feminine Christian name, and then opened first one eye, and then the other, and then fell back and shut them both—all this would be as difficult to describe in detail, as it would be to depict the gradual recovering of the unfortunate individual, the binding up of his arm with pocket-handkerchiefs, and the conveying him back by slow degrees supported by the arms of his anxious friends.

They drew near the house. The ladies were at the garden gate, waiting for their arrival and their breakfast. The spinster aunt appeared; she smiled, and beckoned them to walk quicker. ‘Twas evident she knew not of the disaster. Poor thing! there are times when ignorance is bliss indeed.

They approached nearer.

‘Why, what is the matter with the little old gentleman?’ said Isabella Wardle. The spinster aunt heeded not the remark; she thought it applied to Mr. Pickwick. In her eyes Tracy Tupman was a youth; she viewed his years through a diminishing glass.

‘Don’t be frightened,’ called out the old host, fearful of alarming his daughters. The little party had crowded so completely round Mr. Tupman, that they could not yet clearly discern the nature of the accident.

‘Don’t be frightened,’ said the host.

‘What’s the matter?’ screamed the ladies.

‘Mr. Tupman has met with a little accident; that’s all.’

The spinster aunt uttered a piercing scream, burst into an hysteric laugh, and fell backwards in the arms of her nieces.

‘Throw some cold water over her,’ said the old gentleman.

‘No, no,’ murmured the spinster aunt; ‘I am better now. Bella, Emily—a surgeon! Is he wounded?—Is he dead?—Is he—Ha, ha, ha!’ Here the spinster aunt burst into fit number two, of hysteric laughter interspersed with screams.

‘Calm yourself,’ said Mr. Tupman, affected almost to tears by this expression of sympathy with his sufferings. ‘Dear, dear madam, calm yourself.’

‘It is his voice!’ exclaimed the spinster aunt; and strong symptoms of fit number three developed themselves forthwith.

‘Do not agitate yourself, I entreat you, dearest madam,’ said Mr. Tupman soothingly. ‘I am very little hurt, I assure you.’

‘Then you are not dead!’ ejaculated the hysterical lady. ‘Oh, say you are not dead!’

‘Don’t be a fool, Rachael,’ interposed Mr. Wardle, rather more roughly than was consistent with the poetic nature of the scene. ‘What the devil’s the use of his saying he isn’t dead?’

‘No, no, I am not,’ said Mr. Tupman. ‘I require no assistance but yours. Let me lean on your arm.’ He added, in a whisper, ‘Oh, Miss Rachael!’ The agitated female advanced, and offered her arm. They turned into the breakfast parlour. Mr. Tracy Tupman gently pressed her hand to his lips, and sank upon the sofa.

‘Are you faint?’ inquired the anxious Rachael.

‘No,’ said Mr. Tupman. ‘It is nothing. I shall be better presently.’ He closed his eyes.

‘He sleeps,’ murmured the spinster aunt. (His organs of vision had been closed nearly twenty seconds.) ‘Dear—dear—Mr. Tupman!’

Mr. Tupman jumped up—‘Oh, say those words again!’ he exclaimed.

The lady started. ‘Surely you did not hear them!’ she said bashfully.

‘Oh, yes, I did!’ replied Mr. Tupman; ‘repeat them. If you would have me recover, repeat them.’

Hush!’ said the lady. ‘My brother.’ Mr. Tracy Tupman resumed his former position; and Mr. Wardle, accompanied by a surgeon, entered the room.

The arm was examined, the wound dressed, and pronounced to be a very slight one; and the minds of the company having been thus satisfied, they proceeded to satisfy their appetites with countenances to which an expression of cheerfulness was again restored. Mr. Pickwick alone was silent and reserved. Doubt and distrust were exhibited in his countenance. His confidence in Mr. Winkle had been shaken—greatly shaken—by the proceedings of the morning.

‘Are you a cricketer?’ inquired Mr. Wardle of the marksman.

At any other time, Mr. Winkle would have replied in the affirmative. He felt the delicacy of his situation, and modestly replied, ‘No.’

‘Are you, sir?’ inquired Mr. Snodgrass.

‘I was once upon a time,’ replied the host; ‘but I have given it up now. I subscribe to the club here, but I don’t play.’

‘The grand match is played to-day, I believe,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘It is,’ replied the host. ‘Of course you would like to see it.’

‘I, sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘am delighted to view any sports which may be safely indulged in, and in which the impotent effects of unskilful people do not endanger human life.’ Mr. Pickwick paused, and looked steadily on Mr. Winkle, who quailed beneath his leader’s searching glance. The great man withdrew his eyes after a few minutes, and added: ‘Shall we be justified in leaving our wounded friend to the care of the ladies?’

‘You cannot leave me in better hands,’ said Mr. Tupman.

“Salve!” disse il vecchio signore.

“Non andrà mica in tilt, vero?”, chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Ho mancato il bersaglio,” disse il signor Winkle, molto pallido, probabilmente a causa della delusione.

“Strano,” disse il vecchio signore prendendo la pistola. “Non avevo mai saputo che uno di loro mancasse un colpo. Ma dove è finita quella pallottola?”

“Che la mia ‘anima sia benedetta!”, disse il signor Winkle, “Devo ammettere di aver dimenticato il cappello, ”

Quell’omissione lieve è stata corretta. Il signor Pickwick si accovacciò di nuovo. Il signor Winkle fece un passo avanti con aria decisa e risoluta; il signor Tupman spuntò da dietro un albero. Il ragazzo gridò, quattro uccelli volarono via. Il signor Winkle sparò, si udì un grido di dolore lanciato da una creatura vivente, non da una gazza. Il signor Tupman aveva salvato la vita di innumerevoli uccelli innocenti, assumendosi una parte del colpo con il proprio braccio sinistro.

Descrivere la confusione che ne seguì sarebbe impossibile. Raccontare come il signor Pickwick, nel primo impeto di emozione, chiamasse il signor Winkle “Miserabile!”, come il signor Tupman giacesse prostrato a terra, e come il signor Winkle si inginocchiasse accanto a lui, terrorizzato; come il signor Tupman chiamasse confusamente un nome femminile cristiano, per poi aprire prima un occhio, poi l’altro, e infine richiuderli entrambi. Tutto ciò sarebbe altrettanto difficile da descrivere in dettaglio, quanto lo sarebbe rappresentare il graduale recupero di quell’infortunato individuo, il suo braccio avvolto nei fazzoletti da tasca, e il modo in cui fu portato via, lentamente e sostenuto dai bracci dei suoi amici ansiosi.

Si avvicinarono alla casa. Le signore erano all’ingresso del giardino, in attesa del loro arrivo e della colazione. Apparve la zia zitella; sorrise e li esortò ad accelerare il passo. Era evidente che non fosse a conoscenza del disastro. Poverina! A volte, l’ignoranza è davvero una benedizione.

Si avvicinarono ancora di più.

“Ma che cos’ha quel piccolo vecchio gentiluomo?” disse Isabella Wardle. La zia zitella non prestò attenzione a quella osservazione; pensò che si riferisse a Mr. Pickwick. Ai suoi occhi, Tracy Tupman era ancora un giovane; vedeva le sue età attraverso una lente che le rendeva sembrare più giovani di quanto non fossero in realtà.

“Non spaventatevi,” gridò l’anziano ospite, temendo di allarmare le sue figlie. Il piccolo gruppo si era raccolto così strettamente intorno al signor Tupman che non riuscivano ancora a comprendere chiaramente la natura dell’incidente.

“Non avere paura,” disse l’ospite.

“Che cos’è successo?” gridarono le signore.

“Il signor Tupman ha avuto un piccolo incidente, nient’altro.”

La zia zitella emise un grido stridulo, scoppiò in una risata isterica e cadde all’indietro tra le braccia delle sue nipoti.

“Versale un po’ d’acqua fredda addosso,” disse il vecchio signore.

“No, no,” mormorò la zia zitella; “Ora sto meglio. Bella, Emily, un chirurgo! È ferito? È morto? È. Ahahah!” A quel punto la zia zitella scoppiò in una seconda crisi di risate isteriche, interrotte da urla.

“Calmati,” disse il signor Tupman, quasi commosso fino alle lacrime da questa manifestazione di compassione per le sue sofferenze. “Carissima signora, calmati.”

“È la sua voce!” esclamò la zia zitella; e immediatamente si manifestarono forti sintomi della terza crisi.

“Non agitarsi, la prego, mia cara signora,” disse gentilmente il signor Tupman. “Le assicuro che non sono affatto ferito.”

“Allora non sei morto!” esclamò la donna isterica. “Oh, dimmi che non sei morto!”

“Non essere una sciocca, Rachael,” intervenne il signor Wardle, in modo piuttosto brusco, diversamente da quanto ci si sarebbe aspettato data la natura “poetica” della scena. “A che serve dire che non è morto?”

“No, no, non lo sono,” disse il signor Tupman. “Non ho bisogno di alcun aiuto se non del vostro. Lasciate che mi appoggi al vostro braccio.” Aggiunse sottovoce: “Oh, signorina Rachael!” La donna agitata si avvicinò e gli offrì il suo braccio. Entrarono nel salotto da colazione. Il signor Tracy Tupman premette dolcemente la sua mano sulle proprie labbra, poi si lasciò cadere sul divano.

“Stai per svenire?”, chiese preoccupata Rachel.

“No,” disse il signor Tupman. “Non è nulla. Tra poco starò meglio.” Chiuse gli occhi.

“Dorme,” mormorò la zia zitella. (I suoi organi di vista erano stati chiusi da quasi venti secondi.) “Caro, caro signor Tupman, ”

Il signor Tupman balzò in piedi: “Oh, ripetete quelle parole!” esclamò.

La signora iniziò a parlare. “Di certo non li hai sentiti!” disse imbarazzata.

“Ah sì, le ho dette!” rispose il signor Tupman; “ripetetele. Se volete che io guarisca, ripetetele.”

“Zitta!” disse la signora. “Mio fratello, ” Il signor Tracy Tupman riprese la sua posizione precedente; e il signor Wardle, accompagnato da un chirurgo, entrò nella stanza.

Il braccio fu esaminato, la ferita curata e si concluse che fosse molto lieve; una volta rassicurati su questo punto, i presenti continuarono a soddisfare i loro desideri, ripristinando sul proprio volto un’espressione di allegria. Solo il signor Pickwick rimase in silenzio e riservato; sul suo viso si leggevano dubbi e sfiducia. La sua fiducia nel signor Winkle era stata profondamente scossa dagli eventi della mattina precedente.

“Sei un giocatore di cricket?”, chiese il signor Wardle al tiratore.

In qualsiasi altro momento, il signor Winkle avrebbe risposto affermativamente. Era consapevole della delicatezza della sua situazione e, con modestia, rispose: “No”.

“È lei, signore?”, chiese il signor Snodgrass.

“C’era una volta, ”, rispose l’ospite; “ma ora ho smesso. Sono iscritto a questo club, ma non partecipo alle partite.”

“Credo che oggi si disputi la grande partita,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Lo è,” rispose l’ospite. “Certo che vorresti vederlo.”

“Io, signore,” rispose il signor Pickwick, “sono felice di assistere a qualsiasi sport che possa essere praticato in modo sicuro, e nel quale gli effetti negativi derivanti dall’incompetenza delle persone non mettano a rischio la vita umana.” Il signor Pickwick fece una pausa e fissò attentamente il signor Winkle, il quale tremò sotto quello sguardo incisivo. Dopo alcuni minuti, il grande uomo distolse lo sguardo e aggiunse: “Possiamo considerarci giustificati nel lasciare il nostro amico ferito alle cure delle signore?”

“Non potreste lasciarmi in mani migliori”, disse il signor Tupman.

‘Quite impossible,’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

It was therefore settled that Mr. Tupman should be left at home in charge of the females; and that the remainder of the guests, under the guidance of Mr. Wardle, should proceed to the spot where was to be held that trial of skill, which had roused all Muggleton from its torpor, and inoculated Dingley Dell with a fever of excitement.

As their walk, which was not above two miles long, lay through shady lanes and sequestered footpaths, and as their conversation turned upon the delightful scenery by which they were on every side surrounded, Mr. Pickwick was almost inclined to regret the expedition they had used, when he found himself in the main street of the town of Muggleton.

Everybody whose genius has a topographical bent knows perfectly well that Muggleton is a corporate town, with a mayor, burgesses, and freemen; and anybody who has consulted the addresses of the mayor to the freemen, or the freemen to the mayor, or both to the corporation, or all three to Parliament, will learn from thence what they ought to have known before, that Muggleton is an ancient and loyal borough, mingling a zealous advocacy of Christian principles with a devoted attachment to commercial rights; in demonstration whereof, the mayor, corporation, and other inhabitants, have presented at divers times, no fewer than one thousand four hundred and twenty petitions against the continuance of negro slavery abroad, and an equal number against any interference with the factory system at home; sixty-eight in favour of the sale of livings in the Church, and eighty-six for abolishing Sunday trading in the street.

Mr. Pickwick stood in the principal street of this illustrious town, and gazed with an air of curiosity, not unmixed with interest, on the objects around him. There was an open square for the market-place; and in the centre of it, a large inn with a sign-post in front, displaying an object very common in art, but rarely met with in nature—to wit, a blue lion, with three bow legs in the air, balancing himself on the extreme point of the centre claw of his fourth foot. There were, within sight, an auctioneer’s and fire-agency office, a corn-factor’s, a linen- draper’s, a saddler’s, a distiller’s, a grocer’s, and a shoe-shop—the last-mentioned warehouse being also appropriated to the diffusion of hats, bonnets, wearing apparel, cotton umbrellas, and useful knowledge. There was a red brick house with a small paved courtyard in front, which anybody might have known belonged to the attorney; and there was, moreover, another red brick house with Venetian blinds, and a large brass door-plate with a very legible announcement that it belonged to the surgeon. A few boys were making their way to the cricket-field; and two or three shopkeepers who were standing at their doors looked as if they should like to be making their way to the same spot, as indeed to all appearance they might have done, without losing any great amount of custom thereby. Mr. Pickwick having paused to make these observations, to be noted down at a more convenient period, hastened to rejoin his friends, who had turned out of the main street, and were already within sight of the field of battle.

The wickets were pitched, and so were a couple of marquees for the rest and refreshment of the contending parties. The game had not yet commenced. Two or three Dingley Dellers, and All-Muggletonians, were amusing themselves with a majestic air by throwing the ball carelessly from hand to hand; and several other gentlemen dressed like them, in straw hats, flannel jackets, and white trousers—a costume in which they looked very much like amateur stone-masons—were sprinkled about the tents, towards one of which Mr. Wardle conducted the party.

Several dozen of ‘How-are-you’s?’ hailed the old gentleman’s arrival; and a general raising of the straw hats, and bending forward of the flannel jackets, followed his introduction of his guests as gentlemen from London, who were extremely anxious to witness the proceedings of the day, with which, he had no doubt, they would be greatly delighted.

‘You had better step into the marquee, I think, Sir,’ said one very stout gentleman, whose body and legs looked like half a gigantic roll of flannel, elevated on a couple of inflated pillow-cases.

‘You’ll find it much pleasanter, Sir,’ urged another stout gentleman, who strongly resembled the other half of the roll of flannel aforesaid.

‘You’re very good,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘This way,’ said the first speaker; ‘they notch in here—it’s the best place in the whole field;’ and the cricketer, panting on before, preceded them to the tent.

‘Capital game—smart sport—fine exercise—very,’ were the words which fell upon Mr. Pickwick’s ear as he entered the tent; and the first object that met his eyes was his green-coated friend of the Rochester coach, holding forth, to the no small delight and edification of a select circle of the chosen of All-Muggleton. His dress was slightly improved, and he wore boots; but there was no mistaking him.

The stranger recognised his friends immediately; and, darting forward and seizing Mr. Pickwick by the hand, dragged him to a seat with his usual impetuosity, talking all the while as if the whole of the arrangements were under his especial patronage and direction.

‘This way—this way—capital fun—lots of beer—hogsheads; rounds of beef—bullocks; mustard—cart-loads; glorious day—down with you—make yourself at home—glad to see you—very.’

Mr. Pickwick sat down as he was bid, and Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass also complied with the directions of their mysterious friend. Mr. Wardle looked on in silent wonder.

‘Mr. Wardle—a friend of mine,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Friend of yours!—My dear sir, how are you?—Friend of my friend’s— give me your hand, sir’—and the stranger grasped Mr. Wardle’s hand with all the fervour of a close intimacy of many years, and then stepped back a pace or two as if to take a full survey of his face and figure, and then shook hands with him again, if possible, more warmly than before.

“Assolutamente impossibile,” disse il signor Snodgrass.

Fu quindi deciso che il signor Tupman rimanesse a >casa a prendersi cura delle donne; mentre il resto degli ospiti, sotto la guida del signor Wardle, si sarebbero recati sul luogo dove avrebbe avuto luogo quella gara di abilità che aveva risvegliato tutto Muggleton dal suo torpore e aveva infiammato Dingley Dell di eccitazione.

Poiché il loro cammino, lungo non più di due miglia, si snodava attraverso viottoli ombreggiati e sentieri isolati, e poiché la loro conversazione riguardava i piacevoli paesaggi che li circondavano su tutti i lati, il signor Pickwick stava quasi per pentirsi di quella escursione quando si trovò nella strada principale della città di Muggleton.

Chiunque abbia un talento legato alla conoscenza topografica sa perfettamente che Muggleton è una città con istituzioni corporative: un sindaco, dei membri del consiglio comunale e dei cittadini liberi. Chiunque abbia consultato gli elenchi degli indirizzi del sindaco rispetto ai membri del consiglio, o di questi ultimi rispetto al sindaco, o di entrambi rispetto alla corporazione, o addirittura di tutti e tre rispetto al Parlamento, avrà appreso ciò che avrebbe dovuto sapere fin dall’inizio: che Muggleton è una comunità antica e leale, che unisce una fervente difesa dei principi cristiani a un profondo attaccamento ai diritti commerciali. A dimostrazione di ciò, il sindaco, la corporazione e gli altri abitanti hanno presentato, in diverse occasioni, non meno di millequattrocentoventi petizioni contro la continuazione della schiavitù nei Paesi stranieri, e un numero uguale contro qualsiasi interferenza con il sistema industriale nel proprio paese; sessantotto petizioni a favore della vendita dei beni ecclesiastici, e ottantasei per l’abolizione del commercio domenicale nelle strade.

Il signor Pickwick si trovava nella strada principale di questa illustre città e osservava con curiosità, non priva di interesse, gli oggetti che lo circondavano. C’era una piazza aperta adibita al mercato; al suo centro sorgeva un grande ostello, davanti al quale era posta un’insegna che raffigurava un animale molto comune nell’arte, ma raramente visto in natura: un leone blu con le zampe posteriori piegate verso l’alto, che si reggeva sull’estremità della zampa anteriore centrale del quarto piede. Nella zona visibile c’erano anche l’ufficio di un auctioneer e di una agenzia immobiliare, un negozio di cereali, uno di stoffe, uno di ferramenta, uno di distillazione, un negozio di alimentari e una calzoleria; quest’ultimo, in realtà, fungeva anche da magazzino dove si vendevano cappelli, berretti, abiti, ombrelli di cotone e, “conoscenze utili”. C’era anche una casa in mattoni rossi con un piccolo cortile lastricato davanti; chiunque avrebbe potuto capire che apparteneva all’avvocato. Inoltre, c’era un’altra casa in mattoni rossi con persiane veneziane e una grande targa di bronzo su cui era scritto chiaramente che apparteneva al chirurgo. Alcuni ragazzi stavano dirigendosi verso il campo da cricket; due o tre negozianti, fermi davanti ai loro negozi, sembravano volerli seguire, e in effetti avrebbero potuto farlo senza perdere alcun cliente. Dopo aver fatto queste osservazioni, il signor Pickwick si affrettò a raggiungere i suoi amici, che avevano già lasciato la strada principale e si trovavano ormai vicini al campo da cricket.

I wicket erano stati posizionati, così come alcune strutture per il riposo e i rinfreschi delle squadre partecipanti. Il gioco non era ancora iniziato. Due o tre ragazzi del gruppo Dingley Dellers, insieme ad altri vestiti allo stesso modo – con cappelli di paglia, giacche di flanella e pantaloni bianchi, un abbigliamento che li faceva assomigliare molto a muratori dilettanti – si divertivano lanciando la palla avanti e indietro senza cura. Il signor Wardle guidò il gruppo verso uno dei tendoni.

Diverse dozzine di “Come stai?” accolsero l’arrivo del vecchio signore; e un generale sollevare dei cappelli di paglia, accompagnato da un inchino da parte delle giacche di flanella, seguì la presentazione dei suoi ospiti come gentiluomini provenienti da Londra, i quali erano estremamente desiderosi di assistere alle attività di quella giornata, e di cui, senza alcun >dubbio, sarebbero stati molto soddisfatti.

“Penso che sia meglio che entri nella tenda, signore,” disse un gentiluomo molto robusto, il cui -corpo e le sue gambe sembravano mezzo rotolo gigantesco di flanella, sostenuto da un paio di cuscini gonfiati.

“Lo troverete molto più piacevole, signore,” insistette un altro gentiluomo robusto, che assomigliava molto all’altra metà di quella stessa striscia di flanella menzionata in precedenza.

“Sei molto bravo,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Da questa parte,” disse il primo dei due; “si inseriscono qui, è il posto migliore di tutto il campo”; e il giocatore di cricket, ansimando, li precedette verso la tenda.

“Gioco d’azzardo – sport intelligente – ottima attività fisica, davvero,” furono le parole che raggiunsero le orecchie di Mr. Pickwick quando entrò nella tenda; la prima cosa che gli cadde sotto gli occhi fu il suo amico in giacca verde, quello dell’omnibus di Rochester, che stava tenendo un discorso davanti a un ristretto gruppo di persone selezionate tra i migliori di All-Muggleton. Il suo abbigliamento era stato leggermente migliorato e indossava delle scarpe; ma non c’era modo di sbagliarsi: era proprio lui.

Lo sconosciuto riconobbe immediatamente i suoi amici; si avvicinò di corsa, afferrò il signor Pickwick per la mano e lo trascinò verso un posto a sedere con la sua solita impetuosità, parlando tutto il tempo come se tutte le disposizioni fossero sotto la sua speciale protezione e guida.

“Da questa parte, da questa parte, divertimento assicurato, molta birra, barili interi; tagli di manzo, buoi interi; senape, carri pieni; una giornata meravigliosa, addio a voi, sentitevi come a casa vostra, felice di vedervi, davvero.”

Il signor Pickwick si sedette come gli era stato chiesto, e anche il signor Winkle e il signor Snodgrass seguirono le istruzioni del loro misterioso amico. Il signor Wardle osservava tutto in silenzio, con lo stupore negli occhi.

“Il signor Wardle, un mio amico,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Un amico suo! – Mio caro signore, come sta? – Un amico dell’amico mio. Mi dia la mano, per favore.” L’estraneo strinse la mano del signor Wardle con tutto l’affetto che deriverebbe da una stretta amicizia durata molti anni; poi fece un passo indietro, come se volesse osservare attentamente il suo volto e la sua figura, e infine strinse di nuovo la sua mano, questa volta ancora più calorosamente di prima.

‘Well; and how came you here?’ said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile in which benevolence struggled with surprise.

‘Come,’ replied the stranger—‘stopping at Crown—Crown at Muggleton— met a party—flannel jackets—white trousers—anchovy sandwiches— devilled kidney—splendid fellows—glorious.’

Mr. Pickwick was sufficiently versed in the stranger’s system of stenography to infer from this rapid and disjointed communication that he had, somehow or other, contracted an acquaintance with the All- Muggletons, which he had converted, by a process peculiar to himself, into that extent of good-fellowship on which a general invitation may be easily founded. His curiosity was therefore satisfied, and putting on his spectacles he prepared himself to watch the play which was just commencing.

All-Muggleton had the first innings; and the interest became intense when Mr. Dumkins and Mr. Podder, two of the most renowned members of that most distinguished club, walked, bat in hand, to their respective wickets. Mr. Luffey, the highest ornament of Dingley Dell, was pitched to bowl against the redoubtable Dumkins, and Mr. Struggles was selected to do the same kind office for the hitherto unconquered Podder. Several players were stationed, to ‘look out,’ in different parts of the field, and each fixed himself into the proper attitude by placing one hand on each knee, and stooping very much as if he were ‘making a back’ for some beginner at leap-frog. All the regular players do this sort of thing;— indeed it is generally supposed that it is quite impossible to look out properly in any other position.

The umpires were stationed behind the wickets; the scorers were prepared to notch the runs; a breathless silence ensued. Mr. Luffey retired a few paces behind the wicket of the passive Podder, and applied the ball to his right eye for several seconds. Dumkins confidently awaited its coming with his eyes fixed on the motions of Luffey.

‘Play!’ suddenly cried the bowler. The ball flew from his hand straight and swift towards the centre stump of the wicket. The wary Dumkins was on the alert: it fell upon the tip of the bat, and bounded far away over the heads of the scouts, who had just stooped low enough to let it fly over them.

‘Run—run—another.—Now, then throw her up—up with her—stop there— another—no—yes—no—throw her up, throw her up!’—Such were the shouts which followed the stroke; and at the conclusion of which All-Muggleton had scored two. Nor was Podder behindhand in earning laurels wherewith to garnish himself and Muggleton. He blocked the doubtful balls, missed the bad ones, took the good ones, and sent them flying to all parts of the field. The scouts were hot and tired; the bowlers were changed and bowled till their arms ached; but Dumkins and Podder remained unconquered. Did an elderly gentleman essay to stop the progress of the ball, it rolled between his legs or slipped between his fingers. Did a slim gentleman try to catch it, it struck him on the nose, and bounded pleasantly off with redoubled violence, while the slim gentleman’s eyes filled with water, and his form writhed with anguish. Was it thrown straight up to the wicket, Dumkins had reached it before the ball. In short, when Dumkins was caught out, and Podder stumped out, All- Muggleton had notched some fifty-four, while the score of the Dingley Dellers was as blank as their faces. The advantage was too great to be recovered. In vain did the eager Luffey, and the enthusiastic Struggles, do all that skill and experience could suggest, to regain the ground Dingley Dell had lost in the contest—it was of no avail; and in an early period of the winning game Dingley Dell gave in, and allowed the superior prowess of All-Muggleton.

The stranger, meanwhile, had been eating, drinking, and talking, without cessation. At every good stroke he expressed his satisfaction and approval of the player in a most condescending and patronising manner, which could not fail to have been highly gratifying to the party concerned; while at every bad attempt at a catch, and every failure to stop the ball, he launched his personal displeasure at the head of the devoted individual in such denunciations as—‘Ah, ah!—stupid’—‘Now, butter-fingers’—‘Muff’—‘Humbug’—and so forth—ejaculations which seemed to establish him in the opinion of all around, as a most excellent and undeniable judge of the whole art and mystery of the noble game of cricket.

‘Capital game—well played—some strokes admirable,’ said the stranger, as both sides crowded into the tent, at the conclusion of the game.

‘You have played it, sir?’ inquired Mr. Wardle, who had been much amused by his loquacity.

‘Played it! Think I have—thousands of times—not here—West Indies— exciting thing—hot work—very.’ ‘It must be rather a warm pursuit in such a climate,’ observed Mr. Pickwick.

‘Warm!—red hot—scorching—glowing. Played a match once—single wicket- -friend the colonel—Sir Thomas Blazo—who should get the greatest number of runs.—Won the toss—first innings—seven o’clock A.M.—six natives to look out—went in; kept in—heat intense—natives all fainted—taken away—fresh half-dozen ordered—fainted also—Blazo bowling—supported by two natives—couldn’t bowl me out—fainted too— cleared away the colonel—wouldn’t give in—faithful attendant—Quanko Samba—last man left—sun so hot, bat in blisters, ball scorched brown— five hundred and seventy runs—rather exhausted—Quanko mustered up last remaining strength—bowled me out—had a bath, and went out to dinner.’

‘And what became of what’s-his-name, Sir?’ inquired an old gentleman.

‘Blazo?’

‘No—the other gentleman.’

Quanko Samba?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Poor Quanko—never recovered it—bowled on, on my account—bowled off, on his own—died, sir.’ Here the stranger buried his countenance in a brown jug, but whether to hide his emotion or imbibe its contents, we cannot distinctly affirm. We only know that he paused suddenly, drew a long and deep breath, and looked anxiously on, as two of the principal members of the Dingley Dell club approached Mr. Pickwick, and said—

“Beh. E come sei arrivato qui?” disse il signor Pickwick con un sorriso nel quale la benevolenza lottava contro la sorpresa.

“Come,” rispose lo sconosciuto, “fermandosi alla >Crown di Muggleton, ho incontrato un gruppo di persone: giacche di flanella, pantaloni bianchi, panini con acciughe, ottimi compagni, davvero splendidi.”

Il signor Pickwick conosceva abbastanza bene il sistema di stenografia utilizzato da quell’uomo, da poter dedurre, da quella comunicazione rapida e frammentata, che in qualche modo aveva fatto conoscenza con i membri della famiglia All-Muggleton, riuscendo, con un metodo tutto suo, a instaurare con loro un rapporto di buona amicizia tale da poter basarvi facilmente un invito generale. La sua curiosità era quindi soddisfatta; indossò gli occhiali e si preparò ad assistere allo spettacolo che stava appena iniziando.

All-Muggleton iniziò il primo inning; l’interesse del pubblico divenne ancora più intenso quando il signor Dumkins e il signor Podder, due dei membri più noti di quel prestigioso club, si avvicinarono ai rispettivi wicket con la mazza in mano. Il signor Luffey, l’orgoglio di Dingley Dell, fu incaricato di lanciare contro il temibile Dumkins, mentre il signor Struggles ebbe lo stesso compito per il fino ad allora imbattuto Podder. Alcuni giocatori furono posizionati in diverse parti del campo per “tenere d’occhio” gli avversari; ognuno di loro assunse la posizione corretta, mettendo una mano su ogni ginocchio e chinandosi molto in avanti, come se stesse preparandosi a fare un salto. Tutti i giocatori regolari fanno così. Anzi, si ritiene generalmente che sia impossibile osservare adeguatamente gli avversari in qualsiasi altra posizione.

Gli arbitri erano posizionati dietro i wicket; gli addetti al punteggio erano pronti a registrare i punti ottenuti; seguì un silenzio carico di tensione. Il signor Luffey si allontanò di qualche passo dal wicket del passivo Podder e si applicò la palla sull’occhio destro per diversi secondi. Dumkins attendeva con fiducia, fissando attentamente i movimenti di Luffey.

“Gioca!” gridò all’improvviso il lanciatore. La palla volò dalla sua mano dritta e veloce verso il palo centrale del wicket. Il attento Dumkins era all’erta: la palla colpì la punta della mazza e si allontanò velocemente sopra le teste degli scout, che avevano appena abbassato la testa per farla passare sopra di loro.

“Corri, corri, un altro ancora. Ora, buttala via, buttala lontano. Fermati lì, un altro ancora, no, sì, no. Buttala via, buttala via!” Questi erano gli urli che seguivano ogni colpo; e alla fine di quella serie di azioni, All-Muggleton aveva segnato due punti. Nemmeno Podder era indietro nel cercare di guadagnarsi onori che potessero adornarlo lui stesso e Muggleton: bloccava le palle incerte, mancava quelle brutte, afferrava quelle buone e le mandava volando in tutte le direzioni del campo. Gli scout erano stanchi e sudati; i lanciatori si cambiavano continuamente e lanciavano fino a quando le braccia non gli facevano male; ma Dumkins e Podder rimanevano invincibili. Se un signore anziano provava ad intercettare la palla, questa rotolava tra le sue gambe o gli scivolava tra le dita; se un signore magro cercava di afferrarla, lo colpiva sul naso e si allontanava con ancora più forza, mentre gli occhi del signore magro si riempivano di lacrime e il suo corpo si contorceva dal dolore. Se la palla veniva lanciata dritta verso la porta, Dumkins arrivava lì prima che essa toccasse terra. In breve, quando Dumkins fu eliminato e Podder fu messo fuori gioco, All-Muggleton aveva totalizzato ben cinquantaquattro punti, mentre il punteggio dei Dingley Dell rimaneva zero. Il vantaggio era troppo grande per essere recuperato. Inutilmente Luffey e Struggles, pieni di entusiasmo e abilità, cercarono di rimediare alla sconfitta subita dai Dingley Dell, ma fu tutto inutile; e già nelle fasi iniziali della partita, i Dingley Dell dovettero arrendersi di fronte alla superiorità di All-Muggleton.

Nel frattempo, lo sconosciuto continuava a mangiare, bere e parlare senza sosta. Ogni volta che il giocatore eseguiva un movimento efficace, esprimeva la propria soddisfazione e approvazione in modo estremamente condiscendente e paternalistico, il che sicuramente doveva essere molto gratificante per il giocatore stesso; mentre ogni volta che questi falliva nel ricevere la palla o nel fermarla, lo sconosciuto esprimeva apertamente il proprio disappunto, definendolo “stupido”, “incompetente” e simili, dichiarazioni che, a giudicare dall’atteggiamento generale degli spettatori, dovevano confermare la sua considerazione di esperto indiscutibile in tutto ciò che riguardava l’arte e i misteri del nobile sport del cricket.

“Partita ben giocata – alcune mosse davvero ammirevoli,” disse lo sconosciuto, mentre entrambe le squadre si affollavano nella tenda al termine della partita.

“L’avete fatto davvero, signore?”, chiese il signor Wardle, che si era molto divertito dalla sua loquacità.

“L’ho fatto mille volte. Non qui, nelle Indie Occidentali. È stato davvero emozionante.” “Deve essere un’attività piuttosto impegnativa in un clima del genere,” osservò il signor Pickwick.

‘Caldo, bollente, ardente, luminoso. Una volta ho giocato una partita: un solo wicket. Amico del colonnello. Sir Thomas Blazo. Chi avrebbe ottenuto il maggior numero di punti? Ho vinto il lancio. Prima inning. Alle sette di mattina. Sei indigeni a guardia. Sono entrato in campo. Sono rimasto lì. Il caldo era intenso. Tutti gli indigeni sono svenuti. Li hanno portati via. Ne hanno ordinati altri sei. Anche quelli sono svenuti. Blazo lanciava. Aiutato da due indigeni. Non è riuscito a eliminarmi. Anche lui è svenuto. Ha aiutato il colonnello. Non voleva arrendersi. Un fedele assistente. Quanko Samba. L’ultimo uomo rimasto in campo. Il sole era così caldo che la mazza si riempiva di vesciche, e la palla diventava marrone per il calore. Cinquecentosettanta punti. Piuttosto esausto. Quanko ha raccolto le ultime forze rimaste. Mi ha eliminato. Mi sono fatto un bagno e poi sono andato a cena.’

“E cosa ne è stato di quel tizio, come si chiamava?”, chiese un anziano gentiluomo.

“Blazo?”

“No – l’altro gentiluomo.”

Quanto c’è di samba in tutto questo?

“Sì, signore.”

“Povero Quanko, non si riprese mai più, continuò a giocare a bowling per colpa mia, morì, signore.” A quel punto lo sconosciuto nascose il proprio volto in una giara marrone; ma se lo facesse per nascondere le proprie emozioni o per bere il contenuto della giara, non possiamo dirlo con certezza. Sappiamo soltanto che si fermò all’improvviso, trasse un respiro lungo e profondo, e osservò con ansia mentre due dei principali membri del club Dingley Dell si avvicinavano a Mr. Pickwick e gli dissero.

‘We are about to partake of a plain dinner at the Blue Lion, Sir; we hope you and your friends will join us.’

Of course,’ said Mr. Wardle, ‘among our friends we include Mr.—;’ and he looked towards the stranger.

‘Jingle,’ said that versatile gentleman, taking the hint at once. ‘Jingle—Alfred Jingle, Esq., of No Hall, Nowhere.’

‘I shall be very happy, I am sure,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘So shall I,’ said Mr. Alfred Jingle, drawing one arm through Mr. Pickwick’s, and another through Mr. Wardle’s, as he whispered confidentially in the ear of the former gentleman:—

‘Devilish good dinner—cold, but capital—peeped into the room this morning—fowls and pies, and all that sort of thing—pleasant fellows these—well behaved, too—very.’

There being no further preliminaries to arrange, the company straggled into the town in little knots of twos and threes; and within a quarter of an hour were all seated in the great room of the Blue Lion Inn, Muggleton—Mr. Dumkins acting as chairman, and Mr. Luffey officiating as vice.

There was a vast deal of talking and rattling of knives and forks, and plates; a great running about of three ponderous-headed waiters, and a rapid disappearance of the substantial viands on the table; to each and every of which item of confusion, the facetious Mr. Jingle lent the aid of half-a-dozen ordinary men at least. When everybody had eaten as much as possible, the cloth was removed, bottles, glasses, and dessert were placed on the table; and the waiters withdrew to ‘clear away,’ or in other words, to appropriate to their own private use and emolument whatever remnants of the eatables and drinkables they could contrive to lay their hands on.

Amidst the general hum of mirth and conversation that ensued, there was a little man with a puffy Say-nothing-to-me,-or-I’ll-contradict-you sort of countenance, who remained very quiet; occasionally looking round him when the conversation slackened, as if he contemplated putting in something very weighty; and now and then bursting into a short cough of inexpressible grandeur. At length, during a moment of comparative silence, the little man called out in a very loud, solemn voice,—

‘Mr. Luffey!’

Everybody was hushed into a profound stillness as the individual addressed, replied—

‘Sir!’

‘I wish to address a few words to you, Sir, if you will entreat the gentlemen to fill their glasses.’

Mr. Jingle uttered a patronising ‘Hear, hear,’ which was responded to by the remainder of the company; and the glasses having been filled, the vice-president assumed an air of wisdom in a state of profound attention; and said—

‘Mr. Staple.’

‘Sir,’ said the little man, rising, ‘I wish to address what I have to say to you and not to our worthy chairman, because our worthy chairman is in some measure—I may say in a great degree—the subject of what I have to say, or I may say to—to—’

‘State,’ suggested Mr. Jingle.

‘Yes, to state,’ said the little man, ‘I thank my honourable friend, if he will allow me to call him so (four hears and one certainly from Mr. Jingle), for the suggestion. Sir, I am a Deller—a Dingley Deller (cheers). I cannot lay claim to the honour of forming an item in the population of Muggleton; nor, Sir, I will frankly admit, do I covet that honour: and I will tell you why, Sir (hear); to Muggleton I will readily concede all these honours and distinctions to which it can fairly lay claim—they are too numerous and too well known to require aid or recapitulation from me. But, sir, while we remember that Muggleton has given birth to a Dumkins and a Podder, let us never forget that Dingley Dell can boast a Luffey and a Struggles. (Vociferous cheering.) Let me not be considered as wishing to detract from the merits of the former gentlemen. Sir, I envy them the luxury of their own feelings on this occasion. (Cheers.) Every gentleman who hears me, is probably acquainted with the reply made by an individual, who—to use an ordinary figure of speech—“hung out” in a tub, to the emperor Alexander:—“if I were not Diogenes,” said he, “I would be Alexander.” I can well imagine these gentlemen to say, “If I were not Dumkins I would be Luffey; if I were not Podder I would be Struggles.” (Enthusiasm.) But, gentlemen of Muggleton, is it in cricket alone that your fellow-townsmen stand pre- eminent? Have you never heard of Dumkins and determination? Have you never been taught to associate Podder with property? (Great applause.) Have you never, when struggling for your rights, your liberties, and your privileges, been reduced, if only for an instant, to misgiving and despair? And when you have been thus depressed, has not the name of Dumkins laid afresh within your breast the fire which had just gone out; and has not a word from that man lighted it again as brightly as if it had never expired? (Great cheering.) Gentlemen, I beg to surround with a rich halo of enthusiastic cheering the united names of “Dumkins and Podder.”’

Here the little man ceased, and here the company commenced a raising of voices, and thumping of tables, which lasted with little intermission during the remainder of the evening. Other toasts were drunk. Mr. Luffey and Mr. Struggles, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Jingle, were, each in his turn, the subject of unqualified eulogium; and each in due course returned thanks for the honour.

Enthusiastic as we are in the noble cause to which we have devoted ourselves, we should have felt a sensation of pride which we cannot express, and a consciousness of having done something to merit immortality of which we are now deprived, could we have laid the faintest outline on these addresses before our ardent readers. Mr. Snodgrass, as usual, took a great mass of notes, which would no doubt have afforded most useful and valuable information, had not the burning eloquence of the words or the feverish influence of the wine made that gentleman’s hand so extremely unsteady, as to render his writing nearly unintelligible, and his style wholly so. By dint of patient investigation, we have been enabled to trace some characters bearing a faint resemblance to the names of the speakers; and we can only discern an entry of a song (supposed to have been sung by Mr. Jingle), in which the words ‘bowl’ ‘sparkling’ ‘ruby’ ‘bright’ and ‘wine’ are frequently repeated at short intervals. We fancy, too, that we can discern at the very end of the notes, some indistinct reference to ‘broiled bones’; and then the words ‘cold’ ‘without’ occur: but as any hypothesis we could found upon them must necessarily rest upon mere conjecture, we are not disposed to indulge in any of the speculations to which they may give rise.

We will therefore return to Mr. Tupman; merely adding that within some few minutes before twelve o’clock that night, the convocation of worthies of Dingley Dell and Muggleton were heard to sing, with great feeling and emphasis, the beautiful and pathetic national air of

‘We won’t go home till morning, We won’t go home till morning, We won’t go home till morning, Till daylight doth appear.’

“Stiamo per goderci una semplice cena al Blue Lion, signore; speriamo che voi e i vostri amici vi uniate a noi.”

“Certo,” disse il signor Wardle, “tra i nostri amici includiamo anche il signor, ” e guardò verso lo sconosciuto.

“Jingle,” disse quel gentiluomo versatile, comprendendo immediatamente il suggerimento.
“Jingle – Alfred Jingle, Esq., di No Hall, Nowhere.”

“Sarò molto felice, ne sono sicuro,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Lo farò,” disse il signor Alfred Jingle, infilando un braccio sotto quello del signor Pickwick e l’altro sotto quello del signor Wardle, mentre sussurrava confidenzialmente all’orecchio del primo gentiluomo:

“Una cena davvero deliziosa, fredda, ma squisita. Questa mattina qualcuno ha sbirciato nella stanza: pollo, torte e tutta quella roba. Gente piacevole, anche questi bene educati, davvero.”

Non essendoci altri preliminari da organizzare, il gruppo si diresse verso la città in piccoli gruppi di due o tre persone; e in meno di un quarto d’ora tutti furono seduti nella grande sala dell’Osteria del Leone Azzurro a Muggleton: il signor Dumkins ricopriva il ruolo di presidente, mentre il signor Luffey quello di vicepresidente.

Ci fu un gran parlare, insieme al rumore prodotto dal movimento di coltelli, forchette e piatti; tre camerieri dall’aspetto goffo correvano avanti e indietro, e i cibi presenti sul tavolo scomparivano rapidamente. Per ogni singola fase di questa confusione, il faccettone del signor Jingle si assicurava che almeno sei uomini comuni gli dessero una mano. Quando tutti ebbero mangiato quanto più possibile, la tovaglia fu ritirata e bottiglie, bicchieri e dessert furono posizionati sul tavolo; i camerieri poi si allontanarono per “ripulire”, ovvero per appropriarsi di qualsiasi resto di cibo e bevanda riuscissero a trovare da portare via con sé.

Tra il generale chiacchiericcio e le risate che seguirono, c’era un ometto dal viso dall’espressione tipica di chi non vuole essere disturbato o che è sempre pronto a contraddire; rimaneva molto silenzioso, guardandosi intorno di tanto in tanto quando la conversazione si affievoliva, come se stesse pensando di dire qualcosa di molto importante. Di tanto in tanto scoppiava anche in una breve tosse, simbolo di un’imponenza difficile da esprimere a parole. Alla fine, durante un momento di relativa silenzio, l’ometto gridò ad alta voce, con tono solenne.

“Signor Luffey!”

“Tutti rimasero in un silenzio profondo mentre quell’individuo parlava e rispondeva, ”

“Signore!”

“Desidero rivolgervi alcune parole, signore, se volete pregare gli uomini di riempirsi i bicchieri.”

Il signor Jingle pronunciò con tono condiscendente “Ah, capisco, ”, e il resto del gruppo rispose allo stesso modo. Dopo che i bicchieri furono riempiti, il vicepresidente assunse un’aria di saggezza, mostrando grande attenzione, e disse:

“Mr. Staple.”

“Signore,” disse il piccolo uomo alzandosi, “vorrei rivolgere ciò che ho da dirvi direttamente a voi, e non al nostro stimato presidente, perché il nostro stimato presidente, in qualche misura, potrei dire in una grande misura, è proprio l’argomento di ciò che devo esprimere.”

“Restate qui,” suggerì il signor Jingle.

“Sì,” disse il piccolo uomo, “devo ringraziare il mio onorevole amico – se mi permette di chiamarlo così (quattro persone l’hanno detto, e sicuramente una di queste è il signor Jingle) – per questa idea. Signori, io sono un Deller, un Dingley Deller (bravo!). Non posso vantarmi dell’onore di far parte della popolazione di Muggleton; anzi, devo ammettere francamente che non desidero affatto tale onore. E vi spiegherò il perché: a Muggleton concedo volentieri tutti quegli onori e distinzioni di cui può giustamente farsi orgoglio. Sono troppi numerosi e troppo ben noti, per aver bisogno delle mie parole. Ma, signori, mentre ricordiamo che Muggleton ha dato i natali a persone come Dumkins e Podder, non dimentichiamo mai che Dingley Deller può vantare individui come Luffey e Struggles, (Applausi entusiasti.) Non intendo affatto sminuire i meriti di quegli uomini. Invidio loro il piacere di poter esprimere liberamente i propri sentimenti in questa occasione. Ogni gentiluomo che mi ascolta conoscerà probabilmente la risposta data da un uomo che, per usare un’espressione comune, si trovava “appeso” in una vasca. All’imperatore Alessandro disse: ‘Se non fossi Diogene, sarei Alessandro’. Immagino facilmente che questi signori possano dire: ‘Se non fossi Dumkins, sarei Luffey; se non fossi Podder, sarei Struggles, ’ Ma, gentiluomini di Muggleton, è forse solo nel cricket che i vostri concittadini si distinguono? Non avete mai sentito parlare di determinazione e coraggio? Non vi è stato insegnato a associare il nome Podder con la proprietà? (Gran applauso.) Non avete mai, nella lotta per i vostri diritti, le vostre libertà e i vostri privilegi, provato momenti di dubbio e disperazione? E quando siete stati così depressi, non è stato forse il nome Dumkins a riaccese in voi quella ‘fiamma’ che sembrava essersi spenta. E non è stata forse una parola pronunciata da quell’uomo ad accenderla di nuovo, con la stessa intensità di prima? (Applausi ancora più calorosi.) Gentiluomini, vi prego: circondate i nomi ‘Dumkins e Podder’ con un fitto cerchio di applausi entusiasti, ”

Qui il piccolo uomo smise di parlare, e subito dopo il gruppo iniziò a alzare la voce e a battere sui tavoli; questo comportamento continuò quasi senza interruzioni per il resto della serata. Furono fatti altri brindisi. Il signor Luffey, il signor Struggles, il signor Pickwick e il signor Jingle furono, a turno, oggetto di elogi incondizionati; e ognuno di loro, al momento opportuno, ringraziò per l’onore ricevuto.

Nonostante fossimo così entusiasti della nobile causa a cui ci eravamo dedicati, avremmo dovuto provare un senso di orgoglio che non possiamo esprimere a parole, e una consapevolezza di aver compiuto qualcosa che ci meritasse l’immortalità, di cui ora siamo privi. Se solo fossimo riusciti a delineare anche solo in modo vago questi concetti davanti ai nostri appassionati lettori. Il signor Snodgrass, come al solito, prese un gran numero di appunti; senza dubbio avrebbero fornito informazioni molto utili e preziose, se non fosse stato per l’eloquenza appassionata delle sue parole e l’influenza “febbrile” del vino, che resero la sua scrittura estremamente illeggibile. Grazie a un paziente lavoro di analisi, siamo riusciti a individuare alcuni nomi che presentano una vaga somiglianza con quelli degli oratori; inoltre, abbiamo trovato l’indicazione di una canzone (presumibilmente cantata dal signor Jingle), nella quale le parole “bowl”, “sparkling”, “ruby”, “bright” e “wine” vengono ripetute più volte a brevi intervalli. Crediamo anche di riconoscere, alla fine degli appunti, qualche accenno vago alle “ossa arrosto”; inoltre compaiono le parole “cold” e “without”. Tuttavia, poiché qualsiasi ipotesi possiamo formulare su queste informazioni si basa necessariamente sulla pura congettura, non intendiamo indulgere in alcuna speculazione al riguardo.

Torneremo quindi al signor Tupman; aggiungiamo soltanto che, pochi minuti prima delle dodici di quella notte, si sentì la congregazione dei valorosi di Dingley Dell e Muggleton cantare, con grande emozione ed enfasi, l’incantevole e commovente inno nazionale.

“Non torneremo a >casa fino al mattino, Non torneremo a >casa fino al mattino, Non torneremo a >casa fino al mattino, Finché non spunta la luce del giorno.”

CHAPTER VIII. STRONGLY ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE POSITION, THAT THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE IS NOT A RAILWAY

The quiet seclusion of Dingley Dell, the presence of so many of the gentler sex, and the solicitude and anxiety they evinced in his behalf, were all favourable to the growth and development of those softer feelings which nature had implanted deep in the bosom of Mr. Tracy Tupman, and which now appeared destined to centre in one lovely object. The young ladies were pretty, their manners winning, their dispositions unexceptionable; but there was a dignity in the air, a touch-me-not- ishness in the walk, a majesty in the eye, of the spinster aunt, to which, at their time of life, they could lay no claim, which distinguished her from any female on whom Mr. Tupman had ever gazed. That there was something kindred in their nature, something congenial in their souls, something mysteriously sympathetic in their bosoms, was evident. Her name was the first that rose to Mr. Tupman’s lips as he lay wounded on the grass; and her hysteric laughter was the first sound that fell upon his ear when he was supported to the house. But had her agitation arisen from an amiable and feminine sensibility which would have been equally irrepressible in any case; or had it been called forth by a more ardent and passionate feeling, which he, of all men living, could alone awaken? These were the doubts which racked his brain as he lay extended on the sofa; these were the doubts which he determined should be at once and for ever resolved.

It was evening. Isabella and Emily had strolled out with Mr. Trundle; the deaf old lady had fallen asleep in her chair; the snoring of the fat boy, penetrated in a low and monotonous sound from the distant kitchen; the buxom servants were lounging at the side door, enjoying the pleasantness of the hour, and the delights of a flirtation, on first principles, with certain unwieldy animals attached to the farm; and there sat the interesting pair, uncared for by all, caring for none, and dreaming only of themselves; there they sat, in short, like a pair of carefully-folded kid gloves—bound up in each other.

‘I have forgotten my flowers,’ said the spinster aunt.

‘Water them now,’ said Mr. Tupman, in accents of persuasion.

‘You will take cold in the evening air,’ urged the spinster aunt affectionately.

‘No, no,’ said Mr. Tupman, rising; ‘it will do me good. Let me accompany you.’

The lady paused to adjust the sling in which the left arm of the youth was placed, and taking his right arm led him to the garden.

There was a bower at the farther end, with honeysuckle, jessamine, and creeping plants—one of those sweet retreats which humane men erect for the accommodation of spiders.

The spinster aunt took up a large watering-pot which lay in one corner, and was about to leave the arbour. Mr. Tupman detained her, and drew her to a seat beside him.

‘Miss Wardle!’ said he.

The spinster aunt trembled, till some pebbles which had accidentally found their way into the large watering-pot shook like an infant’s rattle.

‘Miss Wardle,’ said Mr. Tupman, ‘you are an angel.’

‘Mr. Tupman!’ exclaimed Rachael, blushing as red as the watering-pot itself.

‘Nay,’ said the eloquent Pickwickian—‘I know it but too well.’

‘All women are angels, they say,’ murmured the lady playfully.

‘Then what can you be; or to what, without presumption, can I compare you?’ replied Mr. Tupman. ‘Where was the woman ever seen who resembled you? Where else could I hope to find so rare a combination of excellence and beauty? Where else could I seek to—Oh!’ Here Mr. Tupman paused, and pressed the hand which clasped the handle of the happy watering-pot.

The lady turned aside her head. ‘Men are such deceivers,’ she softly whispered.

‘They are, they are,’ ejaculated Mr. Tupman; ‘but not all men. There lives at least one being who can never change—one being who would be content to devote his whole existence to your happiness—who lives but in your eyes—who breathes but in your smiles—who bears the heavy burden of life itself only for you.’

‘Could such an individual be found—’ said the lady.

‘But he can be found,’ said the ardent Mr. Tupman, interposing. ‘He is found. He is here, Miss Wardle.’ And ere the lady was aware of his intention, Mr. Tupman had sunk upon his knees at her feet.

‘Mr. Tupman, rise,’ said Rachael.

‘Never!’ was the valorous reply. ‘Oh, Rachael!’ He seized her passive hand, and the watering-pot fell to the ground as he pressed it to his lips.—‘Oh, Rachael! say you love me.’

‘Mr. Tupman,’ said the spinster aunt, with averted head, ‘I can hardly speak the words; but—but—you are not wholly indifferent to me.’

Mr. Tupman no sooner heard this avowal, than he proceeded to do what his enthusiastic emotions prompted, and what, for aught we know (for we are but little acquainted with such matters), people so circumstanced always do. He jumped up, and, throwing his arm round the neck of the spinster aunt, imprinted upon her lips numerous kisses, which after a due show of struggling and resistance, she received so passively, that there is no telling how many more Mr. Tupman might have bestowed, if the lady had not given a very unaffected start, and exclaimed in an affrighted tone—

‘Mr. Tupman, we are observed!—we are discovered!’

Mr. Tupman looked round. There was the fat boy, perfectly motionless, with his large circular eyes staring into the arbour, but without the slightest expression on his face that the most expert physiognomist could have referred to astonishment, curiosity, or any other known passion that agitates the human breast. Mr. Tupman gazed on the fat boy, and the fat boy stared at him; and the longer Mr. Tupman observed the utter vacancy of the fat boy’s countenance, the more convinced he became that he either did not know, or did not understand, anything that had been going forward. Under this impression, he said with great firmness—

CAPITOLO VIII. Molto istruttivo riguardo alla posizione secondo cui il percorso dell’vero AMORE non è simile a una ferrovia.

La tranquilla solitudine di Dingley Dell, la presenza di molte donne gentili e premurose nei suoi confronti, contribuirono tutti al crescere e allo sviluppo di quei sentimenti più teneri che la natura aveva insediato profondamente nel cuore del signor Tracy Tupman; sentimenti che ora sembravano destinati a concentrarsi su un’unica persona meravigliosa. Le giovani donne erano belle, i loro modi affascinanti, il loro carattere irreprensibile; ma c’era una dignità nel loro portamento, una delicatezza nei loro movimenti, una maestosità nello sguardo della zia zitella, qualità che, alla loro età, nessun’altra donna avrebbe potuto possedere, e che la distinguevano da qualsiasi altra donna su cui il signor Tupman avesse mai posato lo sguardo. Era evidente che esistesse tra di loro un legame profondo, qualcosa di congeniale nelle loro anime, qualcosa di misteriosamente simpatetico nei loro cuori. Il suo nome fu il primo a uscire dalle labbra del signor Tupman quando giaceva ferito sull’erba; e la sua risata isterica fu il primo suono che gli arrivò all’orecchio quando lo aiutarono ad alzarsi e a entrare in casa. Ma derivava la sua agitazione da una sensibilità gentile e femminile, che comunque sarebbe stata impossibile da reprimere, o era scatenata da un sentimento più ardente e appassionato, che soltanto lui, tra tutte le persone viventi, avrebbe potuto suscitare? Queste erano le domande che tormentavano la sua mente mentre giaceva disteso sul divano; domande che decise di risolvere immediatamente e per sempre.

Era sera. Isabella ed Emily erano uscite a fare una passeggiata con il signor Trundle; la vecchia signora sorda si era addormentata sulla sua sedia; il russare del ragazzo grasso proveniva dalla cucina lontana, in un suono basso e monotono; le servitrici formose si rilassavano alla porta laterale, godendosi la piacevolezza di quell’ora e i “piaceri” di una leggera flirtazione, con alcuni ingombranti animali che vivevano nella fattoria. E lì sedevano quelle due donne: ignorate da tutti, senza curarsi di nessuno, pensando soltanto a se stesse. In breve, erano come un paio di guanti di pelle ben piegati insieme.

“Ho dimenticato i miei >fiori,” disse la zia zitella.

“Bagnateli ora,” disse il signor Tupman con toni di convincimento.

“Prenderai freddo nell’aria serale,” insistette affettuosamente la zia zitella.

“No, no,” disse il signor Tupman alzandosi; “mi farà bene. Lasciate che vi accompagni.”

La signora si fermò per sistemare la fascia nella quale era inserita il braccio sinistro del giovane, poi prese il suo braccio destro e lo portò nel giardino.

All’estremità più lontana c’era un pergolato ricoperto di gelsomino, giacinto e piante rampicanti: uno di quei dolci rifugi che gli esseri umani costruiscono per offrire riparo alle ragnatele.

La zia zitella prese un grande vaso da annaffiamento che si trovava in un angolo e stava per lasciare il pergolato. Il signor Tupman la trattenne e la invitò a sedersi accanto a lui.

“Signorina Wardle!”, disse lui.

La zia zitella tremava, finché alcuni ciottoli che per caso erano finiti nella grande piantana non iniziarono a dondolare come il sonaglio di un bambino.

“Signorina Wardle,” disse il signor Tupman, “lei è un angelo.”

“Signor Tupman!”, esclamò Rachael, arrossendo fino a diventare rossa come il vaso stesso per annaffiare le piante.

“No,” disse l’eloquente Pickwickiano, “lo so fin troppo bene.”

“Dicono che tutte le donne siano angeli,” mormorò la signora in tono scherzoso.

“Allora, cosa puoi essere, o, senza presunzione, a cosa posso paragonarti?” rispose il signor Tupman. “Dove si è mai vista una donna che ti assomigli? Dove altro potrei sperare di trovare una combinazione così rara di eccellenza e bellezza? Dove altro potrei cercare. Oh!” A questo punto il signor Tupman fece una pausa e strinse la mano che teneva il manico di quella felice piantina.

La signora girò la testa da un’altra parte. “Gli uomini sono davvero dei traditori,” sussurrò dolcemente.

“Sì, sono proprio loro,” esclamò il signor Tupman; “ma non tutti gli uomini. Esiste almeno una persona che non potrà mai cambiare, una persona che sarebbe felice di dedicare tutta la sua vita alla tua felicità, una persona che esiste soltanto nei tuoi occhi, che vive solo per i tuoi sorrisi, che sopporta il pesante fardello della vita stessa solo per te.”

“Potrebbe esistere davvero una persona del genere, ”, disse la signora.

“Ma si può trovarlo,” disse con passione il fervente signor Tupman, intervenendo. “È stato trovato. È qui, signorina Wardle.” E prima ancora che la signora potesse rendersi conto delle sue intenzioni, il signor Tupman si inginocchiò ai suoi piedi.

“Signor Tupman, rise,” disse Rachael.

“Mai!” fu la risposta coraggiosa. “Oh, Rachael!” Le prese la mano inerte e, premendosela sulle labbra, il vaso da fiori cadde a terra. “Oh, Rachael, dimmi che mimi.”

“Signor Tupman,” disse la zia zitella, distogliendo lo sguardo, “faccio fatica a pronunciare queste parole. Ma, ma voi non siete del tutto indifferente verso di me.”

Non appena il signor Tupman udì questa confessione, fece ciò che le sue emozioni entusiastiche gli suggerivano, e, per quel che ne sappiamo (poiché conosciamo molto poco di queste cose), è esattamente ciò che le persone in tali circostanze fanno sempre. Si alzò di scatto, mise un braccio intorno al collo della zia zitella e le stampò sulle labbra numerosi baci. Dopo qualche tentativo di resistenza da parte sua, lei li accettò così passivamente che non si può immaginare quanti altri ne avrebbe potuti ricevere il signor Tupman, se quella signora non fosse improvvisamente scattata in piedi, esclamando con tono spaventato.

“Signor Tupman, siamo stati visti, siamo stati scoperti!”

Il signor Tupman guardò intorno. C’era il ragazzo grasso, perfettamente immobile, con i suoi grandi occhi rotondi fissi nel padiglione, ma sul suo viso non c’era la minima espressione che un fisiognomo esperto potesse interpretare come stupore, curiosità o qualsiasi altra emozione umana. Il signor Tupman osservò il ragazzo grasso, e il ragazzo grasso lo fissava a sua volta; più a lungo il signor Tupman notava l’assoluta vacuità sul volto del ragazzo grasso, più si convinceva che quest’ultimo non sapesse o non capisse nulla di ciò che stava accadendo. Con questa convinzione, disse con grande fermezza.

‘What do you want here, Sir?’

‘Supper’s ready, sir,’ was the prompt reply.

‘Have you just come here, sir?’ inquired Mr. Tupman, with a piercing look.

‘Just,’ replied the fat boy.

Mr. Tupman looked at him very hard again; but there was not a wink in his eye, or a curve in his face.

Mr. Tupman took the arm of the spinster aunt, and walked towards the house; the fat boy followed behind.

‘He knows nothing of what has happened,’ he whispered.

‘Nothing,’ said the spinster aunt.

There was a sound behind them, as of an imperfectly suppressed chuckle. Mr. Tupman turned sharply round. No; it could not have been the fat boy; there was not a gleam of mirth, or anything but feeding in his whole visage.

‘He must have been fast asleep,’ whispered Mr. Tupman.

‘I have not the least doubt of it,’ replied the spinster aunt.

They both laughed heartily.

Mr. Tupman was wrong. The fat boy, for once, had not been fast asleep. He was awake—wide awake—to what had been going forward.

The supper passed off without any attempt at a general conversation. The old lady had gone to bed; Isabella Wardle devoted herself exclusively to Mr. Trundle; the spinster’s attentions were reserved for Mr. Tupman; and Emily’s thoughts appeared to be engrossed by some distant object— possibly they were with the absent Snodgrass.

Eleven—twelve—one o’clock had struck, and the gentlemen had not arrived. Consternation sat on every face. Could they have been waylaid and robbed? Should they send men and lanterns in every direction by which they could be supposed likely to have travelled home? or should they—Hark! there they were. What could have made them so late? A strange voice, too! To whom could it belong? They rushed into the kitchen, whither the truants had repaired, and at once obtained rather more than a glimmering of the real state of the case.

Mr. Pickwick, with his hands in his pockets and his hat cocked completely over his left eye, was leaning against the dresser, shaking his head from side to side, and producing a constant succession of the blandest and most benevolent smiles without being moved thereunto by any discernible cause or pretence whatsoever; old Mr. Wardle, with a highly- inflamed countenance, was grasping the hand of a strange gentleman muttering protestations of eternal friendship; Mr. Winkle, supporting himself by the eight-day clock, was feebly invoking destruction upon the head of any member of the family who should suggest the propriety of his retiring for the night; and Mr. Snodgrass had sunk into a chair, with an expression of the most abject and hopeless misery that the human mind can imagine, portrayed in every lineament of his expressive face.

‘Is anything the matter?’ inquired the three ladies.

‘Nothing the matter,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘We—we’re—all right.—I say, Wardle, we’re all right, ain’t we?’

‘I should think so,’ replied the jolly host.—‘My dears, here’s my friend Mr. Jingle—Mr. Pickwick’s friend, Mr. Jingle, come ‘pon—little visit.’

‘Is anything the matter with Mr. Snodgrass, Sir?’ inquired Emily, with great anxiety.

‘Nothing the matter, ma’am,’ replied the stranger. ‘Cricket dinner— glorious party—capital songs—old port—claret—good—very good—wine, ma’am—wine.’

‘It wasn’t the wine,’ murmured Mr. Snodgrass, in a broken voice. ‘It was the salmon.’ (Somehow or other, it never is the wine, in these cases.)

‘Hadn’t they better go to bed, ma’am?’ inquired Emma. ‘Two of the boys will carry the gentlemen upstairs.’

‘I won’t go to bed,’ said Mr. Winkle firmly.

‘No living boy shall carry me,’ said Mr. Pickwick stoutly; and he went on smiling as before.

‘Hurrah!’ gasped Mr. Winkle faintly.

‘Hurrah!’ echoed Mr. Pickwick, taking off his hat and dashing it on the floor, and insanely casting his spectacles into the middle of the kitchen. At this humorous feat he laughed outright.

‘Let’s—have—‘nother—bottle,’ cried Mr. Winkle, commencing in a very loud key, and ending in a very faint one. His head dropped upon his breast; and, muttering his invincible determination not to go to his bed, and a sanguinary regret that he had not ‘done for old Tupman’ in the morning, he fell fast asleep; in which condition he was borne to his apartment by two young giants under the personal superintendence of the fat boy, to whose protecting care Mr. Snodgrass shortly afterwards confided his own person, Mr. Pickwick accepted the proffered arm of Mr. Tupman and quietly disappeared, smiling more than ever; and Mr. Wardle, after taking as affectionate a leave of the whole family as if he were ordered for immediate execution, consigned to Mr. Trundle the honour of conveying him upstairs, and retired, with a very futile attempt to look impressively solemn and dignified.

‘What a shocking scene!’ said the spinster aunt.

‘Dis-gusting!’ ejaculated both the young ladies.

‘Dreadful—dreadful!’ said Jingle, looking very grave: he was about a bottle and a half ahead of any of his companions. ‘Horrid spectacle— very!’

‘What a nice man!’ whispered the spinster aunt to Mr. Tupman.

‘Good-looking, too!’ whispered Emily Wardle.

‘Oh, decidedly,’ observed the spinster aunt.

Mr. Tupman thought of the widow at Rochester, and his mind was troubled. The succeeding half-hour’s conversation was not of a nature to calm his perturbed spirit. The new visitor was very talkative, and the number of his anecdotes was only to be exceeded by the extent of his politeness. Mr. Tupman felt that as Jingle’s popularity increased, he (Tupman) retired further into the shade. His laughter was forced—his merriment feigned; and when at last he laid his aching temples between the sheets, he thought, with horrid delight, on the satisfaction it would afford him to have Jingle’s head at that moment between the feather bed and the mattress.

The indefatigable stranger rose betimes next morning, and, although his companions remained in bed overpowered with the dissipation of the previous night, exerted himself most successfully to promote the hilarity of the breakfast-table. So successful were his efforts, that even the deaf old lady insisted on having one or two of his best jokes retailed through the trumpet; and even she condescended to observe to the spinster aunt, that ‘He’ (meaning Jingle) ‘was an impudent young fellow:’ a sentiment in which all her relations then and there present thoroughly coincided.

“Cosa desidera qui, signore?”

“La cena è pronta, signore,” fu la risposta pronta e cortese.

“È appena arrivato qui, signore?”, chiese il signor Tupman con uno sguardo penetrante.

“Solo,” rispose il ragazzo grasso.

Il signor Tupman lo guardò di nuovo con molta attenzione; ma nei suoi occhi non c’era alcun segno di movimento, né sul suo viso alcuna espressione particolare.

Il signor Tupman prese il braccio della zia zitella e si diresse verso la >casa; il ragazzo grasso lo seguì.

“Non sa nulla di ciò che è accaduto,” sussurrò.

“Niente,” disse la zia zitella.

C’era un suono dietro di loro, simile a una risata soffocata in modo imperfetto.
Il signor Tupman si girò bruscamente. No; non poteva essere quel ragazzo grasso; nel suo viso non c’era traccia di allegria, né nulla che potesse far pensare a qualcosa di simile.

“Deve essere stato profondamente addormentato,” sussurrò il signor Tupman.

“Non ho la minima dubbio al riguardo,” rispose la zia zitella.

Risero entrambi di cuore.

Il signor Tupman si sbagliava. Quel ragazzo grasso, per una volta, non stava dormendo profondamente. Era sveglio, completamente sveglio, e aveva visto tutto ciò che era accaduto.

La cena trascorse senza alcun tentativo di conversazione generale. La vecchia signora si era già ritirata a letto; Isabella Wardle dedicava tutta la sua attenzione al signor Trundle; l’attenzione della zitella era rivolta al signor Tupman; mentre i pensieri di Emily sembravano essere assorbiti da qualcosa di lontano, forse erano con il assente Snodgrass.

Erano già passate le undici, le dodici, l’una di notte, e quei signori non erano ancora arrivati. Sul volto di tutti si leggeva la costernazione: forse erano stati assaliti e derubati? Dovrebbero mandare persone e lanterne in tutte le direzioni in cui potevano essere tornati a casa. O forse. Ascoltate! Eccoli lì. Che cosa poteva averli trattenuti così a lungo? Una voce strana. A chi poteva appartenere? Corsero in cucina, dove i fuggitivi si erano rifugiati, e immediatamente capirono molto di più sulla vera situazione.

Il signor Pickwick, con le mani in tasca e il cappello inclinato completamente sopra l’occhio sinistro, si appoggiava al comò, scuotendo la testa da una parte all’altra e sorridendo continuamente in modo dolce e benevolo, senza che alcuna causa o pretesto evidente lo spingesse a farlo; il vecchio signor Wardle, con il viso profondamente arrossato, stringeva la mano di un gentiluomo sconosciuto, mormorando parole di eterna amicizia; il signor Winkle, appoggiandosi all’orologio a otto giorni, invocava debolmente la distruzione su chiunque della famiglia osasse suggerire che fosse opportuno per lui ritirarsi per la notte; mentre il signor Snodgrass era seduto in una sedia, con un’espressione di estrema miseria e disperazione, dipinta in ogni tratto del suo viso espressivo.

“C’è qualche problema?” chiesero le tre signore.

“Niente di grave,” rispose il signor Pickwick. “Noi, siamo tutti a posto. Dico, Wardle, siamo davvero a posto, vero?”

“Certo che sì,” rispose l’allegra padrona di casa. “Miei cari, ecco il mio amico, il signor Jingle, l’amico del signor Pickwick, il signor Jingle, che è venuto a farci una piccola visita.”

“C’è qualcosa che non va con il signor Snodgrass, signore?”, chiese Emily con grande ansia.

“Niente di grave, signora,” rispose lo sconosciuto. “Cena con il cricket, una festa meravigliosa, ottimi >canti, vecchio porto, vino rosso, buono, davvero molto buono, signora, vino.”

“Non era il vino,” mormorò il signor Snodgrass con voce rotta. “Era la salmone.” (In questi casi, per qualche motivo, non è mai il vino il problema.)

“Non sarebbe meglio che andassero a letto, signora?”, chiese Emma. “Due dei ragazzi porteranno gli uomini di sopra.”

“Non andrò a letto,” disse con fermezza il signor Winkle.

“Nessun ragazzo vivente mi porterà,” disse con fermezza il signor Pickwick; e continuò a sorridere come prima.

“Urrà!”, esclamò debolmente il signor Winkle.

“Urrà!”, esclamò il signor Pickwick, togliendosi il cappello e gettandolo a terra; poi, in modo assurdo, lanciò i suoi occhiali nel mezzo della cucina. Di fronte a questa buffa scenetta, scoppiò a ridere di cuore.

“Dai, beviamo un’altra bottiglia,” gridò il signor Winkle, cominciando con voce molto alta e finendo con una voce molto bassa. La sua testa si abbassò sul petto; mormorando la propria irremovibile determinazione di non andare a letto, e provando un profondo rimpianto per non aver “fatto qualcosa per il vecchio Tupman” quella mattina, cadde rapidamente in sonno. In questo stato fu portato nella sua stanza da due giovani giganti, sotto la supervisione personale del ragazzo grasso; poco dopo, anche il signor Snodgrass affidò a lui la propria persona. Il signor Pickwick accettò l’aiuto offerto dal signor Tupman e scomparve silenziosamente, sorridendo più che mai; il signor Wardle, dopo essersi congedato dall’intera famiglia con grande affetto, come se fosse stato destinato a morte immediata, affidò al signor Trundle l’onore di accompagnarlo al piano di sopra e si ritirò, tentando invano di apparire solenne e dignitoso.

“Che scena scioccante!” disse la zia zitella.

“Disgustoso!”, esclamarono entrambe le giovani signore.

“Terribile, terribile!” disse Jingle, con un’espressione molto seria; era circa una bottiglia e mezza avanti rispetto a tutti i suoi compagni. “Uno spettacolo orrendo, davvero!”

“Che uomo gentile!” sussurrò la zia zitella al signor Tupman.

“Anche attraente!” sussurrò Emily Wardle.

“Ah, decisamente,” osservò la zia zitella.

Il signor Tupman pensò alla vedova di Rochester, e la sua mente ne fu turbata. La conversazione che seguì per mezz’ora non ebbe certo il potere di calmare il suo spirito agitato. Il nuovo visitatore era molto loquace; il numero delle sue aneddoti veniva superato soltanto dalla misura della sua cortesia. Il signor Tupman si rese conto che, man mano che la popolarità di Jingle aumentava, lui stesso si ritirava sempre più nell’ombra. La sua risata era forzata; il suo divertimento era simulato. E quando finalmente posò le sue tempie doloranti tra le lenzuola, pensò, con un orribile piacere, a quanto sarebbe stato soddisfacente per lui avere la testa di Jingle in quel momento proprio lì, tra il materasso e le federe.

Lo straniero instancabile si alzò presto la mattina seguente; sebbene i suoi compagni rimanessero a letto, sopraffatti dagli effetti della precedente notte, lui riuscì con grande successo a rendere l’atmosfera del tavolo da pranzo allegra e vivace. I suoi sforzi furono così efficaci che persino la vecchia signora sorda insistette per farsi raccontare uno o due dei suoi migliori aneddoti; e anche lei si degnò di osservare alla zia zitella che “lui” (intendendo Jingle) “era un giovane impudente”: un parere con cui tutti i presenti concordarono pienamente.

It was the old lady’s habit on the fine summer mornings to repair to the arbour in which Mr. Tupman had already signalised himself, in form and manner following: first, the fat boy fetched from a peg behind the old lady’s bedroom door, a close black satin bonnet, a warm cotton shawl, and a thick stick with a capacious handle; and the old lady, having put on the bonnet and shawl at her leisure, would lean one hand on the stick and the other on the fat boy’s shoulder, and walk leisurely to the arbour, where the fat boy would leave her to enjoy the fresh air for the space of half an hour; at the expiration of which time he would return and reconduct her to the house.

The old lady was very precise and very particular; and as this ceremony had been observed for three successive summers without the slightest deviation from the accustomed form, she was not a little surprised on this particular morning to see the fat boy, instead of leaving the arbour, walk a few paces out of it, look carefully round him in every direction, and return towards her with great stealth and an air of the most profound mystery.

The old lady was timorous—most old ladies are—and her first impression was that the bloated lad was about to do her some grievous bodily harm with the view of possessing himself of her loose coin. She would have cried for assistance, but age and infirmity had long ago deprived her of the power of screaming; she, therefore, watched his motions with feelings of intense horror which were in no degree diminished by his coming close up to her, and shouting in her ear in an agitated, and as it seemed to her, a threatening tone—

‘Missus!’

Now it so happened that Mr. Jingle was walking in the garden close to the arbour at that moment. He too heard the shouts of ‘Missus,’ and stopped to hear more. There were three reasons for his doing so. In the first place, he was idle and curious; secondly, he was by no means scrupulous; thirdly, and lastly, he was concealed from view by some flowering shrubs. So there he stood, and there he listened.

‘Missus!’ shouted the fat boy.

‘Well, Joe,’ said the trembling old lady. ‘I’m sure I have been a good mistress to you, Joe. You have invariably been treated very kindly. You have never had too much to do; and you have always had enough to eat.’

This last was an appeal to the fat boy’s most sensitive feelings. He seemed touched, as he replied emphatically—

‘I knows I has.’

‘Then what can you want to do now?’ said the old lady, gaining courage.

‘I wants to make your flesh creep,’ replied the boy.

This sounded like a very bloodthirsty mode of showing one’s gratitude; and as the old lady did not precisely understand the process by which such a result was to be attained, all her former horrors returned.

‘What do you think I see in this very arbour last night?’ inquired the boy.

‘Bless us! What?’ exclaimed the old lady, alarmed at the solemn manner of the corpulent youth.

‘The strange gentleman—him as had his arm hurt—a-kissin’ and huggin’— ‘

‘Who, Joe? None of the servants, I hope.’

Worser than that,’ roared the fat boy, in the old lady’s ear.

‘Not one of my grandda’aters?’

‘Worser than that.’

‘Worse than that, Joe!’ said the old lady, who had thought this the extreme limit of human atrocity. ‘Who was it, Joe? I insist upon knowing.’

The fat boy looked cautiously round, and having concluded his survey, shouted in the old lady’s ear—

‘Miss Rachael.’

‘What!’ said the old lady, in a shrill tone. ‘Speak louder.’

‘Miss Rachael,’ roared the fat boy.

‘My da’ater!’

The train of nods which the fat boy gave by way of assent, communicated a blanc-mange like motion to his fat cheeks.

‘And she suffered him!’ exclaimed the old lady. A grin stole over the fat boy’s features as he said—

‘I see her a-kissin’ of him agin.’

If Mr. Jingle, from his place of concealment, could have beheld the expression which the old lady’s face assumed at this communication, the probability is that a sudden burst of laughter would have betrayed his close vicinity to the summer-house. He listened attentively. Fragments of angry sentences such as, ‘Without my permission!’—‘At her time of life’—‘Miserable old ‘ooman like me’—‘Might have waited till I was dead,’ and so forth, reached his ears; and then he heard the heels of the fat boy’s boots crunching the gravel, as he retired and left the old lady alone.

It was a remarkable coincidence perhaps, but it was nevertheless a fact, that Mr. Jingle within five minutes of his arrival at Manor Farm on the preceding night, had inwardly resolved to lay siege to the heart of the spinster aunt, without delay. He had observation enough to see, that his off-hand manner was by no means disagreeable to the fair object of his attack; and he had more than a strong suspicion that she possessed that most desirable of all requisites, a small independence. The imperative necessity of ousting his rival by some means or other, flashed quickly upon him, and he immediately resolved to adopt certain proceedings tending to that end and object, without a moment’s delay. Fielding tells us that man is fire, and woman tow, and the Prince of Darkness sets a light to ‘em. Mr. Jingle knew that young men, to spinster aunts, are as lighted gas to gunpowder, and he determined to essay the effect of an explosion without loss of time.

Full of reflections upon this important decision, he crept from his place of concealment, and, under cover of the shrubs before mentioned, approached the house. Fortune seemed determined to favour his design. Mr. Tupman and the rest of the gentlemen left the garden by the side gate just as he obtained a view of it; and the young ladies, he knew, had walked out alone, soon after breakfast. The coast was clear.

The breakfast-parlour door was partially open. He peeped in. The spinster aunt was knitting. He coughed; she looked up and smiled. Hesitation formed no part of Mr. Alfred Jingle’s character. He laid his finger on his lips mysteriously, walked in, and closed the door.

‘Miss Wardle,’ said Mr. Jingle, with affected earnestness, ‘forgive intrusion—short acquaintance—no time for ceremony—all discovered.’

‘Sir!’ said the spinster aunt, rather astonished by the unexpected apparition and somewhat doubtful of Mr. Jingle’s sanity.

‘Hush!’ said Mr. Jingle, in a stage-whisper—‘Large boy—dumpling face— round eyes—rascal!’ Here he shook his head expressively, and the spinster aunt trembled with agitation.

‘I presume you allude to Joseph, Sir?’ said the lady, making an effort to appear composed.

‘Yes, ma’am—damn that Joe!—treacherous dog, Joe—told the old lady— old lady furious—wild—raving—arbour—Tupman—kissing and hugging—all that sort of thing—eh, ma’am—eh?’

‘Mr. Jingle,’ said the spinster aunt, ‘if you come here, Sir, to insult me—’

‘Not at all—by no means,’ replied the unabashed Mr. Jingle—‘overheard the tale—came to warn you of your danger—tender my services—prevent the hubbub. Never mind—think it an insult—leave the room’—and he turned, as if to carry the threat into execution.

‘What shall I do!’ said the poor spinster, bursting into tears. ‘My brother will be furious.’

‘Of course he will,’ said Mr. Jingle pausing—‘outrageous.’

Oh, Mr. Jingle, what can I say!’ exclaimed the spinster aunt, in another flood of despair.

‘Say he dreamt it,’ replied Mr. Jingle coolly.

A ray of comfort darted across the mind of the spinster aunt at this suggestion. Mr. Jingle perceived it, and followed up his advantage.

‘Pooh, pooh!—nothing more easy—blackguard boy—lovely woman—fat boy horsewhipped—you believed—end of the matter—all comfortable.’

Whether the probability of escaping from the consequences of this ill- timed discovery was delightful to the spinster’s feelings, or whether the hearing herself described as a ‘lovely woman’ softened the asperity of her grief, we know not. She blushed slightly, and cast a grateful look on Mr. Jingle.

That insinuating gentleman sighed deeply, fixed his eyes on the spinster aunt’s face for a couple of minutes, started melodramatically, and suddenly withdrew them.

‘You seem unhappy, Mr. Jingle,’ said the lady, in a plaintive voice. ‘May I show my gratitude for your kind interference, by inquiring into the cause, with a view, if possible, to its removal?’

‘Ha!’ exclaimed Mr. Jingle, with another start—‘removal! remove my unhappiness, and your love bestowed upon a man who is insensible to the blessing—who even now contemplates a design upon the affections of the niece of the creature who—but no; he is my friend; I will not expose his vices. Miss Wardle—farewell!’ At the conclusion of this address, the most consecutive he was ever known to utter, Mr. Jingle applied to his eyes the remnant of a handkerchief before noticed, and turned towards the door.

‘Stay, Mr. Jingle!’ said the spinster aunt emphatically. ‘You have made an allusion to Mr. Tupman—explain it.’

‘Never!’ exclaimed Jingle, with a professional (i.e., theatrical) air. ‘Never!’ and, by way of showing that he had no desire to be questioned further, he drew a chair close to that of the spinster aunt and sat down.

‘Mr. Jingle,’ said the aunt, ‘I entreat—I implore you, if there is any dreadful mystery connected with Mr. Tupman, reveal it.’

‘Can I,’ said Mr. Jingle, fixing his eyes on the aunt’s face—‘can I see—lovely creature—sacrificed at the shrine—heartless avarice!’ He appeared to be struggling with various conflicting emotions for a few seconds, and then said in a low voice— ‘Tupman only wants your money.’

‘The wretch!’ exclaimed the spinster, with energetic indignation. (Mr. Jingle’s doubts were resolved. She had money.)

‘More than that,’ said Jingle—‘loves another.’

‘Another!’ ejaculated the spinster. ‘Who?’

Short girl—black eyes—niece Emily.’

There was a pause.

Now, if there was one individual in the whole world, of whom the spinster aunt entertained a mortal and deep-rooted jealousy, it was this identical niece. The colour rushed over her face and neck, and she tossed her head in silence with an air of ineffable contempt. At last, biting her thin lips, and bridling up, she said—

‘It can’t be. I won’t believe it.’

‘Watch ‘em,’ said Jingle.

‘I will,’ said the aunt.

‘Watch his looks.’

‘I will.’

‘His whispers.’

‘I will.’

‘He’ll sit next her at table.’

‘Let him.’

‘He’ll flatter her.’

‘Let him.’

‘He’ll pay her every possible attention.’

‘Let him.’

‘And he’ll cut you.’

‘Cut me!’ screamed the spinster aunt. ‘he cut me; will he!’ and she trembled with rage and disappointment.

‘You will convince yourself?’ said Jingle.

‘I will.’

‘You’ll show your spirit?’

‘I will.’

You’ll not have him afterwards?’

‘Never.’

‘You’ll take somebody else?’

Yes.’

‘You shall.’

Mr. Jingle fell on his knees, remained thereupon for five minutes thereafter; and rose the accepted lover of the spinster aunt— conditionally upon Mr. Tupman’s perjury being made clear and manifest.

The burden of proof lay with Mr. Alfred Jingle; and he produced his evidence that very day at dinner. The spinster aunt could hardly believe her eyes. Mr. Tracy Tupman was established at Emily’s side, ogling, whispering, and smiling, in opposition to Mr. Snodgrass. Not a word, not a look, not a glance, did he bestow upon his heart’s pride of the evening before.

‘Damn that boy!’ thought old Mr. Wardle to himself.—He had heard the story from his mother. ‘Damn that boy! He must have been asleep. It’s all imagination.’

‘Traitor!’ thought the spinster aunt. ‘Dear Mr. Jingle was not deceiving me. Ugh! how I hate the wretch!’

The following conversation may serve to explain to our readers this apparently unaccountable alteration of deportment on the part of Mr. Tracy Tupman.

The time was evening; the scene the garden. There were two figures walking in a side path; one was rather short and stout; the other tall and slim. They were Mr. Tupman and Mr. Jingle. The stout figure commenced the dialogue.

“Signorina Wardle,” disse il signor Jingle con un’affettata sincerità, “perdoni questa intrusione, conosciamo ci siamo da poco, non c’è tempo per le formalità, tutto è ormai chiaro.”

“Signore!” disse la zia zitella, piuttosto sorpresa da quell’apparizione inaspettata e un po’ scettica riguardo alla sanità del signor Jingle.

“Zitta!” disse il signor Jingle sussurrando come si fa sul palco: “Bambino grande, faccia rotonda, occhi grandi, birichino!” Poi scosse la testa in modo significativo, e la zia zitella tremò per l’agitazione.

“Presumo che vi riferiate a Joseph, signore”, disse la donna, cercando di apparire calma.

“Sì, signora, maledetto quel Joe! Quel cane traditore, ha raccontato tutto alla vecchia signora. La vecchia signora è furiosa, pazza di rabbia. Tutte quelle storie, baci, abbracci, insomma, roba del genere. Eh, signora, ”

“Signor Jingle,” disse la zia zitella, “se siete venuto qui per insultarmi, ”

“Assolutamente no – per niente,” rispose senza alcuna vergogna il signor Jingle. “Non ho sentito quella storia; sono venuto solo per avvertirvi del pericolo che correte, per offrirvi il mio aiuto e per evitare tutto questo trambusto. Lasciate perdere, consideratelo un insulto, se volete, e andatevene dalla stanza.” E si girò, come se volesse davvero mettere in atto quella minaccia.

“Cosa devo fare!”, esclamò la povera zitella, scoppiando in lacrime. “Mio fratello sarà furioso.”

“Certo che lo farà,” disse il signor Jingle, facendo una pausa, “Incredibile.”

“Oh, signor Jingle, cosa posso dire,?” esclamò la zia zitella, sommersa di nuovo da un’ondata di -disperazione.

“Dite che l’ha sognato,” rispose freddamente il signor Jingle.

Un barlume di conforto attraversò la mente della zia zitella di fronte a questa proposta. Il signor Jingle se ne accorse e sfruttò immediatamente quell’opportunità.

“Puf, puf, niente di più facile, ragazzo malvagio, donna adorabile, ragazzo grasso frustato a sangue, credevi davvero che fosse la fine della storia, tutto così semplice.”

Se la probabilità di sfuggire alle conseguenze di questa scoperta inopportuna fosse piacevole per i sentimenti della zitella, o se il sentirsi descrivere come una “donna adorabile” attenuasse l’asprezza del suo dolore, questo non lo sappiamo. Arrossì leggermente e lanciò uno sguardo grato a Mr. Jingle.

Quel gentiluomo insinuante sospirò profondamente, fissò il viso della zia zitella per alcuni minuti, poi iniziò a parlare in modo melodrammatico, e improvvisamente distolse lo sguardo.

“Sembra infelice, signor Jingle,” disse la donna con voce lamentosa.
“Posso dimostrare la mia gratitudine per il suo gentile intervento chiedendo la causa del suo malessere, nella speranza di poterlo eliminare?”

“Ha!” esclamò il signor Jingle, con un altro sobbalzo – “rimuovete questa infelicità, eliminate la mia sfortuna, e la vostra amore verrà donata a un uomo che è insensibile a tale benedizione, che addirittura in questo momento sta pensando di approfittare dei sentimenti della nipote di quella persona, ma no; lui è mio amico, non voglio denunciare i suoi vizi. Signorina Wardle, addio!” Al termine di questo discorso, il più coerente che gli fosse mai stato possibile pronunciare, il signor Jingle si premette sul viso ciò che restava di un fazzoletto e si diresse verso la porta.

“Resti qui, signor Jingle!”, disse con fermezza la zia zitella. “Ha fatto un’allusione al signor Tupman, spieghi meglio.”

“Mai!” esclamò Jingle con un tono professionale, cioè teatrale. “Mai!” E, per dimostrare di non avere alcun desiderio di essere ulteriormente interrogato, si avvicinò con una sedia a quella della zia zitella e si sedette.

“Signor Jingle,” disse la zia, “vi supplico, vi prego, se c’è qualche terribile mistero legato al signor Tupman, rivelatelo.”

“Posso?” disse il signor Jingle, fissando il viso della zia. “Posso vedere, quella adorabile creatura sacrificata al tempio dell’avidità spietata, ” Sembrò lottare per alcuni secondi con emozioni contrastanti, poi mormorò a bassa voce: “Tupman vuole soltanto i vostri soldi.”

“Quel miserabile!” esclamò la zitella con profonda indignazione. (I dubbi del signor Jingle furono dissipati: lei aveva davvero i soldi.)

“Più di così,” disse Jingle, “ama un altro.”

“Un altro!”, esclamò la zitella. “Chi?”

“Ragazza piccola, occhi neri, la nipote Emily.”

Ci fu un attimo di silenzio.

Ora, se esistesse una sola persona al mondo per la quale zia zitella provasse un gelosia mortale e profondamente radicata, quella sarebbe proprio questa nipote. Il rossore le invase il viso e il collo; scuotendo la testa in silenzio, mostrò un’espressione di disprezzo indescrivibile. Alla fine, mordendosi le labbra sottili, riuscì a controllarsi e disse.

“Non può essere. Non ci credo.”

“Guardali,” disse Jingle.

“Lo farò,” disse la zia.

“Guarda come si comporta, ”

“Lo farò.”

“I suoi sussurri.”

“Lo farò.”

“Si siederà accanto a lei al tavolo.”

“Lascialo fare.”

“Le lusingherà.”

“Lascialo fare.”

“Le darà tutta l’attenzione possibile.”

“Lascialo fare.”

“E ti taglierà.”

“Tagliami!” urlò la zia zitella. “Lui mi ha tagliata. Lo farà di nuovo!” Tremava per la rabbia e delusione.

“Ti convincerai da solo?” disse Jingle.

“Lo farò.”

“Mostrerai il tuo coraggio?”

“Lo farò.”

“Non lo avrai più dopo?”

“Mai.”

“Prenderai qualcun altro?”

“Sì, davvero.”

“Lo farai.”

Il signor Jingle si inginocchiò e rimase in quella posizione per cinque minuti; in seguito, si alzò, diventando l’amante accettato dell’anziana zia zitella, a condizione che il falso testimone, il signor Tupman, confessasse apertamente la sua menzogna.

Onere della prova ricadeva su Mr. Alfred Jingle; e quel stesso giorno, a cena, presentò le sue prove. La zia zitella faticava a credere ai propri occhi. Mr. Tracy Tupman, invece, si attaccava costantemente a Emily, fissandola, sussurrandole e sorridendole, in netto contrasto con Mr. Snodgrass. Non una parola, non uno sguardo, nessun segno di interesse rivolse alla “orgogliosa” Emily del giorno prima.

“Maledetto quel ragazzo!” pensò tra sé il vecchio signor Wardle. Aveva sentito quella storia dalla sua madre. “Maledetto quel ragazzo. Deve essersi addormentato. È tutto frutto dell’immaginazione.”

“Traditore!” pensò la zia zitella. “Caro signor Jingle non mi stava ingannando. Ah! quanto odio quel miserabile!”

La seguente conversazione potrebbe aiutare i nostri lettori a comprendere questo apparentemente inspiegabile cambiamento nel comportamento del signor Tracy Tupman.

Era sera; la scena si svolgeva nel giardino. C’erano due figure che camminavano lungo un sentiero laterale: una era piuttosto bassa e robusta, l’altra alta e snella. Erano il signor Tupman e il signor Jingle. Fu la figura robusta ad iniziare il dialogo.

‘How did I do it?’ he inquired.

‘Splendid—capital—couldn’t act better myself—you must repeat the part to-morrow—every evening till further notice.’

‘Does Rachael still wish it?’

‘Of course—she don’t like it—but must be done—avert suspicion—afraid of her brother—says there’s no help for it—only a few days more—when old folks blinded—crown your happiness.’

‘Any message?’

‘Love—best love—kindest regards—unalterable affection. Can I say anything for you?’

‘My dear fellow,’ replied the unsuspicious Mr. Tupman, fervently grasping his ‘friend’s’ hand—‘carry my best love—say how hard I find it to dissemble—say anything that’s kind: but add how sensible I am of the necessity of the suggestion she made to me, through you, this morning. Say I applaud her wisdom and admire her discretion.’

I will. Anything more?’

‘Nothing, only add how ardently I long for the time when I may call her mine, and all dissimulation may be unnecessary.’

‘Certainly, certainly. Anything more?’

‘Oh, my friend!’ said poor Mr. Tupman, again grasping the hand of his companion, ‘receive my warmest thanks for your disinterested kindness; and forgive me if I have ever, even in thought, done you the injustice of supposing that you could stand in my way. My dear friend, can I ever repay you?’

‘Don’t talk of it,’ replied Mr. Jingle. He stopped short, as if suddenly recollecting something, and said—‘By the bye—can’t spare ten pounds, can you?—very particular purpose—pay you in three days.’

‘I dare say I can,’ replied Mr. Tupman, in the fulness of his heart. ‘Three days, you say?’

‘Only three days—all over then—no more difficulties.’ Mr. Tupman counted the money into his companion’s hand, and he dropped it piece by piece into his pocket, as they walked towards the house.

‘Be careful,’ said Mr. Jingle—‘not a look.’

‘Not a wink,’ said Mr. Tupman.

‘Not a syllable.’

‘Not a whisper.’

‘All your attentions to the niece—rather rude, than otherwise, to the aunt—only way of deceiving the old ones.’

‘I’ll take care,’ said Mr. Tupman aloud.

‘And I’ll take care,’ said Mr. Jingle internally; and they entered the house.

The scene of that afternoon was repeated that evening, and on the three afternoons and evenings next ensuing. On the fourth, the host was in high spirits, for he had satisfied himself that there was no ground for the charge against Mr. Tupman. So was Mr. Tupman, for Mr. Jingle had told him that his affair would soon be brought to a crisis. So was Mr. Pickwick, for he was seldom otherwise. So was not Mr. Snodgrass, for he had grown jealous of Mr. Tupman. So was the old lady, for she had been winning at whist. So were Mr. Jingle and Miss Wardle, for reasons of sufficient importance in this eventful history to be narrated in another chapter.

“Come ci sono riuscito?”, chiese.

“Meraviglioso, impeccabile, nemmeno io avrei potuto fare di meglio. Devi ripetere questa parte domani, e ogni sera, fino a nuovo ordine.”

“Rachael lo desidera ancora?”

“Certo, a lei non piace, ma deve essere fatto, per evitare sospetti, ha paura di suo fratello, dice che non c’è niente da fare, mancano solo pochi giorni, quando gli anziani distruggeranno la tua felicità.”

“Qualsiasi messaggio?”

‘Amore, il più bello degli amori, i più affettuosi saluti, un affetto immutabile. Posso dire qualcosa per te?’

“Mio caro amico,” rispose il ingenuo signor Tupman, stringendo con fervore la mano del suo “amico”, “porti i miei più sinceri sentimenti. Dica quanto mi sia difficile fingere. Dica qualsiasi cosa gentile voglia; ma aggiunga anche quanto apprezzi la saggezza e la discrezione di lei, che stamattina, attraverso di voi, mi ha fatto questa proposta. Dica che approvo la sua saggezza e ammiro la sua prudenza.”

“Lo farò. C’è altro?”

‘Niente, solo aggiungere quanto ardentemente desidero quel momento in cui potrò chiamarla mia, e in cui ogni finzione diventerà superflua.’

“Certo, certo. C’è altro?”

“Oh, mio caro amico!” disse il povero signor Tupman, stringendo di nuovo la mano del suo compagno, “accetti le mie più sincere ringraziamenti per la tua gentilezza disinteressata; e perdonami se mai, anche solo in pensiero, ho potuto supporre che tu potessi ostacolarmi. Mio caro amico, come posso mai ripagarti?”

“Non ne parliamo più,” rispose il signor Jingle. Si fermò all’improvviso, come se si fosse ricordato di qualcosa, e aggiunse: “A proposito, non potresti prestarmi dieci sterline? È per un motivo molto importante, ti pagherò tra tre giorni.”

“Oserei dire di sì,” rispose il signor Tupman, con tutto il cuore. “Tre giorni, dite?”

“Solo tre giorni, poi sarà tutto finito, nessun altro problema.” Il signor Tupman contò i soldi e li mise nella mano del suo compagno, che poi li infilò uno per uno in tasca mentre camminavano verso la >casa.

“Fai attenzione,” disse il signor Jingle – “nessun sguardo.”

“Nemmeno un battito di ciglia,” disse il signor Tupman.

“Nessuna sillaba.”

“Nessun sussurro.”

“Tutta la vostra attenzione rivolta alla nipote. In realtà, è piuttosto scortese verso la zia. Ma è l’unico modo per ingannare gli anziani.”

“Me ne occuperò io,” disse ad alta voce il signor Tupman.

“E me ne occuperò io,” pensò tra sé il signor Jingle; poi entrarono nella casa.

La scena di quel pomeriggio si ripeté quella sera, e nelle tre sere e pomeriggi successivi. Il quarto giorno, l’ospite era di ottimo umore, poiché si era convinto che non ci fossero fondamenti per le accuse rivolte a Mr. Tupman. Lo stesso valeva per Mr. Tupman, poiché Mr. Jingle gli aveva detto che la sua situazione sarebbe presto arrivata a una crisi. Lo stesso valeva anche per Mr. Pickwick, poiché di rado era diversamente. Lo stesso valeva per Mr. Snodgrass, poiché aveva iniziato a provare gelosia verso Mr. Tupman. Lo stesso valeva anche per la vecchia signora, poiché stava vincendo al gioco del whist. Lo stesso valeva per Mr. Jingle e Miss Wardle, per motivi di sufficiente importanza in questa avventurosa storia da essere raccontati in un altro capitolo.

CHAPTER IX. A DISCOVERY AND A CHASE

The supper was ready laid, the chairs were drawn round the table, bottles, jugs, and glasses were arranged upon the sideboard, and everything betokened the approach of the most convivial period in the whole four-and-twenty hours.

‘Where’s Rachael?’ said Mr. Wardle.

‘Ay, and Jingle?’ added Mr. Pickwick.

‘Dear me,’ said the host, ‘I wonder I haven’t missed him before. Why, I don’t think I’ve heard his voice for two hours at least. Emily, my dear, ring the bell.’

The bell was rung, and the fat boy appeared.

‘Where’s Miss Rachael?’ He couldn’t say.

‘Where’s Mr. Jingle, then?’ He didn’t know. Everybody looked surprised. It was late—past eleven o’clock. Mr. Tupman laughed in his sleeve. They were loitering somewhere, talking about him. Ha, ha! capital notion that—funny.

‘Never mind,’ said Wardle, after a short pause. ‘They’ll turn up presently, I dare say. I never wait supper for anybody.’

‘Excellent rule, that,’ said Mr. Pickwick—‘admirable.’

‘Pray, sit down,’ said the host.

‘Certainly’ said Mr. Pickwick; and down they sat.

There was a gigantic round of cold beef on the table, and Mr. Pickwick was supplied with a plentiful portion of it. He had raised his fork to his lips, and was on the very point of opening his mouth for the reception of a piece of beef, when the hum of many voices suddenly arose in the kitchen. He paused, and laid down his fork. Mr. Wardle paused too, and insensibly released his hold of the carving-knife, which remained inserted in the beef. He looked at Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Pickwick looked at him.

Heavy footsteps were heard in the passage; the parlour door was suddenly burst open; and the man who had cleaned Mr. Pickwick’s boots on his first arrival, rushed into the room, followed by the fat boy and all the domestics.

‘What the devil’s the meaning of this?’ exclaimed the host.

‘The kitchen chimney ain’t a-fire, is it, Emma?’ inquired the old lady.

‘Lor, grandma! No,’ screamed both the young ladies.

‘What’s the matter?’ roared the master of the house.

The man gasped for breath, and faintly ejaculated—

‘They ha’ gone, mas’r!—gone right clean off, Sir!’ (At this juncture Mr. Tupman was observed to lay down his knife and fork, and to turn very pale.)

‘Who’s gone?’ said Mr. Wardle fiercely.

‘Mus’r Jingle and Miss Rachael, in a po’-chay, from Blue Lion, Muggleton. I was there; but I couldn’t stop ‘em; so I run off to tell ‘ee.’

‘I paid his expenses!’ said Mr. Tupman, jumping up frantically. ‘He’s got ten pounds of mine!—stop him!—he’s swindled me!—I won’t bear it!- -I’ll have justice, Pickwick!—I won’t stand it!’ and with sundry incoherent exclamations of the like nature, the unhappy gentleman spun round and round the apartment, in a transport of frenzy.

‘Lord preserve us!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, eyeing the extraordinary gestures of his friend with terrified surprise. ‘He’s gone mad! What shall we do?’

Do!’ said the stout old host, who regarded only the last words of the sentence. ‘Put the horse in the gig! I’ll get a chaise at the Lion, and follow ‘em instantly. Where?’—he exclaimed, as the man ran out to execute the commission—‘where’s that villain, Joe?’

‘Here I am! but I hain’t a willin,’ replied a voice. It was the fat boy’s.

‘Let me get at him, Pickwick,’ cried Wardle, as he rushed at the ill- starred youth. ‘He was bribed by that scoundrel, Jingle, to put me on a wrong scent, by telling a cock-and-bull story of my sister and your friend Tupman!’ (Here Mr. Tupman sank into a chair.) ‘Let me get at him!’

‘Don’t let him!’ screamed all the women, above whose exclamations the blubbering of the fat boy was distinctly audible.

‘I won’t be held!’ cried the old man. ‘Mr. Winkle, take your hands off. Mr. Pickwick, let me go, sir!’

It was a beautiful sight, in that moment of turmoil and confusion, to behold the placid and philosophical expression of Mr. Pickwick’s face, albeit somewhat flushed with exertion, as he stood with his arms firmly clasped round the extensive waist of their corpulent host, thus restraining the impetuosity of his passion, while the fat boy was scratched, and pulled, and pushed from the room by all the females congregated therein. He had no sooner released his hold, than the man entered to announce that the gig was ready.

‘Don’t let him go alone!’ screamed the females. ‘He’ll kill somebody!’

‘I’ll go with him,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘You’re a good fellow, Pickwick,’ said the host, grasping his hand. ‘Emma, give Mr. Pickwick a shawl to tie round his neck—make haste. Look after your grandmother, girls; she has fainted away. Now then, are you ready?’

Mr. Pickwick’s mouth and chin having been hastily enveloped in a large shawl, his hat having been put on his head, and his greatcoat thrown over his arm, he replied in the affirmative.

They jumped into the gig. ‘Give her her head, Tom,’ cried the host; and away they went, down the narrow lanes; jolting in and out of the cart- ruts, and bumping up against the hedges on either side, as if they would go to pieces every moment.

‘How much are they ahead?’ shouted Wardle, as they drove up to the door of the Blue Lion, round which a little crowd had collected, late as it was.

‘Not above three-quarters of an hour,’ was everybody’s reply.

‘Chaise-and-four directly!—out with ‘em! Put up the gig afterwards.’

‘Now, boys!’ cried the landlord—‘chaise-and-four out—make haste—look alive there!’

Away ran the hostlers and the boys. The lanterns glimmered, as the men ran to and fro; the horses’ hoofs clattered on the uneven paving of the yard; the chaise rumbled as it was drawn out of the coach-house; and all was noise and bustle.

‘Now then!—is that chaise coming out to-night?’ cried Wardle.

‘Coming down the yard now, Sir,’ replied the hostler.

Out came the chaise—in went the horses—on sprang the boys—in got the travellers.

CAPITOLO IX. UNA SCOPERTA E UN INSEGUIMENTO

La cena era pronta; le sedie erano state disposte intorno al tavolo, mentre bottiglie, giare e bicchieri erano allineati sul comodino. Tutto indicava l’avvicinarsi del momento più piacevole di quelle ventiquattro ore.

“Dove è Rachael?” chiese il signor Wardle.

“E Ay, e Jingle?” aggiunse il signor Pickwick.

“Mio Dio,” disse l’ospite, “mi chiedo perché non me ne sia accorto prima. Non credo di aver sentito la sua voce da almeno due ore. Emily, cara, suona il campanello.”

Il campanello suonò, e apparve il ragazzo grasso.

“Dove è la signorina Rachael?” Non riusciva a dirlo.

“Allora, dove si trova il signor Jingle?” Lui non lo sapeva. Tutti sembravano sorpresi.
Era tardi, dopo le undici. Il signor Tupman rise tra sé e sé: stavano sicuramente gironzolando da qualche parte, parlando di lui. Ahah! Che idea ridicola, divertente davvero.

“Nessun problema,” disse Wardle dopo una breve pausa. “Probabilmente arriveranno presto. Io non aspetto mai nessuno per la cena.”

“Regola eccellente, davvero,” disse il signor Pickwick; “ammirevole.”

“Prega, siediti,” disse l’ospite.

“Certamente,” disse il signor Pickwick; e così si sedettero.

C’era un enorme pezzo di manzo freddo sul tavolo, e al signor Pickwick ne fu servita una porzione abbondante. Aveva già sollevato la forchetta alle labbra, pronto ad aprire bocca per mangiare un boccone di carne, quando all’improvviso si udì il rumore di molte voci in cucina. Si fermò e posò la forchetta. Anche il signor Wardle si fermò, e senza rendersene conto lasciò andare il coltello da taglio che era ancora conficcato nel manzo. Guardò il signor Pickwick. Il signor Pickwick lo guardò a sua volta.

Si udirono passi pesanti nel corridoio; la porta del salotto si aprì improvvisamente; l’uomo che aveva pulito le scarpe di Mr. Pickwick al suo arrivo entrò nella stanza di corsa, seguito dal ragazzo grasso e da tutti i domestici.

“Che diavolo significa tutto questo?”, esclamò il padrone di casa.

“Il camino della cucina non sta bruciando, vero, Emma?” chiese la vecchia signora.

“Nonna, no!” gridarono entrambe le giovani signore.

“Che c’è che non va?” ruggì il padrone di quella casa.

“L’uomo ansimò e pronunciò debolmente, ”

“Sono andati via, signore! Scomparsi completamente, signore!” (In questo momento si notò che il signor Tupman posò coltello e forchetta e impallidì molto.)

“Chi se n’è andato?” chiese il signor Wardle con rabbia.

“Mus’r Jingle e Miss Rachael, durante una tazza di tè, da Blue Lion, Muggleton. Ero lì, ma non sono riuscito a fermarli; quindi sono scappato per andare a dirlo.”

“Ho pagato tutte le sue spese!”, disse il signor Tupman, alzandosi freneticamente. “Mi ha preso dieci sterline. Fermatelo! Mi ha truffato. Non lo tollererò più. Otterrò giustizia, Pickwick. Non ne posso più!” E con varie esclamazioni incoerenti di quel genere, il povero signore iniziò a girare vorticosamente per l’appartamento, preso da una follia totale.

“Signore, proteggici!” esclamò il signor Pickwick, osservando con terrore e sorpresa i gesti straordinari del suo amico. “È impazzito! Cosa dovremmo fare?”

“Fa’ così!” disse il robusto vecchio padrone di casa, che aveva prestato attenzione solo alle ultime parole della frase. “Metti il cavallo nella carrozza! Andrò a prendere una chaise al Lion e li seguirò immediatamente. Dove?” esclamò, mentre l’uomo correva ad eseguire l’ordine. “Dove si trova quel malvivente, Joe?”

“Eccomi qui! Ma non ne ho voglia,” rispose una voce. Era quella del ragazzo grasso.

“Lasciate che mi occupi di lui, Pickwick”, gridò Wardle mentre si lanciava contro quel giovane sfortunato. “È stato corrotto da quel farabutto, Jingle, per farmi prendere una strada sbagliata, raccontando storie assurde su mia sorella e il vostro amico Tupman!” (A questo punto, il signor Tupman si lasciò cadere su una sedia.) “Lasciate che mi occupi di lui!”

“Non lasciatelo andare!” gridarono tutte le donne; al di sopra delle loro voci, si udiva chiaramente il pianto del ragazzo grassoccio.

“Non mi lascerete andare!” gridò l’uomo anziano. “Signor Winkle, toglietemi le mani di dosso. Signor Pickwick, lasciatemi andare, per favore!”

Era una vista davvero bella: in quel momento di caos e confusione, vedere l’espressione serena e filosofica sul volto del signor Pickwick, sebbene leggermente arrossito per lo sforzo, mentre teneva saldamente le braccia intorno alla robusta vita del loro ospite grasso, trattenendo così l’impetuosità della sua passione. Nel frattempo, il ragazzo grasso veniva graffiato, tirato e spinto fuori dalla stanza da tutte le donne presenti. Non appena il signor Pickwick allentò la presa, quell’uomo entrò per annunciare che la vettura era pronta.

“Non lasciatelo andare da solo!”, gridarono le donne. “Ucciderà qualcuno!”

“Andrò con lui,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Sei davvero una brava persona, Pickwick”, disse l’ospite stringendogli la mano.
“Emma, dammi un scialle per che Pickwick se lo avvolga intorno al collo, sbrigati. Ragazze, prendetevi cura di vostra nonna; è svenuta. Allora, sei pronto?”

Il signor Pickwick, con la bocca e il mento rapidamente avvolti in un grande scialle, il cappello indossato e il cappotto gettato sul braccio, rispose affermativamente.

Si misero subito all’opera. “Dalle la testa, Tom,” gridò il padrone di casa; e via partirono, lungo i sentieri stretti, sobbalzando sulle buche del terreno e urtando contro gli steccati su entrambi i lati, come se potessero rompersi da un momento all’altro.

“Di quanto vantaggio sono?” gridò Wardle mentre si avvicinavano alla porta del Blue Lion, intorno alla quale si era radunata una piccola folla, nonostante fosse tardi.

“Non più di tre quarti d’ora”, era la risposta di tutti.

“La carrozza a quattro cavalli, subito! Partiamo immediatamente; montiamo la tenda dopo.”

“Ora, ragazzi!”, gridò il padrone di casa. “La carrozza è pronta. Sbrigatevi. Muovetevi!”

Via corsero i servitori e i ragazzi. Le lanterne brillavano mentre gli uomini andavano avanti e indietro; gli zoccoli dei cavalli rimbombavano sul selciato irregolare del cortile; la carrozza rumoreggiava mentre veniva tirata fuori dalla casa. E tutto era un gran trambusto.

“Allora! Quella chaise uscirà stasera, vero?” gridò Wardle.

“Sto scendendo ora nel cortile, signore,” rispose il custode della stalla.

Fuori uscì la carrozza; dentro montarono i cavalli; i ragazzi balzarono a bordo; i viaggiatori salirono a loro volta.

‘Mind—the seven-mile stage in less than half an hour!’ shouted Wardle.

‘Off with you!’

The boys applied whip and spur, the waiters shouted, the hostlers cheered, and away they went, fast and furiously.

‘Pretty situation,’ thought Mr. Pickwick, when he had had a moment’s time for reflection. ‘Pretty situation for the general chairman of the Pickwick Club. Damp chaise—strange horses—fifteen miles an hour—and twelve o’clock at night!’

For the first three or four miles, not a word was spoken by either of the gentlemen, each being too much immersed in his own reflections to address any observations to his companion. When they had gone over that much ground, however, and the horses getting thoroughly warmed began to do their work in really good style, Mr. Pickwick became too much exhilarated with the rapidity of the motion, to remain any longer perfectly mute.

‘We’re sure to catch them, I think,’ said he.

‘Hope so,’ replied his companion.

‘Fine night,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking up at the moon, which was shining brightly.

‘So much the worse,’ returned Wardle; ‘for they’ll have had all the advantage of the moonlight to get the start of us, and we shall lose it. It will have gone down in another hour.’

‘It will be rather unpleasant going at this rate in the dark, won’t it?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘I dare say it will,’ replied his friend dryly.

Mr. Pickwick’s temporary excitement began to sober down a little, as he reflected upon the inconveniences and dangers of the expedition in which he had so thoughtlessly embarked. He was roused by a loud shouting of the post-boy on the leader.

‘Yo-yo-yo-yo-yoe!’ went the first boy.

‘Yo-yo-yo-yoe!’ went the second.

‘Yo-yo-yo-yoe!’ chimed in old Wardle himself, most lustily, with his head and half his body out of the coach window.

‘Yo-yo-yo-yoe!’ shouted Mr. Pickwick, taking up the burden of the cry, though he had not the slightest notion of its meaning or object. And amidst the yo-yoing of the whole four, the chaise stopped.

‘What’s the matter?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘There’s a gate here,’ replied old Wardle. ‘We shall hear something of the fugitives.’

After a lapse of five minutes, consumed in incessant knocking and shouting, an old man in his shirt and trousers emerged from the turnpike-house, and opened the gate.

‘How long is it since a post-chaise went through here?’ inquired Mr. Wardle.

‘How long?’

‘Ah!’

‘Why, I don’t rightly know. It worn’t a long time ago, nor it worn’t a short time ago—just between the two, perhaps.’

‘Has any chaise been by at all?’

‘Oh, yes, there’s been a chay by.’

‘How long ago, my friend,’ interposed Mr. Pickwick; ‘an hour?’

‘Ah, I dare say it might be,’ replied the man.

‘Or two hours?’ inquired the post—boy on the wheeler.

‘Well, I shouldn’t wonder if it was,’ returned the old man doubtfully.

‘Drive on, boys,’ cried the testy old gentleman; ‘don’t waste any more time with that old idiot!’

‘Idiot!’ exclaimed the old man with a grin, as he stood in the middle of the road with the gate half-closed, watching the chaise which rapidly diminished in the increasing distance. ‘No—not much o’ that either; you’ve lost ten minutes here, and gone away as wise as you came, arter all. If every man on the line as has a guinea give him, earns it half as well, you won’t catch t’other chay this side Mich’lmas, old short-and- fat.’ And with another prolonged grin, the old man closed the gate, re- entered his house, and bolted the door after him.

Meanwhile the chaise proceeded, without any slackening of pace, towards the conclusion of the stage. The moon, as Wardle had foretold, was rapidly on the wane; large tiers of dark, heavy clouds, which had been gradually overspreading the sky for some time past, now formed one black mass overhead; and large drops of rain which pattered every now and then against the windows of the chaise, seemed to warn the travellers of the rapid approach of a stormy night. The wind, too, which was directly against them, swept in furious gusts down the narrow road, and howled dismally through the trees which skirted the pathway. Mr. Pickwick drew his coat closer about him, coiled himself more snugly up into the corner of the chaise, and fell into a sound sleep, from which he was only awakened by the stopping of the vehicle, the sound of the hostler’s bell, and a loud cry of ‘Horses on directly!’

But here another delay occurred. The boys were sleeping with such mysterious soundness, that it took five minutes a-piece to wake them. The hostler had somehow or other mislaid the key of the stable, and even when that was found, two sleepy helpers put the wrong harness on the wrong horses, and the whole process of harnessing had to be gone through afresh. Had Mr. Pickwick been alone, these multiplied obstacles would have completely put an end to the pursuit at once, but old Wardle was not to be so easily daunted; and he laid about him with such hearty good-will, cuffing this man, and pushing that; strapping a buckle here, and taking in a link there, that the chaise was ready in a much shorter time than could reasonably have been expected, under so many difficulties.

They resumed their journey; and certainly the prospect before them was by no means encouraging. The stage was fifteen miles long, the night was dark, the wind high, and the rain pouring in torrents. It was impossible to make any great way against such obstacles united; it was hard upon one o’clock already; and nearly two hours were consumed in getting to the end of the stage. Here, however, an object presented itself, which rekindled their hopes, and reanimated their drooping spirits.

‘When did this chaise come in?’ cried old Wardle, leaping out of his own vehicle, and pointing to one covered with wet mud, which was standing in the yard.

“Attenzione, sette miglia in meno di mezz’ora!” gridò Wardle.

“Via di qui!”

I ragazzi spronarono i cavalli con frusta e speroni; i servitori gridavano, gli stallieri incitavano, e via partirono, veloci e impetuosi.

“Una situazione davvero interessante,” pensò il signor Pickwick dopo aver avuto un momento per riflettere. “Davvero interessante per il presidente del Pickwick Club. Una vettura umida, cavalli strani, una velocità di quindici miglia all’ora, e le dodici di notte!”

Nei primi tre o quattro miglia, nessuno dei due signori pronunciò una parola; entrambi erano troppo immersi nei propri pensieri per rivolgere osservazioni al compagno. Tuttavia, dopo aver percorso quella distanza e quando i cavalli si furono completamente scaldati e iniziarono a correre con grande efficienza, il signor Pickwick fu così entusiasta della velocità con cui procedevano che non riuscì più a rimanere in silenzio.

“Sono sicuro che riusciremo a catturarli,” disse.

“Sì,” rispose il suo compagno.

“Fine della notte”, disse il signor Pickwick guardando la luna, che brillava intensamente.

“È ancora peggio,” rispose Wardle; “perché avranno avuto tutto il vantaggio della luce lunare per partire prima di noi, e noi ne perderemo l’opportunità. La luna tramonterà tra un’ora.”

“Proseguire a questo ritmo al buio non sarà certo piacevole, vero?” chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Oserei dire che sì”, rispose seccamente il suo amico.

L’eccitazione temporanea del signor Pickwick iniziò a calmarsi un po’ quando rifletté sugli inconvenienti e sui pericoli dell’espedizione in cui si era imbarcato così senza pensarci. Fu svegliato dal forte grido di un postino che chiamava il conducente del carro.

“Yo-yo-yo-yo-yoe!” gridò il primo ragazzo.

“Yo-yo-yo-yoe!” fece il secondo.

“Yo-yo-yo-yoe!”, cantò ad alta voce lo stesso vecchio Wardle, con la testa e metà del suo -corpo fuori dalla finestra della carrozza.

“Yoyo-yoyo-yo!” gridò il signor Pickwick, assumendosi il compito di ripetere quel grido, anche se non aveva la minima idea del suo significato o dello scopo per cui veniva pronunciato. E mentre tutti e quattro continuavano a ripetere quella parola all’infinito, la carrozza si fermò.

“Che c’è che non va?” chiese il signor Pickwick.

“C’è una porta qui,” rispose il vecchio Wardle. “Sentiremo notizie dei fuggitivi.”

Dopo cinque minuti di continui colpi e grida, un vecchio in camicia e pantaloni uscì dalla casa della stazione di pedaggio e aprì il cancello.

“Da quanto tempo non passa un posteggio di cavalli da questa parte?” chiese il signor Wardle.

“Quanto tempo?”

‘Ah!’

“Beh, non lo so con esattezza. Non è passato molto tempo, né troppo poco. Forse proprio in quel lasso di tempo.”

“È mai passata qualche carrozza da queste parti?”

“Ah sì, è passato un tè.”

“Quanto tempo fa, mio caro amico, ”, intervenne il signor Pickwick; “un’ora?”

“Ah, oserei dire che potrebbe essere,” rispose l’uomo.

“O due ore?”, chiese il ragazzo che consegnava le lettere a bordo del veicolo a ruote.

“Beh, non dovrei meravigliarmene se fosse così,” rispose l’uomo anziano con esitazione.

“Continuate pure, ragazzi,” gridò il vecchio signore irritato; “non sprecate altro tempo con quel vecchio idiota!”

“Idiota!” esclamò l’uomo anziano sorridendo, mentre stava in mezzo alla strada con il cancello semi-chiuso, osservando la carrozza che si allontanava rapidamente nella distanza. “No, non proprio; hai perso dieci minuti qui e te ne sei andato esattamente come eri arrivato. Se ogni persona lungo questa strada gli desse una ghinea, lui la guadagnerebbe comunque in modo molto meno efficace. Non riuscirai mai a raggiungere l’altra carrozza da queste parti prima di Mich’lmas, vecchio grassone.” E con un altro lungo sorriso, l’uomo anziano chiuse il cancello, rientrò nella sua casa e si chiuse la porta alle spalle.

Nel frattempo, la carrozza proseguiva senza rallentare verso la fine del suo percorso. La luna, come aveva previsto Wardle, stava rapidamente calando; grandi strati di nuvole scure e dense si erano gradualmente diffusi nel cielo negli ultimi minuti, formando ora una massa nera sopra le loro teste; grosse gocce di pioggia che di tanto in tanto battevano contro i finestrini della carrozza sembravano preannunciare l’imminente arrivo di una tempesta. Anche il vento, che soffiava direttamente contro di loro, si abbatteva con raffiche furiose lungo la stretta strada, ululando sinistramente tra gli alberi che costeggiavano il percorso. Il signor Pickwick si avvolse più strettamente nel suo cappotto, si rannicchiò ancora di più nell’angolo della carrozza e cadde in un sonno profondo; fu svegliato soltanto quando la vettura si fermò, il campanello del postiglione suonò e si udì gridare: “I cavalli sono pronti!”

Ma qui si verificò un altro ritardo. I ragazzi dormivano così profondamente che ci vollero cinque minuti ciascuno per svegliarli. Il custode aveva perso chissà come la chiave dello stallo; e anche quando fu trovata, due aiutanti assonnati misero le bardature sbagliate sui cavalli sbagliati, quindi l’intero processo dovette essere ripetuto da capo. Se il signor Pickwick fosse stato da solo, tutti questi ostacoli avrebbero immediatamente posto fine all’inseguimento; ma il vecchio Wardle non era il tipo da arrendersi facilmente. Si diede da fare con grande impegno e buona volontà: schiaffeggiando questo, spingendo quello, allacciando una fibbia qui, sistemando un anello là. Così la carrozza fu pronta in molto meno tempo di quanto ci si potesse aspettare, data tutta quella serie di difficoltà.

Ripresero il loro viaggio; e certamente la prospettiva che li aspettava non era affatto incoraggiante. La distanza da percorrere era di quindici miglia, la notte era buia, il vento forte e la pioggia cadeva a scrosci. Era impossibile avanzare in mezzo a tali ostacoli; già dopo un’ora si faceva fatica a procedere, e furono necessarie quasi due ore per raggiungere la fine del tratto. Tuttavia, qui apparve qualcosa che riaccese le loro speranze e risollevò i loro spiriti abbattuti.

“Quando è arrivata questa chaise?” gridò il vecchio Wardle, saltando fuori dal proprio veicolo e indicando una chaise coperta di fango bagnato, che si trovava nel cortile.

‘Not a quarter of an hour ago, sir,’ replied the hostler, to whom the question was addressed.

‘Lady and gentleman?’ inquired Wardle, almost breathless with impatience.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Tall gentleman—dress-coat—long legs—thin body?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Elderly lady—thin face—rather skinny—eh?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘By heavens, it’s the couple, Pickwick,’ exclaimed the old gentleman.

‘Would have been here before,’ said the hostler, ‘but they broke a trace.’

‘’Tis them!’ said Wardle, ‘it is, by Jove! Chaise-and-four instantly! We shall catch them yet before they reach the next stage. A guinea a-piece, boys-be alive there—bustle about—there’s good fellows.’

And with such admonitions as these, the old gentleman ran up and down the yard, and bustled to and fro, in a state of excitement which communicated itself to Mr. Pickwick also; and under the influence of which, that gentleman got himself into complicated entanglements with harness, and mixed up with horses and wheels of chaises, in the most surprising manner, firmly believing that by so doing he was materially forwarding the preparations for their resuming their journey.

‘Jump in—jump in!’ cried old Wardle, climbing into the chaise, pulling up the steps, and slamming the door after him. ‘Come along! Make haste!’ And before Mr. Pickwick knew precisely what he was about, he felt himself forced in at the other door, by one pull from the old gentleman and one push from the hostler; and off they were again.

‘Ah! we are moving now,’ said the old gentleman exultingly. They were indeed, as was sufficiently testified to Mr. Pickwick, by his constant collision either with the hard wood-work of the chaise, or the body of his companion.

‘Hold up!’ said the stout old Mr. Wardle, as Mr. Pickwick dived head foremost into his capacious waistcoat.

‘I never did feel such a jolting in my life,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Never mind,’ replied his companion, ‘it will soon be over. Steady, steady.’

Mr. Pickwick planted himself into his own corner, as firmly as he could; and on whirled the chaise faster than ever.

They had travelled in this way about three miles, when Mr. Wardle, who had been looking out of the Window for two or three minutes, suddenly drew in his face, covered with splashes, and exclaimed in breathless eagerness—

‘Here they are!’

Mr. Pickwick thrust his head out of his window. Yes: there was a chaise- and-four, a short distance before them, dashing along at full gallop.

‘Go on, go on,’ almost shrieked the old gentleman. ‘Two guineas a-piece, boys—don’t let ‘em gain on us—keep it up—keep it up.’

The horses in the first chaise started on at their utmost speed; and those in Mr. Wardle’s galloped furiously behind them.

‘I see his head,’ exclaimed the choleric old man; ‘damme, I see his head.’

‘So do I’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘that’s he.’

Mr. Pickwick was not mistaken. The countenance of Mr. Jingle, completely coated with mud thrown up by the wheels, was plainly discernible at the window of his chaise; and the motion of his arm, which was waving violently towards the postillions, denoted that he was encouraging them to increased exertion.

The interest was intense. Fields, trees, and hedges, seemed to rush past them with the velocity of a whirlwind, so rapid was the pace at which they tore along. They were close by the side of the first chaise. Jingle’s voice could be plainly heard, even above the din of the wheels, urging on the boys. Old Mr. Wardle foamed with rage and excitement. He roared out scoundrels and villains by the dozen, clenched his fist and shook it expressively at the object of his indignation; but Mr. Jingle only answered with a contemptuous smile, and replied to his menaces by a shout of triumph, as his horses, answering the increased application of whip and spur, broke into a faster gallop, and left the pursuers behind.

Mr. Pickwick had just drawn in his head, and Mr. Wardle, exhausted with shouting, had done the same, when a tremendous jolt threw them forward against the front of the vehicle. There was a sudden bump—a loud crash- -away rolled a wheel, and over went the chaise.

After a very few seconds of bewilderment and confusion, in which nothing but the plunging of horses, and breaking of glass could be made out, Mr. Pickwick felt himself violently pulled out from among the ruins of the chaise; and as soon as he had gained his feet, extricated his head from the skirts of his greatcoat, which materially impeded the usefulness of his spectacles, the full disaster of the case met his view.

Old Mr. Wardle without a hat, and his clothes torn in several places, stood by his side, and the fragments of the chaise lay scattered at their feet. The post-boys, who had succeeded in cutting the traces, were standing, disfigured with mud and disordered by hard riding, by the horses’ heads. About a hundred yards in advance was the other chaise, which had pulled up on hearing the crash. The postillions, each with a broad grin convulsing his countenance, were viewing the adverse party from their saddles, and Mr. Jingle was contemplating the wreck from the coach window, with evident satisfaction. The day was just breaking, and the whole scene was rendered perfectly visible by the grey light of the morning.

‘Hollo!’ shouted the shameless Jingle, ‘anybody damaged?—elderly gentlemen—no light weights—dangerous work—very.’

‘You’re a rascal,’ roared Wardle.

‘Ha! ha!’ replied Jingle; and then he added, with a knowing wink, and a jerk of the thumb towards the interior of the chaise—‘I say—she’s very well—desires her compliments—begs you won’t trouble yourself—love to Tuppy—won’t you get up behind?—drive on, boys.’

The postillions resumed their proper attitudes, and away rattled the chaise, Mr. Jingle fluttering in derision a white handkerchief from the coach window.

Nothing in the whole adventure, not even the upset, had disturbed the calm and equable current of Mr. Pickwick’s temper. The villainy, however, which could first borrow money of his faithful follower, and then abbreviate his name to ‘Tuppy,’ was more than he could patiently bear. He drew his breath hard, and coloured up to the very tips of his spectacles, as he said, slowly and emphatically—

‘If ever I meet that man again, I’ll—’

‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted Wardle, ‘that’s all very well; but while we stand talking here, they’ll get their licence, and be married in London.’

Mr. Pickwick paused, bottled up his vengeance, and corked it down. ‘How far is it to the next stage?’ inquired Mr. Wardle, of one of the boys.

‘Six mile, ain’t it, Tom?’

‘Rayther better.’

‘Rayther better nor six mile, Sir.’

‘Can’t be helped,’ said Wardle, ‘we must walk it, Pickwick.’

‘No help for it,’ replied that truly great man.

So sending forward one of the boys on horseback, to procure a fresh chaise and horses, and leaving the other behind to take care of the broken one, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Wardle set manfully forward on the walk, first tying their shawls round their necks, and slouching down their hats to escape as much as possible from the deluge of rain, which after a slight cessation had again begun to pour heavily down.

“Non un quarto d’ora fa, signore,” rispose l’ostiere a cui era stata posta la domanda.

“Signore e signori?”, chiese Wardle, quasi senza fiato per l’impazienza.

“Sì, signore.”

“Un gentiluomo alto, abito da sera, gambe lunghe, un corpo snello, ”

“Sì, signore.”

“Signora anziana, viso magro, abbastanza snella, eh?”

“Sì, signore.”

“Per tutti i cieli, sono proprio quella coppia, Pickwick”, esclamò il vecchio signore.

“Avrei potuto essere qui prima,” disse l’ostiere, “ma hanno perso le tracce.”

“Sono loro!” disse Wardle, “davvero, per Giove! Prendete subito la carrozza a quattro cavalli! Riusciremo ad acchiapparli prima che arrivino alla prossima tappa. Una ghinea a testa. Forza ragazzi, muovetevi in fretta. Ci sono brave persone qui.”

E con simili ammonimenti, il vecchio signore correva avanti e indietro nel cortile, agitandosi in modo frenetico; questa sua eccitazione contagiò anche il signor Pickwick, che, sotto tale influenza, si ritrovò coinvolto in situazioni complesse legate a finimenti da cavallo e ruote di carrozze, in modi davvero sorprendenti, convinto fermamente che così facendo stesse contribuendo in modo significativo ai preparativi per riprendere il loro viaggio.

“Salite subito, salite!” gridò il vecchio Wardle, infilandosi nella carrozza, tirando su i gradini e chiudendo la porta dietro di sé. “Forza, sbrigatevi!” Prima ancora che il signor Pickwick riuscisse a capire cosa stesse succedendo, si trovò spinto dentro dall’altra porta, sia da una tirata del vecchio gentiluomo che da una spinta del postiglione; e via furono di nuovo.

“Ah! Ora ci stiamo muovendo,” esclamò il vecchio signore con entusiasmo. E infatti, come fu ampiamente dimostrato al signor Pickwick, egli continuava a sbattere sia contro i rigidi elementi in legno della carrozza che contro il -corpo del suo compagno di viaggio.

“Fermatevi!” disse il robusto e anziano signor Wardle, mentre il signor Pickwick si infilava a testa in giù nel suo ampio gilet.

“Non ho mai provato nulla del genere nella mia vita,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Nessun problema,” rispose il suo compagno, “finirà presto. Calmo, calmo.”

Il signor Pickwick si sistemò nel proprio angolo, il più saldamente possibile; e poi fece girare la poltrona a rotelle ancora più velocemente del solito.

Avevano percorso circa tre miglia in questo modo, quando il signor Wardle, che aveva steso lo sguardo fuori dalla finestra da due o tre minuti, all’improvviso tirò indietro la testa, coperto di schizzi d’acqua, e esclamò con ansia febbrile.

“Eccoli qui!”

Il signor Pickwick sporse la testa fuori dalla sua finestra. Sì: c’era una carrozza a quattro cavalli, poco lontano da loro, che correva a tutta velocità.

“Continuate, continuate,” quasi gridò il vecchio signore. “Due ghinee a pezzo, ragazzi. Non lasciate che ci superino. Continuate così.”

I cavalli della prima carrozza partirono a tutta la loro massima velocità; quelli di Mr. Wardle li inseguirono al galoppo.

“Vedo la sua testa”, esclamò l’uomo anziano e irascibile; “maledizione, vedo davvero la sua testa”.

“Lo so anch’io”, disse il signor Pickwick; “è lui”.

Il signor Pickwick non si sbagliava. Il volto del signor Jingle, completamente ricoperto di fango sollevato dalle ruote della sua carrozza, era chiaramente visibile dalla finestra; inoltre, il movimento del suo braccio, che agitava vigorosamente verso i cocchieri, indicava che li stava incoraggiando a sforzarsi di più.

L’interesse era intenso. Campi, alberi e siepi sembravano sfrecciare accanto a loro alla velocità di un tornado; il passo con cui si muovevano era davvero incredibilmente rapido. Erano ormai vicini alla prima carrozza. La voce di Jingle si udiva chiaramente, persino al di sopra del rumore delle ruote, mentre incitava i ragazzi ad andare più veloci. Il vecchio signor Wardle era furioso e eccitato; gridava insulti contro quei “canaglia” e “villani”, stringendo il pugno e agitandolo con rabbia verso l’oggetto della sua indignazione. Ma il signor Jingle rispondeva soltanto con un sorriso di disprezzo, e alle sue minacce replicava con un grido trionfale; i suoi cavalli, stimolati dal crescente impiego di frusta e speroni, accelerarono ulteriormente il passo, lasciando i inseguitori indietro.

Il signor Pickwick aveva appena finito di disegnare, e il signor Wardle, esausto per aver gridato, aveva fatto lo stesso, quando un terribile scossone li fece cadere in avanti contro la parte anteriore del veicolo. Ci fu un improvviso urto, un forte rumore, una ruota si staccò e la carrozza rovesciò.

Dopo pochissimi secondi di sbalordimento e confusione, durante i quali si udiva solo il rumore degli zoccoli che battevano sul terreno e il suono di vetri che andavano in frantumi, il signor Pickwick si sentì trascinare con forza fuori dalle rovine della carrozza; non appena riuscì a mettersi in piedi, tirò fuori la testa dalle falde del suo grande cappotto, che ostacolava notevolmente l’uso dei suoi occhiali. E allora vide tutta la gravità della situazione.

Il vecchio signor Wardle, senza cappello e con i vestiti strappati in più punti, stava al suo fianco; i frammenti della carrozza giacevano sparsi ai loro piedi. I postini, che erano riusciti a cancellare le tracce, stavano lì, coperti di fango e scompigliati per la lunga cavalcata, accanto alle teste dei cavalli. A circa cento metri di distanza si trovava l’altra carrozza, che si era fermata non appena aveva sentito il rumore dello schianto. I cocchieri, ognuno con un sorriso largo che deformava i loro volti, osservavano la situazione dal proprio cavallo; il signor Jingle, invece, contemplava i resti della carrozza distrutta dalla finestra del suo veicolo, con evidente soddisfazione. Era appena sorto l’alba, e tutta la scena era perfettamente visibile nella luce grigia dell’aurora.

“Ehi!” gridò il senza vergogna Jingle, “c’è stato qualcuno danneggiato?. Gentiluomini anziani. Niente oggetti leggeri. Lavoro pericoloso. Davvero.”

“Sei un birichino,” ringhiò Wardle.

“Ahah!” rispose Jingle; poi aggiunse, con un occhiolino complice e facendo un movimento con il pollice verso l’interno della carrozza: “Dico, lei è molto, desiderosa dei vostri complimenti. Vi prega di non prendervi la briga di, ‘amare’ Tuppy. Non vi alzereste per sedervi dietro di lei? Andiamo avanti, ragazzi.”

I postiglioni ripresero le loro posizioni normali, e la carrozza si mise in movimento; il signor Jingle, con aria di scherno, agitò un fazzoletto bianco fuori dalla finestra della carrozza.

Niente di tutta quell’avventura, nemmeno le sfortune subite, aveva turbato la calma e l’equilibrio del temperamento del signor Pickwick. Tuttavia, l’atrocità commessa da quel individuo – che prima aveva preso in prestito denaro dal suo fedele seguace e poi aveva abbreviato il suo nome in “Tuppy” – era qualcosa che lui non riusciva a sopportare con pazienza. Trasse un profondo respiro, arrossì fino alle punte degli occhiali e, lentamente e con enfasi, disse.

“Se mai lo rivedrò, gli farò, ”

“Sì, sì,” interruppe Wardle, “tutto questo è molto bene; ma mentre noi stiamo qui a parlare, loro otterranno la licenza e si sposeranno a Londra.”

Il signor Pickwick fece una pausa, trattenne la sua vendetta e la “chiuse a chiave”. “Quanta distanza c’è fino alla prossima tappa?”, chiese il signor Wardle a uno dei ragazzi.

“Sei miglia, vero, Tom?”

“Meglio così.”

“Meglio di sei miglia, signore.”

“Non c’è niente da fare,” disse Wardle, “dobbiamo andare a piedi, Pickwick.”

“Non c’è nulla che si possa fare al riguardo,” rispose quell’uomo davvero grande.

Dopo aver inviato uno dei ragazzi a cavallo per procurare una nuova carrozza e cavalli, lasciando l’altro a occuparsi di quella rotta, il signor Pickwick e il signor Wardle continuarono coraggiosamente il loro viaggio, avvolgendo prima i colletti nei loro scialli e abbassando i cappelli il più possibile per proteggersi dall’acquazzone, che dopo una breve pausa aveva ripreso a cadere intensamente.

CHAPTER X. CLEARING UP ALL DOUBTS (IF ANY EXISTED) OF THE DISINTERESTEDNESS OF MR. A. JINGLE’S CHARACTER

There are in London several old inns, once the headquarters of celebrated coaches in the days when coaches performed their journeys in a graver and more solemn manner than they do in these times; but which have now degenerated into little more than the abiding and booking- places of country wagons. The reader would look in vain for any of these ancient hostelries, among the Golden Crosses and Bull and Mouths, which rear their stately fronts in the improved streets of London. If he would light upon any of these old places, he must direct his steps to the obscurer quarters of the town, and there in some secluded nooks he will find several, still standing with a kind of gloomy sturdiness, amidst the modern innovations which surround them.

In the Borough especially, there still remain some half-dozen old inns, which have preserved their external features unchanged, and which have escaped alike the rage for public improvement and the encroachments of private speculation. Great, rambling queer old places they are, with galleries, and passages, and staircases, wide enough and antiquated enough to furnish materials for a hundred ghost stories, supposing we should ever be reduced to the lamentable necessity of inventing any, and that the world should exist long enough to exhaust the innumerable veracious legends connected with old London Bridge, and its adjacent neighbourhood on the Surrey side.

It was in the yard of one of these inns—of no less celebrated a one than the White Hart—that a man was busily employed in brushing the dirt off a pair of boots, early on the morning succeeding the events narrated in the last chapter. He was habited in a coarse, striped waistcoat, with black calico sleeves, and blue glass buttons; drab breeches and leggings. A bright red handkerchief was wound in a very loose and unstudied style round his neck, and an old white hat was carelessly thrown on one side of his head. There were two rows of boots before him, one cleaned and the other dirty, and at every addition he made to the clean row, he paused from his work, and contemplated its results with evident satisfaction.

The yard presented none of that bustle and activity which are the usual characteristics of a large coach inn. Three or four lumbering wagons, each with a pile of goods beneath its ample canopy, about the height of the second-floor window of an ordinary house, were stowed away beneath a lofty roof which extended over one end of the yard; and another, which was probably to commence its journey that morning, was drawn out into the open space. A double tier of bedroom galleries, with old clumsy balustrades, ran round two sides of the straggling area, and a double row of bells to correspond, sheltered from the weather by a little sloping roof, hung over the door leading to the bar and coffee-room. Two or three gigs and chaise-carts were wheeled up under different little sheds and pent-houses; and the occasional heavy tread of a cart-horse, or rattling of a chain at the farther end of the yard, announced to anybody who cared about the matter, that the stable lay in that direction. When we add that a few boys in smock-frocks were lying asleep on heavy packages, wool-packs, and other articles that were scattered about on heaps of straw, we have described as fully as need be the general appearance of the yard of the White Hart Inn, High Street, Borough, on the particular morning in question.

A loud ringing of one of the bells was followed by the appearance of a smart chambermaid in the upper sleeping gallery, who, after tapping at one of the doors, and receiving a request from within, called over the balustrades—

‘Sam!’

‘Hollo,’ replied the man with the white hat.

‘Number twenty-two wants his boots.’

‘Ask number twenty-two, vether he’ll have ‘em now, or vait till he gets ‘em,’ was the reply.

‘Come, don’t be a fool, Sam,’ said the girl coaxingly, ‘the gentleman wants his boots directly.’

‘Well, you are a nice young ‘ooman for a musical party, you are,’ said the boot-cleaner. ‘Look at these here boots—eleven pair o’ boots; and one shoe as belongs to number six, with the wooden leg. The eleven boots is to be called at half-past eight and the shoe at nine. Who’s number twenty-two, that’s to put all the others out? No, no; reg’lar rotation, as Jack Ketch said, ven he tied the men up. Sorry to keep you a-waitin’, Sir, but I’ll attend to you directly.’

Saying which, the man in the white hat set to work upon a top-boot with increased assiduity.

There was another loud ring; and the bustling old landlady of the White Hart made her appearance in the opposite gallery.

‘Sam,’ cried the landlady, ‘where’s that lazy, idle—why, Sam—oh, there you are; why don’t you answer?’

‘Vouldn’t be gen-teel to answer, till you’d done talking,’ replied Sam gruffly.

‘Here, clean these shoes for number seventeen directly, and take ‘em to private sitting-room, number five, first floor.’

The landlady flung a pair of lady’s shoes into the yard, and bustled away.

‘Number five,’ said Sam, as he picked up the shoes, and taking a piece of chalk from his pocket, made a memorandum of their destination on the soles—‘Lady’s shoes and private sittin’-room! I suppose she didn’t come in the vagin.’

‘She came in early this morning,’ cried the girl, who was still leaning over the railing of the gallery, ‘with a gentleman in a hackney-coach, and it’s him as wants his boots, and you’d better do ‘em, that’s all about it.’

‘Vy didn’t you say so before,’ said Sam, with great indignation, singling out the boots in question from the heap before him. ‘For all I know’d he was one o’ the regular threepennies. Private room! and a lady too! If he’s anything of a gen’l’m’n, he’s vurth a shillin’ a day, let alone the arrands.’

CAPITOLO X. RISOLVERE OGNI DUBBIO (SE NE ESISTEVANO ALCUNI) SULLA INDIRITTA DEL CARATTERE DI SIGNOR A. JINGLE

A Londra esistono diverse vecchie osterie che un tempo erano le sedi di celebri carrozze, nei tempi in cui queste percorrevano i loro itinerari in modo più solenne e dignitoso rispetto a oggi; ma ora sono degenerate, diventando poco più che luoghi dove si possono noleggiare carri da viaggio. Il lettore cercherebbe invano queste antiche locande tra i simboli della Golden Cross o del Bull and Mouth, che si ergono con la loro imponenza nelle strade rinnovate di Londra. Se volesse trovarne qualcuna, dovrà dirigersi verso le zone più oscure della città, e lì, in angoli nascosti, ne troverebbe alcune ancora in piedi, con una sorta di cupa solidità, tra le innovazioni moderne che le circondano.

Soprattutto nel Borough, esistono ancora una mezza dozzina di vecchi ostelli che hanno conservato intatte le loro caratteristiche esterne, ed sono riusciti a sfuggire sia alla furia dei lavori di riqualificazione pubblica che alle invasioni della speculazione privata. Sono luoghi antichi, vasti e strani, con gallerie, passaggi e scale abbastanza ampie e antiche da poter fornire materiale per centinaia di storie di fantasmi, se mai dovessimo ritrovarci nella triste necessità di inventarne. E che il mondo esista abbastanza a lungo da esaurire le innumerevoli leggende vere e proprie legate all’antico Ponte di Londra e ai quartieri adiacenti sul lato del Surrey.

Era nel cortile di uno di questi ostelli – non meno celebre del White Hart – che un uomo si dedicava con impegno a pulire della polvere un paio di stivali, all’alba del giorno successivo agli eventi descritti nell’ultimo capitolo. Indossava una giacca a strisce grezze, con maniche di cotone nero e bottoni di vetro blu; pantaloni scuri e calzamaglie. Un fazzoletto rosso brillante era legato intorno al suo collo in modo molto informale, e un vecchio cappello bianco era gettato con noncuranza su un lato della sua testa. Davanti a lui c’erano due file di stivali: uno pulito e l’altro sporco; ogni volta che ne aggiungeva uno pulito, si fermava per osservare il risultato del suo lavoro, con evidente soddisfazione.

Il cortile non presentava alcuna di quelle frenesie e attività che sono tipiche di una grande locanda per viaggiatori. Tre o quattro pesanti carri, ciascuno con un mucchio di merci sotto il suo ampio tetto, alto all’incirca quanto la finestra del secondo piano di una casa ordinaria, erano parcheggiati sotto un alto tetto che si estendeva su un lato del cortile; un altro carro, probabilmente pronto a partire quella mattina, era stato spostato nello spazio aperto. Due file di balconi per le camere da letto, con vecchie e goffe ringhiere, circondavano i lati di quell’area disordinata; inoltre, due file di campane corrispondenti erano protette dal tempo da un piccolo tetto inclinato, appese sopra la porta che conduceva al bar e alla sala da caffè. Due o tre carrozze e carri a mano erano riparati sotto diversi piccoli capanni; di tanto in tanto, il pesante rumore degli zoccoli dei cavalli o lo stridio delle catene all’estremità opposta del cortile indicavano, a chi fosse interessato, che lo stallo si trovava in quella direzione. Se aggiungiamo che alcuni ragazzi, vestiti con grembiuli, dormivano sopra pesanti pacchi, balle di lana e altri oggetti sparsi su mucchi di paglia, abbiamo descritto in modo completo l’aspetto generale del cortile della White Hart Inn, situata in High Street, Borough, nella mattina in questione.

Un forte suono di uno degli campanelli fu seguito dall’apparizione di una cameriera elegante nella galleria dei dormitori al piano superiore. Dopo aver bussato a una delle porte e ricevuto una risposta dall’interno, chiamò attraverso la balaustrata.

“Sam!”

“Ciao,” rispose l’uomo con il cappello bianco.

“Il numero ventidue vuole le sue scarpe.”

“Chiedi al numero ventidue se le avrà adesso o se dovrà aspettare per ottenerle,” fu la risposta.

“Ma no, non essere uno idiota, Sam,” disse la ragazza in tono dolce, “il signore vuole le sue scarpe subito.”

“Beh, sì, sei davvero una bella giovane donna per una festa musicale,” disse il lavacalzature. “Guardate questi stivali: undici paia di stivali; e anche uno scarpone che appartiene al numero sei, quello con la suola di legno. Gli undici stivali devono essere ritirati alle otto e mezza, lo scarpone alle nove. Chi è il numero ventidue, per poter mettere fuori tutti gli altri? No, rotazione regolare, come diceva Jack Ketch quando legava i prigionieri. Mi dispiace farvi aspettare, signore, ma mi occuperò di voi subito.”

Detto questo, l’uomo con il cappello bianco si mise all’opera su una scarpa da cavaliere con ancora maggiore impegno.

Risuonò un altro forte squillo; e la vivace vecchia padrona di casa del White Hart apparve nella galleria opposta.

“Sam,” gridò la padrona di casa, “dove sei finito tu, quel pigro, quel inutile. Ehi, Sam. Oh, eccoti qua; perché non rispondi?”

“Non sarebbe gentile rispondere prima che tu non abbia finito di parlare,” replicò Sam in tono brusco.

“Ecco, pulisci questi scarpi del numero diciassette subito e portali nella sala da pranzo privata, numero cinque, al primo piano.”

La padrona di casa gettò un paio di scarpe da donna nel cortile e se ne andò di fretta.

“Numero cinque,” disse Sam, prendendo le scarpe e tirando fuori un pezzo di gesso dalla tasca; ne fece quindi un appunto sulla suola riguardo alla loro destinazione: “Scarpe da signora e sala da pranzo privata! Immagino che non sia entrata, per via del, vago, ”

“È arrivata presto stamattina,” gridò la ragazza, che era ancora appoggiata alla ringhiera del corridoio, “con un signore in una vettura a noleggio; è proprio lui che ha bisogno delle sue scarpe. Farle sarebbe meglio, è tutto qui.”

“Non l’avevi detto anche prima?” disse Sam, con grande indignazione, indicando le stesse scarpe di cui parlava nel mucchio davanti a lui. “Per quel che ne so, poteva benissimo essere uno di quei soldati comuni. Una stanza privata! E anche una signora! Se è davvero un generale, allora guadagna sicuramente dieci scellini al giorno, per non parlare delle altre spese, ”

Stimulated by this inspiring reflection, Mr. Samuel brushed away with such hearty good-will, that in a few minutes the boots and shoes, with a polish which would have struck envy to the soul of the amiable Mr. Warren (for they used Day & Martin at the White Hart), had arrived at the door of number five.

‘Come in,’ said a man’s voice, in reply to Sam’s rap at the door. Sam made his best bow, and stepped into the presence of a lady and gentleman seated at breakfast. Having officiously deposited the gentleman’s boots right and left at his feet, and the lady’s shoes right and left at hers, he backed towards the door.

‘Boots,’ said the gentleman.

‘Sir,’ said Sam, closing the door, and keeping his hand on the knob of the lock.

‘Do you know—what’s a-name—Doctors’ Commons?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Where is it?’

‘Paul’s Churchyard, Sir; low archway on the carriage side, bookseller’s at one corner, hotel on the other, and two porters in the middle as touts for licences.’

‘Touts for licences!’ said the gentleman.

‘Touts for licences,’ replied Sam. ‘Two coves in vhite aprons—touches their hats ven you walk in—“Licence, Sir, licence?” Queer sort, them, and their mas’rs, too, sir—Old Bailey Proctors—and no mistake.’

‘What do they do?’ inquired the gentleman.

‘Do! You, Sir! That ain’t the worst on it, neither. They puts things into old gen’l’m’n’s heads as they never dreamed of. My father, Sir, wos a coachman. A widower he wos, and fat enough for anything—uncommon fat, to be sure. His missus dies, and leaves him four hundred pound. Down he goes to the Commons, to see the lawyer and draw the blunt—very smart— top boots on—nosegay in his button-hole—broad-brimmed tile—green shawl—quite the gen’l’m’n. Goes through the archvay, thinking how he should inwest the money—up comes the touter, touches his hat—“Licence, Sir, licence?”—“What’s that?” says my father.—“Licence, Sir,” says he.—“What licence?” says my father.—“Marriage licence,” says the touter.—“Dash my veskit,” says my father, “I never thought o’ that.”— “I think you wants one, Sir,” says the touter. My father pulls up, and thinks a bit—“No,” says he, “damme, I’m too old, b’sides, I’m a many sizes too large,” says he.—“Not a bit on it, Sir,” says the touter.— “Think not?” says my father.—“I’m sure not,” says he; “we married a gen’l’m’n twice your size, last Monday.”—“Did you, though?” said my father.—“To be sure, we did,” says the touter, “you’re a babby to him— this way, sir—this way!”—and sure enough my father walks arter him, like a tame monkey behind a horgan, into a little back office, vere a teller sat among dirty papers, and tin boxes, making believe he was busy. “Pray take a seat, vile I makes out the affidavit, Sir,” says the lawyer.—“Thank’ee, Sir,” says my father, and down he sat, and stared with all his eyes, and his mouth vide open, at the names on the boxes. “What’s your name, Sir,” says the lawyer.—“Tony Weller,” says my father.—“Parish?” says the lawyer. “Belle Savage,” says my father; for he stopped there wen he drove up, and he know’d nothing about parishes, he didn’t.—“And what’s the lady’s name?” says the lawyer. My father was struck all of a heap. “Blessed if I know,” says he.—“Not know!” says the lawyer.—“No more nor you do,” says my father; “can’t I put that in arterwards?”—“Impossible!” says the lawyer.—“Wery well,” says my father, after he’d thought a moment, “put down Mrs. Clarke.”—“What Clarke?” says the lawyer, dipping his pen in the ink.—“Susan Clarke, Markis o’ Granby, Dorking,” says my father; “she’ll have me, if I ask. I des-say—I never said nothing to her, but she’ll have me, I know.” The licence was made out, and she did have him, and what’s more she’s got him now; and I never had any of the four hundred pound, worse luck. Beg your pardon, sir,’ said Sam, when he had concluded, ‘but wen I gets on this here grievance, I runs on like a new barrow with the wheel greased.’ Having said which, and having paused for an instant to see whether he was wanted for anything more, Sam left the room.

‘Half-past nine—just the time—off at once;’ said the gentleman, whom we need hardly introduce as Mr. Jingle.

‘Time—for what?’ said the spinster aunt coquettishly.

‘Licence, dearest of angels—give notice at the church—call you mine, to-morrow’—said Mr. Jingle, and he squeezed the spinster aunt’s hand.

‘The licence!’ said Rachael, blushing.

‘The licence,’ repeated Mr. Jingle—

‘In hurry, post-haste for a licence, In hurry, ding dong I come back.’

‘How you run on,’ said Rachael.

‘Run on—nothing to the hours, days, weeks, months, years, when we’re united—run on—they’ll fly on—bolt—mizzle—steam-engine—thousand- horse power—nothing to it.’

‘Can’t—can’t we be married before to-morrow morning?’ inquired Rachael.

‘Impossible—can’t be—notice at the church—leave the licence to-day— ceremony come off to-morrow.’

I am so terrified, lest my brother should discover us!’ said Rachael.

‘Discover—nonsense—too much shaken by the break-down—besides—extreme caution—gave up the post-chaise—walked on—took a hackney-coach—came to the Borough—last place in the world that he’d look in—ha! ha!— capital notion that—very.’

‘Don’t be long,’ said the spinster affectionately, as Mr. Jingle stuck the pinched-up hat on his head.

‘Long away from you?—Cruel charmer,’ and Mr. Jingle skipped playfully up to the spinster aunt, imprinted a chaste kiss upon her lips, and danced out of the room.

‘Dear man!’ said the spinster, as the door closed after him.

‘Rum old girl,’ said Mr. Jingle, as he walked down the passage.

It is painful to reflect upon the perfidy of our species; and we will not, therefore, pursue the thread of Mr. Jingle’s meditations, as he wended his way to Doctors’ Commons. It will be sufficient for our purpose to relate, that escaping the snares of the dragons in white aprons, who guard the entrance to that enchanted region, he reached the vicar-general’s office in safety and having procured a highly flattering address on parchment, from the Archbishop of Canterbury, to his ‘trusty and well-beloved Alfred Jingle and Rachael Wardle, greeting,’ he carefully deposited the mystic document in his pocket, and retraced his steps in triumph to the Borough.

Stimolato da questa riflessione ispiratrice, il signor Samuel si mise all’opera con tale impegno e buona volontà che, in pochi minuti, gli stivali e le scarpe, lucidati a tal punto da suscitare invidia persino nell’anima del gentile signor Warren (poiché utilizzava il negozio Day & Martin al White Hart), furono pronti per essere consegnati al numero cinque.

“Entra,” disse una voce maschile in risposta al bussare di Sam alla porta. Sam fece del suo meglio per inchinarsi e entrò nella stanza dove una signora e un signore stavano pranzando. Dopo aver posizionato con cura le scarpe del signore ai suoi piedi, e quelle della signora ai suoi piedi, si ritirò verso la porta.

“Stivali,” disse il gentiluomo.

“Signore,” disse Sam, chiudendo la porta e tenendo ancora la mano sulla maniglia della serratura.

“Conosci, cos’è quel posto chiamato Doctors’ Commons?”

“Sì, signore.”

“Dove si trova?”

“Il cimitero di Paul, signore: un arco basso sul lato della carrozza, un libraio in un angolo, un hotel nell’altro, e due portieri al centro che vendono permessi d’ingresso.”

“Tutti a cercare licenze!”, disse il gentiluomo.

“Tutti chiedono licenze,” rispose Sam. “Due baie con grembiuli bianchi, si toccano il cappello non appena entri, ‘Licenza, signore, per favore?’ Strana gente, loro, e anche i loro padroni. Gli avvocati del tribunale di Old Bailey. Senza dubbio.”

“Cosa fanno?” chiese il gentiluomo.

‘Fai pure! Tu, signore. Ma questo non è nemmeno il peggio: loro mettono in testa alle persone cose di cui nemmeno sognano. Mio padre, signore, era un cocchiere. Un vedovo, e abbastanza grasso per qualsiasi cosa, davvero molto grasso. Sua moglie morì e gli lasciò quattrocento sterline. Andò quindi al tribunale per parlare con l’avvocato e sistemare tutto, indossava stivali lucidi, un fiore all’occhiello, un cappello a tesa larga, uno scialle verde, sembrava davvero un gentiluomo. Camminò lungo il corridoio, pensando a come investire quei soldi. Quando arrivò il venditore ambulante, gli fece segno con il cappello: “Licenza, signore, ” “Che cos’è?” chiese mio padre. “Una licenza di matrimonio, signore,” rispose l’uomo. “Maledizione, non ci avevo pensato affatto, ” “Penso che ne abbia bisogno, signore,” insistette l’altro. Mio padre ci pensò un attimo, “No,” disse, “sono troppo vecchio, e inoltre sono troppo grosso.” “Assolutamente no, signore,” replicò l’uomo. “Davvero?” chiese mio padre. “Certo che no. L’altro lunedì abbiamo sposato una donna il doppio più grande di lei, ” “Davvero?” disse mio padre. “Certo che sì. Lei è solo una bambina rispetto a lui, ” E così mio padre lo seguì in un piccolo ufficio, dove c’era un impiegato seduto tra fogli sporchi e scatole di latta, fingendo di essere molto occupato. “Si sieda pure, signore, mentre preparo il documento,” disse l’avvocato. “Grazie, signore,” rispose mio padre, e si sedette, fissando con occhi spalancati i nomi scritti sulle scatole. “Qual è il suo nome, signore?” chiese l’avvocato. “Tony Weller,” rispose mio padre. “Parrocchia?” “Belle Savage,” disse lui, non sapeva nulla riguardo alle parrocchie. “E qual è il nome della signora?” chiese ancora l’avvocato. Mio padre rimase sbalordito: “Non ne ho la minima idea, ” “Non lo sa?” disse l’avvocato. “Nemmeno lei, probabilmente. Non posso forse scrivere ‘signora Clarke’?” “Impossibile,” rispose l’avvocato. “Beh, allora scriverò semplicemente ‘signora Susan Clarke, marchesa di Granby, Dorking’, ” La licenza fu preparata, e lei lo prese davvero. E io non ho mai ricevuto quelle quattrocento sterline. Che sfortuna. Scusi, signore,” disse Sam, “ma quando parlo di queste cose, divento proprio inarrestabile, ” Dopo aver detto questo, si fermò un attimo per vedere se ci fosse ancora qualcosa da fare, e poi lasciò la stanza.

“Mezzanotte e mezza – proprio l’orario giusto – partiamo immediatamente,” disse il signore che, a dire il vero, non ha bisogno di alcuna presentazione: si tratta del signor Jingle.

“‘Tempo, per cosa?’ chiese la zia zitella in modo seducente.”

“Licenza, angelo mio adorato, fai sapere in chiesa che domani sarai mia, ” disse il signor Jingle, stringendo la mano della zia zitella.

“La licenza!” disse Rachael, arrossendo.

“La licenza, ”, ripeté il signor Jingle.

“Di fretta, in tutta fretta per ottenere una licenza. Di fretta, tinn-tinn, eccomi di ritorno.”

“Come corri velocemente,” disse Rachael.

“Continua così. Niente può fermare le ore, i giorni, le settimane, i mesi, gli anni in cui siamo uniti. Continua così. Voleranno via veloci come fulmini. Niente può impedirlo.”

“Non possiamo, non possiamo sposarci prima di domani mattina?” chiese Rachel.

“Impossibile. Non può essere. Bisogna notificarlo in chiesa. Lasciare la licenza oggi stesso. La cerimonia si terrà domani.”

“Sono così spaventata, che mio fratello possa scoprirci!” disse Rachael.

“Scoprire, assurdità, troppo scosso dal crollo, oltre alla massima cautela, abbandonò la carrozza, proseguì a piedi, prese una vettura di piazza, arrivò nel Borough, l’ultimo posto al mondo in cui avrebbe dovuto cercare, ah! ah!, idea assurda davvero, ”

“Non tardare,” disse affettuosamente la zitella mentre il signor Jingle si metteva il cappello stretto in testa.

“Lontano da te?, crudele incantatore,” disse il signor Jingle, saltellando scherzosamente verso la zia zitella, le diede un bacio casto sulle labbra e poi uscì danzando dalla stanza.

“Caro signore!”, disse la zitella non appena la porta si chiuse alle sue spalle.

“Rum old girl,” disse il signor Jingle mentre camminava lungo il corridoio.

È doloroso riflettere sulla perfidia della nostra specie; pertanto non proseguiremo lungo il filo delle meditazioni di Mr. Jingle, mentre egli si dirigeva verso Doctors’ Commons. Per i nostri scopi sarà sufficiente raccontare che, riuscendo a sfuggire alle insidie dei “draghi in grembiuli bianchi” che custodiscono l’ingresso di quella regione incantata, egli raggiunse sano e salvo l’ufficio del vicario generale. Ottenuto un documento molto lusinghiero, scritto su pergamena dall’Arcivescovo di Canterbury, indirizzato a “il suo fedele e amatissimo Alfred Jingle e Rachael Wardle”, lo ripose con cura nella tasca e tornò trionfante nel Borough.

He was yet on his way to the White Hart, when two plump gentleman and one thin one entered the yard, and looked round in search of some authorised person of whom they could make a few inquiries. Mr. Samuel Weller happened to be at that moment engaged in burnishing a pair of painted tops, the personal property of a farmer who was refreshing himself with a slight lunch of two or three pounds of cold beef and a pot or two of porter, after the fatigues of the Borough market; and to him the thin gentleman straightway advanced.

‘My friend,’ said the thin gentleman.

‘You’re one o’ the adwice gratis order,’ thought Sam, ‘or you wouldn’t be so wery fond o’ me all at once.’ But he only said—‘Well, Sir.’

‘My friend,’ said the thin gentleman, with a conciliatory hem—‘have you got many people stopping here now? Pretty busy. Eh?’

Sam stole a look at the inquirer. He was a little high-dried man, with a dark squeezed-up face, and small, restless, black eyes, that kept winking and twinkling on each side of his little inquisitive nose, as if they were playing a perpetual game of peep-bo with that feature. He was dressed all in black, with boots as shiny as his eyes, a low white neckcloth, and a clean shirt with a frill to it. A gold watch-chain, and seals, depended from his fob. He carried his black kid gloves in his hands, and not ON them; and as he spoke, thrust his wrists beneath his coat tails, with the air of a man who was in the habit of propounding some regular posers.

‘Pretty busy, eh?’ said the little man.

‘Oh, wery well, Sir,’ replied Sam, ‘we shan’t be bankrupts, and we shan’t make our fort’ns. We eats our biled mutton without capers, and don’t care for horse-radish ven ve can get beef.’

‘Ah,’ said the little man, ‘you’re a wag, ain’t you?’

‘My eldest brother was troubled with that complaint,’ said Sam; ‘it may be catching—I used to sleep with him.’

‘This is a curious old house of yours,’ said the little man, looking round him.

‘If you’d sent word you was a-coming, we’d ha’ had it repaired;’ replied the imperturbable Sam.

The little man seemed rather baffled by these several repulses, and a short consultation took place between him and the two plump gentlemen. At its conclusion, the little man took a pinch of snuff from an oblong silver box, and was apparently on the point of renewing the conversation, when one of the plump gentlemen, who in addition to a benevolent countenance, possessed a pair of spectacles, and a pair of black gaiters, interfered—

‘The fact of the matter is,’ said the benevolent gentleman, ‘that my friend here (pointing to the other plump gentleman) will give you half a guinea, if you’ll answer one or two—’

‘Now, my dear sir—my dear Sir,’ said the little man, ‘pray, allow me— my dear Sir, the very first principle to be observed in these cases, is this: if you place the matter in the hands of a professional man, you must in no way interfere in the progress of the business; you must repose implicit confidence in him. Really, Mr.—’ He turned to the other plump gentleman, and said, ‘I forget your friend’s name.’

‘Pickwick,’ said Mr. Wardle, for it was no other than that jolly personage.

‘Ah, Pickwick—really Mr. Pickwick, my dear Sir, excuse me—I shall be happy to receive any private suggestions of yours, as AMICUS CURIAE, but you must see the impropriety of your interfering with my conduct in this case, with such an AD CAPTANDUM argument as the offer of half a guinea. Really, my dear Sir, really;’ and the little man took an argumentative pinch of snuff, and looked very profound.

‘My only wish, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘was to bring this very unpleasant matter to as speedy a close as possible.’

‘Quite right—quite right,’ said the little man.

‘With which view,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, ‘I made use of the argument which my experience of men has taught me is the most likely to succeed in any case.’

‘Ay, ay,’ said the little man, ‘very good, very good, indeed; but you should have suggested it to me. My dear sir, I’m quite certain you cannot be ignorant of the extent of confidence which must be placed in professional men. If any authority can be necessary on such a point, my dear sir, let me refer you to the well-known case in Barnwell and—’

‘Never mind George Barnwell,’ interrupted Sam, who had remained a wondering listener during this short colloquy; ‘everybody knows what sort of a case his was, tho’ it’s always been my opinion, mind you, that the young ‘ooman deserved scragging a precious sight more than he did. Hows’ever, that’s neither here nor there. You want me to accept of half a guinea. Wery well, I’m agreeable: I can’t say no fairer than that, can I, sir?’ (Mr. Pickwick smiled.) Then the next question is, what the devil do you want with me, as the man said, wen he see the ghost?’

‘We want to know—’ said Mr. Wardle.

‘Now, my dear sir—my dear sir,’ interposed the busy little man.

Mr. Wardle shrugged his shoulders, and was silent.

‘We want to know,’ said the little man solemnly; ‘and we ask the question of you, in order that we may not awaken apprehensions inside— we want to know who you’ve got in this house at present?’

‘Who there is in the house!’ said Sam, in whose mind the inmates were always represented by that particular article of their costume, which came under his immediate superintendence. ‘There’s a vooden leg in number six; there’s a pair of Hessians in thirteen; there’s two pair of halves in the commercial; there’s these here painted tops in the snuggery inside the bar; and five more tops in the coffee-room.’

‘Nothing more?’ said the little man.

‘Stop a bit,’ replied Sam, suddenly recollecting himself. ‘Yes; there’s a pair of Vellingtons a good deal worn, and a pair o’ lady’s shoes, in number five.’

‘What sort of shoes?’ hastily inquired Wardle, who, together with Mr. Pickwick, had been lost in bewilderment at the singular catalogue of visitors.

Era ancora in viaggio verso il White Hart quando due gentiluomini robusti e uno magro entrarono nel cortile, guardandosi intorno alla ricerca di qualcuno autorizzato a cui poter fare alcune domande. In quel momento, il signor Samuel Weller stava lucidando un paio di coperchi dipinti, che appartenevano a un contadino il quale si stava ristorando con un semplice pranzo composto da due o tre libbre di manzo freddo e una o due bottiglie di birra, dopo le fatiche del mercato del Borough; fu proprio a lui che il gentiluomo magro si avvicinò immediatamente.

“Mio amico,” disse il gentiluomo magro.

“Sei uno di quei clienti che fanno ordinazioni gratuite,” pensò Sam, “altrimenti non saresti così affezionato a me all’improvviso.” Ma disse soltanto: “Beh, signore.”

“Mio caro amico,” disse il gentiluomo magro, con un tono conciliante, “adesso ci sono molte persone che si fermano qui, vero? È piuttosto affollato. Eh?”

Sam gettò un’occhiata al giornalista. Era un uomo dall’aspetto magro e tirato, con il viso scuro e contratto, e piccoli occhi neri inquieti che continuavano a battere le palpebre ai lati del suo naso curioso, come se giocassero continuamente a “sguardi furtivi” con quel particolare del suo viso. Era vestito interamente di nero: stivali lucidi quanto i suoi occhi, un colletto bianco basso e una camicia pulita con volantini. Dalla sua tasca pendeva una catena d’orologio e alcuni sigilli. Teneva i guanti di pelle nera _nella* mano, e non indossati; mentre parlava, infilava i polsi sotto le code del suo cappotto, con l’aria di un uomo abituato a porre domande continue e insidiose.

“Abbastanza impegnato, eh?”, disse il piccolo uomo.

“Oh, molto bene, signore,” rispose Sam, “non diventeremo mai falliti, e nemmeno faremo fortuna. Mangiamo la nostra carne di montone cotta senza cetrioli sottaceti, e non ci interessa affatto la ravanella, purché possiamo avere manzo.”

“Ah,” disse il piccolo uomo, “sei proprio uno spiritoso, vero?”

“Mio fratello maggiore soffriva di quel disturbo,” disse Sam; “forse è contagioso. Prima dormivo con lui.”

“Questa è una vecchia e curiosa casa tua,” disse il piccolo uomo, guardandosi intorno.

“Se aveste mandato un messaggio per dirci che stavate arrivando, l’avremmo riparata”, rispose il tranquillo Sam.

Il piccolo uomo sembrava piuttosto perplesso da queste ripetute rifiutazioni; dopo una breve consultazione tra lui e i due gentiluomini robusti, questi ultimi intervennero. Alla fine della conversazione, il piccolo uomo prese un pizzico di tabacco da una scatola d’argento oblunga e sembrava sul punto di riprendere la discussione, quando uno dei due gentiluomini robusti – che oltre a un volto benevolo indossava anche occhiali e calzamaglie nere – intervenne di nuovo.

“La verità è,” disse il gentiluomo benevolo, “che il mio amico qui (indicando l’altro signore robusto) vi darà mezzo guinea, se risponderete a una o due domande, ”

“Ora, mio caro signore, mio caro signore,” disse il piccolo uomo, “per favore, lasciate che io. Mio caro signore, il primo principio da osservare in questi casi è questo: se affidate la questione a un professionista, non dovete assolutamente interferire nel corso delle operazioni; dovete avere piena fiducia in lui. Davvero, signor, ” Si rivolse all’altro gentiluomo robusto e aggiunse: “Dimentico il nome del suo amico.”

“‘Pickwick’,” disse il signor Wardle, poiché non si trattava che di quella allegra figura.

‘Ah, Pickwick, davvero, signor Pickwick, mio caro signore, perdonatemi. Sarò felice di ricevere qualsiasi suggerimento privato da parte sua, in qualità di AMICUS CURIAE, ma deve riconoscere l’inappropriatezza del suo intervento nella mia condotta in questo caso, utilizzando un argomento così banale come l’offerta di mezzo guinea. Davvero, mio caro signore, ’ E il piccolo uomo prese una pizzicata di tabacco da fiuto e assunse un’espressione molto seria.

“Il mio unico desiderio, signore,” disse il signor Pickwick, “è che questa spiacevole questione possa essere risolta il prima possibile.”

“Esattamente – esattamente,” disse il piccolo uomo.

“Con questo intento,” continuò il signor Pickwick, “utilizzai l’argomentazione che la mia esperienza con le persone mi aveva insegnato essere la più probabile di avere successo in qualsiasi situazione.”

“Ah, ah,” disse il piccolo uomo, “molto bene, davvero molto bene; ma avreste dovuto suggerirmelo voi. Caro signore, sono certo che non possiate ignorare l’estensione della fiducia che si deve riporre negli uomini di professione. Se in una questione del genere è necessaria qualche autorità, caro signore, lasciate che vi faccia riflettere sul noto caso di Barnwell, ”

“Lasciamo stare George Barnwell,” intervenne Sam, che aveva ascoltato con curiosità tutta questa breve conversazione; “tutti sanno di che tipo fosse il suo caso, anche se, a mio parere, quella giovane donna meritava di essere punita molto più severamente di lui. Comunque, questo non c’entra nulla con la questione principale. Vuoi che accetti mezzo guinea? Beh, sono d’accordo: non potrei rifiutare una proposta più giusta di questa, vero signore?” (Il signor Pickwick sorrise.) Allora, la domanda successiva è, cosa diavolo vuoi da me, visto che hai detto di aver visto lo fantasma?

“Vogliamo sapere, ”, disse il signor Wardle.

“Ora, mio caro signore, mio caro signore,” intervenne il piccolo uomo impegnato.

Il signor Wardle alzò le spalle e rimase in silenzio.

“Vogliamo saperlo,” disse il piccolo uomo con solennità; “e vi poniamo questa domanda per evitare di suscitare inquietudini. Vogliamo sapere chi si trovi attualmente in questa casa.”

“Chi c’è in quella casa?” disse Sam, il cui pensiero associava sempre gli abitanti della casa a quell’indumento specifico che era sotto la sua diretta responsabilità. “Nella stanza numero sei c’è una gamba di legno; nella tredicesima ci sono due soldati hessiani; nella stanza commerciale ci sono due coppie di pezzi smontabili. E poi ci sono queste coperte dipinte che si trovano nella sala interna del bar, e altre cinque nella sala da caffè.”

“Nient’altro?” disse il piccolo uomo.

“Fermati un attimo,” rispose Sam, ricordandosi all’improvviso. “Sì; ci sono un paio di scarpe Vellington piuttosto consumate, e un paio di scarpe da donna, numero cinque.”

“Che tipo di scarpe?” chiese in fretta Wardle, che insieme al signor Pickwick era rimasto perplesso da quell’insolito elenco di visitatori.

‘Country make,’ replied Sam.

‘Any maker’s name?’

‘Brown.’

‘Where of?’

‘Muggleton.

‘It is them,’ exclaimed Wardle. ‘By heavens, we’ve found them.’

‘Hush!’ said Sam. ‘The Vellingtons has gone to Doctors’ Commons.’

‘No,’ said the little man.

‘Yes, for a licence.’

‘We’re in time,’ exclaimed Wardle. ‘Show us the room; not a moment is to be lost.’

‘Pray, my dear sir—pray,’ said the little man; ‘caution, caution.’ He drew from his pocket a red silk purse, and looked very hard at Sam as he drew out a sovereign.

Sam grinned expressively.

‘Show us into the room at once, without announcing us,’ said the little man, ‘and it’s yours.’

Sam threw the painted tops into a corner, and led the way through a dark passage, and up a wide staircase. He paused at the end of a second passage, and held out his hand.

‘Here it is,’ whispered the attorney, as he deposited the money on the hand of their guide.

The man stepped forward for a few paces, followed by the two friends and their legal adviser. He stopped at a door.

‘Is this the room?’ murmured the little gentleman.

Sam nodded assent.

Old Wardle opened the door; and the whole three walked into the room just as Mr. Jingle, who had that moment returned, had produced the licence to the spinster aunt.

The spinster uttered a loud shriek, and throwing herself into a chair, covered her face with her hands. Mr. Jingle crumpled up the licence, and thrust it into his coat pocket. The unwelcome visitors advanced into the middle of the room.

‘You—you are a nice rascal, arn’t you?’ exclaimed Wardle, breathless with passion.

‘My dear Sir, my dear sir,’ said the little man, laying his hat on the table, ‘pray, consider—pray. Defamation of character: action for damages. Calm yourself, my dear sir, pray—’

‘How dare you drag my sister from my house?’ said the old man.

Ay—ay—very good,’ said the little gentleman, ‘you may ask that. How dare you, sir?—eh, sir?’

‘Who the devil are you?’ inquired Mr. Jingle, in so fierce a tone, that the little gentleman involuntarily fell back a step or two.

‘Who is he, you scoundrel,’ interposed Wardle. ‘He’s my lawyer, Mr. Perker, of Gray’s Inn. Perker, I’ll have this fellow prosecuted— indicted—I’ll—I’ll—I’ll ruin him. And you,’ continued Mr. Wardle, turning abruptly round to his sister—‘you, Rachael, at a time of life when you ought to know better, what do you mean by running away with a vagabond, disgracing your family, and making yourself miserable? Get on your bonnet and come back. Call a hackney-coach there, directly, and bring this lady’s bill, d’ye hear—d’ye hear?’

Cert’nly, Sir,’ replied Sam, who had answered Wardle’s violent ringing of the bell with a degree of celerity which must have appeared marvellous to anybody who didn’t know that his eye had been applied to the outside of the keyhole during the whole interview.

‘Get on your bonnet,’ repeated Wardle.

‘Do nothing of the kind,’ said Jingle. ‘Leave the room, Sir—no business here—lady’s free to act as she pleases—more than one-and-twenty.’

‘More than one-and-twenty!’ ejaculated Wardle contemptuously. ‘More than one-and-forty!’

‘I ain’t,’ said the spinster aunt, her indignation getting the better of her determination to faint.

‘You are,’ replied Wardle; ‘you’re fifty if you’re an hour.’

Here the spinster aunt uttered a loud shriek, and became senseless.

‘A glass of water,’ said the humane Mr. Pickwick, summoning the landlady.

‘A glass of water!’ said the passionate Wardle. ‘Bring a bucket, and throw it all over her; it’ll do her good, and she richly deserves it.’

‘Ugh, you brute!’ ejaculated the kind-hearted landlady. ‘Poor dear.’ And with sundry ejaculations of ‘Come now, there’s a dear—drink a little of this—it’ll do you good—don’t give way so—there’s a love,’ etc. etc., the landlady, assisted by a chambermaid, proceeded to vinegar the forehead, beat the hands, titillate the nose, and unlace the stays of the spinster aunt, and to administer such other restoratives as are usually applied by compassionate females to ladies who are endeavouring to ferment themselves into hysterics.

‘Coach is ready, Sir,’ said Sam, appearing at the door.

‘Come along,’ cried Wardle. ‘I’ll carry her downstairs.’

At this proposition, the hysterics came on with redoubled violence.

The landlady was about to enter a very violent protest against this proceeding, and had already given vent to an indignant inquiry whether Mr. Wardle considered himself a lord of the creation, when Mr. Jingle interposed—

‘Boots,’ said he, ‘get me an officer.’

‘Stay, stay,’ said little Mr. Perker. ‘Consider, Sir, consider.’

‘I’ll not consider,’ replied Jingle. ‘She’s her own mistress—see who dares to take her away—unless she wishes it.’

‘I won’t be taken away,’ murmured the spinster aunt. ‘I don’t wish it.’ (Here there was a frightful relapse.)

‘My dear Sir,’ said the little man, in a low tone, taking Mr. Wardle and Mr. Pickwick apart—‘my dear Sir, we’re in a very awkward situation. It’s a distressing case—very; I never knew one more so; but really, my dear sir, really we have no power to control this lady’s actions. I warned you before we came, my dear sir, that there was nothing to look to but a compromise.’

There was a short pause.

‘What kind of compromise would you recommend?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Why, my dear Sir, our friend’s in an unpleasant position—very much so. We must be content to suffer some pecuniary loss.’

‘I’ll suffer any, rather than submit to this disgrace, and let her, fool as she is, be made miserable for life,’ said Wardle.

‘I rather think it can be done,’ said the bustling little man. ‘Mr. Jingle, will you step with us into the next room for a moment?’

Mr. Jingle assented, and the quartette walked into an empty apartment.

‘Now, sir,’ said the little man, as he carefully closed the door, ‘is there no way of accommodating this matter—step this way, sir, for a moment—into this window, Sir, where we can be alone—there, sir, there, pray sit down, sir. Now, my dear Sir, between you and I, we know very well, my dear Sir, that you have run off with this lady for the sake of her money. Don’t frown, Sir, don’t frown; I say, between you and I, we know it. We are both men of the world, and WE know very well that our friends here, are not—eh?’

“È fatto in campagna,” rispose Sam.

“Qual è il nome del creatore?”

“Brown.”

“Di cosa?”

“Muggleton.”

“Sono loro!”, esclamò Wardle. “Per tutti i cieli, li abbiamo trovati.”

“Zitti!” disse Sam. “I Vellington sono andati al Doctors’ Commons.”

“No,” disse il piccolo uomo.

“Sì, per ottenere una licenza.”

“Siamo nel momento giusto,” esclamò Wardle. “Mostraci la stanza; non dobbiamo perdere un istante.”

“Pregate, mio caro signore, pregate,” disse il piccolo uomo; “state attento, state attento.” Tirò fuori dalla tasca una borsa di seta rossa e guardò attentamente Sam mentre estraeva una sovrana d’oro.

Sam sorrise in modo molto esplicito.

“Portaci subito nella stanza, senza annunciare il nostro arrivo,” disse l’uomo piccolo, “e sarà tua.”

Sam gettò i coperchi dipinti in un angolo e guidò il cammino attraverso un passaggio buio, poi su per una larga scala. Si fermò alla fine di un secondo passaggio e tese la mano.

“Ecco qui,” sussurrò l’avvocato, depositando i soldi nella mano del loro guida.

L’uomo fece qualche passo avanti, seguito dai due amici e dal loro consulente legale. Si fermò davanti a una porta.

“È questa la stanza?”, mormorò il piccolo gentiluomo.

Sam annuì in segno di accordo.

Old Wardle aprì la porta; e i tre entrarono nella stanza proprio nel momento in cui il signor Jingle, che era appena tornato, aveva mostrato alla zia zitella la licenza richiesta.

La zitella emise un grido acuto, si gettò su una sedia e si coprì il viso con le mani. Il signor Jingle strappò in mille pezzi la licenza e se la infilò nella tasca del cappotto. Gli ospiti indesiderati avanzarono verso il centro della stanza.

“Tu, tu sei davvero un bravo ragazzo, vero?” esclamò Wardle, senza fiato per l’emozione.

“Mio caro signore, mio caro signore,” disse il piccolo uomo, posando il cappello sul tavolo, “per favore, rifletta. Per favore. Diffamazione della reputazione: causa per danni. Si calmi, mio caro signore, la prego, ”

“Come osi trascinare mia sorella fuori dalla mia >casa?” disse l’uomo anziano.

“Ah–ah, molto bene,” disse il piccolo gentiluomo, “puoi chiederlo. Come osi, signore? Eh, signore?”

“Chi diavolo siete voi?” chiese il signor Jingle con un tono così minaccioso che il piccolo gentiluomo fece involontariamente un passo indietro.

“Chi è quest’uomo, mascalzone?” intervenne Wardle. “È il mio avvocato, il signor Perker di Gray’s Inn. Perker, farò processare questo individuo, lo denuncierò, lo distruggerò. E tu,” continuò il signor Wardle, girandosi bruscamente verso sua sorella, “tu, Rachael, in un’età in cui dovresti saper fare meglio, cosa significa scappare con un vagabondo, disonorando la tua famiglia e rendendoti infelice? Metti il cappello e torna qui. Chiama subito una vettura e portami il conto di questa signora, hai capito?”

“Certo, signore,” rispose Sam, che aveva risposto al violento suono della campanella di Wardle con una velocità che doveva sembrare straordinaria a chiunque non sapesse che durante l’intera conversazione aveva tenuto l’occhio appoggiato all’esterno della serratura.

“Metti il cappello,” ripeté Wardle.

“Non fare nulla del genere,” disse Jingle. “Lasci la stanza, signore. Non ha nulla a che fare qui. La signora è libera di agire come vuole. Ne ha più di ventidue.”

“Più di ventidue!” esclamò Wardle con disprezzo. “Più di quaranta!”

“Non lo sono affatto,” disse la zia zitella; l’indignazione prevalse sulla sua determinazione di svenire.

“Lo sei,” rispose Wardle; “sei cinquant’anni, anche se ne hai passata solo un’ora.”

Qui la zia zitella emise un grido acuto e perse i sensi.

“Un bicchiere d’acqua”, disse il gentile signor Pickwick, chiamando la padrona di casa.

“Un bicchiere d’acqua!” disse il appassionato Wardle. “Portate un secchio e versatela tutta addosso a lei; le farà bene, e se lo merita davvero.”

“Uff, brutto animale!” esclamò la gentile padrona di casa. “Poverina, ” E con continue esortazioni del tipo “Su, vieni, bevi un po’ di questo, ti farà bene, non cedere così, c’è l’amore, ecc.”, la padrona di casa, assistita da una cameriera, iniziò a ungere la fronte della donna single con aceto, a batterle le mani, a stimolare il suo naso e ad allentare i lacci del suo corsetto, somministrandole tutti quegli rimedi che di solito le donne compassionevoli usano per aiutare le signore che cercano di scatenare un attacco isterico.

“L’allenatore è pronto, signore,” disse Sam, comparendo alla porta.

“Vieni con me,” gridò Wardle. “La porterò giù al piano di sotto.”

Di fronte a questa proposta, le isteriche scoppiarono con ancora maggiore violenza.

La padrona di casa stava per iniziare una protesta molto violenta contro questa decisione e aveva già espresso il suo sdegno chiedendo se il signor Wardle si considerasse davvero un “signore della creazione”, quando intervenne il signor Jingle.

“Stivali,” disse, “portami un ufficiale.”

“Resti, resti,” disse il piccolo signor Perker. “Pensaci bene, signore, pensaci bene.”

“Non lo prenderò in considerazione,” rispose Jingle. “È padrona di sé stessa, vediamo chi oserebbe portarla via, a meno che lei non lo desideri.”

“Non mi porteranno via,” mormorò la zia zitella. “Non lo desidero affatto.” (E qui ebbe luogo un terribile ricaduta.)

“Mio caro signore,” disse il piccolo uomo in tono sommesso, separando Mr. Wardle da Mr. Pickwick, “Mio caro signore, ci troviamo in una situazione molto imbarazzante. È un caso davvero angosciante. Non ne avevo mai incontrato uno più difficile; ma onestamente, mio caro signore, non abbiamo alcun potere per controllare le azioni di questa signora. Gliel’avevo detto prima di venire qui: l’unica soluzione possibile era un compromesso.”

Ci fu una breve pausa.

“Quale tipo di compromesso vi consiglierebbe?” chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Perché, mio caro signore, il nostro amico si trova in una situazione molto spiacevole. Davvero. Dovremo accontentarci di subire qualche perdita economica.”

“Preferisco soffrire qualsiasi cosa piuttosto che sottomettermi a questa umiliazione e permettere che lei, quella stupida, viva per sempre nella miseria,” disse Wardle.

“Penso proprio che si possa fare,” disse il piccolo uomo dinamico. “Signor Jingle, vorrebbe venire con noi nel prossimo stanza per un momento?”

Il signor Jingle acconsentì, e i quattro entrarono in un appartamento vuoto.

“Ora, signore,” disse il piccolo uomo mentre chiudeva con cura la porta, “non esiste qualche modo per risolvere questa situazione. Venga qui un attimo, signore. Entriamo in questa finestra, dove possiamo essere soli. Ecco, si sieda pure. Ora, caro signore, tra lei e me sappiamo molto bene che lei se n’è andato con questa signora per i suoi soldi. Non si arrabbi, signore; tra noi due lo sappiamo. Siamo entrambi uomini di mondo, e sappiamo molto bene che i nostri amici qui, beh, non sono certo come noi, vero?”

Mr. Jingle’s face gradually relaxed; and something distantly resembling a wink quivered for an instant in his left eye.

‘Very good, very good,’ said the little man, observing the impression he had made. ‘Now, the fact is, that beyond a few hundreds, the lady has little or nothing till the death of her mother—fine old lady, my dear Sir.’

‘Old,’ said Mr. Jingle briefly but emphatically.

‘Why, yes,’ said the attorney, with a slight cough. ‘You are right, my dear Sir, she is rather old. She comes of an old family though, my dear Sir; old in every sense of the word. The founder of that family came into Kent when Julius Caesar invaded Britain;—only one member of it, since, who hasn’t lived to eighty-five, and he was beheaded by one of the Henrys. The old lady is not seventy-three now, my dear Sir.’ The little man paused, and took a pinch of snuff.

‘Well,’ cried Mr. Jingle.

‘Well, my dear sir—you don’t take snuff!—ah! so much the better— expensive habit—well, my dear Sir, you’re a fine young man, man of the world—able to push your fortune, if you had capital, eh?’

‘Well,’ said Mr. Jingle again.

‘Do you comprehend me?’

‘Not quite.’

‘Don’t you think—now, my dear Sir, I put it to you don’t you think— that fifty pounds and liberty would be better than Miss Wardle and expectation?’

‘Won’t do—not half enough!’ said Mr. Jingle, rising.

‘Nay, nay, my dear Sir,’ remonstrated the little attorney, seizing him by the button. ‘Good round sum—a man like you could treble it in no time—great deal to be done with fifty pounds, my dear Sir.’

‘More to be done with a hundred and fifty,’ replied Mr. Jingle coolly.

‘Well, my dear Sir, we won’t waste time in splitting straws,’ resumed the little man, ‘say—say—seventy.’

Won’t do,’ said Mr. Jingle.

‘Don’t go away, my dear sir—pray don’t hurry,’ said the little man. ‘Eighty; come: I’ll write you a cheque at once.’

‘Won’t do,’ said Mr. Jingle.

‘Well, my dear Sir, well,’ said the little man, still detaining him; ‘just tell me what will do.’

‘Expensive affair,’ said Mr. Jingle. ‘Money out of pocket—posting, nine pounds; licence, three—that’s twelve—compensation, a hundred—hundred and twelve—breach of honour—and loss of the lady—’

‘Yes, my dear Sir, yes,’ said the little man, with a knowing look, ‘never mind the last two items. That’s a hundred and twelve—say a hundred—come.’

‘And twenty,’ said Mr. Jingle.

‘Come, come, I’ll write you a cheque,’ said the little man; and down he sat at the table for that purpose.

‘I’ll make it payable the day after to-morrow,’ said the little man, with a look towards Mr. Wardle; ‘and we can get the lady away, meanwhile.’ Mr. Wardle sullenly nodded assent.

‘A hundred,’ said the little man.

‘And twenty,’ said Mr. Jingle.

‘My dear Sir,’ remonstrated the little man.

‘Give it him,’ interposed Mr. Wardle, ‘and let him go.’

The cheque was written by the little gentleman, and pocketed by Mr. Jingle.

‘Now, leave this house instantly!’ said Wardle, starting up.

‘My dear Sir,’ urged the little man.

‘And mind,’ said Mr. Wardle, ‘that nothing should have induced me to make this compromise—not even a regard for my family—if I had not known that the moment you got any money in that pocket of yours, you’d go to the devil faster, if possible, than you would without it—’

‘My dear sir,’ urged the little man again.

‘Be quiet, Perker,’ resumed Wardle. ‘Leave the room, Sir.’

‘Off directly,’ said the unabashed Jingle. ‘Bye bye, Pickwick.’

If any dispassionate spectator could have beheld the countenance of the illustrious man, whose name forms the leading feature of the title of this work, during the latter part of this conversation, he would have been almost induced to wonder that the indignant fire which flashed from his eyes did not melt the glasses of his spectacles—so majestic was his wrath. His nostrils dilated, and his fists clenched involuntarily, as he heard himself addressed by the villain. But he restrained himself again- -he did not pulverise him.

‘Here,’ continued the hardened traitor, tossing the licence at Mr. Pickwick’s feet; ‘get the name altered—take home the lady—do for Tuppy.’

Mr. Pickwick was a philosopher, but philosophers are only men in armour, after all. The shaft had reached him, penetrated through his philosophical harness, to his very heart. In the frenzy of his rage, he hurled the inkstand madly forward, and followed it up himself. But Mr. Jingle had disappeared, and he found himself caught in the arms of Sam.

‘Hollo,’ said that eccentric functionary, ‘furniter’s cheap where you come from, Sir. Self-acting ink, that ‘ere; it’s wrote your mark upon the wall, old gen’l’m’n. Hold still, Sir; wot’s the use o’ runnin’ arter a man as has made his lucky, and got to t’other end of the Borough by this time?’

Mr. Pickwick’s mind, like those of all truly great men, was open to conviction. He was a quick and powerful reasoner; and a moment’s reflection sufficed to remind him of the impotency of his rage. It subsided as quickly as it had been roused. He panted for breath, and looked benignantly round upon his friends.

Shall we tell the lamentations that ensued when Miss Wardle found herself deserted by the faithless Jingle? Shall we extract Mr. Pickwick’s masterly description of that heartrending scene? His note- book, blotted with the tears of sympathising humanity, lies open before us; one word, and it is in the printer’s hands. But, no! we will be resolute! We will not wring the public bosom, with the delineation of such suffering!

Slowly and sadly did the two friends and the deserted lady return next day in the Muggleton heavy coach. Dimly and darkly had the sombre shadows of a summer’s night fallen upon all around, when they again reached Dingley Dell, and stood within the entrance to Manor Farm.

Il viso del signor Jingle si rilassò gradualmente; e nel suo occhio sinistro tremolò per un istante qualcosa che assomigliava vagamente a un battito di ciglia.

“Molto bene, molto bene,” disse il piccolo uomo, osservando l’impressione che aveva suscitato. “Ora, la verità è che, a parte qualche centinaio di sterline, quella signora non avrà quasi nulla fino alla morte di sua madre, una gentile vecchia signora, mio caro Signore.”

“Vecchio,” disse il signor Jingle in modo breve ma deciso.

“Sì, certo,” disse l’avvocato, tossendo leggermente. “Ha ragione, mio caro signore: è piuttosto anziana. Tuttavia proviene da una famiglia antica, mia caro signore; antica in ogni senso della parola. Il fondatore di quella famiglia arrivò nel Kent quando Giulio Cesare invase la Britannia. Da allora, solo un membro di quella famiglia ha vissuto fino agli ottantacinque anni; e fu decapitato da uno dei re Tudor. Quella signora anziana ora non ha ancora settantatré anni, mio caro signore.” L’uomo si interruppe per prendere un pizzico di tabacco da fiuto.

“Beh, ”, esclamò il signor Jingle.

‘Beh, mio caro signore, non fate uso di tabacco in polvere! Ah, tanto meglio. Un’abitudine costosa, davvero. Mio caro signore, siete un giovane gentiluomo, un uomo di mondo. Se solo aveste del capitale, potreste far decollare la vostra fortuna, eh?’

“Beh,” disse di nuovo il signor Jingle.

“Capisci ciò che dico?”

“Non proprio.”

“Non pensate forse, ora, mio caro Signore, ve lo chiedo seriamente: non pensate che cinquanta sterline e la libertà siano meglio di Miss Wardle e delle aspettative che ne derivano?”

“Non va bene, non è affatto sufficiente!” disse il signor Jingle alzandosi in piedi.

“No, no, mio caro signore,” obiettò il piccolo avvocato, afferrandolo per il bottone. “Una bella somma, un uomo come voi potrebbe raddoppiarla in poco tempo. Cinquanta sterline rappresentano davvero molto, mio caro signore.”

“C’è ancora molto da fare con centocinquanta,” rispose freddamente il signor Jingle.

“Beh, mio caro signore, non perderemo tempo in chiacchiere inutili,” riprese il piccolo uomo, “dica, dica, settanta.”

“Non va,” disse il signor Jingle.

“Non andate via, mio caro signore, per favore non vi affrettate,” disse il piccolo uomo.
“Ottanta, venite: vi scriverò subito un assegno.”

“Non va bene,” disse il signor Jingle.

“Beh, mio caro signore,” disse il piccolo uomo, trattenendolo ancora; “ditemi semplicemente cosa farà.”

“Una faccenda costosa,” disse il signor Jingle. “Denaro speso di tasca propria: le spese di spedizione, nove sterline; la licenza, tre, fa dodici, l’indennizzo, cento, cento e dodici, la perdita dell’onore, e la perdita della signora, ”

“Sì, mio caro signore, sì,” disse il piccolo uomo con uno sguardo complice, “lasciamo perdere gli ultimi due punti. Fanno centodue in totale, diciamo cento, venga pure.”

“E venti,” disse il signor Jingle.

“Ma certo, ma certo, ti scrivo un assegno,” disse il piccolo uomo; e si sedette subito al tavolo per farlo.

“Lo pagherò il giorno dopo domani,” disse il piccolo uomo, guardando verso il signor Wardle; “intanto possiamo far andare via quella signora.” Il signor Wardle annuì in segno di assenso, con aria cupa.

“Cento,” disse il piccolo uomo.

“E venti,” disse il signor Jingle.

“Mio caro signore,” protestò il piccolo uomo.

“Dateglielo e lasciatelo andare,” intervenne il signor Wardle.

Il assegno fu compilato dal giovane signore e poi messo in tasca dal signor Jingle.

“Ora, lascia immediatamente questa casa!” disse Wardle, alzandosi in piedi.

“Mio caro Signore,” insistette il piccolo uomo.

“E ricorda,” disse il signor Wardle, “che nulla mi avrebbe spinto a fare questo compromesso, nemmeno il pensiero della mia famiglia, se non avessi saputo che non appena avresti ottenuto del denaro in quella tua tasca, saresti andato all’inferno ancora più velocemente, se possibile, di quanto non lo faresti senza di esso, ”

“Mio caro signore,” insistette di nuovo il piccolo uomo.

“Stai zitto, Perker,” riprese Wardle. “Vattene dalla stanza, signore.”

“Parto subito,” disse senza alcuna esitazione Jingle. “Addio, Pickwick.”

Se qualche spettatore imparziale avesse potuto osservare il volto di quell’uomo illustre, il cui nome figura nel titolo di quest’opera, durante la seconda parte di questa conversazione, sarebbe quasi stato indotto a meravigliarsi che la furia indignata che brillava nei suoi occhi non fondesse le lenti dei suoi occhiali, tanto maestosa era la sua rabbia. I suoi narici si dilatarono e i pugni si strinsero involontariamente mentre ascoltava come quel villano gli parlasse. Ma si trattenne di nuovo: non lo distrusse.

“Ecco,” continuò il traditore spietato, gettando la licenza ai piedi del signor Pickwick; “cambiate quel nome, portate via la signora, fate qualcosa per Tuppy.”

Il signor Pickwick era un filosofo, ma i filosofi, dopotutto, non sono altro che uomini armati di ragionamento. La freccia lo aveva colpito, penetrando attraverso la sua “armatura” filosofica fino al suo cuore stesso. Nel delirio della sua rabbia, scagliò follemente lo stilo d’inchiostro verso l’esterno, e poi lo seguì lui stesso. Ma il signor Jingle era già scomparso; si trovò quindi tra le braccia di Sam.

“Salve,” disse quel funzionario eccentrico, “da dove venite, signore, i mobili devono essere molto economici. Inchiostro a effetto immediato, eh? Avete persino scritto il vostro nome sul muro. State fermo, signore: a che serve inseguire un uomo che ha avuto fortuna e ormai si trova dall’altra parte del quartiere, a quest’ora della notte?”

La mente del signor Pickwick, come quella di tutti gli uomini veramente grandi, era aperta alla ragione e alla persuasione. Era un uomo capace di ragionare rapidamente e con efficacia; bastava un attimo di riflessione per fargli ricordare l’impotenza della sua rabbia, che svaniva altrettanto velocemente quanto era sorta. Respirava affannosamente e guardò intorno con espressione benevola i suoi amici.

Dovremmo raccontare le lamentazioni che seguirono quando la signorina Wardle si trovò abbandonata dal fedifugo Jingle? Dovremmo riportare la descrizione magistrale del signor Pickwick di quella scena straziante? Il suo taccuino, macchiato dalle lacrime dell’umanità compassionevole, giace aperto davanti a noi; basta una parola, e sarà tra le mani dell’editore. Ma no! Saremo risoluti: non strapperemo più il cuore del pubblico con descrizioni di tali sofferenze!

Lentamente e tristemente, i due amici e la signora abbandonata tornarono il giorno seguente con il pesante carro di Muggleton. Le ombre cupe e scure di una estate notturna avvolgevano tutto intorno quando raggiunsero nuovamente Dingley Dell e si fermarono all’ingresso della fattoria Manor Farm.

CHAPTER XI. INVOLVING ANOTHER JOURNEY, AND AN ANTIQUARIAN DISCOVERY; RECORDING MR. PICKWICK’S DETERMINATION TO BE PRESENT AT AN ELECTION; AND CONTAINING A MANUSCRIPT OF THE OLD CLERGYMAN’S

A night of quiet and repose in the profound silence of Dingley Dell, and an hour’s breathing of its fresh and fragrant air on the ensuing morning, completely recovered Mr. Pickwick from the effects of his late fatigue of body and anxiety of mind. That illustrious man had been separated from his friends and followers for two whole days; and it was with a degree of pleasure and delight, which no common imagination can adequately conceive, that he stepped forward to greet Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass, as he encountered those gentlemen on his return from his early walk. The pleasure was mutual; for who could ever gaze on Mr. Pickwick’s beaming face without experiencing the sensation? But still a cloud seemed to hang over his companions which that great man could not but be sensible of, and was wholly at a loss to account for. There was a mysterious air about them both, as unusual as it was alarming.

‘And how,’ said Mr. Pickwick, when he had grasped his followers by the hand, and exchanged warm salutations of welcome—‘how is Tupman?’

Mr. Winkle, to whom the question was more peculiarly addressed, made no reply. He turned away his head, and appeared absorbed in melancholy reflection.

‘Snodgrass,’ said Mr. Pickwick earnestly, ‘how is our friend—he is not ill?’

‘No,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass; and a tear trembled on his sentimental eyelid, like a rain-drop on a window-frame—‘no; he is not ill.’

Mr. Pickwick stopped, and gazed on each of his friends in turn.

‘Winkle—Snodgrass,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘what does this mean? Where is our friend? What has happened? Speak—I conjure, I entreat—nay, I command you, speak.’

There was a solemnity—a dignity—in Mr. Pickwick’s manner, not to be withstood.

‘He is gone,’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

‘Gone!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. ‘Gone!’

‘Gone,’ repeated Mr. Snodgrass.

‘Where!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick.

‘We can only guess, from that communication,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass, taking a letter from his pocket, and placing it in his friend’s hand. ‘Yesterday morning, when a letter was received from Mr. Wardle, stating that you would be home with his sister at night, the melancholy which had hung over our friend during the whole of the previous day, was observed to increase. He shortly afterwards disappeared: he was missing during the whole day, and in the evening this letter was brought by the hostler from the Crown, at Muggleton. It had been left in his charge in the morning, with a strict injunction that it should not be delivered until night.’

Mr. Pickwick opened the epistle. It was in his friend’s hand-writing, and these were its contents:—

‘MY DEAR PICKWICK,—You, my dear friend, are placed far beyond the reach of many mortal frailties and weaknesses which ordinary people cannot overcome. You do not know what it is, at one blow, to be deserted by a lovely and fascinating creature, and to fall a victim to the artifices of a villain, who had the grin of cunning beneath the mask of friendship. I hope you never may.

‘Any letter addressed to me at the Leather Bottle, Cobham, Kent, will be forwarded—supposing I still exist. I hasten from the sight of that world, which has become odious to me. Should I hasten from it altogether, pity—forgive me. Life, my dear Pickwick, has become insupportable to me. The spirit which burns within us, is a porter’s knot, on which to rest the heavy load of worldly cares and troubles; and when that spirit fails us, the burden is too heavy to be borne. We sink beneath it. You may tell Rachael—Ah, that name!—

‘TRACY TUPMAN.’

‘We must leave this place directly,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as he refolded the note. ‘It would not have been decent for us to remain here, under any circumstances, after what has happened; and now we are bound to follow in search of our friend.’ And so saying, he led the way to the house.

His intention was rapidly communicated. The entreaties to remain were pressing, but Mr. Pickwick was inflexible. Business, he said, required his immediate attendance.

The old clergyman was present.

‘You are not really going?’ said he, taking Mr. Pickwick aside.

Mr. Pickwick reiterated his former determination.

‘Then here,’ said the old gentleman, ‘is a little manuscript, which I had hoped to have the pleasure of reading to you myself. I found it on the death of a friend of mine—a medical man, engaged in our county lunatic asylum—among a variety of papers, which I had the option of destroying or preserving, as I thought proper. I can hardly believe that the manuscript is genuine, though it certainly is not in my friend’s hand. However, whether it be the genuine production of a maniac, or founded upon the ravings of some unhappy being (which I think more probable), read it, and judge for yourself.’

Mr. Pickwick received the manuscript, and parted from the benevolent old gentleman with many expressions of good-will and esteem.

It was a more difficult task to take leave of the inmates of Manor Farm, from whom they had received so much hospitality and kindness. Mr. Pickwick kissed the young ladies—we were going to say, as if they were his own daughters, only, as he might possibly have infused a little more warmth into the salutation, the comparison would not be quite appropriate—hugged the old lady with filial cordiality; and patted the rosy cheeks of the female servants in a most patriarchal manner, as he slipped into the hands of each some more substantial expression of his approval. The exchange of cordialities with their fine old host and Mr. Trundle was even more hearty and prolonged; and it was not until Mr. Snodgrass had been several times called for, and at last emerged from a dark passage followed soon after by Emily (whose bright eyes looked unusually dim), that the three friends were enabled to tear themselves from their friendly entertainers. Many a backward look they gave at the farm, as they walked slowly away; and many a kiss did Mr. Snodgrass waft in the air, in acknowledgment of something very like a lady’s handkerchief, which was waved from one of the upper windows, until a turn of the lane hid the old house from their sight.

CAPITOLO XI. CHE TRATTA DI UN’ALTRA VIAGIA E DI UNA SCOPERTA IN MEZZO AI ANTICHITARI; RACCONTA DELLA DECISIONE DEL SIGNOR PICKWICK DI PRESENTARSI A UNA ELEZIONE; E CONTENDE UN MANUSCRITO DEL VECCHIO CLERICO.

In una notte di tranquillità e riposo, nel profondo silenzio di Dingley Dell, e dopo un’ora trascorsa respirando quell’aria fresca e profumata la mattina seguente, il signor Pickwick si riprese completamente dagli effetti della fatica fisica e dell’ansia che lo avevano afflitto in precedenza. Quell’illustre uomo era stato separato dai suoi amici e seguaci per ben due giorni interi; ed è con un grado di gioia e felicità che nessuna comune immaginazione può nemmeno concepire, che si avvicinò a salutare il signor Winkle e il signor Snodgrass non appena li incontrò al suo ritorno dalla passeggiata mattutina. La gioia era reciproca; perché chi potrebbe mai guardare il volto sorridente del signor Pickwick senza provare lo stesso sentimento? Tuttavia, sembrava che su i suoi compagni aleggesse una sorta di ombra della quale quell’uomo eccezionale si rendeva ben conto, ma non riusciva assolutamente a spiegarla. C’era qualcosa di misterioso e inquietante intorno a entrambi.

“E allora,” disse il signor Pickwick dopo aver preso per mano i suoi seguaci e scambiato calorosi saluti di benvenuto, “come sta Tupman?”

Il signor Winkle, a cui la domanda era stata rivolta in modo particolare, non rispose. Distolse lo sguardo e sembrava immerso in profonde riflessioni mellanconiche.

“Snodgrass,” disse seriamente il signor Pickwick, “come sta il nostro amico, non è malato, vero?”

“No,” rispose il signor Snodgrass; e una lacrima tremolò sulla sua palpebra sentimentale, come una goccia di pioggia su un telaio di finestra, “No; non è malato.”

Il signor Pickwick si fermò e guardò uno dopo l’altro i suoi amici.

“Winkle–Snodgrass,” disse il signor Pickwick; “che significa tutto questo? Dove è nostro amico? Che cosa è successo? Parlate. Vi ordino di parlare.”

C’era una solennità, una dignità nel modo di fare del signor Pickwick, qualcosa che non si poteva affrontare o contrastare.

“È andato via,” disse il signor Snodgrass.

“Se n’è andato!” esclamò il signor Pickwick. “Se n’è andato!”

“Se n’è andato,” ripeté il signor Snodgrass.

“Dove!” esclamò il signor Pickwick.

“Possiamo solo fare congetture, sulla base di quella comunicazione,” rispose il signor Snodgrass, estraendo una lettera dal proprio taschino e porgendola al suo amico. “Ieri mattina, quando è arrivata una lettera dal signor Wardle che annunciava che tu saresti tornato a casa con sua sorella quella sera, la melanconia che aveva afflitto il nostro amico per tutta la giornata precedente è sembrata intensificarsi. Poco dopo è scomparso: è stato irreperibile per l’intera giornata, e alla sera questa lettera è stata portata dal locandiere della taverna “Crown” a Muggleton. Era stata affidata a lui la mattina precedente, con l’ordine rigoroso di non consegnarla fino a quella sera.”

Il signor Pickwick aprì la lettera. Era scritta a mano dal suo amico, e i suoi contenuti erano i seguenti:–

‘Mio caro Pickwick,—Tu, mio caro amico, ti trovi al di là della portata di molte fragilità e debolezze umane che le persone comuni non riescono a superare. Non sai cosa significhi essere abbandonato all’improvviso da una creatura bella e affascinante, e diventare vittima delle astuzie di un malvagio che nasconde il proprio inganno dietro la maschera dell’amicizia. Spero che tu non debba mai sperimentarlo.’

“Qualsiasi lettera indirizzata a me presso la ‘Leather Bottle’, Cobham, Kent, verrà inoltrata, a condizione che io esista ancora. Mi affretto a lasciare questo mondo, che mi è diventato odioso. Se dovessi andarmene per sempre, perdonatemi. La vita, mio caro Pickwick, è diventata insopportabile per me. Lo spirito che arde dentro di noi è come un nodo da portiere, su cui appoggiare il pesante fardello delle preoccupazioni e dei problemi mondani; ma quando quel spirito ci abbandona, il peso diventa troppo grande da sopportare. Sprofondiamo sotto di esso. Potete dirlo a Rachael. Ah, quel nome, ”

‘Tracy Tupman.’

“Dobbiamo lasciare questo posto immediatamente,” disse il signor Pickwick mentre ripiegava la nota. “Non sarebbe stato decente da parte nostra rimanere qui, in nessuna circostanza, dopo quanto è accaduto; ora dobbiamo andare a cercare il nostro amico.” E così dicendo, prese la strada verso la casa.

La sua intenzione fu rapidamente comunicata. Le suppliche affinché rimanesse erano insistenti, ma il signor Pickwick era irremovibile. Disse che gli affari richiedevano la sua immediata presenza.

Il vecchio prete era presente.

“Davvero non te ne vai?” disse, prendendo il signor Pickwick in disparte.

Il signor Pickwick ribadì la sua precedente determinazione.

“Ecco dunque,” disse il vecchio signore, “un piccolo manoscritto che speravo di potervi leggere personalmente. L’ho trovato dopo la morte di un mio amico – un medico che lavorava nel nostro ospedale psichiatrico – tra una varietà di documenti che potevo distruggere o conservare, a mia discrezione. Difficilmente posso credere che il manoscritto sia autentico, anche se certamente non è scritto di pugno da mio amico. Comunque sia, che si tratti di un’opera genuina di un pazzo o di basarsi sulle deliranti parole di qualche persona sfortunata (cosa che ritengo più probabile), leggetelo e giudicate voi stessi.”

Il signor Pickwick ricevette il manoscritto e si congedò dal gentile vecchio signore con molte espressioni di buona volontà e stima.

Fu un compito molto difficile separarsi dagli abitanti della Manor Farm, da cui avevano ricevuto tanta ospitalità e gentilezza. Il signor Pickwick baciò le giovani signore – avremmo potuto dire che le trattasse come se fossero sue figlie proprie, ma poiché probabilmente il suo saluto fu più affettuoso del dovuto, tale paragone non sarebbe stato del tutto appropriato – abbracciò con sincera affetto la vecchia signora e accarezzò le guance rosee delle domestiche in modo molto paterno, dando a ciascuna di loro un segno tangibile della sua approvazione. Lo scambio di cordialità con il loro gentile ospite e il signor Trundle fu ancora più caloroso e prolungato; solo quando il signor Snodgrass fu chiamato più volte e finalmente emerse da un corridoio buio, seguito poco dopo da Emily (la cui espressione era insolitamente triste), i tre amici riuscirono a separarsi dai loro ospiti. Mentre si allontanavano lentamente, gettarono molte occhiate indietro verso la fattoria; il signor Snodgrass, inoltre, mandò in aria molti baci, come segno di ringraziamento per qualcosa che assomigliava a un fazzoletto da donna, agitato da una delle finestre superiori. Fino a quando una svolta del sentiero non nascose la vecchia casa dalla loro vista.

At Muggleton they procured a conveyance to Rochester. By the time they reached the last-named place, the violence of their grief had sufficiently abated to admit of their making a very excellent early dinner; and having procured the necessary information relative to the road, the three friends set forward again in the afternoon to walk to Cobham.

A delightful walk it was; for it was a pleasant afternoon in June, and their way lay through a deep and shady wood, cooled by the light wind which gently rustled the thick foliage, and enlivened by the songs of the birds that perched upon the boughs. The ivy and the moss crept in thick clusters over the old trees, and the soft green turf overspread the ground like a silken mat. They emerged upon an open park, with an ancient hall, displaying the quaint and picturesque architecture of Elizabeth’s time. Long vistas of stately oaks and elm trees appeared on every side; large herds of deer were cropping the fresh grass; and occasionally a startled hare scoured along the ground, with the speed of the shadows thrown by the light clouds which swept across a sunny landscape like a passing breath of summer.

‘If this,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking about him—‘if this were the place to which all who are troubled with our friend’s complaint came, I fancy their old attachment to this world would very soon return.’

‘I think so too,’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘And really,’ added Mr. Pickwick, after half an hour’s walking had brought them to the village, ‘really, for a misanthrope’s choice, this is one of the prettiest and most desirable places of residence I ever met with.’

In this opinion also, both Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass expressed their concurrence; and having been directed to the Leather Bottle, a clean and commodious village ale-house, the three travellers entered, and at once inquired for a gentleman of the name of Tupman.

‘Show the gentlemen into the parlour, Tom,’ said the landlady.

A stout country lad opened a door at the end of the passage, and the three friends entered a long, low-roofed room, furnished with a large number of high-backed leather-cushioned chairs, of fantastic shapes, and embellished with a great variety of old portraits and roughly-coloured prints of some antiquity. At the upper end of the room was a table, with a white cloth upon it, well covered with a roast fowl, bacon, ale, and et ceteras; and at the table sat Mr. Tupman, looking as unlike a man who had taken his leave of the world, as possible.

On the entrance of his friends, that gentleman laid down his knife and fork, and with a mournful air advanced to meet them.

‘I did not expect to see you here,’ he said, as he grasped Mr. Pickwick’s hand. ‘It’s very kind.’

‘Ah!’ said Mr. Pickwick, sitting down, and wiping from his forehead the perspiration which the walk had engendered. ‘Finish your dinner, and walk out with me. I wish to speak to you alone.’

Mr. Tupman did as he was desired; and Mr. Pickwick having refreshed himself with a copious draught of ale, waited his friend’s leisure. The dinner was quickly despatched, and they walked out together.

For half an hour, their forms might have been seen pacing the churchyard to and fro, while Mr. Pickwick was engaged in combating his companion’s resolution. Any repetition of his arguments would be useless; for what language could convey to them that energy and force which their great originator’s manner communicated? Whether Mr. Tupman was already tired of retirement, or whether he was wholly unable to resist the eloquent appeal which was made to him, matters not, he did _not _ resist it at last.

‘It mattered little to him,’ he said, ‘where he dragged out the miserable remainder of his days; and since his friend laid so much stress upon his humble companionship, he was willing to share his adventures.’

Mr. Pickwick smiled; they shook hands, and walked back to rejoin their companions.

It was at this moment that Mr. Pickwick made that immortal discovery, which has been the pride and boast of his friends, and the envy of every antiquarian in this or any other country. They had passed the door of their inn, and walked a little way down the village, before they recollected the precise spot in which it stood. As they turned back, Mr. Pickwick’s eye fell upon a small broken stone, partially buried in the ground, in front of a cottage door. He paused.

‘This is very strange,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘What is strange?’ inquired Mr. Tupman, staring eagerly at every object near him, but the right one. ‘God bless me, what’s the matter?’

This last was an ejaculation of irrepressible astonishment, occasioned by seeing Mr. Pickwick, in his enthusiasm for discovery, fall on his knees before the little stone, and commence wiping the dust off it with his pocket-handkerchief.

‘There is an inscription here,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Is it possible?’ said Mr. Tupman.

‘I can discern,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, rubbing away with all his might, and gazing intently through his spectacles—‘I can discern a cross, and a 13, and then a T. This is important,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, starting up. ‘This is some very old inscription, existing perhaps long before the ancient alms-houses in this place. It must not be lost.’

He tapped at the cottage door. A labouring man opened it.

‘Do you know how this stone came here, my friend?’ inquired the benevolent Mr. Pickwick.

‘No, I doan’t, Sir,’ replied the man civilly. ‘It was here long afore I was born, or any on us.’

Mr. Pickwick glanced triumphantly at his companion.

‘You—you—are not particularly attached to it, I dare say,’ said Mr. Pickwick, trembling with anxiety. ‘You wouldn’t mind selling it, now?’

‘Ah! but who’d buy it?’ inquired the man, with an expression of face which he probably meant to be very cunning.

A Muggleton trovarono un mezzo di trasporto per Rochester. Quando raggiunsero quel luogo, la violenza del loro dolore si era sufficientemente attenuata da permettere loro di preparare una cena molto buona; dopo aver ottenuto le informazioni necessarie riguardo alla strada, i tre amici ripartirono nel pomeriggio per proseguire il viaggio a piedi verso Cobham.

Fu una piacevole passeggiata: era una bella giornata di giugno e il loro percorso attraversava un bosco profondo e ombreggiato, rinfrescato dalla leggera >vento che accarezzava dolcemente le folte fronde, e arricchito dal canto degli uccelli posati sui rami. L’edera e il muschio si diffondevano in fitti ciuffi sugli alberi antichi, mentre l’erba verde e soffice copriva il terreno come un tappeto di seta. Emersero infine in un ampio parco, dove si trovava un antico edificio che mostrava la caratteristica architettura del periodo elisabettiano. Da ogni parte si estendevano viste lunghe di maestosi querce e olmi; grandi branchi di cervi pascolavano sull’erba fresca, e di tanto in tanto una lepre spaventata sfrecciava via, con la velocità delle ombre proiettate dalle nuvole leggere che attraversavano un paesaggio soleggiato, come un soffio estivo che passa.

“Se questo,” disse il signor Pickwick guardandosi intorno, “se questo fosse il luogo dove venissero tutti coloro che soffrono a causa del problema di nostro amico, credo che il loro vecchio attaccamento a questo mondo tornerebbe molto presto.”

“Anch’io penso di sì,” disse il signor Winkle.

“E davvero,” aggiunse il signor Pickwick dopo mezz’ora di cammino che li aveva portati nel villaggio, “davvero, per le preferenze di un misantropo, questo è uno dei luoghi di residenza più belli e desiderabili che abbia mai incontrato.”

Anche in questo parere, sia il signor Winkle che il signor Snodgrass espressero la loro approvazione; e dopo essere stati indirizzati alla “Leather Bottle”, una pulita e comoda taverna del villaggio, i tre viaggiatori entrarono e subito chiesero di un gentiluomo di nome Tupman.

“Porta i signori nel salotto, Tom,” disse la padrona di casa.

Un robusto ragazzo di campagna aprì una porta all’estremità del corridoio, e i tre amici entrarono in una stanza lunga e dal soffitto basso, arredata con un gran numero di sedie di pelle imbottite, dalle forme fantasiose, e decorata con una grande varietà di vecchi ritratti e stampe dai colori scuri, raffiguranti oggetti antichi. All’estremità della stanza c’era un tavolo coperto da una tovaglia bianca; sopra vi erano un pollo arrosto, pancetta, birra e altre cose del genere; intorno al tavolo sedeva il signor Tupman, che sembrava assolutamente l’ultimo uomo al mondo che avesse deciso di lasciarlo.

All’arrivo dei suoi amici, quel gentiluomo posò coltello e forchetta e, con un’espressione triste, si avvicinò per accoglierli.

“Non mi aspettavo di vedervi qui,” disse, stringendo la mano del signor Pickwick. “È molto gentile da parte vostra.”

“Ah!” disse il signor Pickwick sedendosi e asciugandosi la fronte dal sudore prodotto dalla camminata. “Finisci di mangiare e vieni con me; voglio parlarti in privato.”

Il signor Tupman fece ciò che gli era stato chiesto; e il signor Pickwick, dopo essersi rinfrescato con un abbondante bicchiere di birra, attese che il suo amico fosse libero. La cena fu rapidamente conclusa, e poi uscirono insieme.

Per mezz’ora, si potevano vedere le loro figure andare avanti e indietro nel cimitero, mentre il signor Pickwick cercava in tutti i modi di far cambiare idea al suo compagno. Qualsiasi ulteriore argomentazione sarebbe stata inutile; infatti, quale lingua avrebbe potuto trasmettere loro quell’energia e quella forza che il modo di fare del loro grande ideatore riusciva a comunicare? Che il signor Tupman fosse già stanco della vita ritirata, o che non fosse affatto in grado di resistere a quell’appello eloquente, non ha importanza: alla fine, non ci riuscì.

“Per lui non contava molto,” disse, “dove avrebbe trascorso il misero resto dei suoi giorni; e poiché il suo amico dava tanta importanza alla sua umile compagnia, era disposto a condividere le sue avventure.”

Il signor Pickwick sorrise; si strinsero la mano e tornarono dai loro compagni.

Fu in quel momento che il signor Pickwick fece quella scoperta immortale, che è diventata l’orgoglio e la vanto dei suoi amici, nonché oggetto di invidia di ogni antiquario in questo o in qualsiasi altro paese. Avevano già superato la porta della loro locanda e percorso un po’ di strada nel villaggio, prima di ricordare esattamente dove si trovava il luogo in questione. Mentre tornavano indietro, lo sguardo del signor Pickwick cadde su una piccola pietra rotta, parzialmente sepolta nel terreno, davanti alla porta di una capanna. Si fermò.

“È molto strano,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Cosa c’è di strano?” chiese il signor Tupman, fissando con attenzione ogni oggetto intorno a lui, ma non quello giusto. “Dio mi aiuti, che cosa sta succedendo?”

Quest’ultima esclamazione fu un’esplosione di stupore irreprimibile, scatenata dal vedere il signor Pickwick, nel suo entusiasmo per la scoperta, inginocchiarsi davanti a quel piccolo sasso e iniziare a pulirne la polvere con il fazzoletto da tasca.

“Qui c’è un’iscrizione,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“È possibile?” disse il signor Tupman.

“Posso distinguerlo,” continuò il signor Pickwick, strofinando con tutte le sue forze e guardando attentamente attraverso i suoi occhiali, “Posso distinguere una croce, un numero 13, e poi una lettera T. Questo è importante,” proseguì il signor Pickwick, alzandosi in piedi. “Si tratta di un’antica iscrizione, che probabilmente esisteva già molto prima delle antiche case di beneficenza in questo luogo. Non deve andare persa.”

Batté alla porta della capanna. Una persona che lavorava la terra la aprì.

“Sai come sia arrivata qui questa pietra, amico mio?”, chiese il benevolo signor Pickwick.

“No, signore, non lo faccio,” rispose l’uomo in modo educato. “Era qui molto prima che io nascessi, e anche prima di chiunque di noi.”

Il signor Pickwick guardò con aria trionfale il suo compagno.

“Voi, voi non ne siete particolarmente affezionato, oserei dire,” disse il signor Pickwick, tremando per l’ansia. “Non vi dispiacerebbe venderla, ora?”

“Ah! Ma chi lo comprerebbe?” chiese l’uomo, con un’espressione del viso che probabilmente voleva sembrare molto astuta.

‘I’ll give you ten shillings for it, at once,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘if you would take it up for me.’

The astonishment of the village may be easily imagined, when (the little stone having been raised with one wrench of a spade) Mr. Pickwick, by dint of great personal exertion, bore it with his own hands to the inn, and after having carefully washed it, deposited it on the table.

The exultation and joy of the Pickwickians knew no bounds, when their patience and assiduity, their washing and scraping, were crowned with success. The stone was uneven and broken, and the letters were straggling and irregular, but the following fragment of an inscription was clearly to be deciphered:—

cross] B I L S T U M P S H I S. M. ARK

Mr. Pickwick’s eyes sparkled with delight, as he sat and gloated over the treasure he had discovered. He had attained one of the greatest objects of his ambition. In a county known to abound in the remains of the early ages; in a village in which there still existed some memorials of the olden time, he—he, the chairman of the Pickwick Club—had discovered a strange and curious inscription of unquestionable antiquity, which had wholly escaped the observation of the many learned men who had preceded him. He could hardly trust the evidence of his senses.

‘This—this,’ said he, ‘determines me. We return to town to-morrow.’

‘To-morrow!’ exclaimed his admiring followers.

‘To-morrow,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘This treasure must be at once deposited where it can be thoroughly investigated and properly understood. I have another reason for this step. In a few days, an election is to take place for the borough of Eatanswill, at which Mr. Perker, a gentleman whom I lately met, is the agent of one of the candidates. We will behold, and minutely examine, a scene so interesting to every Englishman.’

‘We will,’ was the animated cry of three voices.

Mr. Pickwick looked round him. The attachment and fervour of his followers lighted up a glow of enthusiasm within him. He was their leader, and he felt it.

‘Let us celebrate this happy meeting with a convivial glass,’ said he. This proposition, like the other, was received with unanimous applause. Having himself deposited the important stone in a small deal box, purchased from the landlady for the purpose, he placed himself in an arm-chair, at the head of the table; and the evening was devoted to festivity and conversation.

It was past eleven o’clock—a late hour for the little village of Cobham—when Mr. Pickwick retired to the bedroom which had been prepared for his reception. He threw open the lattice window, and setting his light upon the table, fell into a train of meditation on the hurried events of the two preceding days.

The hour and the place were both favourable to contemplation; Mr. Pickwick was roused by the church clock striking twelve. The first stroke of the hour sounded solemnly in his ear, but when the bell ceased the stillness seemed insupportable—he almost felt as if he had lost a companion. He was nervous and excited; and hastily undressing himself and placing his light in the chimney, got into bed.

Every one has experienced that disagreeable state of mind, in which a sensation of bodily weariness in vain contends against an inability to sleep. It was Mr. Pickwick’s condition at this moment: he tossed first on one side and then on the other; and perseveringly closed his eyes as if to coax himself to slumber. It was of no use. Whether it was the unwonted exertion he had undergone, or the heat, or the brandy-and- water, or the strange bed—whatever it was, his thoughts kept reverting very uncomfortably to the grim pictures downstairs, and the old stories to which they had given rise in the course of the evening. After half an hour’s tumbling about, he came to the unsatisfactory conclusion, that it was of no use trying to sleep; so he got up and partially dressed himself. Anything, he thought, was better than lying there fancying all kinds of horrors. He looked out of the window—it was very dark. He walked about the room—it was very lonely.

He had taken a few turns from the door to the window, and from the window to the door, when the clergyman’s manuscript for the first time entered his head. It was a good thought. If it failed to interest him, it might send him to sleep. He took it from his coat pocket, and drawing a small table towards his bedside, trimmed the light, put on his spectacles, and composed himself to read. It was a strange handwriting, and the paper was much soiled and blotted. The title gave him a sudden start, too; and he could not avoid casting a wistful glance round the room. Reflecting on the absurdity of giving way to such feelings, however, he trimmed the light again, and read as follows:—

A MADMAN’S MANUSCRIPT

‘Yes!—a madman’s! How that word would have struck to my heart, many years ago! How it would have roused the terror that used to come upon me sometimes, sending the blood hissing and tingling through my veins, till the cold dew of fear stood in large drops upon my skin, and my knees knocked together with fright! I like it now though. It’s a fine name. Show me the monarch whose angry frown was ever feared like the glare of a madman’s eye—whose cord and axe were ever half so sure as a madman’s gripe. Ho! ho! It’s a grand thing to be mad! to be peeped at like a wild lion through the iron bars—to gnash one’s teeth and howl, through the long still night, to the merry ring of a heavy chain and to roll and twine among the straw, transported with such brave music. Hurrah for the madhouse! Oh, it’s a rare place!

‘I remember days when I was afraid of being mad; when I used to start from my sleep, and fall upon my knees, and pray to be spared from the curse of my race; when I rushed from the sight of merriment or happiness, to hide myself in some lonely place, and spend the weary hours in watching the progress of the fever that was to consume my brain. I knew that madness was mixed up with my very blood, and the marrow of my bones! that one generation had passed away without the pestilence appearing among them, and that I was the first in whom it would revive. I knew it must be so: that so it always had been, and so it ever would be: and when I cowered in some obscure corner of a crowded room, and saw men whisper, and point, and turn their eyes towards me, I knew they were telling each other of the doomed madman; and I slunk away again to mope in solitude.

“Vi darò dieci scellini subito,” disse il signor Pickwick, “se voleste accettarli per me.”

Si può facilmente immaginare lo stupore del villaggio quando, dopo che la piccola pietra fu sollevata con un solo movimento di vanga, il signor Pickwick, senza sforzi eccessivi, la portò personalmente all’osteria e, dopo averla lavata con cura, la posizionò sul tavolo.

L’esultanza e la gioia dei Pickwickiani non conoscevano limiti quando la loro pazienza e diligenza, i loro sforzi nel lavare e pulire, furono ricompensati con il successo. La pietra era irregolare e danneggiata, e le lettere erano disordinate e irregolari, ma il seguente frammento di un’iscrizione poté essere chiaramente decifrato:–

Croce Bil Stumpshis M. Ark

Gli occhi del signor Pickwick brillavano di gioia mentre sedeva e ammirava il tesoro che aveva scoperto. Aveva raggiunto uno degli obiettivi più importanti della sua ambizione. In una contea nota per essere ricca di resti dell’antichità; in un villaggio dove ancora esistevano alcuni monumenti del lontano passato, lui – lui, il presidente del Pickwick Club – aveva scoperto un’inscrizione strana e curiosa di antichità indubbia, che era completamente sfuggita all’attenzione di molti studiosi che lo avevano preceduto. A malapena riusciva a credere ai propri occhi.

“Questo, questo,” disse lui, “mi determina. Torneremo in città domani.”

“Domani!”, esclamarono i suoi seguaci ammiratori.

“Domani,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Questo tesoro deve essere immediatamente depositato in un luogo dove possa essere esaminato attentamente e compreso correttamente. Ho anche un altro motivo per prendere questa decisione: tra pochi giorni si terranno le elezioni nel distretto di Eatanswill, e il signor Perker, un gentiluomo che ho incontrato di recente, è l’agente di uno dei candidati. Assisteremo e analizzeremo minuziosamente una scena davvero interessante per ogni inglese.”

“Lo faremo,” fu l’esclamazione entusiasta di tre voci.

Il signor Pickwick guardò intorno a sé. L’affetto e la passione dei suoi seguaci suscitarono in lui un senso di entusiasmo. Era il loro leader, e ne era consapevole.

“Diamo il via a questa felice riunione con un bicchiere di vino,” disse lui.
Questa proposta, come le altre, fu accolta da applausi unanimi.
Dopo aver riposto la pietra importante in una piccola scatola, acquistata appositamente dalla padrona di casa, si sistemò in una poltrona, all’estremità del tavolo; e la serata trascorse tra festeggiamenti e conversazioni.

Erano passate le undici di ore: un’ora tarda per il piccolo villaggio di Cobham. Il signor Pickwick si ritirò nella camera da letto preparata per il suo soggiorno. Aprì completamente la finestra a griglia, posò la lampada sul tavolo e iniziò a riflettere sugli eventi frenetici dei due giorni precedenti.

L’ora e il luogo erano entrambi adatti alla meditazione; il signor Pickwick fu svegliato dal suono delle dodici battute dell’orologio della chiesa. Il primo rintocco risuonò solennemente nelle sue orecchie, ma quando la campana tacque, il silenzio divenne insopportabile. Gli sembrava quasi di aver perso un compagno. Era nervoso ed eccitato; si spogliò in fretta, mise la sua lampada nel camino e andò a letto.

Tutti hanno provato quella sgradevole condizione mentale in cui una sensazione di stanchezza fisica si scontra invano con l’incapacità di dormire. Era proprio questa la situazione del signor Pickwick in quel momento: si girava da un lato all’altro, cercando disperatamente di chiudere gli occhi per addormentarsi. Ma senza successo. Che fosse a causa dello sforzo eccessivo che aveva compiuto, del caldo, del brandy mescolato con acqua, o semplicemente del letto strano in cui si trovava, qualunque ne fosse la ragione, i suoi pensieri continuavano a tornare, in modo molto sgradevole, alle scene macabre che aveva visto al piano di sotto e alle vecchie storie che quelle immagini avevano suscitato durante la serata. Dopo mezz’ora di tentativi infruttuosi, concluse che non aveva senso provare a dormire; così si alzò e si vestì parzialmente. Qualsiasi cosa fosse, pensò, era meglio che restare lì sdraiato a immaginare ogni sorta di orrori. Guardò fuori dalla finestra: faceva molto buio. Camminò per la stanza, era molto desolata.

Aveva fatto alcuni giri dalla porta alla finestra, e dalla finestra di nuovo alla porta, quando per la prima volta il manoscritto del prete gli venne in mente. Era un’ottima idea. Se non lo avesse interessato, forse l’avrebbe aiutato a addormentarsi. Lo tirò fuori dalla tasca del cappotto, avvicinò una piccola lampada al letto, sistemò la luce, indossò gli occhiali e si preparò a leggere. La calligrafia era strana, e il foglio molto sporco e macchiato. Il titolo lo fece sobbalzare; non poté fare a meno di guardarsi intorno nella stanza con un’aria malinconica. Tuttavia, riflettendo sull’assurdità di lasciarsi influenzare da tali sentimenti, sistemò di nuovo la luce e iniziò a leggere.

Manoscritto di un pazzo

“Sì, – di un pazzo! Quanto quel nome avrebbe colpito il mio cuore, molti anni fa. Quanto avrebbe suscitato in me quell’orrore che a volte mi assaliva, facendo sibilare e formicolare il sangue nelle vene, fino a quando la fredda rugiada della paura si accumulava sulla mia pelle in grosse gocce, e le ginocchia mi tremavano per la paura. Ora invece lo amo. È un nome meraviglioso. Mostratemi quale monarca il cui sguardo furioso sia mai stato temuto come lo sguardo di un pazzo. Il cui potere fosse mai paragonabile a quello di un folle. Ah! Ah. Che cosa magnifica essere pazzi. Essere guardati con timore, come una bestia feroce attraverso le sbarre di ferro. Ringhiare e ululare nella lunga notte silenziosa, al suono gioioso delle catene pesanti. Rotolare e intrecciarsi tra la paglia, accompagnati da una musica così coraggiosa. Evviva all’asilo di pazzi! Oh. Che posto meraviglioso!”

“Ricordo giorni in cui avevo paura di impazzire; quando mi svegliavo di notte, mi gettavo in ginocchio e pregavo di essere risparmiato dalla maledizione della mia razza; quando fuggivo davanti a ogni segno di gioia o felicità, per nascondermi in un luogo solitario e trascorrere quelle ore interminabili osservando l’avanzare della febbre che avrebbe distrutto la mia mente. Sapevo che la follia era parte integrante del mio stesso sangue, del midollo delle mie ossa. Che una generazione dopo l’altra era trascorsa senza che quella maledizione si manifestasse tra di loro, e che io ero il primo in cui essa sarebbe riemersa. Sapevo che doveva essere così; che sempre era stato così, e che sempre lo sarebbe stato. Quando mi rintanavo in un angolo buio di una stanza affollata, vedendo gli uomini sussurrare, indicarmi con il dito e voltarmi addosso i loro occhi, sapevo che stavano parlando del pazzo condannato a morte. E allora me ne andavo di nuovo, per nascondermi nella solitudine.”

‘I did this for years; long, long years they were. The nights here are long sometimes—very long; but they are nothing to the restless nights, and dreadful dreams I had at that time. It makes me cold to remember them. Large dusky forms with sly and jeering faces crouched in the corners of the room, and bent over my bed at night, tempting me to madness. They told me in low whispers, that the floor of the old house in which my father died, was stained with his own blood, shed by his own hand in raging madness. I drove my fingers into my ears, but they screamed into my head till the room rang with it, that in one generation before him the madness slumbered, but that his grandfather had lived for years with his hands fettered to the ground, to prevent his tearing himself to pieces. I knew they told the truth—I knew it well. I had found it out years before, though they had tried to keep it from me. Ha! ha! I was too cunning for them, madman as they thought me.

‘At last it came upon me, and I wondered how I could ever have feared it. I could go into the world now, and laugh and shout with the best among them. I knew I was mad, but they did not even suspect it. How I used to hug myself with delight, when I thought of the fine trick I was playing them after their old pointing and leering, when I was not mad, but only dreading that I might one day become so! And how I used to laugh for joy, when I was alone, and thought how well I kept my secret, and how quickly my kind friends would have fallen from me, if they had known the truth. I could have screamed with ecstasy when I dined alone with some fine roaring fellow, to think how pale he would have turned, and how fast he would have run, if he had known that the dear friend who sat close to him, sharpening a bright, glittering knife, was a madman with all the power, and half the will, to plunge it in his heart. Oh, it was a merry life!

‘Riches became mine, wealth poured in upon me, and I rioted in pleasures enhanced a thousandfold to me by the consciousness of my well-kept secret. I inherited an estate. The law—the eagle-eyed law itself—had been deceived, and had handed over disputed thousands to a madman’s hands. Where was the wit of the sharp-sighted men of sound mind? Where the dexterity of the lawyers, eager to discover a flaw? The madman’s cunning had overreached them all.

‘I had money. How I was courted! I spent it profusely. How I was praised! How those three proud, overbearing brothers humbled themselves before me! The old, white-headed father, too—such deference—such respect—such devoted friendship—he worshipped me! The old man had a daughter, and the young men a sister; and all the five were poor. I was rich; and when I married the girl, I saw a smile of triumph play upon the faces of her needy relatives, as they thought of their well-planned scheme, and their fine prize. It was for me to smile. To smile! To laugh outright, and tear my hair, and roll upon the ground with shrieks of merriment. They little thought they had married her to a madman.

‘Stay. If they had known it, would they have saved her? A sister’s happiness against her husband’s gold. The lightest feather I blow into the air, against the gay chain that ornaments my body!

‘In one thing I was deceived with all my cunning. If I had not been mad- -for though we madmen are sharp-witted enough, we get bewildered sometimes—I should have known that the girl would rather have been placed, stiff and cold in a dull leaden coffin, than borne an envied bride to my rich, glittering house. I should have known that her heart was with the dark-eyed boy whose name I once heard her breathe in her troubled sleep; and that she had been sacrificed to me, to relieve the poverty of the old, white-headed man and the haughty brothers.

‘I don’t remember forms or faces now, but I know the girl was beautiful. I know she was; for in the bright moonlight nights, when I start up from my sleep, and all is quiet about me, I see, standing still and motionless in one corner of this cell, a slight and wasted figure with long black hair, which, streaming down her back, stirs with no earthly wind, and eyes that fix their gaze on me, and never wink or close. Hush! the blood chills at my heart as I write it down—that form is her’s; the face is very pale, and the eyes are glassy bright; but I know them well. That figure never moves; it never frowns and mouths as others do, that fill this place sometimes; but it is much more dreadful to me, even than the spirits that tempted me many years ago—it comes fresh from the grave; and is so very death-like.

‘For nearly a year I saw that face grow paler; for nearly a year I saw the tears steal down the mournful cheeks, and never knew the cause. I found it out at last though. They could not keep it from me long. She had never liked me; I had never thought she did: she despised my wealth, and hated the splendour in which she lived; but I had not expected that. She loved another. This I had never thought of. Strange feelings came over me, and thoughts, forced upon me by some secret power, whirled round and round my brain. I did not hate her, though I hated the boy she still wept for. I pitied—yes, I pitied—the wretched life to which her cold and selfish relations had doomed her. I knew that she could not live long; but the thought that before her death she might give birth to some ill-fated being, destined to hand down madness to its offspring, determined me. I resolved to kill her.

‘For many weeks I thought of poison, and then of drowning, and then of fire. A fine sight, the grand house in flames, and the madman’s wife smouldering away to cinders. Think of the jest of a large reward, too, and of some sane man swinging in the wind for a deed he never did, and all through a madman’s cunning! I thought often of this, but I gave it up at last. Oh! the pleasure of stropping the razor day after day, feeling the sharp edge, and thinking of the gash one stroke of its thin, bright edge would make!

“Lo facevo da anni, molti, molti anni. A volte le notti qui sono lunghe, molto lunghe; ma niente in confronto alle notti insonni e ai terribili >sogni che avevo allora. Mi vengono i brividi solo a ricordarli. Grandi ombre scure, con volti astuti e beffardi, si nascondevano negli angoli della stanza. Di notte si avvicinavano al mio letto, tentandomi di portarmi alla >pazzia. Mi sussurravano che il pavimento della vecchia >casa in cui mio padre era morto fosse macchiato del suo stesso >sangue, versato con le sue stesse mani, nella furia della >pazzia. Mi tappavo le orecchie con le dita, ma quelle voci continuavano a rimbombarmi nella testa. Dicevano che, in una generazione precedente la sua, quella pazzia già esisteva. Ma che suo nonno aveva dovuto vivere per anni con le mani legate al suolo, per impedirsi di distruggersi. Sapevo che dicevano la verità. Lo sapevo bene. L’avevo scoperto anni prima. Anche se avevano cercato di tenermelo nascosto. Ah! Ah. Ero troppo astuto per loro. Per quanto mi considerassero pazzo, ”

“Finalmente mi colpì. E mi chiesi come avessi mai potuto temerlo. Ora potevo uscire nel mondo e ridere, scherzare con gli altri come loro. Sapevo di essere pazzo, ma loro nemmeno lo sospettavano. Quanto mi abbracciavo felice, pensando al bel trucco che stavo giocando loro. Dopo tutte quelle loro occhiate maliziose e insinuanti. In realtà non ero pazzo: temevo soltanto di diventarlo un giorno! E ridevo di gioia quando ero solo, pensando a quanto bene avessi tenuto il mio segreto. E a come i miei “amici” mi avrebbero abbandonato subito, se avessero conosciuto la verità. Avrei potuto gridare di estasi quando pranzavo solo con qualche individuo pericoloso. Pensando a quanto impallidisse e scappasse in fretta, se avesse saputo che il mio “caro amico” che gli sedeva accanto, affilando un coltello tagliente e scintillante, era in realtà un pazzo, con tutta la forza, e metà della volontà necessarie per pugnalargli il cuore. Oh. Che vita divertente!”

Le ricchezze divennero mie, la fortuna affluì verso di me, e mi abbandonai ai piaceri, mille volte intensificati dal sapere che il mio segreto era ben custodito. Ereditai un patrimonio. La legge stessa, con i suoi occhi acuti, era stata ingannata e aveva consegnato migliaia di sterline in dispute nelle mani di un pazzo. Dov’era l’intelligenza degli uomini saggi e perspicaci? Dove la destrezza degli avvocati, sempre pronti a individuare eventuali errori? L’astuzia di quel pazzo aveva superato tutti loro.

Avevo denaro. Quanto mi corteggiavano! Lo spendevo generosamente. Quanto mi lodavano! Come quei tre fratelli orgogliosi e prepotenti si umiliarono davanti a me. Anche il vecchio padre, con la testa bianca. Tanta deferenza, tanto rispetto. Un’amicizia così devota. Mi adorava! Il vecchio aveva una figlia, i giovani una sorella; e tutti e cinque erano poveri. Io ero ricco. E quando sposai quella ragazza, vidi un sorriso di trionfo apparire sui volti dei suoi parenti poveri. Pensavano al loro piano ben congegnato. Al loro “premio”. Doveva essere io a sorridere. A ridere apertamente. A strapparmi i capelli. A rotolarmi per terra urlando di gioia. Non immaginavano nemmeno che l’avessero data in sposa a un pazzo.

“Resta. Se lo avessero saputo, l’avrebbero salvata? La felicità di una sorella contro l’oro di suo marito. Il peso più leggero che possa sollevare in aria, contro la splendida catena che orna il mio corpo!”

“In una cosa sono stato ingannato con tutta la mia astuzia. Se solo non fossi stato pazzo – perché anche se noi pazzi siamo abbastanza intelligenti, a volte ci perdiamo – avrei dovuto capire che quella ragazza avrebbe preferito essere messa, rigida e fredda, in un noioso feretro di piombo, piuttosto che essere portata come sposa invidiata nella mia ricca e lussuosa >casa. Avrei dovuto sapere che il suo cuore apparteneva al ragazzo dagli occhi scuri di cui una volta l’ho sentita parlare nei suoi sogni agitati; e che era stata sacrificata a me soltanto per alleviare la >poverza di quel vecchio dai capelli bianchi e dei suoi orgogliosi fratelli.”

“Ora non ricordo più forme né volti, ma so che quella ragazza era bella. So che lo era; perché nelle notti di luna splendente, quando mi sveglio dal mio sonno e tutto intorno a me è silenzio, vedo, fermo in un angolo di questa cella, una figura esile e smagrita con lunghi capelli neri che le scendono lungo la schiena. Capelli che non si muovono nemmeno al soffio del vento. E occhi che fissano i miei senza battere ciglio né chiudersi mai. Silenzio! Il sangue mi si gela nel cuore mentre lo scrivo. Quella figura è la sua. Il viso è molto pallido, gli occhi brillano come vetro. Ma la riconosco bene. Quella figura non si muove mai; non aggrotta la fronte né pronuncia parole come fanno altre creature che a volte popolano questo posto. Per me, però, è ancora più spaventosa di quegli spiriti che mi tentarono tanti anni fa. Viene direttamente dalla tomba. E assomiglia così tanto alla morte, ”

“Per quasi un anno vidi quel viso diventare sempre più pallido; per quasi un anno vidi le lacrime scorrere lungo quelle guance tristi, senza mai conoscere la causa. Alla fine ho scoperto la verità: non sono riusciti a tenermela nascosta a lungo. Lei non mi aveva mai voluto bene; io non l’avevo mai pensato. Disprezzava la mia ricchezza e odiava lo splendore in cui viveva. Ma non me l’aspettavo. Amava un altro. Questo non l’avevo mai immaginato. Sentimenti strani mi invasero; pensieri, imposti da qualche forza segreta, vorticavano nella mia mente. Non la odiavo. Anzi, provavo compassione per quella vita miserabile a cui le sue relazioni fredde e egoiste l’avevano condannata. Sapevo che non avrebbe vissuto a lungo. Ma il pensiero che, prima di morire, potesse dare alla luce un essere sfortunato, destinato a trasmettere la pazzia alle sue generazioni, mi spinse a decidere. Decisi di ucciderla.”

“Per molte settimane ho pensato al veleno, poi all’annegamento, e infine al fuoco. Che spettacolo meraviglioso: la grande casa in fiamme, e la moglie di quel pazzo che bruciava lentamente fino a diventare cenere. Pensai anche alla possibilità di ottenere una ricompensa enorme, e a un uomo sano che venisse impiccato per un crimine che non aveva mai commesso. Tutto questo, grazie all’ingegnosità di un pazzo! Ci ho pensato spesso, ma alla fine ho rinunciato. Oh, che piacere calpestare quella lama affilata giorno dopo giorno, sentire il suo filo tagliente, e immaginare la ferita che una sola passata potrebbe infliggere!”

‘At last the old spirits who had been with me so often before whispered in my ear that the time was come, and thrust the open razor into my hand. I grasped it firmly, rose softly from the bed, and leaned over my sleeping wife. Her face was buried in her hands. I withdrew them softly, and they fell listlessly on her bosom. She had been weeping; for the traces of the tears were still wet upon her cheek. Her face was calm and placid; and even as I looked upon it, a tranquil smile lighted up her pale features. I laid my hand softly on her shoulder. She started—it was only a passing dream. I leaned forward again. She screamed, and woke.

‘One motion of my hand, and she would never again have uttered cry or sound. But I was startled, and drew back. Her eyes were fixed on mine. I knew not how it was, but they cowed and frightened me; and I quailed beneath them. She rose from the bed, still gazing fixedly and steadily on me. I trembled; the razor was in my hand, but I could not move. She made towards the door. As she neared it, she turned, and withdrew her eyes from my face. The spell was broken. I bounded forward, and clutched her by the arm. Uttering shriek upon shriek, she sank upon the ground.

‘Now I could have killed her without a struggle; but the house was alarmed. I heard the tread of footsteps on the stairs. I replaced the razor in its usual drawer, unfastened the door, and called loudly for assistance.

‘They came, and raised her, and placed her on the bed. She lay bereft of animation for hours; and when life, look, and speech returned, her senses had deserted her, and she raved wildly and furiously.

‘Doctors were called in—great men who rolled up to my door in easy carriages, with fine horses and gaudy servants. They were at her bedside for weeks. They had a great meeting and consulted together in low and solemn voices in another room. One, the cleverest and most celebrated among them, took me aside, and bidding me prepare for the worst, told me—me, the madman!—that my wife was mad. He stood close beside me at an open window, his eyes looking in my face, and his hand laid upon my arm. With one effort, I could have hurled him into the street beneath. It would have been rare sport to have done it; but my secret was at stake, and I let him go. A few days after, they told me I must place her under some restraint: I must provide a keeper for her. I! I went into the open fields where none could hear me, and laughed till the air resounded with my shouts!

‘She died next day. The white-headed old man followed her to the grave, and the proud brothers dropped a tear over the insensible corpse of her whose sufferings they had regarded in her lifetime with muscles of iron. All this was food for my secret mirth, and I laughed behind the white handkerchief which I held up to my face, as we rode home, till the tears came into my eyes.

‘But though I had carried my object and killed her, I was restless and disturbed, and I felt that before long my secret must be known. I could not hide the wild mirth and joy which boiled within me, and made me when I was alone, at home, jump up and beat my hands together, and dance round and round, and roar aloud. When I went out, and saw the busy crowds hurrying about the streets; or to the theatre, and heard the sound of music, and beheld the people dancing, I felt such glee, that I could have rushed among them, and torn them to pieces limb from limb, and howled in transport. But I ground my teeth, and struck my feet upon the floor, and drove my sharp nails into my hands. I kept it down; and no one knew I was a madman yet.

‘I remember—though it’s one of the last things I can remember: for now I mix up realities with my dreams, and having so much to do, and being always hurried here, have no time to separate the two, from some strange confusion in which they get involved—I remember how I let it out at last. Ha! ha! I think I see their frightened looks now, and feel the ease with which I flung them from me, and dashed my clenched fist into their white faces, and then flew like the wind, and left them screaming and shouting far behind. The strength of a giant comes upon me when I think of it. There—see how this iron bar bends beneath my furious wrench. I could snap it like a twig, only there are long galleries here with many doors—I don’t think I could find my way along them; and even if I could, I know there are iron gates below which they keep locked and barred. They know what a clever madman I have been, and they are proud to have me here, to show.

‘Let me see: yes, I had been out. It was late at night when I reached home, and found the proudest of the three proud brothers waiting to see me—urgent business he said: I recollect it well. I hated that man with all a madman’s hate. Many and many a time had my fingers longed to tear him. They told me he was there. I ran swiftly upstairs. He had a word to say to me. I dismissed the servants. It was late, and we were alone together—for the first time.

‘I kept my eyes carefully from him at first, for I knew what he little thought—and I gloried in the knowledge—that the light of madness gleamed from them like fire. We sat in silence for a few minutes. He spoke at last. My recent dissipation, and strange remarks, made so soon after his sister’s death, were an insult to her memory. Coupling together many circumstances which had at first escaped his observation, he thought I had not treated her well. He wished to know whether he was right in inferring that I meant to cast a reproach upon her memory, and a disrespect upon her family. It was due to the uniform he wore, to demand this explanation.

‘This man had a commission in the army—a commission, purchased with my money, and his sister’s misery! This was the man who had been foremost in the plot to ensnare me, and grasp my wealth. This was the man who had been the main instrument in forcing his sister to wed me; well knowing that her heart was given to that puling boy. Due to his uniform! The livery of his degradation! I turned my eyes upon him—I could not help it—but I spoke not a word.

‘Finalmente, gli antichi spiriti che spesso erano stati con me sussurrarono all’orecchio che il momento era arrivato, e mi misero in mano la lametta aperta. La strinsi forte, presi delicatamente Oliver dal letto e mi chinai sulla mia moglie addormentata. Il suo viso era nascosto tra le mani; le sollevai dolcemente, e queste ricaddero inerte sul suo petto. Aveva pianto, le tracce delle lacrime erano ancora umide sulle sue guance. Il suo viso era calmo e sereno; mentre la guardavo, un sorriso tranquillo apparve sui suoi lineamenti pallidi. Posai dolcemente una mano sulla sua spalla. Lei sussultò: era solo un sogno passeggero. Mi chinai di nuovo. Lei gridò e si svegliò.’

“Un solo movimento della mia mano, e lei non avrebbe mai più emesso un grido o un suono. Ma rimasi spaventato e indietreggiai. I suoi occhi erano fissi sui miei; non so come, ma mi intimidirono e mi spaventarono a morte. Si alzò dal letto, continuando a guardarmi con insistenza. Tremavo; avevo un rasoio in mano, ma non riuscivo a muovermi. Si diresse verso la porta. Mentre si avvicinava, distolse lo sguardo da me. L’incantesimo era rotto. Corsi verso di lei e le afferrai il braccio. Urlando disperatamente, cadde a terra, ”

“Ora avrei potuto ucciderla senza alcuna difficoltà; ma la casa era allarmata. Sentii dei passi sulle scale. Rimisi il rasoio nel suo solito cassetto, aprii la porta e chiamai ad alta voce per chiedere aiuto.”

“Arrivarono, la sollevarono e la adagiarono sul letto. Rimase priva di vita per ore; e quando la vita, il respiro e la parola tornarono, i suoi sensi l’avevano abbandonata. E iniziò a delirare follemente.”

Chiamarono i medici, grandi uomini che arrivarono alla mia porta su eleganti carrozze, con bei cavalli e servitori sfarzosi. Stettero al suo capezzale per settimane. Tennero molte riunioni e discussero tra loro a voce bassa e solenne in un’altra stanza. Uno di loro, il più intelligente e celebre, mi prese da parte e, dopo avermi detto di prepararmi al peggio, mi rivelò, a me, il pazzo!, che mia moglie era pazza. Stava accanto a me davanti a una finestra aperta, i suoi occhi fissi nei miei, la sua mano posata sul mio braccio. Con un solo sforzo avrei potuto scaraventarlo giù per strada. Sarebbe stato uno spettacolo interessante. Ma il mio segreto era in gioco, quindi lo lasciai andare. Pochi giorni dopo mi dissero che dovevo metterla sotto sorveglianza. Dovevo trovare qualcuno che si prendesse cura di lei. Io! Andai nei campi aperti, dove nessuno poteva sentirmi, e risi fino a quando l’aria non risuonò dei miei gridi!

“Morì il giorno dopo. L’uomo anziano dai capelli bianchi la seguì fino alla >tomba, e i fratelli orgogliosi versarono una lacrima sul suo corpo inanimato, di fronte alle sofferenze che avevano ignorato durante la sua vita. Tutto questo divenne motivo della mia segreta gioia; risi dietro il fazzoletto bianco che mi tenevo davanti al viso mentre tornavamo a >casa, finché le lacrime non iniziarono a scorrermi sulle guance.”

‘Ma anche se avevo ottenuto ciò che volevo e l’avevo uccisa, ero inquieto e turbato; sentivo che molto presto il mio segreto sarebbe stato scoperto. Non riuscivo a nascondere la folle gioia che ribolliva dentro di me: quando ero solo, a casa, mi alzavo di scatto, battevo le mani insieme, danzavo senza sosta e gridavo ad alta voce. Quando uscivo e vedevo le folle affollate che si muovevano freneticamente per le strade, o andavo al teatro e sentivo il suono della musica, vedendo la gente che ballava, provavo una tale felicità che avrei voluto gettarmi in mezzo a loro, distruggerli tutti, uno dopo l’altro. Ma stringevo i denti, battevo i piedi per terra e conficcavo le mie unghie affilate nelle mani. Riuscivo a trattenere quelle emozioni. E ancora nessuno sapeva che ero pazzo.’

“Ricordo, anche se è una delle ultime cose che riesco a ricordare: al momento attuale mescolo le realtà con i miei >sogni. Con così tante cose da fare e sempre di fretta, non ho il tempo per distinguerle. In una sorta di strana confusione, alla fine ho lasciato che tutto accadesse. Ha! ha! Ora credo di rivedere i loro sguardi spaventati. E ricordo con quanta facilità li ho scacciati da me, colpendoli con il pugno. Poi sono fuggito come il vento, lasciandoli urlare e gridare alle mie spalle. Quando ci penso, mi assale una forza incredibile. Ecco, vedi come questa sbarra di ferro si piega sotto la mia stretta furiosa? Potrei spezzarla come un rametto. Ma qui ci sono lunghi corridoi pieni di porte. Non credo di riuscire a trovarne l’uscita. E anche se ci riuscissi, so che ci sono porte di ferro chiuse e sbarrate. Sanno quanto sia stato astuto questo pazzo. E sono orgogliosi di avermi qui, per potermelo mostrare, ”

“Lasciami pensare. Sì, ero uscito. Era tardi di notte quando arrivai a >casa, e trovai il più orgoglioso dei tre fratelli ad aspettarmi. Diceva che si trattava di una questione urgente. Me ne ricordo benissimo. Odiavo quell’uomo con tutta l’odio di un pazzo. Molte volte i miei denti hanno desiderato strappargli la gola. Mi dissero che era lì. Corsi rapidamente al piano di sopra. Aveva qualcosa da dirmi. Licenziai i servitori. Era tardi, e eravamo soltanto noi due. Per la prima volta.”

All’inizio tenevo attentamente gli occhi lontani da lui, perché sapevo cosa pensasse. E ne ero compiaciuta: il bagliore della pazzia brillava nei suoi occhi come fuoco. Restammo in silenzio per alcuni minuti. Alla fine parlò. Il mio comportamento recente, e le mie strane dichiarazioni, fatte così poco dopo la morte di sua sorella, rappresentavano un insulto alla sua memoria. Insieme a molte altre circostanze che inizialmente gli erano sfuggite, concluse che non l’avevo trattata con rispetto. Voleva sapere se avesse ragione nel pensare che intendevo diffamare la sua memoria e mancare di rispetto alla sua famiglia. Era proprio il suo abito uniforme a rendere necessaria questa spiegazione.

“Quest’uomo aveva una carica nell’esercito, una carica acquistata con i miei soldi, e con la sofferenza di sua sorella! Era lui il principale responsabile del complotto per intrappolarmi e impossessarsi della mia ricchezza. Era lui l’artefice principale che costrinse sua sorella a sposarmi, pur sapendo benissimo che il suo cuore apparteneva a quel ragazzo. Solo a causa della sua uniforme, di quell’uniforme simbolo della sua degradazione! Lo guardai, non potei fare altrimenti, ma non dissi una parola.”

‘I saw the sudden change that came upon him beneath my gaze. He was a bold man, but the colour faded from his face, and he drew back his chair. I dragged mine nearer to him; and I laughed—I was very merry then—I saw him shudder. I felt the madness rising within me. He was afraid of me.

‘“You were very fond of your sister when she was alive,” I said.— “Very.”

‘He looked uneasily round him, and I saw his hand grasp the back of his chair; but he said nothing.

‘“You villain,” said I, “I found you out: I discovered your hellish plots against me; I know her heart was fixed on some one else before you compelled her to marry me. I know it—I know it.”

‘He jumped suddenly from his chair, brandished it aloft, and bid me stand back—for I took care to be getting closer to him all the time I spoke.

‘I screamed rather than talked, for I felt tumultuous passions eddying through my veins, and the old spirits whispering and taunting me to tear his heart out.

‘“Damn you,” said I, starting up, and rushing upon him; “I killed her. I am a madman. Down with you. Blood, blood! I will have it!”

‘I turned aside with one blow the chair he hurled at me in his terror, and closed with him; and with a heavy crash we rolled upon the floor together.

‘It was a fine struggle that; for he was a tall, strong man, fighting for his life; and I, a powerful madman, thirsting to destroy him. I knew no strength could equal mine, and I was right. Right again, though a madman! His struggles grew fainter. I knelt upon his chest, and clasped his brawny throat firmly with both hands. His face grew purple; his eyes were starting from his head, and with protruded tongue, he seemed to mock me. I squeezed the tighter.

‘The door was suddenly burst open with a loud noise, and a crowd of people rushed forward, crying aloud to each other to secure the madman.

‘My secret was out; and my only struggle now was for liberty and freedom. I gained my feet before a hand was on me, threw myself among my assailants, and cleared my way with my strong arm, as if I bore a hatchet in my hand, and hewed them down before me. I gained the door, dropped over the banisters, and in an instant was in the street.

‘Straight and swift I ran, and no one dared to stop me. I heard the noise of the feet behind, and redoubled my speed. It grew fainter and fainter in the distance, and at length died away altogether; but on I bounded, through marsh and rivulet, over fence and wall, with a wild shout which was taken up by the strange beings that flocked around me on every side, and swelled the sound, till it pierced the air. I was borne upon the arms of demons who swept along upon the wind, and bore down bank and hedge before them, and spun me round and round with a rustle and a speed that made my head swim, until at last they threw me from them with a violent shock, and I fell heavily upon the earth. When I woke I found myself here—here in this gray cell, where the sunlight seldom comes, and the moon steals in, in rays which only serve to show the dark shadows about me, and that silent figure in its old corner. When I lie awake, I can sometimes hear strange shrieks and cries from distant parts of this large place. What they are, I know not; but they neither come from that pale form, nor does it regard them. For from the first shades of dusk till the earliest light of morning, it still stands motionless in the same place, listening to the music of my iron chain, and watching my gambols on my straw bed.’

At the end of the manuscript was written, in another hand, this note:—

[The unhappy man whose ravings are recorded above, was a melancholy instance of the baneful results of energies misdirected in early life, and excesses prolonged until their consequences could never be repaired. The thoughtless riot, dissipation, and debauchery of his younger days produced fever and delirium. The first effects of the latter was the strange delusion, founded upon a well-known medical theory, strongly contended for by some, and as strongly contested by others, that an hereditary madness existed in his family. This produced a settled gloom, which in time developed a morbid insanity, and finally terminated in raving madness. There is every reason to believe that the events he detailed, though distorted in the description by his diseased imagination, really happened. It is only matter of wonder to those who were acquainted with the vices of his early career, that his passions, when no longer controlled by reason, did not lead him to the commission of still more frightful deeds.]

Mr. Pickwick’s candle was just expiring in the socket, as he concluded the perusal of the old clergyman’s manuscript; and when the light went suddenly out, without any previous flicker by way of warning, it communicated a very considerable start to his excited frame. Hastily throwing off such articles of clothing as he had put on when he rose from his uneasy bed, and casting a fearful glance around, he once more scrambled hastily between the sheets, and soon fell fast asleep.

The sun was shining brilliantly into his chamber, when he awoke, and the morning was far advanced. The gloom which had oppressed him on the previous night had disappeared with the dark shadows which shrouded the landscape, and his thoughts and feelings were as light and gay as the morning itself. After a hearty breakfast, the four gentlemen sallied forth to walk to Gravesend, followed by a man bearing the stone in its deal box. They reached the town about one o’clock (their luggage they had directed to be forwarded to the city, from Rochester), and being fortunate enough to secure places on the outside of a coach, arrived in London in sound health and spirits, on that same afternoon.

The next three or four days were occupied with the preparations which were necessary for their journey to the borough of Eatanswill. As any references to that most important undertaking demands a separate chapter, we may devote the few lines which remain at the close of this, to narrate, with great brevity, the history of the antiquarian discovery.

“Vidi il cambiamento improvviso che avvenne in lui sotto il mio sguardo. Era un uomo coraggioso, ma il colore gli svanì dal viso e si allontanò con la sedia. Avvicinai la mia sedia a lui; e risi. Ero molto felice in quel momento. Lo vidi tremare. Sentii la pazzia crescere dentro di me. Aveva paura di me.”

“Eri molto affezionato a tua sorella quando era viva, vero?” dissi.
“Molto.”

“Guardò intorno a sé con aria nervosa, e vidi la sua mano afferrare il dorso della sedia; ma non disse nulla.”

“Tu, malvagio,” dissi, “ti ho scoperto: ho individuato i tuoi piani infernali contro di me; so che il suo cuore apparteneva a qualcun altro prima che tu la costringessi a sposarmi. Lo so, lo so.”

“Si alzò improvvisamente dalla sedia, la sollevò in alto e mi ordinò di allontanarmi, perché, mentre parlavo, facevo attenzione ad avvicinarmi sempre di più a lui.”

“Gridai invece di parlare, perché sentivo passioni tumultuose scorrermi nelle vene, e gli antichi spiriti sussurravano e mi provocavano a strappargli il cuore.”

“Maledetto,” dissi alzandomi in piedi e precipitandomi su di lui; “l’ho uccisa. Sono pazzo. A terra, tu. Sangue. Voglio il suo sangue!”

Con un solo colpo deviai la sedia che mi aveva scagliato addosso, preso dal terrore, e poi lo affrontai direttamente; con un forte tonfo cademmo entrambi a terra.

“È stata una lotta intensa. Lui era un uomo alto e forte che lottava per la propria vita; io, invece, un pazzo potente, desideroso di distruggerlo. Sapevo che nessuna forza avrebbe potuto eguagliare la mia. E avevo ragione. Ancora una volta, anche se ero un pazzo! I suoi sforzi diventavano sempre più deboli. Mi inginocchiai sul suo petto e strinsi con entrambe le mani la sua gola robusta. Il suo viso divenne viola; gli occhi sembravano uscire dalle orbite. Con la lingua fuori dalla bocca, pareva deridermi. Strinsi ancora più forte.”

La porta si aprì improvvisamente con un forte rumore, e una folla di persone si precipitò dentro, gridando l’una all’altra per catturare quel pazzo.

“Il mio segreto era stato rivelato; ora la mia unica lotta era per la libertà e l’indipendenza. Riuscii a liberarmi prima che qualcuno potesse afferrarmi, mi gettai tra i miei assalitori e mi aprii la strada con il mio braccio forte, come se avessi un’ascia in mano e li stessi abbattendo uno dopo l’altro. Raggiunsi la porta, scesi le scale a rotoli e in un istante fui in strada.”

‘Correvo dritto e veloce, e nessuno osava fermarmi. Sentivo il rumore dei passi alle mie spalle, quindi raddoppiai la mia velocità. Il suono si faceva sempre più debole in lontananza, fino a scomparire del tutto; ma io continuavo a correre, attraverso paludi e ruscelli, oltre recinzioni e muri, emettendo grida selvagge che venivano riprese da quelle strane creature che mi circondavano su tutti i lati, amplificandole fino a farle risuonare nell’aria. Venivo portato sulle braccia di demoni che volavano al vento, spazzando via ogni ostacolo davanti a loro e facendomi girare vorticosamente con una velocità tale da farmi perdere l’equilibrio. Alla fine mi gettarono via con violenza, e caddi pesantemente a terra. Quando ripresi i sensi, mi trovai qui: in questa cella grigia, dove raramente penetra la luce del sole e solo i raggi della luna illuminano le ombre intorno a me. E quella figura silenziosa, nascosta nell’angolo più remoto. Quando resto sveglio, a volte sento strani urla e grida provenire da parti lontane di questo luogo enorme. Non so cosa siano. Ma non provengono da quella forma pallida, né lei sembra darvi attenzione. Perché, dalle prime ombre del crepuscolo fino alle prime luci dell’alba, rimane immobile nello stesso posto, ascoltando il suono delle mie catene di ferro e osservando i miei “giocchi” sul mio letto di paglia, ’

Alla fine del manoscritto era scritta, con un’altra grafia, questa nota:–

L’uomo infelice le cui follie sono descritte sopra rappresentava un esempio tragico dei danni causati da energie mal indirizzate nella prima parte della vita, e da eccessi protratti fino a quando le loro conseguenze non divennero irreparabili. Le dissolutezze, i vizi e la depravazione dei suoi primi anni provocarono febbre e delirio; il primo effetto di quest’ultimo fu un’illusione strana, basata su una teoria medica ben conosciuta – fortemente sostenuta da alcuni e altrettanto contestata da altri – secondo cui nella sua famiglia esistesse una follia ereditaria. Questa convinzione generò in lui una cupa malinconia che, col tempo, si trasformò in un’insania patologica, fino a culminare in deliri totali. Ci sono tutte le ragioni per credere che gli eventi da lui descritti, sebbene distorti dalla sua mente malata, siano realmente accaduti; è solo sorprendente, per coloro che conoscevano i suoi vizi giovanili, che le sue passioni, una volta sfuggite al controllo della ragione, non lo abbiano portato a compiere atti ancora più terribili.

La candela del signor Pickwick stava appena per spegnersi nel portacandele, mentre lui terminava la lettura del manoscritto dell’anziano prete; e quando la luce si spense improvvisamente, senza alcun segnale premonitore, questo fatto causò un notevole sobbalzo in lui. Gettando via in fretta gli indumenti che aveva indossato alzandosi dal suo letto scomodo, e gettando intorno a sé uno sguardo spaventato, si infilò di nuovo rapidamente tra le lenzuola e presto si addormentò profondamente.

Il sole splendeva intensamente nella sua stanza quando si svegliò; la mattina era ormai avanzata. L’oscurità che lo aveva oppresso la notte precedente era scomparsa insieme alle ombre scure che avvolgevano il paesaggio, e i suoi pensieri e sentimenti erano altrettanto leggeri e gioiosi quanto la stessa mattina. Dopo una colazione sostanziosa, i quattro gentiluomini uscirono per recarsi a Gravesend, seguiti da un uomo che portava la pietra nella sua scatola di trasporto. Arrivarono in città verso l’una (ore), poiché avevano fatto consegnare i loro bagagli in città, da Rochester; ebbero la fortuna di trovare posti sul retro di una carrozza e arrivarono a Londra quella stessa sera, in ottima salute e di buon umore.

I successivi tre o quattro giorni furono dedicati alle preparazioni necessarie per il loro Viaggio verso il distretto di Eatanswill. Poiché qualsiasi riferimento a questa impresa così importante richiede un capitolo a sé stante, possiamo dedicare le poche righe rimaste alla fine di questo capitolo a raccontare, in modo molto succinto, la Storia di questa scoperta archeologica.

It appears from the Transactions of the Club, then, that Mr. Pickwick lectured upon the discovery at a General Club Meeting, convened on the night succeeding their return, and entered into a variety of ingenious and erudite speculations on the meaning of the inscription. It also appears that a skilful artist executed a faithful delineation of the curiosity, which was engraven on stone, and presented to the Royal Antiquarian Society, and other learned bodies: that heart-burnings and jealousies without number were created by rival controversies which were penned upon the subject; and that Mr. Pickwick himself wrote a pamphlet, containing ninety-six pages of very small print, and twenty-seven different readings of the inscription: that three old gentlemen cut off their eldest sons with a shilling a-piece for presuming to doubt the antiquity of the fragment; and that one enthusiastic individual cut himself off prematurely, in despair at being unable to fathom its meaning: that Mr. Pickwick was elected an honorary member of seventeen native and foreign societies, for making the discovery: that none of the seventeen could make anything of it; but that all the seventeen agreed it was very extraordinary.

Mr. Blotton, indeed—and the name will be doomed to the undying contempt of those who cultivate the mysterious and the sublime—Mr. Blotton, we say, with the doubt and cavilling peculiar to vulgar minds, presumed to state a view of the case, as degrading as ridiculous. Mr. Blotton, with a mean desire to tarnish the lustre of the immortal name of Pickwick, actually undertook a journey to Cobham in person, and on his return, sarcastically observed in an oration at the club, that he had seen the man from whom the stone was purchased; that the man presumed the stone to be ancient, but solemnly denied the antiquity of the inscription— inasmuch as he represented it to have been rudely carved by himself in an idle mood, and to display letters intended to bear neither more or less than the simple construction of—‘BILL STUMPS, HIS MARK’; and that Mr. Stumps, being little in the habit of original composition, and more accustomed to be guided by the sound of words than by the strict rules of orthography, had omitted the concluding ‘L’ of his Christian name.

The Pickwick Club (as might have been expected from so enlightened an institution) received this statement with the contempt it deserved, expelled the presumptuous and ill-conditioned Blotton from the society, and voted Mr. Pickwick a pair of gold spectacles, in token of their confidence and approbation: in return for which, Mr. Pickwick caused a portrait of himself to be painted, and hung up in the club room.

Mr. Blotton was ejected but not conquered. He also wrote a pamphlet, addressed to the seventeen learned societies, native and foreign, containing a repetition of the statement he had already made, and rather more than half intimating his opinion that the seventeen learned societies were so many ‘humbugs.’ Hereupon, the virtuous indignation of the seventeen learned societies being roused, several fresh pamphlets appeared; the foreign learned societies corresponded with the native learned societies; the native learned societies translated the pamphlets of the foreign learned societies into English; the foreign learned societies translated the pamphlets of the native learned societies into all sorts of languages; and thus commenced that celebrated scientific discussion so well known to all men, as the Pickwick controversy.

But this base attempt to injure Mr. Pickwick recoiled upon the head of its calumnious author. The seventeen learned societies unanimously voted the presumptuous Blotton an ignorant meddler, and forthwith set to work upon more treatises than ever. And to this day the stone remains, an illegible monument of Mr. Pickwick’s greatness, and a lasting trophy to the littleness of his enemies.

Da quanto emerge dalle “Transactions of the Club”, il signor Pickwick tenne una conferenza su questa scoperta durante una riunione del club, convocata la notte successiva al loro ritorno, e avanzò varie ipotesi ingegnose ed erudite sul significato della iscrizione. Inoltre, un abile artista realizzò una rappresentazione fedele di questa curiosità incisa sulla pietra, che fu presentata alla Royal Antiquarian Society e ad altre istituzioni accademiche. Controversie intestine e gelosie innumerevoli scaturirono dalle diverse interpretazioni proposte sull’argomento; il signor Pickwick stesso scrisse un pamphlet di novantasei pagine, contenenti ventisette diverse letture dell’iscrizione. Tre anziani gentiluomini tagliarono i rapporti con i loro figli maggiori, offrendo loro una sterlina ciascuno per aver osato mettere in dubbio l’autenticità di quel frammento; un individuo appassionato, invece, si tolse la vita nel dispero di non riuscire a comprenderne il significato. Il signor Pickwick fu eletto membro onorario di diciassette società nazionali e straniere per questa scoperta; tuttavia, nessuna di queste società riuscì a darle un senso preciso, ma tutte concordarono sul fatto che fosse davvero straordinaria.

Signor Blotton, davvero: un nome destinato all’eterno disprezzo di coloro che coltivano ciò che è misterioso e sublime. Signor Blotton, con il dubbio e la petulanza tipici delle menti volgari, ha osato esprimere un punto di vista tanto degradante quanto ridicolo sulla questione. Con una meschina voglia di macchiare l’immortale nome di Pickwick, si è addirittura recato personalmente a Cobham; al suo ritorno, in un discorso al club, ha affermato di aver visto l’uomo da cui era stata acquistata la pietra. Quell’uomo sosteneva che la pietra fosse antica, ma negava categoricamente l’autenticità dell’iscrizione; secondo lui, essa era stata rudemente incisa da lui stesso in un momento di noia, e le lettere contenute avevano il semplice significato di “BILL STUMPS, HIS MARK”. Inoltre, poiché il signor Stumps non era abituato a comporre testi originali, ma preferiva seguire il suono delle parole piuttosto che rispettare le regole della ortografia, aveva omesso la lettera “L” finale del proprio nome cristiano.

Il Club Pickwick (come ci si poteva aspettare da un’istituzione così illuminata) accolse questa dichiarazione con il disprezzo che meritava, espulse dal club quel presuntuoso e malvagio individuo di Blotton e votò per regalare al signor Pickwick un paio di occhiali d’oro, in segno di fiducia e approvazione da parte loro. In cambio, il signor Pickwick fece dipingere un suo ritratto, che venne appeso nella sala del club.

Il signor Blotton fu cacciato via, ma non sconfitto. Scrisse anche un pamphlet, indirizzato alle diciassette accademie di studio, sia nazionali che straniere, nel quale ripeteva le stesse affermazioni fatte in precedenza e, per di più, esprimeva con chiarezza la sua opinione secondo cui quelle diciassette accademie fossero in realtà delle “frodi”. A questo punto, l’indignazione delle diciassette accademie fu suscitata; ne apparvero quindi diversi nuovi pamphlet. Le accademie straniere comunicarono con quelle nazionali; queste ultime tradussero i pamphlet stranieri in inglese; le accademie straniere, a loro volta, tradussero quelli delle accademie nazionali in ogni sorta di lingua. Così ebbe inizio quella celebre discussione scientifica, così ben conosciuta da tutti, ovvero la controversia legata al personaggio di Pickwick.

Ma questo tentativo maldestro di ferire il signor Pickwick si ritorse contro chi l’aveva ideato. Le diciassette accademie competenti votarono all’unanimità che quel presuntuoso Blotton fosse un ignorante ficcanaso, e subito dopo iniziarono a scrivere ancora più trattati del solito. E fino ad oggi, quella pietra rimane lì, come monumento illeggibile alla grandezza del signor Pickwick e come trofeo permanente della meschinità dei suoi nemici.

CHAPTER XII. DESCRIPTIVE OF A VERY IMPORTANT PROCEEDING ON THE PART OF MR. PICKWICK; NO LESS AN EPOCH IN HIS LIFE, THAN IN THIS HISTORY

Mr. Pickwick’s apartments in Goswell Street, although on a limited scale, were not only of a very neat and comfortable description, but peculiarly adapted for the residence of a man of his genius and observation. His sitting-room was the first-floor front, his bedroom the second-floor front; and thus, whether he were sitting at his desk in his parlour, or standing before the dressing-glass in his dormitory, he had an equal opportunity of contemplating human nature in all the numerous phases it exhibits, in that not more populous than popular thoroughfare. His landlady, Mrs. Bardell—the relict and sole executrix of a deceased custom-house officer—was a comely woman of bustling manners and agreeable appearance, with a natural genius for cooking, improved by study and long practice, into an exquisite talent. There were no children, no servants, no fowls. The only other inmates of the house were a large man and a small boy; the first a lodger, the second a production of Mrs. Bardell’s. The large man was always home precisely at ten o’clock at night, at which hour he regularly condensed himself into the limits of a dwarfish French bedstead in the back parlour; and the infantine sports and gymnastic exercises of Master Bardell were exclusively confined to the neighbouring pavements and gutters. Cleanliness and quiet reigned throughout the house; and in it Mr. Pickwick’s will was law.

To any one acquainted with these points of the domestic economy of the establishment, and conversant with the admirable regulation of Mr. Pickwick’s mind, his appearance and behaviour on the morning previous to that which had been fixed upon for the journey to Eatanswill would have been most mysterious and unaccountable. He paced the room to and fro with hurried steps, popped his head out of the window at intervals of about three minutes each, constantly referred to his watch, and exhibited many other manifestations of impatience very unusual with him. It was evident that something of great importance was in contemplation, but what that something was, not even Mrs. Bardell had been enabled to discover.

‘Mrs. Bardell,’ said Mr. Pickwick, at last, as that amiable female approached the termination of a prolonged dusting of the apartment.

‘Sir,’ said Mrs. Bardell.

‘Your little boy is a very long time gone.’

‘Why it’s a good long way to the Borough, sir,’ remonstrated Mrs. Bardell.

‘Ah,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘very true; so it is.’ Mr. Pickwick relapsed into silence, and Mrs. Bardell resumed her dusting.

‘Mrs. Bardell,’ said Mr. Pickwick, at the expiration of a few minutes.

‘Sir,’ said Mrs. Bardell again.

‘Do you think it a much greater expense to keep two people, than to keep one?’

‘La, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Mrs. Bardell, colouring up to the very border of her cap, as she fancied she observed a species of matrimonial twinkle in the eyes of her lodger; ‘La, Mr. Pickwick, what a question!’

‘Well, but do you?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘That depends,’ said Mrs. Bardell, approaching the duster very near to Mr. Pickwick’s elbow which was planted on the table. ‘That depends a good deal upon the person, you know, Mr. Pickwick; and whether it’s a saving and careful person, sir.’

‘That’s very true,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘but the person I have in my eye (here he looked very hard at Mrs. Bardell) I think possesses these qualities; and has, moreover, a considerable knowledge of the world, and a great deal of sharpness, Mrs. Bardell, which may be of material use to me.’

‘La, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Mrs. Bardell, the crimson rising to her cap- border again.

‘I do,’ said Mr. Pickwick, growing energetic, as was his wont in speaking of a subject which interested him—‘I do, indeed; and to tell you the truth, Mrs. Bardell, I have made up my mind.’

‘Dear me, sir,’ exclaimed Mrs. Bardell.

‘You’ll think it very strange now,’ said the amiable Mr. Pickwick, with a good-humoured glance at his companion, ‘that I never consulted you about this matter, and never even mentioned it, till I sent your little boy out this morning—eh?’

Mrs. Bardell could only reply by a look. She had long worshipped Mr. Pickwick at a distance, but here she was, all at once, raised to a pinnacle to which her wildest and most extravagant hopes had never dared to aspire. Mr. Pickwick was going to propose—a deliberate plan, too— sent her little boy to the Borough, to get him out of the way—how thoughtful—how considerate!

‘Well,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘what do you think?’

‘Oh, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Mrs. Bardell, trembling with agitation, ‘you’re very kind, sir.’

‘It’ll save you a good deal of trouble, won’t it?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Oh, I never thought anything of the trouble, sir,’ replied Mrs. Bardell; ‘and, of course, I should take more trouble to please you then, than ever; but it is so kind of you, Mr. Pickwick, to have so much consideration for my loneliness.’

‘Ah, to be sure,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘I never thought of that. When I am in town, you’ll always have somebody to sit with you. To be sure, so you will.’

‘I am sure I ought to be a very happy woman,’ said Mrs. Bardell.

‘And your little boy—’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Bless his heart!’ interposed Mrs. Bardell, with a maternal sob.

‘He, too, will have a companion,’ resumed Mr. Pickwick, ‘a lively one, who’ll teach him, I’ll be bound, more tricks in a week than he would ever learn in a year.’ And Mr. Pickwick smiled placidly.

‘Oh, you dear—’ said Mrs. Bardell.

Mr. Pickwick started.

‘Oh, you kind, good, playful dear,’ said Mrs. Bardell; and without more ado, she rose from her chair, and flung her arms round Mr. Pickwick’s neck, with a cataract of tears and a chorus of sobs.

CAPITOLO XII. Descrizione di un procedimento molto importante intrapreso dal signor Pickwick; un evento che rappresenta un’epoca decisiva nella sua vita, così come in questa storia.

Gli appartamenti di Mr. Pickwick in Goswell Street, sebbene di dimensioni limitate, non erano solo molto ordinati e confortevoli, ma anche particolarmente adatti alla residenza di un uomo del suo genio e della sua attenzione per i dettagli. La sala da pranzo si trovava al piano terra, mentre la camera da letto al secondo piano; in questo modo, che fosse seduto alla scrivania nel soggiorno o in piedi davanti allo specchio nella sua stanza da letto, aveva sempre l’opportunità di osservare la >natura umana nelle sue molteplici manifestazioni, proprio in quel luogo così frequentato dalle persone. La sua padrona di casa, Mrs. Bardell – vedova e unica esecutrice testamentaria di un defunto funzionario delle tasse – era una donna piacente, dal modo di fare vivace e dall’aspetto gradevole; possedeva un talento naturale per la cucina, che grazie allo studio e alla lunga pratica si era trasformato in un’arte raffinata. Non c’erano bambini, né domestici, né animali domestici. Gli altri inquilini dell’appartamento erano un uomo di statura alta e un bambino piccolo: il primo era un ospite, il secondo figlio di Mrs. Bardell. L’uomo alto rientrava sempre esattamente alle dieci di sera, momento in cui si ritirava nella sua minuscola brandina nel soggiorno posteriore; le attività ludiche e gli esercizi fisici del piccolo Bardell, invece, si svolgevano esclusivamente nei vicini marciapiedi e nelle grondaie. Nell’appartamento regnavano pulizia e silenzio; lì la volontà di Mr. Pickwick era legge suprema.

Chiunque fosse a conoscenza di questi aspetti dell’economia domestica di quell’istituto, e avesse familiarità con l’incredibile organizzazione mentale del signor Pickwick, avrebbe trovato estremamente misterioso e inspiegabile il suo comportamento la mattina precedente al viaggio previsto per Eatanswill. Camminava avanti e indietro nella stanza con passi affrettati, ogni tre minuti circa sporgeva la testa dalla finestra, controllava continuamente l’orologio e mostrava in generale molte altre manifestazioni di impazienza del tutto insolite per lui. Era evidente che stesse riflettendo su qualcosa di estremamente importante, ma cosa fosse esattamente, nemmeno la signora Bardell riuscì a scoprirlo.

“Signora Bardell,” disse finalmente il signor Pickwick quando quella gentile donna stava per terminare una lunga pulizia dell’appartamento.

“Signore,” disse la signora Bardell.

“Tuo figlioletto se n’è andato molto tempo fa.”

“È davvero un lungo tragitto fino al Borough, signore,” obiettò la signora Bardell.

“Ah,” disse il signor Pickwick, “molto vero; è proprio così.” Il signor Pickwick ricadde nel silenzio, e la signora Bardell riprese a spolverare.

“Signora Bardell,” disse il signor Pickwick dopo alcuni minuti.

“Signore,” disse di nuovo la signora Bardell.

“Pensi che mantenere due persone costi molto di più rispetto a mantenerne una?”

“Ah, signor Pickwick,” disse la signora Bardell, arrossendo fino ai bordi del suo cappello, poiché le sembrò di notare uno sguardo, un po’ “matrimoniale” negli occhi del suo inquilino; “Ah, signor Pickwick, che domanda strana, ”

“Beh, ma lo fai davvero?”, chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Dipende,” disse la signora Bardell, avvicinando lo straccio molto vicino al gomito del signor Pickwick, che era appoggiato sul tavolo. “Dipende molto dalla persona, sa, dal fatto che sia una persona parsimoniosa e attenta, signore.”

“È molto vero,” disse il signor Pickwick, “ma la persona che ho in mente, (e qui guardò attentamente la signora Bardell) credo possieda queste qualità; inoltre, ha una notevole conoscenza del mondo e una grande acutezza di intelletto, signora Bardell, il che potrebbe essermi di grande utilità.”

“Ecco, signor Pickwick,” disse la signora Bardell, con il rossore che le tornava sulle guance.

“Sì,” disse il signor Pickwick, diventando più energico, come era suo solito quando parlava di un argomento che lo interessava – “Sì, davvero; e per dirvi la verità, signora Bardell, ho preso una decisione.”

“Mio Dio, signore,” esclamò la signora Bardell.

“Ora probabilmente vi sembrerà molto strano,” disse il gentile signor Pickwick, lanciando un’occhiata cordiale al suo compagno, “che non abbia mai consultato voi su questa questione, né ne abbia mai parlato, fino a quando stamattina non ho mandato fuori vostro figlioletto, eh?”

La signora Bardell poté rispondere solo con uno sguardo. Da tempo ammirava da lontano il signor Pickwick, ma ora si trovava improvvisamente elevata a un apice verso cui nemmeno le sue speranze più audaci avevano mai osato aspirare. Il signor Pickwick stava per chiederle di sposarlo. Un piano davvero ben congegnato. Aveva persino mandato suo figlio lontano, per non ostacolarla. Che premuroso, che considerato!

“Beh,” disse il signor Pickwick, “che ne pensi?”

“Oh, signor Pickwick”, disse la signora Bardell, tremando per l’agitazione, “siete davvero molto gentile, signore.”

“Ti risparmierà un sacco di problemi, vero?” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Oh, non avevo mai pensato a tutte queste complicazioni, signore,” rispose la signora Bardell; “e naturalmente mi darei ancora più da fare per compiacerla di quanto faccia normalmente. Ma è davvero molto gentile da parte sua, signor Pickwick, prendersi così cura della mia solitudine.”

“Ah, certo,” disse il signor Pickwick; “Non ci avevo mai pensato. Quando sarò in città, avrai sempre qualcuno con cui sederti. Sicuramente sì.”

“Sono sicura che dovrei essere una donna molto felice,” disse la signora Bardell.

“E tuo figlioletto, ” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Possa il cielo benedirlo!” intervenne la signora Bardell, con un singhiozzo materno.

“Anche lui avrà un compagno,” continuò il signor Pickwick, “un tipo vivace che, ne sono sicuro, gli insegnerà più trucchi in una settimana di quanti ne imparerebbe in un anno.” E il signor Pickwick sorrise serenamente.

“Oh, caro, ” disse la signora Bardell.

Il signor Pickwick iniziò.

“Oh, caro mio, gentile e giocoso,” disse la signora Bardell; e senza ulteriori indugi, si alzò dalla sedia e gettò le braccia intorno al collo del signor Pickwick, tra un fiume di lacrime e un coro di singhiozzi.

‘Bless my soul,’ cried the astonished Mr. Pickwick; ‘Mrs. Bardell, my good woman—dear me, what a situation—pray consider.—Mrs. Bardell, don’t—if anybody should come—’

‘Oh, let them come,’ exclaimed Mrs. Bardell frantically; ‘I’ll never leave you—dear, kind, good soul;’ and, with these words, Mrs. Bardell clung the tighter.

‘Mercy upon me,’ said Mr. Pickwick, struggling violently, ‘I hear somebody coming up the stairs. Don’t, don’t, there’s a good creature, don’t.’ But entreaty and remonstrance were alike unavailing; for Mrs. Bardell had fainted in Mr. Pickwick’s arms; and before he could gain time to deposit her on a chair, Master Bardell entered the room, ushering in Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass.

Mr. Pickwick was struck motionless and speechless. He stood with his lovely burden in his arms, gazing vacantly on the countenances of his friends, without the slightest attempt at recognition or explanation. They, in their turn, stared at him; and Master Bardell, in his turn, stared at everybody.

The astonishment of the Pickwickians was so absorbing, and the perplexity of Mr. Pickwick was so extreme, that they might have remained in exactly the same relative situations until the suspended animation of the lady was restored, had it not been for a most beautiful and touching expression of filial affection on the part of her youthful son. Clad in a tight suit of corduroy, spangled with brass buttons of a very considerable size, he at first stood at the door astounded and uncertain; but by degrees, the impression that his mother must have suffered some personal damage pervaded his partially developed mind, and considering Mr. Pickwick as the aggressor, he set up an appalling and semi-earthly kind of howling, and butting forward with his head, commenced assailing that immortal gentleman about the back and legs, with such blows and pinches as the strength of his arm, and the violence of his excitement, allowed.

‘Take this little villain away,’ said the agonised Mr. Pickwick, ‘he’s mad.’

‘What is the matter?’ said the three tongue-tied Pickwickians.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Mr. Pickwick pettishly. ‘Take away the boy.’ (Here Mr. Winkle carried the interesting boy, screaming and struggling, to the farther end of the apartment.) ‘Now help me, lead this woman downstairs.’

‘Oh, I am better now,’ said Mrs. Bardell faintly.

‘Let me lead you downstairs,’ said the ever-gallant Mr. Tupman.

‘Thank you, sir—thank you;’ exclaimed Mrs. Bardell hysterically. And downstairs she was led accordingly, accompanied by her affectionate son.

‘I cannot conceive,’ said Mr. Pickwick when his friend returned—‘I cannot conceive what has been the matter with that woman. I had merely announced to her my intention of keeping a man-servant, when she fell into the extraordinary paroxysm in which you found her. Very extraordinary thing.’

‘Very,’ said his three friends.

‘Placed me in such an extremely awkward situation,’ continued Mr. Pickwick.

‘Very,’ was the reply of his followers, as they coughed slightly, and looked dubiously at each other.

This behaviour was not lost upon Mr. Pickwick. He remarked their incredulity. They evidently suspected him.

‘There is a man in the passage now,’ said Mr. Tupman.

‘It’s the man I spoke to you about,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘I sent for him to the Borough this morning. Have the goodness to call him up, Snodgrass.’

Mr. Snodgrass did as he was desired; and Mr. Samuel Weller forthwith presented himself.

‘Oh—you remember me, I suppose?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘I should think so,’ replied Sam, with a patronising wink. ‘Queer start that ‘ere, but he was one too many for you, warn’t he? Up to snuff and a pinch or two over—eh?’

‘Never mind that matter now,’ said Mr. Pickwick hastily; ‘I want to speak to you about something else. Sit down.’

‘Thank’ee, sir,’ said Sam. And down he sat without further bidding, having previously deposited his old white hat on the landing outside the door. ‘’Tain’t a wery good ‘un to look at,’ said Sam, ‘but it’s an astonishin’ ‘un to wear; and afore the brim went, it was a wery handsome tile. Hows’ever it’s lighter without it, that’s one thing, and every hole lets in some air, that’s another—wentilation gossamer I calls it.’ On the delivery of this sentiment, Mr. Weller smiled agreeably upon the assembled Pickwickians.

‘Now with regard to the matter on which I, with the concurrence of these gentlemen, sent for you,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘That’s the pint, sir,’ interposed Sam; ‘out vith it, as the father said to his child, when he swallowed a farden.’

‘We want to know, in the first place,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘whether you have any reason to be discontented with your present situation.’

‘Afore I answers that ‘ere question, gen’l’m’n,’ replied Mr. Weller, ‘I should like to know, in the first place, whether you’re a-goin’ to purwide me with a better?’

A sunbeam of placid benevolence played on Mr. Pickwick’s features as he said, ‘I have half made up my mind to engage you myself.’

‘Have you, though?’ said Sam.

Mr. Pickwick nodded in the affirmative.

‘Wages?’ inquired Sam.

‘Twelve pounds a year,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Clothes?’

‘Two suits.’

‘Work?’

‘To attend upon me; and travel about with me and these gentlemen here.’

‘Take the bill down,’ said Sam emphatically. ‘I’m let to a single gentleman, and the terms is agreed upon.’

‘You accept the situation?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Cert’nly,’ replied Sam. ‘If the clothes fits me half as well as the place, they’ll do.’

‘You can get a character of course?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Ask the landlady o’ the White Hart about that, Sir,’ replied Sam.

‘Can you come this evening?’

‘I’ll get into the clothes this minute, if they’re here,’ said Sam, with great alacrity.

‘Call at eight this evening,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘and if the inquiries are satisfactory, they shall be provided.’

With the single exception of one amiable indiscretion, in which an assistant housemaid had equally participated, the history of Mr. Weller’s conduct was so very blameless, that Mr. Pickwick felt fully justified in closing the engagement that very evening. With the promptness and energy which characterised not only the public proceedings, but all the private actions of this extraordinary man, he at once led his new attendant to one of those convenient emporiums where gentlemen’s new and second-hand clothes are provided, and the troublesome and inconvenient formality of measurement dispensed with; and before night had closed in, Mr. Weller was furnished with a grey coat with the P. C. button, a black hat with a cockade to it, a pink striped waistcoat, light breeches and gaiters, and a variety of other necessaries, too numerous to recapitulate.

‘Well,’ said that suddenly-transformed individual, as he took his seat on the outside of the Eatanswill coach next morning; ‘I wonder whether I’m meant to be a footman, or a groom, or a gamekeeper, or a seedsman. I looks like a sort of compo of every one on ‘em. Never mind; there’s a change of air, plenty to see, and little to do; and all this suits my complaint uncommon; so long life to the Pickvicks, says I!’

“Che la benedizione di Dio sia sulla mia ‘anima”, esclamò il sorpreso signor Pickwick; “Signora Bardell, mia buona donna, mio Dio, in che situazione ci troviamo, per favore, pensateci bene. Signora Bardell, non fatelo, se qualcuno dovesse arrivare, ”

“Oh, lasciali venire,” esclamò la signora Bardell in preda al panico; “non ti lascerò mai, caro, gentile, buon ‘anima, ” E, dicendo queste parole, la signora Bardell si aggrappò a lui ancora più strettamente.

“Mia misericordia, ”, disse il signor Pickwick, lottando disperatamente, “sento qualcuno salire le scale. Non fatelo, per favore. C’è una brava persona qui, ” Ma le sue suppliche furono vane: la signora Bardell era svenuta tra le sue braccia; e prima che potesse adagiarla su una sedia, il signor Bardell entrò nella stanza, accompagnato dal signor Tupman, dal signor Winkle e dal signor Snodgrass.

Il signor Pickwick rimase immobile e senza parole. Stava lì con il suo adorabile “carico” tra le braccia, fissando con sguardo vuoto i volti dei suoi amici, senza tentare nemmeno di riconoscerli o spiegarsi. Anche loro lo guardavano a loro volta; e il signor Bardell, a sua volta, fissava tutti quanti.

Lo stupore dei membri del gruppo di Pickwick era così intenso, e la perplessità del signor Pickwick così estrema, che avrebbero potuto rimanere nella stessa situazione fino a quando l’“animazione sospesa” della signora non fosse stata ripristinata, se non fosse stato per un’espressione di affetto filiale davvero bellissima e commovente da parte di suo figlio. Vestito con un abito di velluto a coste, decorato con bottoni di ottone di notevoli dimensioni, all’inizio stava fermo sulla porta, sbalordito e incerto; ma gradualmente, l’idea che sua madre dovesse aver subito qualche danno fisico si fece strada nella sua mente ancora poco sviluppata, e considerando il signor Pickwick come l’aggressore, iniziò a emettere urla terribili e, spingendo avanti la testa, cominciò ad attaccare quel nobile gentiluomo alla schiena e alle gambe, con colpi e pizzicotti che la forza del suo braccio e l’intensità della sua emozione gli permettevano di sferrare.

“Portate via questo piccolo cattivo”, disse il povero signor Pickwick, “è matto.”

“Che cosa c’è?” dissero i tre imbarazzati membri del gruppo di Pickwick.

“Non lo so,” rispose il signor Pickwick in tono petulante. “Portate via quel ragazzo.”
(A questo punto, il signor Winkle portò via il ragazzo, che urlava e si dimenava, verso l’altra estremità dell’appartamento.) “Ora aiutatemi a condurre questa donna al piano di sotto.”

“Ora sto meglio,” disse debolmente la signora Bardell.

“Lasciate che vi accompagni al piano di sotto,” disse il sempre cortese signor Tupman.

“Grazie, signore, grazie,” esclamò la signora Bardell in modo isterico. Poi fu accompagnata al piano di sotto dal suo affezionato figlio.

“Non riesco a capirlo,” disse il signor Pickwick quando suo amico tornò, “Non riesco proprio a capire cosa sia successo a quella donna. Avevo semplicemente annunciato di volermi tenere un servitore, e lei è caduta in quell’isteria straordinaria in cui l’avete trovata. Una cosa davvero molto insolita.”

“Molto bene,” dissero i suoi tre amici.

“Mi ha messo in una situazione estremamente imbarazzante,” continuò il signor Pickwick.

“Molto bene,” fu la risposta dei suoi seguaci; tossirono leggermente e si scambiarono sguardi dubbiosi.

Questo comportamento non passò inosservato al signor Pickwick. Egli notò la loro incredulità; ovviamente lo sospettavano.

“Adesso c’è un uomo nel corridoio,” disse il signor Tupman.

“È l’uomo di cui vi ho parlato,” disse il signor Pickwick; “l’ho fatto chiamare stamattina al Borough. Per favore, chiamatelo, Snodgrass.”

Il signor Snodgrass fece ciò che gli era stato chiesto; e subito dopo il signor Samuel Weller si presentò.

“Ah, immagino che vi ricordiate di me”, disse il signor Pickwick.

“Certo che sì,” rispose Sam, facendo l’occhiolino in modo condiscendente. “Che strana inizio, vero. Ma era troppo forte per te, no? Un po’ troppo robusto, addirittura, ”

“Lasciamo perdere quella questione per ora,” disse in fretta il signor Pickwick; “voglio parlarti di qualcos’altro. Siediti.”

“Grazie mille, signore,” disse Sam. Poi si sedette senza altre istruzioni, dopo aver posato il proprio vecchio cappello bianco sul pianerottolo fuori dalla porta. “Non è certo un bell’aspetto, ma da indossare è davvero sorprendente; prima che il bordo si rompesse, era un cappello davvero elegante. Ora, però, è più leggero, e ogni buco lascia entrare un po’ d’aria. Lo chiamo ‘la seta della ventilazione’.” Dopo aver espresso questo pensiero, il signor Weller sorrise compiaciuto agli astanti Pickwickiani.

“Ora, riguardo alla questione per cui vi ho chiamato con il consenso di questi signori,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Ecco la pinta, signore,” intervenne Sam; “fuori con essa, proprio come il padre disse al suo bambino quando questi inghiottì un fardno.”

“Prima di tutto, vogliamo sapere,” disse il signor Pickwick, “se abbiate qualche motivo per essere insoddisfatti della vostra attuale situazione.”

“Prima di rispondere a quella domanda, signore,” replicò il signor Weller, “vorrei sapere, innanzitutto, se intende offrirmi una risposta migliore.”

Un raggio di serena benevolenza illuminava il volto del signor Pickwick mentre diceva: “Ho quasi deciso di assumervi personalmente.”

“Ma l’hai davvero fatto?” disse Sam.

Il signor Pickwick annuì affermativamente.

“Salari?” chiese Sam.

“Dodici sterline all’anno,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

“Abiti?”

“Due abiti.”

“Lavoro?”

“Essermi d’aiuto e viaggiare con me insieme a questi signori.”

“Togli quell’annuncio,” disse Sam con fermezza. “Mi è stato concesso di servire un solo gentiluomo, e gli accordi sono stati già presi.”

“Accetti questa situazione?”, chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Certo,” rispose Sam. “Se i vestiti mi stanno anche solo la metà bene di quanto stia quel posto, allora andranno benissimo.”

“Ovviamente si può ottenere un personaggio, vero?” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Chiedetelo alla padrona di casa del White Hart, signore,” rispose Sam.

“Puoi venire stasera?”

“Mi metterò questi vestiti subito, se sono qui,” disse Sam con grande sollecitudine.

“Vieni a trovarmi alle otto di stasera,” disse il signor Pickwick; “e se le indagini saranno soddisfacenti, tutto ciò che ti serve sarà fornito.”

Ad eccezione di un’unica e innocua indiscrezione in cui era stata coinvolta anche una domestica, la storia del comportamento del signor Weller fu davvero irreprensibile; per questo il signor Pickwick ritenne pienamente giustificato porre fine al loro accordo quella stessa sera. Con la prontezza e l’energia che caratterizzavano non solo le sue azioni pubbliche, ma anche tutte quelle private, condusse immediatamente il suo nuovo assistente in uno di quei negozi dove si trovano abiti nuovi e usati per gentiluomini, evitando così la noiosa e scomoda formalità della misurazione. Prima ancora che calasse la notte, il signor Weller era già dotato di un cappotto grigio con bottoni a forma di P.C., un cappello nero con coccarda, una giacca a strisce rosa, pantaloni leggeri e calzamaglie, oltre ad altre numerose necessità troppo molteplici per essere elencate tutte.

“Beh,” disse quell’individuo che si era trasformato improvvisamente, mentre prendeva posto sul treno di Eatanswill la mattina seguente; “mi chiedo se io debba essere un valletto, un garzone di stalla, un guardiacaccia o un coltivatore di semi. Sembro una sorta di miscela di tutti loro. Ma non importa: c’è aria fresca, molto da vedere e poco da fare; e tutto ciò si adatta perfettamente alle mie esigenze. Lunga vita ai Pickvicks!”

CHAPTER XIII. SOME ACCOUNT OF EATANSWILL; OF THE STATE OF PARTIES THEREIN; AND OF THE ELECTION OF A MEMBER TO SERVE IN PARLIAMENT FOR THAT ANCIENT, LOYAL, AND PATRIOTIC BOROUGH

We will frankly acknowledge that, up to the period of our being first immersed in the voluminous papers of the Pickwick Club, we had never heard of Eatanswill; we will with equal candour admit that we have in vain searched for proof of the actual existence of such a place at the present day. Knowing the deep reliance to be placed on every note and statement of Mr. Pickwick’s, and not presuming to set up our recollection against the recorded declarations of that great man, we have consulted every authority, bearing upon the subject, to which we could possibly refer. We have traced every name in schedules A and B, without meeting with that of Eatanswill; we have minutely examined every corner of the pocket county maps issued for the benefit of society by our distinguished publishers, and the same result has attended our investigation. We are therefore led to believe that Mr. Pickwick, with that anxious desire to abstain from giving offence to any, and with those delicate feelings for which all who knew him well know he was so eminently remarkable, purposely substituted a fictitious designation, for the real name of the place in which his observations were made. We are confirmed in this belief by a little circumstance, apparently slight and trivial in itself, but when considered in this point of view, not undeserving of notice. In Mr. Pickwick’s note-book, we can just trace an entry of the fact, that the places of himself and followers were booked by the Norwich coach; but this entry was afterwards lined through, as if for the purpose of concealing even the direction in which the borough is situated. We will not, therefore, hazard a guess upon the subject, but will at once proceed with this history, content with the materials which its characters have provided for us.

It appears, then, that the Eatanswill people, like the people of many other small towns, considered themselves of the utmost and most mighty importance, and that every man in Eatanswill, conscious of the weight that attached to his example, felt himself bound to unite, heart and soul, with one of the two great parties that divided the town—the Blues and the Buffs. Now the Blues lost no opportunity of opposing the Buffs, and the Buffs lost no opportunity of opposing the Blues; and the consequence was, that whenever the Buffs and Blues met together at public meeting, town-hall, fair, or market, disputes and high words arose between them. With these dissensions it is almost superfluous to say that everything in Eatanswill was made a party question. If the Buffs proposed to new skylight the market-place, the Blues got up public meetings, and denounced the proceeding; if the Blues proposed the erection of an additional pump in the High Street, the Buffs rose as one man and stood aghast at the enormity. There were Blue shops and Buff shops, Blue inns and Buff inns—there was a Blue aisle and a Buff aisle in the very church itself.

Of course it was essentially and indispensably necessary that each of these powerful parties should have its chosen organ and representative: and, accordingly, there were two newspapers in the town—the Eatanswill Gazette and the Eatanswill Independent; the former advocating Blue principles, and the latter conducted on grounds decidedly Buff. Fine newspapers they were. Such leading articles, and such spirited attacks!- -’Our worthless contemporary, the Gazette’—‘That disgraceful and dastardly journal, the Independent’—‘That false and scurrilous print, the Independent’—‘That vile and slanderous calumniator, the Gazette;’ these, and other spirit-stirring denunciations, were strewn plentifully over the columns of each, in every number, and excited feelings of the most intense delight and indignation in the bosoms of the townspeople.

Mr. Pickwick, with his usual foresight and sagacity, had chosen a peculiarly desirable moment for his visit to the borough. Never was such a contest known. The Honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall, was the Blue candidate; and Horatio Fizkin, Esq., of Fizkin Lodge, near Eatanswill, had been prevailed upon by his friends to stand forward on the Buff interest. The Gazette warned the electors of Eatanswill that the eyes not only of England, but of the whole civilised world, were upon them; and the Independent imperatively demanded to know, whether the constituency of Eatanswill were the grand fellows they had always taken them for, or base and servile tools, undeserving alike of the name of Englishmen and the blessings of freedom. Never had such a commotion agitated the town before.

It was late in the evening when Mr. Pickwick and his companions, assisted by Sam, dismounted from the roof of the Eatanswill coach. Large blue silk flags were flying from the windows of the Town Arms Inn, and bills were posted in every sash, intimating, in gigantic letters, that the Honourable Samuel Slumkey’s committee sat there daily. A crowd of idlers were assembled in the road, looking at a hoarse man in the balcony, who was apparently talking himself very red in the face in Mr. Slumkey’s behalf; but the force and point of whose arguments were somewhat impaired by the perpetual beating of four large drums which Mr. Fizkin’s committee had stationed at the street corner. There was a busy little man beside him, though, who took off his hat at intervals and motioned to the people to cheer, which they regularly did, most enthusiastically; and as the red-faced gentleman went on talking till he was redder in the face than ever, it seemed to answer his purpose quite as well as if anybody had heard him.

The Pickwickians had no sooner dismounted than they were surrounded by a branch mob of the honest and independent, who forthwith set up three deafening cheers, which being responded to by the main body (for it’s not at all necessary for a crowd to know what they are cheering about), swelled into a tremendous roar of triumph, which stopped even the red- faced man in the balcony.

CAPITOLO XIII. Una descrizione di Eatanswill; dello stato delle fazioni presenti in quella località; e dell’elezione di un membro per rappresentare quel nobile, leale e patriottico borgo in parlamento.

Ammetteremo francamente che, fino al momento in cui abbiamo iniziato a esaminare i numerosi documenti del Club Pickwick, non avevamo mai sentito parlare di Eatanswill; ammetteremo altrettanto sinceramente di aver cercato invano prove dell’esistenza effettiva di tale luogo ai giorni nostri. Conoscendo la grande fiducia che si poteva riporre in ogni nota e dichiarazione del signor Pickwick, e senza osare mettere in discussione le affermazioni di quel grande uomo, abbiamo consultato tutte le fonti disponibili sull’argomento. Abbiamo verificato ogni nome presente nelle tabelle A e B, senza trovare traccia di Eatanswill; abbiamo esaminato minuziosamente tutte le mappe della contea pubblicate dai nostri rinomati editori, ma con lo stesso risultato. Pertanto, siamo portati a credere che il signor Pickwick, desideroso di non offendere nessuno e possedendo quei delicati sentimenti per cui tutti coloro che lo conoscevano bene sapevano quanto fosse eccezionale, abbia intenzionalmente sostituito il vero nome del luogo in cui aveva effettuato le sue osservazioni con un nome fittizio. Questa convinzione viene ulteriormente confermata da un dettaglio apparentemente insignificante, ma che, considerato in questo contesto, merita di essere preso in considerazione. Nel taccuino del signor Pickwick troviamo una nota secondo cui lui e i suoi compagni erano stati prenotati con il treno di Norwich; tuttavia questa annotazione è stata successivamente cancellata, come se si volesse nascondere persino la direzione in cui si trova quella località. Pertanto, non osiamo fare alcuna supposizione al riguardo, ma continueremo immediatamente con questa storia, contenti dei materiali che i suoi personaggi ci hanno fornito.

Sembra quindi che la gente di Eatanswill, come quella di molte altre piccole città, si considerasse di estrema e immensa importanza; ogni uomo di Eatanswill, consapevole del peso che derivava dal proprio esempio, si sentisse obbligato a schierarsi in modo totale e incondizionato con una delle due grandi fazioni che dividevano la città: i Blues e i Buffs. I Blues non perdevano mai l’occasione di opporsi ai Buffs, e viceversa; di conseguenza, ogni volta che i due gruppi si incontravano in assemblee pubbliche, nel municipio, alle fiere o nei mercati, scaturivano dispute e parole dure. A causa di queste dissensioni, è quasi superfluo dire che tutto a Eatanswill diventava oggetto di conflitti politici: se i Buffs proponevano di rinnovare il mercato, i Blues organizzavano assemblee pubbliche per denunciare tale iniziativa; se i Blues propondevano l’installazione di un’altra pompa nella strada principale, i Buffs si opponevano all’unanimità. Esistevano negozi dei Blues e negozi dei Buffs, ostelli dei Blues e ostelli dei Buffs; persino all’interno della stessa chiesa c’erano aree riservate ai membri delle due fazioni.

Naturalmente era essenziale e indispensabile che ciascuna di queste potenti fazioni avesse il proprio organo di stampa e il proprio rappresentante; di conseguenza, nella città esistevano due giornali: l’_Eatanswill_Gazette e l’_Eatanswill_Independent; il primo difendeva i principi “blu”, mentre il secondo si basava su posizioni decisamente “rosse”. Che ottimi giornali. Che articoli di spicco, che attacchi appassionati! “Il nostro insignificante contemporaneo, l’_Gazette”, “Quel giornale vergognoso e traditore, l’_Independent”, “Quella pubblicazione falsa e diffamatoria, l’_Independent”. Queste e altre denunce appassionate erano ampiamente diffuse nelle colonne di entrambi i giornali, in ogni numero, suscitando nei cittadini sentimenti di intensa gioia e indignazione.

Il signor Pickwick, con la sua solita previdenza e saggezza, aveva scelto un momento particolarmente adatto per la sua visita nel distretto elettorale. Mai si era verificata una competizione del genere. L’onorevole Samuel Slumkey, di Slumkey Hall, era il candidato del partito Blu; mentre Horatio Fizkin, di Fizkin Lodge, vicino a Eatanswill, era stato convinto dai suoi amici a candidarsi per il partito Giallo. Il Gazette avvertiva gli elettori di Eatanswill che non solo gli occhi dell’Inghilterra, ma quelli di tutto il mondo civile erano puntati su di loro; l’Independent, inoltre, chiedeva con insistenza di sapere se i cittadini di Eatanswill fossero davvero le persone nobili e rispettabili che si credeva fossero, o piuttosto individui meschini e servili, indegni sia del nome di inglesi che delle benedizioni della libertà. Mai prima d’allora la città aveva conosciuto un tale trambusto.

Era già tardi nella serata quando il signor Pickwick e i suoi compagni, assistiti da Sam, scesero dal tetto della carrozza di Eatanswill. Grandi bandiere di seta blu volavano dalle finestre dell’osteria Town Arms Inn, e su ogni vetrina erano affissi cartelli che, in caratteri giganteschi, annunciavano che il comitato onorabile di Samuel Slumkey si riuniva lì ogni giorno. Una folla di oziosi si era radunata nella strada, osservando un uomo dal tono rauco sul balcone che, a quanto pare, parlava con tale fervore a favore del signor Slumkey da arrossire visibilmente; tuttavia l’efficacia dei suoi argomenti veniva in qualche modo compromessa dal continuo suono di quattro grandi tamburi posizionati all’angolo della strada dal comitato di Fizkin. Accanto a lui c’era un ometto molto impegnato che, di tanto in tanto, si toglieva il cappello e faceva segno alla folla di applaudire; quest’ultima lo faceva regolarmente con grande entusiasmo. E poiché l’uomo dal viso rosso continuava a parlare fino a diventare ancora più arrossito, sembrava che ciò raggiungesse esattamente lo scopo che si era prefisso, proprio come se qualcuno lo avesse davvero ascoltato.

Non appena i membri del gruppo di Pickwick scesero da cavallo, furono circondati da una folla di persone oneste e indipendenti, le quali immediatamente lanciarono tre acclamazioni assordanti. Queste furono riprese dal resto della folla (poiché non è affatto necessario che una folla sappia esattamente per cosa sta acclamando), trasformandosi in un enorme urlo di trionfo che fece tacere persino l’uomo dal viso rosso sul balcone.

‘Hurrah!’ shouted the mob, in conclusion.

‘One cheer more,’ screamed the little fugleman in the balcony, and out shouted the mob again, as if lungs were cast-iron, with steel works.

‘Slumkey for ever!’ roared the honest and independent.

‘Slumkey for ever!’ echoed Mr. Pickwick, taking off his hat.

‘No Fizkin!’ roared the crowd.

‘Certainly not!’ shouted Mr. Pickwick. ‘Hurrah!’ And then there was another roaring, like that of a whole menagerie when the elephant has rung the bell for the cold meat.

‘Who is Slumkey?’ whispered Mr. Tupman.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, in the same tone. ‘Hush. Don’t ask any questions. It’s always best on these occasions to do what the mob do.’

‘But suppose there are two mobs?’ suggested Mr. Snodgrass.

‘Shout with the largest,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

Volumes could not have said more.

They entered the house, the crowd opening right and left to let them pass, and cheering vociferously. The first object of consideration was to secure quarters for the night.

‘Can we have beds here?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, summoning the waiter.

‘Don’t know, Sir,’ replied the man; ‘afraid we’re full, sir—I’ll inquire, Sir.’ Away he went for that purpose, and presently returned, to ask whether the gentleman were ‘Blue.’

As neither Mr. Pickwick nor his companions took any vital interest in the cause of either candidate, the question was rather a difficult one to answer. In this dilemma Mr. Pickwick bethought himself of his new friend, Mr. Perker.

‘Do you know a gentleman of the name of Perker?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Certainly, Sir; Honourable Mr. Samuel Slumkey’s agent.’

‘He is Blue, I think?’

‘Oh, yes, Sir.’

‘Then we are Blue,’ said Mr. Pickwick; but observing that the man looked rather doubtful at this accommodating announcement, he gave him his card, and desired him to present it to Mr. Perker forthwith, if he should happen to be in the house. The waiter retired; and reappearing almost immediately with a request that Mr. Pickwick would follow him, led the way to a large room on the first floor, where, seated at a long table covered with books and papers, was Mr. Perker.

‘Ah—ah, my dear Sir,’ said the little man, advancing to meet him; ‘very happy to see you, my dear Sir, very. Pray sit down. So you have carried your intention into effect. You have come down here to see an election— eh?’

Mr. Pickwick replied in the affirmative.

‘Spirited contest, my dear sir,’ said the little man.

‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ said Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his hands. ‘I like to see sturdy patriotism, on whatever side it is called forth—and so it’s a spirited contest?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said the little man, ‘very much so indeed. We have opened all the public-houses in the place, and left our adversary nothing but the beer-shops—masterly stroke of policy that, my dear Sir, eh?’ The little man smiled complacently, and took a large pinch of snuff.

‘And what are the probabilities as to the result of the contest?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Why, doubtful, my dear Sir; rather doubtful as yet,’ replied the little man. ‘Fizkin’s people have got three-and-thirty voters in the lock-up coach-house at the White Hart.’

‘In the coach-house!’ said Mr. Pickwick, considerably astonished by this second stroke of policy.

‘They keep ‘em locked up there till they want ‘em,’ resumed the little man. ‘The effect of that is, you see, to prevent our getting at them; and even if we could, it would be of no use, for they keep them very drunk on purpose. Smart fellow Fizkin’s agent—very smart fellow indeed.’

Mr. Pickwick stared, but said nothing.

‘We are pretty confident, though,’ said Mr. Perker, sinking his voice almost to a whisper. ‘We had a little tea-party here, last night—five- and-forty women, my dear sir—and gave every one of ‘em a green parasol when she went away.’

‘A parasol!’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Fact, my dear Sir, fact. Five-and-forty green parasols, at seven and sixpence a-piece. All women like finery—extraordinary the effect of those parasols. Secured all their husbands, and half their brothers— beats stockings, and flannel, and all that sort of thing hollow. My idea, my dear Sir, entirely. Hail, rain, or sunshine, you can’t walk half a dozen yards up the street, without encountering half a dozen green parasols.’

Here the little man indulged in a convulsion of mirth, which was only checked by the entrance of a third party.

This was a tall, thin man, with a sandy-coloured head inclined to baldness, and a face in which solemn importance was blended with a look of unfathomable profundity. He was dressed in a long brown surtout, with a black cloth waistcoat, and drab trousers. A double eyeglass dangled at his waistcoat; and on his head he wore a very low-crowned hat with a broad brim. The new-comer was introduced to Mr. Pickwick as Mr. Pott, the editor of the Eatanswill Gazette. After a few preliminary remarks, Mr. Pott turned round to Mr. Pickwick, and said with solemnity—

‘This contest excites great interest in the metropolis, sir?’

‘I believe it does,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘To which I have reason to know,’ said Pott, looking towards Mr. Perker for corroboration—‘to which I have reason to know that my article of last Saturday in some degree contributed.’

‘Not the least doubt of it,’ said the little man.

‘The press is a mighty engine, sir,’ said Pott.

Mr. Pickwick yielded his fullest assent to the proposition.

‘But I trust, sir,’ said Pott, ‘that I have never abused the enormous power I wield. I trust, sir, that I have never pointed the noble instrument which is placed in my hands, against the sacred bosom of private life, or the tender breast of individual reputation; I trust, sir, that I have devoted my energies to—to endeavours—humble they may be, humble I know they are—to instil those principles of—which—are—’

Here the editor of the Eatanswill Gazette, appearing to ramble, Mr. Pickwick came to his relief, and said—

“Urrà!”, gridò la folla, come conclusione.

“Un altro urlo di gioia!”, gridò il piccolo uomo sul balcone, e la folla rispose nuovamente, come se i loro polmoni fossero fatti d’acciaio.

“Per sempre Slumkey!”, gridò quell’uomo onesto e indipendente.

“Per sempre Slumkey!”, esclamò il signor Pickwick, togliendosi il cappello.

“Niente Fizkin!”, gridò la folla.

“Assolutamente no!”, gridò il signor Pickwick. “Evviva!” E poi ci fu un altro fragore assordante, simile a quello di un intero serraglio quando l’elefante suona la campanella per chiedere la carne fredda.

“Chi è Slumkey?” sussurrò il signor Tupman.

“Non lo so,” rispose il signor Pickwick con lo stesso tono. “Taci. Non fare domande. In queste occasioni è sempre meglio fare ciò che fa la folla.”

“Ma supponiamo che ci siano due bande di malviventi, ” suggerì il signor Snodgrass.

“Gridate insieme ai più forti,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

I volumi non avrebbero potuto esprimere di più.

Entrarono nella casa; la folla si fece da parte per lasciarli passare, acclamandoli ad alta voce. La prima cosa da fare fu trovare un posto dove riposare per la notte.

“Possiamo avere dei letti qui?” chiese il signor Pickwick, chiamando il cameriere.

“Non lo so, signore,” rispose l’uomo; “temo che siamo pieni, signore. Chiederò subito.” Andò via per verificare e poco dopo tornò per chiedere se il gentiluomo fosse un “Blue”.

Poiché né il signor Pickwick né i suoi compagni nutrivano alcun interesse particolare per la causa di nessuno dei due candidati, la domanda risultava piuttosto difficile da rispondere. In questa situazione imbarazzante, il signor Pickwick pensò al suo nuovo amico, il signor Perker.

“Conosce un gentiluomo di nome Perker?” chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Certamente, signore; l’agente del rispettabile signor Samuel Slumkey.”

“È blu, penso, ”

“Ah sì, signore.”

“Allora noi siamo i Blue,” disse il signor Pickwick; ma notando che l’uomo sembrava piuttosto scettico riguardo a questa dichiarazione, gli diede la sua carta e gli chiese di presentarla immediatamente al signor Perker, nel caso fosse presente in quella casa. Il cameriere si allontanò; tornò quasi subito per chiedere al signor Pickwick di seguirlo, e lo guidò in una grande stanza al primo piano, dove il signor Perker era seduto a un lungo tavolo coperto di libri e documenti.

“Ah–ah, mio caro signore,” disse il piccolo uomo avvicinandosi per salutarlo; “molto felice di vedervi, mio caro signore, davvero. Per favore, sedetevi. Quindi avete realizzato il vostro progetto. Siete venuto qui per assistere alle elezioni, eh?”

Il signor Pickwick rispose affermativamente.

“Un incontro davvero appassionante, caro signore,” disse il piccolo uomo.

“Sono molto felice di saperlo,” disse il signor Pickwick strofinandosi le mani. “Mi piace vedere un patriottismo sincero, indipendentemente dal nome con cui viene chiamato. Quindi si tratta davvero di una competizione appassionata?”

“Oh, sì,” disse il piccolo uomo, “certamente. Abbiamo aperto tutti i pub della zona, lasciando al nostro avversario soltanto le birrerie. Un colpo di genio politico, vero, caro signore?” Il piccolo uomo sorrise compiaciuto e prese una grande quantità di tabacco da naso.

“E quali sono le probabilità riguardo al risultato di questa competizione?” chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Beh, dubito molto, mio caro signore; anzi, per ora è davvero molto dubbia,” rispose il piccolo uomo. “La gente di Fizkin possiede trentatré elettori nell’edificio dove si tengono le riunioni elettorali presso il White Hart.”

“Nella casa del treno!” disse il signor Pickwick, piuttosto sorpreso da questo secondo colpo di strategia.

“Li tengono chiusi lì finché non ne hanno bisogno,” continuò il piccolo uomo. “Il risultato è che noi non possiamo raggiungerli; e anche se ci riuscissimo, non servirebbe a nulla, perché li tengono apposta molto ubriachi. L’agente di quel furbo Fizkin, davvero un tipo astuto.”

Il signor Pickwick fissò la scena senza dire nulla.

“Tuttavia, siamo abbastanza sicuri,” disse il signor Perker, abbassando la voce quasi a un sussurro. “Ieri sera abbiamo organizzato una piccola festa con tè, cinquantaquattro donne, caro signore, e abbiamo dato a ciascuna di loro un ombrello verde quando se ne sono andate.”

“Un ombrello!”, disse il signor Pickwick.

‘Fatto, mio caro Signore, fatto. Cinquantaquattro ombrelli verdi, a sette scellini e sei pence l’uno. Tutte le donne amano i bei vestiti. L’effetto di quegli ombrelli è davvero straordinario: conquistano tutti i mariti e metà dei fratelli delle donne. Superano calze, flanella e tutte quelle cose del genere. La mia idea, mio caro Signore, è assolutamente geniale. Che faccia freddo, piova o ci sia il sole, non si riesce a percorrere nemmeno sei metri in strada senza incrociare una mezza dozzina di ombrelli verdi.’

Qui il piccolo uomo si abbandonò a una crisi di ilarità, che fu interrotta solo dall’arrivo di una terza persona.

Era un uomo alto e magro, con i capelli di colore sabbioso che tendevano alla calvizie, e un volto in cui si mescolava un’aria di solennità con uno sguardo di profondità insondabile. Indossava un lungo soprabito marrone, una giacca di stoffa nera e pantaloni scialbi. Un paio di occhiali a doppio vetro pendeva dalla sua giacca; in testa portava un cappello con corona molto bassa e bordi larghi. Il nuovo arrivato fu presentato a Mr. Pickwick come il signor Pott, editore del “Eatanswill Gazette”. Dopo alcune parole preliminari, il signor Pott si rivolse a Mr. Pickwick e disse con solennità.

“Questo concorso suscita grande interesse nella capitale, signore?”

“Credo di sì,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Di questo ho motivo di essere a conoscenza,” disse Pott, guardando verso il signor Perker in cerca di conferma; “ho motivo di sapere che il mio articolo di sabato scorso ha contribuito, in qualche misura, a ciò.”

“Nessun minimo >dubbio al riguardo,” disse il piccolo uomo.

“La stampa è un potente strumento, signore,” disse Pott.

Il signor Pickwick diede il suo pieno consenso a quella proposta.

“Ma confido, signore,” disse Pott, “che non abbia mai abusato del enorme potere che ho nelle mie mani. Confido, signore, che non abbia mai utilizzato quell’importante strumento che mi è stato affidato contro la sacra intimità della vita privata o contro la fragile reputazione delle persone; confido, signore, che abbia dedicato tutte le mie energie – per quanto umili possano essere tali sforzi – a diffondere quei principi che, ”

Ecco il redattore del “Eatanswill Gazette”; mentre sembrava divagare, il signor Pickwick intervenne per aiutarlo e disse.

‘Certainly.’

‘And what, Sir,’ said Pott—‘what, Sir, let me ask you as an impartial man, is the state of the public mind in London, with reference to my contest with the Independent?’

‘Greatly excited, no doubt,’ interposed Mr. Perker, with a look of slyness which was very likely accidental.

‘The contest,’ said Pott, ‘shall be prolonged so long as I have health and strength, and that portion of talent with which I am gifted. From that contest, Sir, although it may unsettle men’s minds and excite their feelings, and render them incapable for the discharge of the everyday duties of ordinary life; from that contest, sir, I will never shrink, till I have set my heel upon the Eatanswill Independent. I wish the people of London, and the people of this country to know, sir, that they may rely upon me—that I will not desert them, that I am resolved to stand by them, Sir, to the last.’

Your conduct is most noble, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick; and he grasped the hand of the magnanimous Pott.

‘You are, sir, I perceive, a man of sense and talent,’ said Mr. Pott, almost breathless with the vehemence of his patriotic declaration. ‘I am most happy, sir, to make the acquaintance of such a man.’

‘And I,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘feel deeply honoured by this expression of your opinion. Allow me, sir, to introduce you to my fellow-travellers, the other corresponding members of the club I am proud to have founded.’

‘I shall be delighted,’ said Mr. Pott.

Mr. Pickwick withdrew, and returning with his friends, presented them in due form to the editor of the Eatanswill Gazette.

‘Now, my dear Pott,’ said little Mr. Perker, ‘the question is, what are we to do with our friends here?’

‘We can stop in this house, I suppose,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Not a spare bed in the house, my dear sir—not a single bed.’

‘Extremely awkward,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Very,’ said his fellow-voyagers.

‘I have an idea upon this subject,’ said Mr. Pott, ‘which I think may be very successfully adopted. They have two beds at the Peacock, and I can boldly say, on behalf of Mrs. Pott, that she will be delighted to accommodate Mr. Pickwick and any one of his friends, if the other two gentlemen and their servant do not object to shifting, as they best can, at the Peacock.’

After repeated pressings on the part of Mr. Pott, and repeated protestations on that of Mr. Pickwick that he could not think of incommoding or troubling his amiable wife, it was decided that it was the only feasible arrangement that could be made. So it _was _made; and after dinner together at the Town Arms, the friends separated, Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass repairing to the Peacock, and Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Winkle proceeding to the mansion of Mr. Pott; it having been previously arranged that they should all reassemble at the Town Arms in the morning, and accompany the Honourable Samuel Slumkey’s procession to the place of nomination.

Mr. Pott’s domestic circle was limited to himself and his wife. All men whom mighty genius has raised to a proud eminence in the world, have usually some little weakness which appears the more conspicuous from the contrast it presents to their general character. If Mr. Pott had a weakness, it was, perhaps, that he was rather too submissive to the somewhat contemptuous control and sway of his wife. We do not feel justified in laying any particular stress upon the fact, because on the present occasion all Mrs. Pott’s most winning ways were brought into requisition to receive the two gentlemen.

‘My dear,’ said Mr. Pott, ‘Mr. Pickwick—Mr. Pickwick of London.’

Mrs. Pott received Mr. Pickwick’s paternal grasp of the hand with enchanting sweetness; and Mr. Winkle, who had not been announced at all, sidled and bowed, unnoticed, in an obscure corner.

‘P. my dear’—said Mrs. Pott.

‘My life,’ said Mr. Pott.

‘Pray introduce the other gentleman.’

‘I beg a thousand pardons,’ said Mr. Pott. ‘Permit me, Mrs. Pott, Mr.—’

‘Winkle,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Winkle,’ echoed Mr. Pott; and the ceremony of introduction was complete.

‘We owe you many apologies, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘for disturbing your domestic arrangements at so short a notice.’

‘I beg you won’t mention it, sir,’ replied the feminine Pott, with vivacity. ‘It is a high treat to me, I assure you, to see any new faces; living as I do, from day to day, and week to week, in this dull place, and seeing nobody.’

‘Nobody, my dear!’ exclaimed Mr. Pott archly.

‘Nobody but you,’ retorted Mrs. Pott, with asperity.

‘You see, Mr. Pickwick,’ said the host in explanation of his wife’s lament, ‘that we are in some measure cut off from many enjoyments and pleasures of which we might otherwise partake. My public station, as editor of the Eatanswill Gazette, the position which that paper holds in the country, my constant immersion in the vortex of politics—’

‘P. my dear—’ interposed Mrs. Pott.

‘My life—’ said the editor.

‘I wish, my dear, you would endeavour to find some topic of conversation in which these gentlemen might take some rational interest.’

‘But, my love,’ said Mr. Pott, with great humility, ‘Mr. Pickwick does take an interest in it.’

‘It’s well for him if he can,’ said Mrs. Pott emphatically; ‘I am wearied out of my life with your politics, and quarrels with the Independent, and nonsense. I am quite astonished, P., at your making such an exhibition of your absurdity.’

‘But, my dear—’ said Mr. Pott.

‘Oh, nonsense, don’t talk to me,’ said Mrs. Pott. ‘Do you play ecarte, Sir?’

‘I shall be very happy to learn under your tuition,’ replied Mr. Winkle.

‘Well, then, draw that little table into this window, and let me get out of hearing of those prosy politics.’

‘Jane,’ said Mr. Pott, to the servant who brought in candles, ‘go down into the office, and bring me up the file of the Gazette for eighteen hundred and twenty-six. I’ll read you,’ added the editor, turning to Mr. Pickwick—‘I’ll just read you a few of the leaders I wrote at that time upon the Buff job of appointing a new tollman to the turnpike here; I rather think they’ll amuse you.’

‘Senz’altro.’

“E allora, signore,” disse Pott, “permettetemi di chiedervi, come uomo imparziale, in che stato si trovi l’opinione pubblica a Londra riguardo alla mia contesa con il Independent?”

“Molto eccitato, senza alcun >dubbio”, intervenne il signor Perker, con un’espressione astuta che molto probabilmente era casuale.

“La competizione,” disse Pott, “continuerà finché avrò salute e forza, e quel poco di talento che mi è stato concesso. Anche se questa competizione possa sconvolgere le menti delle persone, eccitare i loro sentimenti e renderle incapaci di adempiere alle normali mansioni quotidiane della vita; anche in tal caso, signore, non indietreggerò mai, finché non avrò messo piede saldamente sull’organizzazione ‘Eatanswill Independent’. Voglio che la gente di Londra e quella di questo paese sappiano che possono contare su di me: non li abbandonerò mai, sono deciso a sostenerli fino alla fine.”

“Il vostro comportamento è davvero nobile, signore,” disse il signor Pickwick; e strinse la mano del nobile Pott.

“Vedo, signore, che lei è un uomo di buon senso e talento,” disse il signor Pott, quasi senza fiato per l’entusiasmo della sua dichiarazione patriottica. “Sono molto felice, signore, di conoscere una persona del genere.”

“E io,” disse il signor Pickwick, “mi sento profondamente onorato da questa espressione del vostro parere. Permettetemi, signore, di presentarvi i miei compagni di viaggio, gli altri membri del club che ho l’onore di aver fondato.”

“Ne sarò molto felice,” disse il signor Pott.

Il signor Pickwick si ritirò e, tornando con i suoi amici, li presentò ufficialmente all’editore del “Eatanswill Gazette”.

“Ora, mio caro Pott,” disse il piccolo signor Perker, “la domanda è: cosa dovremmo fare con i nostri amici qui?”

“Possiamo fermarci in questa >casa, immagino,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Nessun letto libero in questa >casa, mio caro signore, nemmeno uno.”

“Estremamente imbarazzante,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Molto bene,” dissero i suoi compagni di viaggio.

“Ho un’idea al riguardo,” disse il signor Pott, “che penso possa essere adottata con grande successo. Al Peacock ci sono due letti, e posso affermare con certezza, a nome della signora Pott, che sarà felice di ospitare il signor Pickwick e qualsiasi dei suoi amici, purché gli altri due gentiluomini e il loro servitore non abbiano obiezioni ad spostarsi, nel modo migliore possibile, al Peacock.”

Dopo ripetute insistenze da parte del signor Pott e continue proteste da parte del signor Pickwick, il quale affermava di non voler causare alcun disagio o problemi alla sua gentile moglie, si decise che quella fosse l’unica soluzione possibile. Così fu fatto; dopo aver pranzato insieme al Town Arms, gli amici si separarono: il signor Tupman e il signor Snodgrass tornarono al Peacock, mentre il signor Pickwick e il signor Winkle proseguirono verso la residenza del signor Pott. Era stato precedentemente concordato che si riunissero tutti di nuovo al Town Arms la mattina seguente per accompagnare la processione dell’onorevole Samuel Slumkey fino al luogo della nomina.

Il cerchio domestico del signor Pott era limitato a lui e a sua moglie. Tutti gli uomini che un grande genio ha elevato a una posizione di prestigio nel mondo presentano solitamente qualche piccola debolezza, la quale diventa ancora più evidente in contrasto con il loro carattere generale. Se il signor Pott aveva una debolezza, forse era quella di essere piuttosto troppo sottomesso al controllo e all’influenza, talvolta sprezzante, di sua moglie. Non riteniamo giusto enfatizzare particolarmente questo aspetto, poiché in quell’occasione tutte le qualità più affascinanti della signora Pott furono messe in mostra per accogliere quei due gentiluomini.

“Mia cara,” disse il signor Pott, “il signor Pickwick, il signor Pickwick di Londra.”

La signora Pott accettò con un sorriso incantevole la stretta di mano affettuosa del signor Pickwick; mentre il signor Winkle, che non era stato nemmeno annunciato, si avvicinò furtivamente e fece un inchino, rimanendo inosservato in un angolo poco visibile.

“Mio caro P, ”, disse la signora Pott.

“La mia vita, ”, disse il signor Pott.

“Per favore, presentate l’altro signore.”

“Chiedo mille scuse,” disse il signor Pott. “Permettetemi, signora Pott, signore, ”

“Winkle,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Winkle,” ripeté il signor Pott; e così la cerimonia di presentazione fu completata.

“Le dobbiamo molte scuse, signora,” disse il signor Pickwick, “per aver disturbato le sue faccende domestiche con un preavviso così breve.”

“La prego, non ne parli, signore,” rispose la donna Pott con vivacità. “Le assicuro che per me è un grande piacere vedere volti nuovi; vivendo come faccio, giorno dopo giorno, settimana dopo settimana in questo posto noioso, senza incontrare nessuno, ”

“Nessuno, mia cara!” esclamò il signor Pott con un sorriso complice.

“Nessuno tranne te,” ribatté la signora Pott con asprezza.

“Vede, signor Pickwick,” spiegò l’ospite riguardo al lamento di sua moglie, “noi siamo in qualche modo privati di molti piaceri e divertimenti a cui altrimenti potremmo partecipare. La mia posizione pubblica come editore del Eatanswill Gazette, il ruolo che quel giornale ha nel paese, la mia costante immersione nel vortice della politica, ”

“Povero mio caro, ” intervenne la signora Pott.

“La mia vita, ” disse l’editore.

“Vorrei, caro mio, che tu cercassi di trovare un argomento di conversazione che potesse interessare razionalmente questi signori.”

“Ma, mia cara,” disse il signor Pott con grande umiltà, “il signor Pickwick ci tiene davvero.”

“È molto bene per lui se ci riesce,” disse la signora Pott con enfasi; “Sono stufa della tua politica, delle liti con l’Independent e di tutte queste sciocchezze. Sono davvero sorpresa, P., che tu debba esibire in modo così evidente la tua assurdità.”

“Ma, mia cara, ” disse il signor Pott.

“Ah, sciocchezze, non parlarmi di queste cose,” disse la signora Pott. “Gioca a carte, signore?”

“Sarò molto felice di studiare sotto la vostra guida,” rispose il signor Winkle.

‘Beh, allora trascini quel piccolo tavolo dentro questa finestra e lasciami lontano da tutte quelle noiose discussioni politiche.’

“Jane,” disse il signor Pott alla serva che aveva portato le candele, “vai giù nell’ufficio e portami l’archivio della Gazette del 1826. Te lo leggerò ad alta voce,” aggiunse l’editore, rivolgendosi al signor Pickwick: “Ti leggerò alcune delle rubriche che scrissi all’epoca riguardo a quella ridicola faccenda di nominare un nuovo incaricato dei pedaggi su questa strada; penso che ti divertiranno.”

‘I should like to hear them very much indeed,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

Up came the file, and down sat the editor, with Mr. Pickwick at his side.

We have in vain pored over the leaves of Mr. Pickwick’s note-book, in the hope of meeting with a general summary of these beautiful compositions. We have every reason to believe that he was perfectly enraptured with the vigour and freshness of the style; indeed Mr. Winkle has recorded the fact that his eyes were closed, as if with excess of pleasure, during the whole time of their perusal.

The announcement of supper put a stop both to the game of ecarte, and the recapitulation of the beauties of the Eatanswill Gazette. Mrs. Pott was in the highest spirits and the most agreeable humour. Mr. Winkle had already made considerable progress in her good opinion, and she did not hesitate to inform him, confidentially, that Mr. Pickwick was ‘a delightful old dear.’ These terms convey a familiarity of expression, in which few of those who were intimately acquainted with that colossal-minded man, would have presumed to indulge. We have preserved them, nevertheless, as affording at once a touching and a convincing proof of the estimation in which he was held by every class of society, and the ease with which he made his way to their hearts and feelings.

It was a late hour of the night—long after Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass had fallen asleep in the inmost recesses of the Peacock—when the two friends retired to rest. Slumber soon fell upon the senses of Mr. Winkle, but his feelings had been excited, and his admiration roused; and for many hours after sleep had rendered him insensible to earthly objects, the face and figure of the agreeable Mrs. Pott presented themselves again and again to his wandering imagination.

The noise and bustle which ushered in the morning were sufficient to dispel from the mind of the most romantic visionary in existence, any associations but those which were immediately connected with the rapidly-approaching election. The beating of drums, the blowing of horns and trumpets, the shouting of men, and tramping of horses, echoed and re-echoed through the streets from the earliest dawn of day; and an occasional fight between the light skirmishers of either party at once enlivened the preparations, and agreeably diversified their character.

‘Well, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as his valet appeared at his bedroom door, just as he was concluding his toilet; ‘all alive to-day, I suppose?’

‘Reg’lar game, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘our people’s a-collecting down at the Town Arms, and they’re a-hollering themselves hoarse already.’

‘Ah,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘do they seem devoted to their party, Sam?’

‘Never see such dewotion in my life, Sir.’

‘Energetic, eh?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Uncommon,’ replied Sam; ‘I never see men eat and drink so much afore. I wonder they ain’t afeer’d o’ bustin’.’

‘That’s the mistaken kindness of the gentry here,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Wery likely,’ replied Sam briefly.

‘Fine, fresh, hearty fellows they seem,’ said Mr. Pickwick, glancing from the window.

‘Wery fresh,’ replied Sam; ‘me and the two waiters at the Peacock has been a-pumpin’ over the independent woters as supped there last night.’

‘Pumping over independent voters!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes,’ said his attendant, ‘every man slept vere he fell down; we dragged ‘em out, one by one, this mornin’, and put ‘em under the pump, and they’re in reg’lar fine order now. Shillin’ a head the committee paid for that ‘ere job.’

‘Can such things be!’ exclaimed the astonished Mr. Pickwick.

‘Lord bless your heart, sir,’ said Sam, ‘why where was you half baptised?—that’s nothin’, that ain’t.’

‘Nothing?’said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Nothin’ at all, Sir,’ replied his attendant. ‘The night afore the last day o’ the last election here, the opposite party bribed the barmaid at the Town Arms, to hocus the brandy-and-water of fourteen unpolled electors as was a-stoppin’ in the house.’

‘What do you mean by “hocussing” brandy-and-water?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Puttin’ laud’num in it,’ replied Sam. ‘Blessed if she didn’t send ‘em all to sleep till twelve hours arter the election was over. They took one man up to the booth, in a truck, fast asleep, by way of experiment, but it was no go—they wouldn’t poll him; so they brought him back, and put him to bed again.’

Strange practices, these,’ said Mr. Pickwick; half speaking to himself and half addressing Sam.

‘Not half so strange as a miraculous circumstance as happened to my own father, at an election time, in this wery place, Sir,’ replied Sam.

‘What was that?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Why, he drove a coach down here once,’ said Sam; ‘’lection time came on, and he was engaged by vun party to bring down woters from London. Night afore he was going to drive up, committee on t’ other side sends for him quietly, and away he goes vith the messenger, who shows him in;- -large room—lots of gen’l’m’n—heaps of papers, pens and ink, and all that ‘ere. “Ah, Mr. Weller,” says the gen’l’m’n in the chair, “glad to see you, sir; how are you?”—“Wery well, thank ‘ee, Sir,” says my father; “I hope you’re pretty middlin,” says he.—“Pretty well, thank’ee, Sir,” says the gen’l’m’n; “sit down, Mr. Weller—pray sit down, sir.” So my father sits down, and he and the gen’l’m’n looks wery hard at each other. “You don’t remember me?” said the gen’l’m’n.—“Can’t say I do,” says my father.—“Oh, I know you,” says the gen’l’m’n: “know’d you when you was a boy,” says he.—“Well, I don’t remember you,” says my father.—“That’s wery odd,” says the gen’l’m’n.”—“Wery,” says my father.—“You must have a bad mem’ry, Mr. Weller,” says the gen’l’m’n.—“Well, it is a wery bad ‘un,” says my father.—“I thought so,” says the gen’l’m’n. So then they pours him out a glass of wine, and gammons him about his driving, and gets him into a reg’lar good humour, and at last shoves a twenty-pound note into his hand. “It’s a wery bad road between this and London,” says the gen’l’m’n.—“Here and there it is a heavy road,” says my father.—” ‘Specially near the canal, I think,” says the gen’l’m’n.—“Nasty bit that ‘ere,” says my father.— “Well, Mr. Weller,” says the gen’l’m’n, “you’re a wery good whip, and can do what you like with your horses, we know. We’re all wery fond o’ you, Mr. Weller, so in case you should have an accident when you’re bringing these here woters down, and should tip ‘em over into the canal vithout hurtin’ of ‘em, this is for yourself,” says he.—“Gen’l’m’n, you’re wery kind,” says my father, “and I’ll drink your health in another glass of wine,” says he; vich he did, and then buttons up the money, and bows himself out. You wouldn’t believe, sir,’ continued Sam, with a look of inexpressible impudence at his master, ‘that on the wery day as he came down with them woters, his coach _was _upset on that ‘ere wery spot, and ev’ry man on ‘em was turned into the canal.’

“Mi piacerebbe molto ascoltarli,” disse il signor Pickwick.

Il file apparve sullo schermo, e l’editor si aprì subito; il signor Pickwick era al suo fianco.

Abbiamo sfogliato invano le pagine del taccuino di Mr. Pickwick, nella speranza di trovare un riassunto generale di queste bellissime composizioni. Abbiamo tutte le ragioni per credere che fosse completamente incantato dal vigore e dalla freschezza dello stile; anzi, il signor Winkle ha annotato che durante l’intera lettura aveva gli occhi chiusi, come se provasse un piacere estremo.

L’annuncio della cena pose fine sia al gioco di carte che alla rievocazione delle notizie presenti sul Gazette di Eatanswill. La signora Pott era di ottimo umore e nel massimo spirito di allegria. Il signor Winkle aveva già guadagnato molto nella sua stima, e lei non esitò a dirgli, in confidenza, che il signor Pickwick era “un delizioso vecchio caro”. Queste parole rivelano una familiarità nell’esprimersi di cui pochi coloro che conoscevano bene quell’uomo dal carattere eccezionale avrebbero osato fare uso. Tuttavia le abbiamo conservate, poiché rappresentano al contempo una prova commovente e convincente dell’alta stima in cui era tenuto da tutte le classi sociali, nonché della facilità con cui riusciva a conquistare i loro cuori e i loro sentimenti.

Era già tardi nella notte – molto dopo che il signor Tupman e il signor Snodgrass si erano addormentati nelle profondità della locanda “Peacock” – quando i due amici andarono a riposare. Il signor Winkle cadde presto in un sonno profondo, ma i suoi sentimenti erano rimasti eccitati e la sua ammirazione non si era placata; per molte ore, anche dopo che il sonno lo aveva reso insensibile ai piaceri terreni, il volto e la figura della deliziosa signora Pott continuavano a riapparire nella sua immaginazione.

Il rumore e il trambusto che annunciavano l’alba erano sufficienti per allontanare dalla mente del più romantico e visionario tra gli esseri umani qualsiasi pensiero diverso da quelli legati alle elezioni che si avvicinavano rapidamente. Il suono dei tamburi, il soffio delle corna e delle trombe, le grida delle persone e lo scalpitio dei cavalli risuonavano per le strade fin dalle prime ore dell’alba; inoltre, occasionali scontri tra i piccoli gruppi di combattenti di entrambe le fazioni aggiungevano vivacità alle preparativi, diversificandone al contempo il carattere.

“Beh, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick quando il suo valletto apparve alla porta della sua camera da letto, proprio mentre stava terminando i suoi preparativi mattutini; “spero che tu sia ancora vivo oggi, no?”

“Partita regolare, signore,” rispose il signor Weller; “i nostri uomini si stanno radunando al Town Arms e ormai gridano fino a perdere la voce.”

“Ah,” disse il signor Pickwick, “sembrano davvero devoti al loro gruppo, Sam?”

“Non ho mai visto una tale devozione in vita mia, signore.”

“Energico, eh?”, disse il signor Pickwick.

“Straordinario,” rispose Sam; “non ho mai visto uomini mangiare e bere così tanto prima d’ora. Mi chiedo se non abbiano paura di scoppiare.”

“Quella è la gentilezza errata della gente benevolente di qui,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Molto probabile,” rispose Sam brevemente.

“Sembrano ragazzi sani, freschi e robusti,” disse il signor Pickwick guardando fuori dalla finestra.

“Molto fresca,” rispose Sam; “io e i due camerieri del Peacock abbiamo continuato a servire gli avventori che erano lì a cena la scorsa notte.”

“Stiamo cercando di conquistare gli elettori indipendenti!”, esclamò il signor Pickwick.

“Sì,” disse il suo attendente, “tutti quanti sono morti non appena sono caduti; li abbiamo trascinati fuori uno per uno stamattina e li abbiamo messi sotto la pompa. Ora sono in perfette condizioni. Il comitato ha pagato una bella somma per quel lavoro.”

“Come possono accadere cose del genere!”, esclamò il sorpreso signor Pickwick.

“Signore, che il Signore benedica il vostro cuore,” disse Sam, “ma perché siete stato battezzato solo a metà. Questo non ha senso, davvero.”

“Niente?” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Niente affatto, signore,” rispose il suo attendente. “La notte precedente l’ultimo giorno delle ultime elezioni qui, l’opposizione ha corrotto la cameriera del pub Town Arms affinché alterasse il contenuto dei bicchieri di brandy e acqua destinati a quattordici elettori ancora non votati che si trovavano in quel locale.”

“Cosa intendete per ‘hocussare’ con brandy e acqua?”, chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Stiamo mettendo dentro dei ‘laud’num,” rispose Sam. “Che fortuna che non li abbia fatti addormentare tutti fino a dodici ore dopo la fine delle elezioni. Hanno portato un uomo al seggio elettorale, su un camioncino, completamente addormentato, solo per fare un esperimento. Ma non ha funzionato: non hanno voluto farlo votare; quindi l’hanno riportato a casa e l’hanno messo a letto di nuovo.”

“Strane pratiche, ”, disse il signor Pickwick; metà parlando a se stesso e metà rivolgendosi a Sam.

“Niente affatto paragonabile alla stranezza di quella circostanza miracolosa che è accaduta a mio padre, durante un’elezione, in questo luogo così strano, signore,” rispose Sam.

“Cos’è stato?” chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Beh, una volta ha guidato un cocchio fin qui,” disse Sam; “quando arrivò il momento della lezione, fu assunto da un gruppo di persone per portare dei viaggiatori da Londra. La sera prima di partire, qualcuno lo chiamò in segreto e lui se ne andò con quel messaggero, che lo accompagnò in una grande stanza piena di generali, mucchi di documenti, penne e inchiostro, ‘Ah, signor Weller,’ disse il generale seduto sulla sedia, ‘che piacere rivederla, signore; come sta?’ ‘Molto bene, grazie, signore,’ rispose mio padre. ‘Spero che anche lei stia bene,’ disse il generale. ‘Abbastanza bene, grazie, signore,’ replicò mio padre. ‘Si sieda, signor Weller, la prego, si sieda.’ Così mio padre si sedette, e i due si guardarono attentamente l’un l’altro. ‘Non mi ricorda?’ chiese il generale. ‘Non credo proprio,’ rispose mio padre. ‘Oh, la conosco bene,’ disse il generale. ‘La conoscevo quando era ancora un ragazzo.’ ‘Beh, non mi ricordo di lei,’ insistette mio padre. ‘È molto strano,’ commentò il generale. ‘Molto vero,’ concordò mio padre. ‘Deve avere una memoria davvero scarsa, signor Weller,’ disse il generale. ‘Beh, è proprio così,’ ammise mio padre. Allora gli versarono un bicchiere di vino e iniziarono a parlare del suo lavoro come cocchiere, mettendolo di buon umore; alla fine gli diedero anche una banconota da venti sterline. ‘La strada tra qui e Londra è davvero molto brutta,’ disse il generale. ‘Ci sono dei tratti particolarmente pericolosi, soprattutto vicino al canale,’ aggiunse mio padre. ‘Un’area davvero infida,’ concordò il generale. ‘Beh, signor Weller, lei è un ottimo cocchiere e sa come gestire i suoi cavalli. Ci piace molto, quindi, nel caso le succedesse qualcosa mentre porta questi viaggiatori, e per qualche motivo facessero cadere il cocchio nel canale senza che nessuno si ferisse, questa banconota è per lei.’ ‘Signore, è davvero molto gentile,’ disse mio padre. ‘Allora brinderò alla sua salute con un altro bicchiere di vino,’ rispose il generale. Così fece; poi mise via i soldi e se ne andò. Non ci credereste, signore, ” continuò Sam, con uno sguardo di impudenza inesprimibile verso il suo padrone, “ma proprio il giorno in cui accompagnava quei viaggiatori, il suo cocchio si ribaltò proprio in quel punto, e tutti i passeggeri finirono nel canale.”

‘And got out again?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick hastily.

‘Why,’ replied Sam very slowly, ‘I rather think one old gen’l’m’n was missin’; I know his hat was found, but I ain’t quite certain whether his head was in it or not. But what I look at is the hex-traordinary and wonderful coincidence, that arter what that gen’l’m’n said, my father’s coach should be upset in that wery place, and on that wery day!’

‘It is, no doubt, a very extraordinary circumstance indeed,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘But brush my hat, Sam, for I hear Mr. Winkle calling me to breakfast.’

With these words Mr. Pickwick descended to the parlour, where he found breakfast laid, and the family already assembled. The meal was hastily despatched; each of the gentlemen’s hats was decorated with an enormous blue favour, made up by the fair hands of Mrs. Pott herself; and as Mr. Winkle had undertaken to escort that lady to a house-top, in the immediate vicinity of the hustings, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Pott repaired alone to the Town Arms, from the back window of which, one of Mr. Slumkey’s committee was addressing six small boys and one girl, whom he dignified, at every second sentence, with the imposing title of ‘Men of Eatanswill,’ whereat the six small boys aforesaid cheered prodigiously.

The stable-yard exhibited unequivocal symptoms of the glory and strength of the Eatanswill Blues. There was a regular army of blue flags, some with one handle, and some with two, exhibiting appropriate devices, in golden characters four feet high, and stout in proportion. There was a grand band of trumpets, bassoons, and drums, marshalled four abreast, and earning their money, if ever men did, especially the drum-beaters, who were very muscular. There were bodies of constables with blue staves, twenty committee-men with blue scarfs, and a mob of voters with blue cockades. There were electors on horseback and electors afoot. There was an open carriage-and-four, for the Honourable Samuel Slumkey; and there were four carriage-and-pair, for his friends and supporters; and the flags were rustling, and the band was playing, and the constables were swearing, and the twenty committee-men were squabbling, and the mob were shouting, and the horses were backing, and the post- boys perspiring; and everybody, and everything, then and there assembled, was for the special use, behoof, honour, and renown, of the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall, one of the candidates for the representation of the borough of Eatanswill, in the Commons House of Parliament of the United Kingdom.

Loud and long were the cheers, and mighty was the rustling of one of the blue flags, with ‘Liberty of the Press’ inscribed thereon, when the sandy head of Mr. Pott was discerned in one of the windows, by the mob beneath; and tremendous was the enthusiasm when the Honourable Samuel Slumkey himself, in top-boots, and a blue neckerchief, advanced and seized the hand of the said Pott, and melodramatically testified by gestures to the crowd, his ineffaceable obligations to the Eatanswill Gazette.

‘Is everything ready?’ said the Honourable Samuel Slumkey to Mr. Perker.

‘Everything, my dear Sir,’ was the little man’s reply.

‘Nothing has been omitted, I hope?’ said the Honourable Samuel Slumkey.

‘Nothing has been left undone, my dear sir—nothing whatever. There are twenty washed men at the street door for you to shake hands with; and six children in arms that you’re to pat on the head, and inquire the age of; be particular about the children, my dear sir—it has always a great effect, that sort of thing.’

‘I’ll take care,’ said the Honourable Samuel Slumkey.

‘And, perhaps, my dear Sir,’ said the cautious little man, ‘perhaps if you could—I don’t mean to say it’s indispensable—but if you could manage to kiss one of ‘em, it would produce a very great impression on the crowd.’

‘Wouldn’t it have as good an effect if the proposer or seconder did that?’ said the Honourable Samuel Slumkey.

‘Why, I am afraid it wouldn’t,’ replied the agent; ‘if it were done by yourself, my dear Sir, I think it would make you very popular.’

‘Very well,’ said the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, with a resigned air, ‘then it must be done. That’s all.’

‘Arrange the procession,’ cried the twenty committee-men.

Amidst the cheers of the assembled throng, the band, and the constables, and the committee-men, and the voters, and the horsemen, and the carriages, took their places—each of the two-horse vehicles being closely packed with as many gentlemen as could manage to stand upright in it; and that assigned to Mr. Perker, containing Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Tupman, Mr. Snodgrass, and about half a dozen of the committee besides.

There was a moment of awful suspense as the procession waited for the Honourable Samuel Slumkey to step into his carriage. Suddenly the crowd set up a great cheering.

‘He has come out,’ said little Mr. Perker, greatly excited; the more so as their position did not enable them to see what was going forward.

Another cheer, much louder.

‘He has shaken hands with the men,’ cried the little agent.

Another cheer, far more vehement.

‘He has patted the babies on the head,’ said Mr. Perker, trembling with anxiety.

A roar of applause that rent the air.

‘He has kissed one of ‘em!’ exclaimed the delighted little man.

A second roar.

‘He has kissed another,’ gasped the excited manager.

A third roar.

‘He’s kissing ‘em all!’ screamed the enthusiastic little gentleman, and hailed by the deafening shouts of the multitude, the procession moved on.

How or by what means it became mixed up with the other procession, and how it was ever extricated from the confusion consequent thereupon, is more than we can undertake to describe, inasmuch as Mr. Pickwick’s hat was knocked over his eyes, nose, and mouth, by one poke of a Buff flag- staff, very early in the proceedings. He describes himself as being surrounded on every side, when he could catch a glimpse of the scene, by angry and ferocious countenances, by a vast cloud of dust, and by a dense crowd of combatants. He represents himself as being forced from the carriage by some unseen power, and being personally engaged in a pugilistic encounter; but with whom, or how, or why, he is wholly unable to state. He then felt himself forced up some wooden steps by the persons from behind; and on removing his hat, found himself surrounded by his friends, in the very front of the left hand side of the hustings. The right was reserved for the Buff party, and the centre for the mayor and his officers; one of whom—the fat crier of Eatanswill—was ringing an enormous bell, by way of commanding silence, while Mr. Horatio Fizkin, and the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, with their hands upon their hearts, were bowing with the utmost affability to the troubled sea of heads that inundated the open space in front; and from whence arose a storm of groans, and shouts, and yells, and hootings, that would have done honour to an earthquake.

“E poi è uscito di nuovo?” chiese ansiosamente il signor Pickwick.

“Perché,” rispose Sam molto lentamente, “penso piuttosto che mancasse un vecchio generale. So che il suo cappello è stato trovato, ma non sono del tutto sicuro che la sua testa ci fosse dentro. Quello che trovo davvero straordinario e meraviglioso è questa incredibile coincidenza: proprio dopo quello che quel generale ha detto, il carro di mio padre si è ribaltato in quel luogo, in quel giorno preciso!”

“Senza dubbio, si tratta di una circostanza davvero straordinaria,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Ma aiutami a sistemare il cappello, Sam. Ho sentito il signor Winkle chiamarmi per colazione.”

Con queste parole, il signor Pickwick scese nel salotto, dove trovò la colazione pronta e tutta la famiglia già riunita. La cena fu consumata in fretta; ogni cappello dei gentiluomini era decorato con un enorme fiore blu, realizzato dalle mani delicate della signora Pott stessa. Poiché il signor Winkle si era offerto di accompagnare quella signora fino a una casa situata nelle immediate vicinanze del luogo dove si tenevano le elezioni, il signor Pickwick e il signor Pott proseguirono da soli verso il Town Arms. Dalla finestra posteriore di quell’edificio, uno dei membri del comitato di Slumkey stava parlando a sei bambini e una bambina, chiamandoli con aria solenne “uomini di Eatanswill”; i sei bambini, a queste parole, esultavano enormemente.

Il cortile delle stalle presentava inequivocabili segni della gloria e della forza dei “Eatanswill Blues”. C’erano file ordinate di bandiere blu, alcune con un solo manico, altre con due, tutte decorate con simboli appropriati scritti in caratteri dorati, alti quattro piedi e ben proporzionati. C’era anche una grande banda composta da trombe, fagotti e tamburi, disposti in fila; i suonatori guadagnavano bene il loro denaro, soprattutto i battitori di tamburo, molto muscolosi. C’erano gruppi di poliziotti con mazze blu, venti membri del comitato con sciarpe blu, e una folla di elettori con cocche blu. C’erano elettori a cavallo e a piedi. C’era anche un carro scoperto per l’onorevole Samuel Slumkey, e altri quattro carri per i suoi amici e sostenitori; le bandiere svolazzavano, la banda suonava, i poliziotti imprecavano, i venti membri del comitato discutevano animatamente, la folla gridava, i cavalli indietreggiavano, i postini sudavano. Tutti, e tutto ciò che era presente in quel luogo, esisteva esclusivamente al servizio dell’onore e della reputazione dell’onorevole Samuel Slumkey, di Slumkey Hall, uno dei candidati per la rappresentanza del distretto di Eatanswill alla Camera dei Comuni del Parlamento del Regno Unito.

Gli applausi furono sonori e prolungati; il fruscio di una delle bandiere blu, su cui era scritto “Libertà di Stampa”, fu davvero intenso quando la testa bionda del signor Pott apparve in una delle finestre. L’entusiasmo della folla raggiunse il culmine quando lo stesso onorevole Samuel Slumkey, con stivali alti e un fazzoletto blu al collo, si avvicinò e strinse la mano del signor Pott, dimostrando con gesti drammatici alla folla la sua indissolubile gratitudine verso il “Eatanswill Gazette”.

“Tutto è pronto?” chiese l’onorevole Samuel Slumkey al signor Perker.

“Tutto, mio caro Signore,” fu la risposta dell’uomo piccolo.

“Niente è stato tralasciato, spero, ”, disse l’onorevole Samuel Slumkey.

‘Niente è stato tralasciato, mio caro signore, davvero niente. Ci sono venti uomini lavati che aspettano alla porta di casa per stringervi la mano; e sei bambini in braccio che dovete accarezzare sulla testa e chiedere loro quanti anni hanno. Fate attenzione ai bambini, mio caro signore: queste cose hanno sempre un grande effetto.’

“Me ne occuperò io,” disse l’onorevole Samuel Slumkey.

“E forse, mio caro signore,” disse l’uomo cauto, “forse se riusciste, non voglio dire che sia indispensabile, ma se riusciste a baciare una di loro, farebbe un’impressione molto forte sulla folla.”

“Non avrebbe lo stesso effetto se fosse il proponente o il sostenitore a farlo?” disse l’onorevole Samuel Slumkey.

“Ahimè, temo di no,” rispose l’agente; “se fosse fatto da voi stesso, caro signore, credo che vi renderebbe molto popolare.”

“Molto bene,” disse l’onorevole Samuel Slumkey con un tono rassegnato, “allora deve essere fatto. Nient’altro.”

“Organizzate la processione,” gridarono i venti membri del comitato.

Tra gli applausi della folla radunata, la banda musicale, i poliziotti, i membri del comitato, gli elettori, i cavalieri e le carrozze, tutti presero i loro posti; ciascuna delle due vetture a due cavalli era stracolma di gentiluomini che riuscivano a stare in piedi all’interno; quella assegnata al signor Perker conteneva il signor Pickwick, il signor Tupman, il signor Snodgrass e circa metà dei membri del comitato.

Ci fu un momento di terribile suspense mentre la processione attendeva che l’onorevole Samuel Slumkey salisse nel suo carro. All’improvviso, la folla iniziò ad applaudire vigorosamente.

“È uscito,” disse il piccolo signor Perker, molto eccitato; soprattutto perché la loro posizione non gli permetteva di vedere cosa stesse succedendo.

Un altro applauso, ancora più forte.

“Ha stretto la mano a quegli uomini,” gridò il piccolo agente.

Un altro grido d’entusiasmo, ancora più fervente.

“Ha accarezzato la testa dei bambini,” disse il signor Perker, tremando per l’ansia.

Un fragore di applausi che riempì l’aria.

“Ha baciato una di loro!”, esclamò il piccolo uomo, felice.

Un altro ruggito.

“Ha baciato un’altra persona,” esclamò l’eccitato manager.

Un terzo ruggito.

“Sta baciando tutte!” gridò il piccolo gentiluomo entusiasta; accompagnato dai clamori assordanti della folla, la processione proseguì.

In che modo o con quali mezzi il cappello di Mr. Pickwick si mescolò con la processione degli altri partecipanti, e come riuscì poi a essere recuperato da quella confusione, è qualcosa che non possiamo descrivere in dettaglio. Infatti, fin dall’inizio della manifestazione, il cappello di Mr. Pickwick fu spinto via dagli sventoli di una grossa bandiera del partito opposto. Lui stesso descrive di essere stato circondato da volti furiosi e minacciosi, da una densa nuvola di polvere e da una folla numerosa di persone impegnate in combattimenti. Si dice che sia stato spinto fuori dalla carrozza da qualche forza invisibile e che abbia persino avuto un incontro fisico con qualcuno; tuttavia, non è in grado di specificare con chi, come o perché. In seguito, venne costretto a salire alcuni gradini di legno dalle persone dietro di lui; togliendosi il cappello, si rese conto di essere circondato dai suoi amici, proprio davanti al lato sinistro della piazza. Il lato destro era riservato al partito opposto, mentre il centro era occupato dal sindaco e dai suoi ufficiali; uno di questi ultimi – il grasso annunciatore di Eatanswill – suonava un enorme campanello per chiedere il silenzio, mentre Mr. Horatio Fizkin e l’onorevole Samuel Slumkey, con le mani sul petto, si inchinavano con estrema cortesia davanti alla folla tumultuosa. Da quella folla provenivano urla, grida e schiamazzi così intensi da poter essere paragonati a quelli di un terremoto.

‘There’s Winkle,’ said Mr. Tupman, pulling his friend by the sleeve.

‘Where!’ said Mr. Pickwick, putting on his spectacles, which he had fortunately kept in his pocket hitherto.

‘There,’ said Mr. Tupman, ‘on the top of that house.’ And there, sure enough, in the leaden gutter of a tiled roof, were Mr. Winkle and Mrs. Pott, comfortably seated in a couple of chairs, waving their handkerchiefs in token of recognition—a compliment which Mr. Pickwick returned by kissing his hand to the lady.

The proceedings had not yet commenced; and as an inactive crowd is generally disposed to be jocose, this very innocent action was sufficient to awaken their facetiousness.

‘Oh, you wicked old rascal,’ cried one voice, ‘looking arter the girls, are you?’

‘Oh, you wenerable sinner,’ cried another.

‘Putting on his spectacles to look at a married ‘ooman!’ said a third.

‘I see him a-winkin’ at her, with his wicked old eye,’ shouted a fourth.

‘Look arter your wife, Pott,’ bellowed a fifth—and then there was a roar of laughter.

As these taunts were accompanied with invidious comparisons between Mr. Pickwick and an aged ram, and several witticisms of the like nature; and as they moreover rather tended to convey reflections upon the honour of an innocent lady, Mr. Pickwick’s indignation was excessive; but as silence was proclaimed at the moment, he contented himself by scorching the mob with a look of pity for their misguided minds, at which they laughed more boisterously than ever.

‘Silence!’ roared the mayor’s attendants.

‘Whiffin, proclaim silence,’ said the mayor, with an air of pomp befitting his lofty station. In obedience to this command the crier performed another concerto on the bell, whereupon a gentleman in the crowd called out ‘Muffins’; which occasioned another laugh.

‘Gentlemen,’ said the mayor, at as loud a pitch as he could possibly force his voice to—‘gentlemen. Brother electors of the borough of Eatanswill. We are met here to-day for the purpose of choosing a representative in the room of our late—’

Here the mayor was interrupted by a voice in the crowd.

‘Suc-cess to the mayor!’ cried the voice, ‘and may he never desert the nail and sarspan business, as he got his money by.’

This allusion to the professional pursuits of the orator was received with a storm of delight, which, with a bell-accompaniment, rendered the remainder of his speech inaudible, with the exception of the concluding sentence, in which he thanked the meeting for the patient attention with which they heard him throughout—an expression of gratitude which elicited another burst of mirth, of about a quarter of an hour’s duration.

Next, a tall, thin gentleman, in a very stiff white neckerchief, after being repeatedly desired by the crowd to ‘send a boy home, to ask whether he hadn’t left his voice under the pillow,’ begged to nominate a fit and proper person to represent them in Parliament. And when he said it was Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, near Eatanswill, the Fizkinites applauded, and the Slumkeyites groaned, so long, and so loudly, that both he and the seconder might have sung comic songs in lieu of speaking, without anybody’s being a bit the wiser.

The friends of Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, having had their innings, a little choleric, pink-faced man stood forward to propose another fit and proper person to represent the electors of Eatanswill in Parliament; and very swimmingly the pink-faced gentleman would have got on, if he had not been rather too choleric to entertain a sufficient perception of the fun of the crowd. But after a very few sentences of figurative eloquence, the pink-faced gentleman got from denouncing those who interrupted him in the mob, to exchanging defiances with the gentlemen on the hustings; whereupon arose an uproar which reduced him to the necessity of expressing his feelings by serious pantomime, which he did, and then left the stage to his seconder, who delivered a written speech of half an hour’s length, and wouldn’t be stopped, because he had sent it all to the Eatanswill Gazette, and the Eatanswill Gazette had already printed it, every word.

Then Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, near Eatanswill, presented himself for the purpose of addressing the electors; which he no sooner did, than the band employed by the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, commenced performing with a power to which their strength in the morning was a trifle; in return for which, the Buff crowd belaboured the heads and shoulders of the Blue crowd; on which the Blue crowd endeavoured to dispossess themselves of their very unpleasant neighbours the Buff crowd; and a scene of struggling, and pushing, and fighting, succeeded, to which we can no more do justice than the mayor could, although he issued imperative orders to twelve constables to seize the ringleaders, who might amount in number to two hundred and fifty, or thereabouts. At all these encounters, Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, and his friends, waxed fierce and furious; until at last Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, begged to ask his opponent, the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall, whether that band played by his consent; which question the Honourable Samuel Slumkey declining to answer, Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, shook his fist in the countenance of the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall; upon which the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, his blood being up, defied Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, to mortal combat. At this violation of all known rules and precedents of order, the mayor commanded another fantasia on the bell, and declared that he would bring before himself, both Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, and the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall, and bind them over to keep the peace. Upon this terrific denunciation, the supporters of the two candidates interfered, and after the friends of each party had quarrelled in pairs, for three-quarters of an hour, Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, touched his hat to the Honourable Samuel Slumkey; the Honourable Samuel Slumkey touched his to Horatio Fizkin, Esquire; the band was stopped; the crowd were partially quieted; and Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, was permitted to proceed.

“Eccolo là, Winkle,” disse il signor Tupman, tirando per la manica il suo amico.

“Dove!” disse il signor Pickwick, mettendosi gli occhiali che, fortunatamente, aveva tenuto in tasca fino ad allora.

“Lì,” disse il signor Tupman, “sul tetto di quella casa.” E lì, effettivamente, nel canale di scolo di piastrelle del tetto, c’erano il signor Winkle e la signora Pott, seduti comodamente su due sedie, che agitavano i loro fazzoletti in segno di riconoscimento. Un gesto al quale il signor Pickwick rispose baciando la mano della signora.

Le procedure non erano ancora iniziate; e poiché una folla inattiva tende generalmente ad essere scherzosa, proprio questa azione così innocente fu sufficiente a suscitare la loro voglia di scherzare.

“Ah, tu vecchio malvagio!” esclamò una voce, “stai cercando di approfittare delle ragazze, vero?”

“Oh, tu peccatore venerabile,” gridò un altro.

“Mettendosi gli occhiali per guardare una donna sposata, ”, disse un terzo.

“Lo vedo che le fa l’occhiolino con quel suo occhio malvagio,” gridò un quarto.

“Guarda tua moglie, Pott,” gridò un quinto uomo, e poi scoppiò una risata fragorosa.

Poiché queste beffe erano accompagnate da insidiose paragonanze tra il signor Pickwick e un vecchio ariete, nonché da diversi scherzi del genere; inoltre, poiché tendevano a diffamare l’onore di una signora innocente, l’indignazione del signor Pickwick fu estrema. Tuttavia, poiché in quel momento fu decretato il silenzio, si accontentò di lanciare alla folla uno sguardo pieno di compassione per le loro menti errate; di fronte a questo, essi risero ancora più rumorosamente del solito.

“‘Silenzio!’” gridarono gli assistenti del sindaco.

“Whiffin, proclama il silenzio”, disse il sindaco con un tono solenne degno della sua alta posizione. Obbedendo a questo ordine, lo squillatore suonò di nuovo la campana; allora un signore tra la folla gridò “Muffins”, suscitando altre risate.

“Signori,” disse il sindaco, alzando la voce il più possibile, “signori. Fratelli elettori del distretto di Eatanswill. Siamo riuniti oggi allo scopo di eleggere un rappresentante nella camera del nostro defunto, ”

In quel momento, il sindaco fu interrotto da una voce nella folla.

“Successo al sindaco!”, gridò la voce, “e che non abbia mai più a che fare con il commercio dei chiodi e delle spazzole, visto che è stato proprio questo ad fargli guadagnare i soldi.”

Questo riferimento alle attività professionali dell’oratore fu accolto con un tumulto di gioia; tale entusiasmo, unito all’accompagnamento musicale delle campane, rese inudibile il resto del suo discorso, ad eccezione della frase conclusiva nella quale ringraziò l’assemblea per l’attenzione paziente con cui lo avevano ascoltato fino alla fine. Questo gesto di gratitudine scatenò un altro accesso di risate, che durò circa un quarto d’ora.

Successivamente, un gentiluomo alto e magro, con un colletto bianco molto rigido, dopo essere stato ripetutamente sollecitato dalla folla a “mandare un ragazzo a casa per chiedere se avesse lasciato la sua voce sotto il cuscino”, pregò di poter nominare una persona adatta e idonea per rappresentarli in Parlamento. Quando disse che si trattava di Horatio Fizkin, gentiluomo della Fizkin Lodge, vicino a Eatanswill, i sostenitori di Fizkin applaudirono, mentre quelli di Slumkey gemettero così a lungo e così forte che sia lui che il suo sostenitore avrebbero potuto cantare canzoni comiche al posto di parlare, senza che nessuno se ne accorgesse minimamente.

I compagni di Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, dopo aver avuto la loro opportunità di parlare, un uomo dal viso rosso e piuttosto collerico si fece avanti per proporre un altro candidato idoneo a rappresentare gli elettori di Eatanswill in Parlamento; e con grande abilità quel signore dal viso rosso avrebbe potuto avere successo, se solo non fosse stato troppo collerico per comprendere appieno l’umorismo della situazione. Dopo poche frasi di eloquenza retorica, passò da denunciare coloro che lo interrompevano nella folla a scambiare insulti con gli altri candidati; ciò scatenò un tale tumulto che fu costretto ad esprimere i propri sentimenti attraverso gesti teatrali. Dopodiché lasciò il palco al suo sostenitore, il quale tenne un discorso scritto di mezz’ora, rifiutandosi di essere interrotto, poiché l’aveva già inviato alla Gazetta di Eatanswill, che lo aveva pubblicato integralmente.

Allora Horatio Fizkin, di Fizkin Lodge, vicino a Eatanswill, si presentò al fine di rivolgersi agli elettori; non appena lo fece, la banda assoldata dall’onorevole Samuel Slumkey iniziò a suonare con una forza tale che quella dimostrata al mattino sembrava insignificante; in risposta, la folla dei “Blu” iniziò a colpire le teste e le spalle della folla dei “Gialli”; questi ultimi cercarono allora di scacciare i loro sgradevoli vicini. Ne seguì una scena di lotta, spintoni e combattimenti, che nemmeno il sindaco riuscì a gestire efficacemente, nonostante avesse ordinato a dodici poliziotti di arrestare i capibanda, i quali ammontavano a circa duecentocinquanta persone. In tutte queste situazioni, Horatio Fizkin e i suoi amici si dimostrarono particolarmente aggressivi; alla fine, Horatio Fizkin chiese all’onorevole Samuel Slumkey se quella banda suonasse con il suo permesso; poiché Samuel Slumkey rifiutò di rispondere, Horatio Fizkin gli mostrò il pugno in faccia. Allora Samuel Slumkey, offeso, sfidò Horatio a un duello mortale. Di fronte a questa violazione di tutte le regole e i precedenti di ordine pubblico, il sindaco ordinò nuovamente alla banda di suonare e dichiarò che avrebbe fatto portare davanti a sé sia Horatio Fizkin che l’onorevole Samuel Slumkey per farli giurare di mantenere la pace. Di fronte a questa minacciosa intimazione, i sostenitori dei due candidati intervennero; dopo che gli amici di entrambe le parti si erano azzuffati per circa un quarto d’ora, Horatio Fizkin salutò l’onorevole Samuel Slumkey, il quale ricambiò il saluto. La banda smise di suonare, la folla si calmò in parte, e a Horatio Fizkin fu permesso di continuare il suo discorso.

The speeches of the two candidates, though differing in every other respect, afforded a beautiful tribute to the merit and high worth of the electors of Eatanswill. Both expressed their opinion that a more independent, a more enlightened, a more public-spirited, a more noble- minded, a more disinterested set of men than those who had promised to vote for him, never existed on earth; each darkly hinted his suspicions that the electors in the opposite interest had certain swinish and besotted infirmities which rendered them unfit for the exercise of the important duties they were called upon to discharge. Fizkin expressed his readiness to do anything he was wanted: Slumkey, his determination to do nothing that was asked of him. Both said that the trade, the manufactures, the commerce, the prosperity of Eatanswill, would ever be dearer to their hearts than any earthly object; and each had it in his power to state, with the utmost confidence, that he was the man who would eventually be returned.

There was a show of hands; the mayor decided in favour of the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall. Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, demanded a poll, and a poll was fixed accordingly. Then a vote of thanks was moved to the mayor for his able conduct in the chair; and the mayor, devoutly wishing that he had had a chair to display his able conduct in (for he had been standing during the whole proceedings), returned thanks. The processions reformed, the carriages rolled slowly through the crowd, and its members screeched and shouted after them as their feelings or caprice dictated.

During the whole time of the polling, the town was in a perpetual fever of excitement. Everything was conducted on the most liberal and delightful scale. Excisable articles were remarkably cheap at all the public-houses; and spring vans paraded the streets for the accommodation of voters who were seized with any temporary dizziness in the head—an epidemic which prevailed among the electors, during the contest, to a most alarming extent, and under the influence of which they might frequently be seen lying on the pavements in a state of utter insensibility. A small body of electors remained unpolled on the very last day. They were calculating and reflecting persons, who had not yet been convinced by the arguments of either party, although they had frequent conferences with each. One hour before the close of the poll, Mr. Perker solicited the honour of a private interview with these intelligent, these noble, these patriotic men. It was granted. His arguments were brief but satisfactory. They went in a body to the poll; and when they returned, the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall, was returned also.

I discorsi dei due candidati, sebbene diversi in ogni altro aspetto, rappresentavano un bellissimo omaggio ai meriti e al grande valore degli elettori di Eatanswill. Entrambi espressero l’opinione che non esistesse al mondo un gruppo di persone più indipendenti, più illuminate, più altruiste, più nobile d’intento e più disinteressate di quelle che avevano promesso di votare per loro; inoltre, ognuno insinuò oscuramente che gli elettori dell’altra fazione possedessero certe debolezze meschine e perversive che li rendevano inadatti ad adempiere alle importanti responsabilità che sarebbero stati chiamati a svolgere. Fizkin dichiarò di essere pronto a fare qualsiasi cosa gli venisse chiesto; Slumkey, invece, manifestò la sua determinazione a non fare assolutamente nulla di ciò che gli veniva richiesto. Entrambi affermarono che il commercio, l’industria, le attività economiche e la prosperità di Eatanswill sarebbero sempre stati per loro più preziosi di qualsiasi altra cosa al mondo; inoltre, ognuno di loro poteva dichiarare con assoluta fiducia di essere il candidato che alla fine sarebbe stato eletto.

Si tenne un voto a mano; il sindaco decise a favore dell’onorevole Samuel Slumkey, di Slumkey Hall. Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, di Fizkin Lodge, chiese che si procedesse con un ballottaggio, e così fu fatto. Successivamente si propose al sindaco un voto di ringraziamento per il suo efficace modo di condurre le procedure; il sindaco, desiderando ardentemente di aver avuto una “sedia” su cui dimostrare la propria abilità (poiché aveva dovuto stare in piedi per tutta la durata dell’evento), ringraziò a sua volta. Le processioni si ricomposero, le carrozze avanzarono lentamente tra la folla, e i suoi membri gridavano e urlavano alle loro spalle, seguendo i propri sentimenti o capricci.

Per tutto il periodo della votazione, la città era pervasa da un’atmosfera di eccitazione febbrile. Tutto si svolgeva in modo estremamente libero e piacevole: i prodotti soggetti a tasse di consumo erano incredibilmente economici in tutti gli osterie; inoltre, carri appositi pervadevano le strade al fine di assistere gli elettori che, a causa di vertigini temporanee, avessero bisogno di aiuto. Un’epidemia davvero allarmante, che colpì molti elettori durante il periodo della competizione elettorale, al punto che spesso si potevano vedere persone sdraiate sulle strade in uno stato di totale incoscienza. Solo un piccolo numero di elettori non venne votato l’ultimo giorno: si trattava di persone riflessive e ponderate, che non erano ancora state convinte dalle argomentazioni di nessuna delle due fazioni, nonostante avessero avuto frequenti discussioni con entrambe. Un’ora prima della chiusura della votazione, il signor Perker chiese l’onore di un colloquio privato con questi uomini intelligenti, nobili e patriottici. Gli fu concesso. I suoi argomenti furono brevi ma convincenti. Essi andarono tutti a votare insieme; quando tornarono, anche il rispettabile Samuel Slumkey di Slumkey Hall era stato eletto.

CHAPTER XIV. COMPRISING A BRIEF DESCRIPTION OF THE COMPANY AT THE PEACOCK ASSEMBLED; AND A TALE TOLD BY A BAGMAN

It is pleasant to turn from contemplating the strife and turmoil of political existence, to the peaceful repose of private life. Although in reality no great partisan of either side, Mr. Pickwick was sufficiently fired with Mr. Pott’s enthusiasm, to apply his whole time and attention to the proceedings, of which the last chapter affords a description compiled from his own memoranda. Nor while he was thus occupied was Mr. Winkle idle, his whole time being devoted to pleasant walks and short country excursions with Mrs. Pott, who never failed, when such an opportunity presented itself, to seek some relief from the tedious monotony she so constantly complained of. The two gentlemen being thus completely domesticated in the editor’s house, Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass were in a great measure cast upon their own resources. Taking but little interest in public affairs, they beguiled their time chiefly with such amusements as the Peacock afforded, which were limited to a bagatelle-board in the first floor, and a sequestered skittle-ground in the back yard. In the science and nicety of both these recreations, which are far more abstruse than ordinary men suppose, they were gradually initiated by Mr. Weller, who possessed a perfect knowledge of such pastimes. Thus, notwithstanding that they were in a great measure deprived of the comfort and advantage of Mr. Pickwick’s society, they were still enabled to beguile the time, and to prevent its hanging heavily on their hands.

It was in the evening, however, that the Peacock presented attractions which enabled the two friends to resist even the invitations of the gifted, though prosy, Pott. It was in the evening that the ‘commercial room’ was filled with a social circle, whose characters and manners it was the delight of Mr. Tupman to observe; whose sayings and doings it was the habit of Mr. Snodgrass to note down.

Most people know what sort of places commercial rooms usually are. That of the Peacock differed in no material respect from the generality of such apartments; that is to say, it was a large, bare-looking room, the furniture of which had no doubt been better when it was newer, with a spacious table in the centre, and a variety of smaller dittos in the corners; an extensive assortment of variously shaped chairs, and an old Turkey carpet, bearing about the same relative proportion to the size of the room, as a lady’s pocket-handkerchief might to the floor of a watch- box. The walls were garnished with one or two large maps; and several weather-beaten rough greatcoats, with complicated capes, dangled from a long row of pegs in one corner. The mantel-shelf was ornamented with a wooden inkstand, containing one stump of a pen and half a wafer; a road- book and directory; a county history minus the cover; and the mortal remains of a trout in a glass coffin. The atmosphere was redolent of tobacco-smoke, the fumes of which had communicated a rather dingy hue to the whole room, and more especially to the dusty red curtains which shaded the windows. On the sideboard a variety of miscellaneous articles were huddled together, the most conspicuous of which were some very cloudy fish-sauce cruets, a couple of driving-boxes, two or three whips, and as many travelling shawls, a tray of knives and forks, and the mustard.

Here it was that Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass were seated on the evening after the conclusion of the election, with several other temporary inmates of the house, smoking and drinking.

‘Well, gents,’ said a stout, hale personage of about forty, with only one eye—a very bright black eye, which twinkled with a roguish expression of fun and good-humour, ‘our noble selves, gents. I always propose that toast to the company, and drink Mary to myself. Eh, Mary!’

‘Get along with you, you wretch,’ said the hand-maiden, obviously not ill-pleased with the compliment, however.

‘Don’t go away, Mary,’ said the black-eyed man.

‘Let me alone, imperence,’ said the young lady.

‘Never mind,’ said the one-eyed man, calling after the girl as she left the room. ‘I’ll step out by and by, Mary. Keep your spirits up, dear.’ Here he went through the not very difficult process of winking upon the company with his solitary eye, to the enthusiastic delight of an elderly personage with a dirty face and a clay pipe.

‘Rum creeters is women,’ said the dirty-faced man, after a pause.

‘Ah! no mistake about that,’ said a very red-faced man, behind a cigar.

After this little bit of philosophy there was another pause.

‘There’s rummer things than women in this world though, mind you,’ said the man with the black eye, slowly filling a large Dutch pipe, with a most capacious bowl.

‘Are you married?’ inquired the dirty-faced man.

‘Can’t say I am.’

‘I thought not.’ Here the dirty-faced man fell into ecstasies of mirth at his own retort, in which he was joined by a man of bland voice and placid countenance, who always made it a point to agree with everybody.

‘Women, after all, gentlemen,’ said the enthusiastic Mr. Snodgrass, ‘are the great props and comforts of our existence.’

‘So they are,’ said the placid gentleman.

‘When they’re in a good humour,’ interposed the dirty-faced man.

‘And that’s very true,’ said the placid one.

‘I repudiate that qualification,’ said Mr. Snodgrass, whose thoughts were fast reverting to Emily Wardle. ‘I repudiate it with disdain—with indignation. Show me the man who says anything against women, as women, and I boldly declare he is not a man.’ And Mr. Snodgrass took his cigar from his mouth, and struck the table violently with his clenched fist.

‘That’s good sound argument,’ said the placid man.

‘Containing a position which I deny,’ interrupted he of the dirty countenance.

‘And there’s certainly a very great deal of truth in what you observe too, Sir,’ said the placid gentleman.

CAPITOLO XIV. Comprende una breve descrizione dell’azienda durante l’assemblea dei pavoni; e una storia raccontata da un venditore ambulante.

È piacevole passare dal contemplare le lotte e i turbamenti dell’esistenza politica al tranquillo riposo della vita privata. Sebbene in realtà non fosse un grande sostenitore di nessuna delle due parti, il signor Pickwick era così infuocato dall’entusiasmo del signor Pott da dedicare tutto il proprio tempo e attenzione agli avvenimenti di cui il capitolo precedente fornisce una descrizione tratta dai suoi stessi appunti. Nemmeno il signor Winkle rimaneva inattivo: tutto il suo tempo lo dedicava a piacevoli passeggiate e brevi escursioni in campagna con la signora Pott, che non mancava mai di approfittare di tali occasioni per allontanarsi dalla noia monotona di cui si lamentava costantemente. Poiché i due gentiluomini erano ormai completamente integrati nella vita domestica dell’editore, il signor Tupman e il signor Snodgrass dovettero affidarsi soprattutto a se stessi. Non interessandosi molto agli affari pubblici, trascorrevano il loro tempo principalmente con divertimenti del genere di quelli offerti dal “Peacock”: un semplice tavolo da gioco al primo piano e un angolino riservato per giocare a skittle nel cortile posteriore. Nella conoscenza e nella maestria di queste attività, che sono molto più complesse di quanto la gente comune possa immaginare, furono gradualmente guidati dal signor Weller, che ne aveva una perfetta padronanza. Così, nonostante fossero in gran parte privati del conforto e dei vantaggi della compagnia del signor Pickwick, riuscivano comunque a passare il tempo in modo piacevole, evitando che scorresse noiosamente tra le loro mani.

Fu però alla sera che il Pavone offrì attrazioni tali da permettere ai due amici di resistere anche alle lusinghe del dotato, sebbene prosastico, Pott. Fu sempre alla sera che la “stanza commerciale” si riempì di persone il cui comportamento e le cui maniere costituivano un vero piacere per osservare per il signor Tupman; i loro discorsi e le loro azioni, invece, erano oggetto dell’attenzione attenta del signor Snodgrass.

La maggior parte delle persone sa che tipo di ambienti siano solitamente le stanze commerciali. Quella del Peacock non differiva in alcun modo sostanziale dalle altre stanze simili: si trattava infatti di una stanza grande e spoglia, i cui mobili senza dubbio erano stati migliori quando erano nuovi; al centro c’era un tavolo ampio, mentre negli angoli si trovavano vari oggetti più piccoli; c’erano inoltre diverse sedie di forme varie e un vecchio tappeto a motivi turcheschi, il cui rapporto dimensionale con la stanza era più o meno lo stesso che quello di un fazzoletto da signora rispetto al fondo di una scatola da orologi. Le pareti erano decorate da uno o due grandi mappe; in un angolo pendevano diverse giacche logore, con cappucci complicati, appese a una lunga fila di ganci. Sulla mensola del camino c’erano un calamaio di legno contenente solo un mozzicone di penna e mezza fetta di pane; un libro di viaggi e un dizionario; una storia della contea, priva della copertina; e i resti mortali di un’altra trutta, conservati in una scatola di vetro. L’atmosfera era pervasa dal fumo del tabacco, il quale conferiva all’intera stanza un aspetto piuttosto trasandato, soprattutto alle tende rosse e polverose che oscuravano le finestre. Sul comò erano ammucchiati vari oggetti disparati: tra questi spiccavano alcune conserve di salsa di pesce molto torbide, un paio di scatole da viaggio, due o tre fruste, diversi scialli da viaggio, un vassoio con coltelli e forchette, e la senape.

Era proprio in quel momento che il signor Tupman e il signor Snodgrass erano seduti nella sera successiva alla conclusione delle elezioni, insieme ad altri alcuni “ospiti temporanei” di quella casa, fumando e bevendo.

“Beh, signori,” disse un uomo robusto e sano, di circa quarant’anni, con un solo occhio – un occhio nero molto luminoso che brillava con un’espressione maliziosa, piena di divertimento e buon umore – “noi nobili individui. Io propongo sempre di brindare in onore del gruppo, e di bere da solo per Mary. Eh, Mary!”

“Vai pure avanti con te stesso, miserabile,” disse la cameriera, chiaramente però non dispiaciuta dal complimento.

“Non andartene, Mary,” disse l’uomo dagli occhi neri.

“Lasciatemi sola, signorina,” disse la giovane donna.

“Non importa,” disse l’uomo con un occhio solo, chiamando la ragazza mentre lei usciva dalla stanza. “Passerò da te più tardi, Mary. Tieni su il morale, cara.” Poi iniziò quel processo non troppo difficile di fare l’occhiolino con il suo unico occhio, per grande gioia di una persona anziana dal viso sporco e con una pipa di argilla.

“Le donne sono come i rum creaters,” disse l’uomo dal viso sporco, dopo una pausa.

“Ah! Non c’è dubbio su questo,” disse un uomo con il viso molto rosso, dietro a un sigaro.

Dopo questo breve momento di filosofia, ci fu un’altra pausa.

“C’è roba più pericolosa delle donne in questo mondo, sai,” disse l’uomo con l’occhio nero, mentre riempiva lentamente una grande pipa olandese con un contenitore davvero capiente.

“Sei sposato?”, chiese l’uomo dal viso sporco.

“Non posso dire di sì.”

“Non me lo aspettavo.” A quel punto l’uomo dal viso sporco scoppiò in una risata frenetica per la propria battuta; a lui si unì anche un altro uomo dal tono di voce monotono e dall’espressione serena, che aveva sempre l’abitudine di essere d’accordo con tutti.

“Dopotutto, signori,” disse con entusiasmo il signor Snodgrass, “le donne sono i grandi sostegni e le principali fonti di conforto nella nostra esistenza.”

“So che lo sono,” disse il gentiluomo tranquillo.

“Quando sono di buon umore”, intervenne l’uomo dal viso sporco.

“E questo è assolutamente vero,” disse quello tranquillo.

“Rifiuto completamente quella definizione,” disse il signor Snodgrass, i cui pensieri tornavano rapidamente a Emily Wardle. “La rifiuto con disprezzo, con indignazione. Mostratemi un uomo che dica qualcosa contro le donne, considerandole tali, e io dichiaro apertamente che non è un uomo.” E il signor Snodgrass tolse il sigaro dalla bocca e colpì violentemente il tavolo con il pugno chiuso.

“È un argomento valido,” disse l’uomo tranquillo.

“Contiene un’affermazione che io nego,” lo interruppe quell’uomo dal volto sporco.

“E certamente c’è molta verità in ciò che avete osservato anche voi, Signore,” disse il gentiluomo tranquillo.

‘Your health, Sir,’ said the bagman with the lonely eye, bestowing an approving nod on Mr. Snodgrass.

Mr. Snodgrass acknowledged the compliment.

‘I always like to hear a good argument,’ continued the bagman, ‘a sharp one, like this: it’s very improving; but this little argument about women brought to my mind a story I have heard an old uncle of mine tell, the recollection of which, just now, made me say there were rummer things than women to be met with, sometimes.’

‘I should like to hear that same story,’ said the red-faced man with the cigar.

‘Should you?’ was the only reply of the bagman, who continued to smoke with great vehemence.

‘So should I,’ said Mr. Tupman, speaking for the first time. He was always anxious to increase his stock of experience.

‘Should you? Well then, I’ll tell it. No, I won’t. I know you won’t believe it,’ said the man with the roguish eye, making that organ look more roguish than ever. ‘If you say it’s true, of course I shall,’ said Mr. Tupman.

‘Well, upon that understanding I’ll tell you,’ replied the traveller. ‘Did you ever hear of the great commercial house of Bilson & Slum? But it doesn’t matter though, whether you did or not, because they retired from business long since. It’s eighty years ago, since the circumstance happened to a traveller for that house, but he was a particular friend of my uncle’s; and my uncle told the story to me. It’s a queer name; but he used to call it

THE BAGMAN’S STORY

and he used to tell it, something in this way.

‘One winter’s evening, about five o’clock, just as it began to grow dusk, a man in a gig might have been seen urging his tired horse along the road which leads across Marlborough Downs, in the direction of Bristol. I say he might have been seen, and I have no doubt he would have been, if anybody but a blind man had happened to pass that way; but the weather was so bad, and the night so cold and wet, that nothing was out but the water, and so the traveller jogged along in the middle of the road, lonesome and dreary enough. If any bagman of that day could have caught sight of the little neck-or-nothing sort of gig, with a clay-coloured body and red wheels, and the vixenish, ill tempered, fast- going bay mare, that looked like a cross between a butcher’s horse and a twopenny post-office pony, he would have known at once, that this traveller could have been no other than Tom Smart, of the great house of Bilson and Slum, Cateaton Street, City. However, as there was no bagman to look on, nobody knew anything at all about the matter; and so Tom Smart and his clay-coloured gig with the red wheels, and the vixenish mare with the fast pace, went on together, keeping the secret among them, and nobody was a bit the wiser.

‘There are many pleasanter places even in this dreary world, than Marlborough Downs when it blows hard; and if you throw in beside, a gloomy winter’s evening, a miry and sloppy road, and a pelting fall of heavy rain, and try the effect, by way of experiment, in your own proper person, you will experience the full force of this observation.

‘The wind blew—not up the road or down it, though that’s bad enough, but sheer across it, sending the rain slanting down like the lines they used to rule in the copy-books at school, to make the boys slope well. For a moment it would die away, and the traveller would begin to delude himself into the belief that, exhausted with its previous fury, it had quietly laid itself down to rest, when, whoo! he could hear it growling and whistling in the distance, and on it would come rushing over the hill-tops, and sweeping along the plain, gathering sound and strength as it drew nearer, until it dashed with a heavy gust against horse and man, driving the sharp rain into their ears, and its cold damp breath into their very bones; and past them it would scour, far, far away, with a stunning roar, as if in ridicule of their weakness, and triumphant in the consciousness of its own strength and power.

‘The bay mare splashed away, through the mud and water, with drooping ears; now and then tossing her head as if to express her disgust at this very ungentlemanly behaviour of the elements, but keeping a good pace notwithstanding, until a gust of wind, more furious than any that had yet assailed them, caused her to stop suddenly and plant her four feet firmly against the ground, to prevent her being blown over. It’s a special mercy that she did this, for if she _had _been blown over, the vixenish mare was so light, and the gig was so light, and Tom Smart such a light weight into the bargain, that they must infallibly have all gone rolling over and over together, until they reached the confines of earth, or until the wind fell; and in either case the probability is, that neither the vixenish mare, nor the clay-coloured gig with the red wheels, nor Tom Smart, would ever have been fit for service again.

‘“Well, damn my straps and whiskers,” says Tom Smart (Tom sometimes had an unpleasant knack of swearing)—“damn my straps and whiskers,” says Tom, “if this ain’t pleasant, blow me!”

‘You’ll very likely ask me why, as Tom Smart had been pretty well blown already, he expressed this wish to be submitted to the same process again. I can’t say—all I know is, that Tom Smart said so—or at least he always told my uncle he said so, and it’s just the same thing.

“‘Blow me,” says Tom Smart; and the mare neighed as if she were precisely of the same opinion.

“‘Cheer up, old girl,” said Tom, patting the bay mare on the neck with the end of his whip. “It won’t do pushing on, such a night as this; the first house we come to we’ll put up at, so the faster you go the sooner it’s over. Soho, old girl—gently—gently.”

“La salute vostra, signore,” disse il facchino con quell’unico occhio, annuendo in segno di approvazione verso il signor Snodgrass.

Il signor Snodgrass ringraziò per il complimento.

“Mi piace sempre ascoltare un buon argomento,” continuò il banchiere, “uno acuto, come questo: è davvero istruttivo; ma questo piccolo dibattito sulle donne mi ha fatto ricordare una storia che un mio vecchio zio mi aveva raccontato. Il ricordo di quella storia, proprio adesso, mi ha fatto dire che a volte si incontrano cose ancora più strane delle donne.”

“Mi piacerebbe ascoltare la stessa storia,” disse l’uomo dal viso rosso che fumava il sigaro.

“Dovresti davvero farlo?” fu l’unica risposta del borselliere, che continuò a fumare con grande intensità.

“Dovrei farlo,” disse il signor Tupman, parlando per la prima volta. Era sempre desideroso di arricchire le proprie esperienze.

“Dovresti davvero farlo? Beh, allora te lo dirò. No, non lo farò. So che non mi crederesti,” disse l’uomo con quell’occhio malizioso, facendolo sembrare ancora più astuto del solito. “Se dici che è vero, naturalmente ti crederò,” rispose il signor Tupman.

“Beh,” rispose il viaggiatore, “dati questi chiarimenti, vi racconterò.”
“Avete mai sentito parlare della grande azienda commerciale Bilson & Slum? Ma non importa, che l’abbiate fatto o meno, perché hanno cessato le attività molto tempo fa. È successo ottant’anni fa a un viaggiatore che lavorava per quella ditta, ma era un caro amico di mio zio; ed è stato mio zio a raccontarmi questa storia. Un nome strano, vero? Ma lui la chiamava così, ”

La storia del bagagliaio

E lui aveva l’abitudine di raccontarlo, più o meno in questo modo.

Una sera d’inverno, verso le cinque in punto, proprio quando cominciava a calare il crepuscolo, si sarebbe potuto vedere un uomo su una piccola carrozza spronare il suo stanco cavallo lungo la strada che attraversa Marlborough Downs, in direzione di Bristol. Dico “si sarebbe potuto vedere”, e non ho alcun dubbio che ciò sarebbe accaduto, se qualcuno diverso da un cieco fosse passato di lì; ma il tempo era così brutto, la notte così fredda e umida, che non si vedeva nulla se non l’acqua. Quindi il viaggiatore procedeva da solo, in mezzo alla strada, in un ambiente desolato e cupo. Se qualcuno di quei giorni avesse potuto notare quella piccola carrozza dal corpo color fango e ruote rosse, insieme al cavallo rossastro, irascibile e veloce, beh, avrebbe subito capito che quel viaggiatore non poteva essere altri che Tom Smart, della grande casa di Bilson e Slum, in Cateaton Street. Ma poiché nessuno stava a guardare, nessuno seppe nulla al riguardo; e così Tom Smart, la sua carrozza color fango con ruote rosse, e il cavallo rossastro continuarono il loro viaggio, tenendo il segreto per sé. E nessuno venne a saperne nulla.

Ci sono molti posti più piacevoli anche in questo mondo triste, di Marlborough Downs quando soffia il vento forte; e se aggiungi a questo una cupa serata d’inverno, una strada fangosa e scivolosa, e una pioggia battente, e provi personalmente l’effetto di tutto ciò, comprenderai appieno la veridicità di questa osservazione.

Il vento soffiava, non lungo la strada, né contro di essa, anche se questo sarebbe stato già abbastanza grave; no, soffiava dritto attraverso di essa, facendo cadere la pioggia in linee oblique, proprio come quelle che si usavano nei libri di testo a scuola per disegnare le pendenze. Per un momento il vento sembrava calmarsi, e il viaggiatore cominciava a illudersi, pensando che, esausto dopo la sua furia precedente, si fosse finalmente placato. Ma poi, eccolo di nuovo: ruggiva e sibilava in lontananza, travolgendo le cime delle colline e spazzando lungo la pianura. Man mano che si avvicinava, il suo rumore diventava sempre più forte; infine, con un soffio potente, colpiva cavalli e uomini, investendoli con pioggia battente e un’aria fredda e umida che penetrava fino nelle loro ossa. Poi proseguiva la sua corsa, lontano, lontano, con un ruggito assordante, come se deridesse la loro debolezza e celebrasse la propria forza e potenza.

Il mare, con le sue orecchie pendule, si muoveva tra fango e acqua; di tanto in tanto scuoteva la testa come per esprimere il suo disgusto verso questo comportamento così poco “gentiluomo” da parte degli elementi, ma continuava comunque ad avanzare a buon ritmo. Fino a quando una raffica di >vento, più violenta di qualsiasi altra avesse colpito loro fino ad allora, non la fece fermare improvvisamente; lei posò saldamente le zampe a terra per evitare di essere spazzata via. Fu davvero una specie di millegrazia che facesse così, perché se fosse stata spazzata via, il mare, così leggero, la barca e Tom Smart sarebbero sicuramente finiti tutti a rotolare insieme, fino a raggiungere i confini della terra, o fino a quando il vento non si fosse placato. In entrambi i casi, è molto probabile che né il mare, né la barca, né Tom Smart sarebbero mai più stati in grado di funzionare correttamente.

“Beh, maledette siano le mie cinghie e i miei baffi,” disse Tom Smart (a volte Tom aveva l’abitudine di imprecare in modo poco piacevole), “Maledette siano le mie cinghie e i miei baffi,” ripeté Tom, “se questo non è piacevole, allora mi spazzate via!”

“Probabilmente mi chiederete il motivo: visto che Tom Smart era già piuttosto malconcio, perché abbia espresso il desiderio di sottoporsi nuovamente allo stesso trattamento. Non posso dirlo con certezza. Tutto ciò che so è che Tom Smart lo ha detto; o almeno, lui ripeteva sempre a mio zio che l’aveva detto, e questo significa la stessa cosa.”

“‘Soffia su di me,’ disse Tom Smart; e il mare rispose nitrendo, come se condividesse esattamente lo stesso parere.”

“‘Su, coraggio, vecchia mia,’ disse Tom, accarezzando il collo della cavalla con l’estremità del suo frustino. ‘Non ha senso andare avanti a questo ritmo, in una notte come questa; ci fermeremo alla prima casa che incontriamo, quindi più veloce vai, prima finirà tutto. Forza, vecchia mia, con calma.’”

‘Whether the vixenish mare was sufficiently well acquainted with the tones of Tom’s voice to comprehend his meaning, or whether she found it colder standing still than moving on, of course I can’t say. But I can say that Tom had no sooner finished speaking, than she pricked up her ears, and started forward at a speed which made the clay-coloured gig rattle until you would have supposed every one of the red spokes were going to fly out on the turf of Marlborough Downs; and even Tom, whip as he was, couldn’t stop or check her pace, until she drew up of her own accord, before a roadside inn on the right-hand side of the way, about half a quarter of a mile from the end of the Downs.

‘Tom cast a hasty glance at the upper part of the house as he threw the reins to the hostler, and stuck the whip in the box. It was a strange old place, built of a kind of shingle, inlaid, as it were, with cross- beams, with gabled-topped windows projecting completely over the pathway, and a low door with a dark porch, and a couple of steep steps leading down into the house, instead of the modern fashion of half a dozen shallow ones leading up to it. It was a comfortable-looking place though, for there was a strong, cheerful light in the bar window, which shed a bright ray across the road, and even lighted up the hedge on the other side; and there was a red flickering light in the opposite window, one moment but faintly discernible, and the next gleaming strongly through the drawn curtains, which intimated that a rousing fire was blazing within. Marking these little evidences with the eye of an experienced traveller, Tom dismounted with as much agility as his half- frozen limbs would permit, and entered the house.

‘In less than five minutes’ time, Tom was ensconced in the room opposite the bar—the very room where he had imagined the fire blazing—before a substantial, matter-of-fact, roaring fire, composed of something short of a bushel of coals, and wood enough to make half a dozen decent gooseberry bushes, piled half-way up the chimney, and roaring and crackling with a sound that of itself would have warmed the heart of any reasonable man. This was comfortable, but this was not all; for a smartly-dressed girl, with a bright eye and a neat ankle, was laying a very clean white cloth on the table; and as Tom sat with his slippered feet on the fender, and his back to the open door, he saw a charming prospect of the bar reflected in the glass over the chimney-piece, with delightful rows of green bottles and gold labels, together with jars of pickles and preserves, and cheeses and boiled hams, and rounds of beef, arranged on shelves in the most tempting and delicious array. Well, this was comfortable too; but even this was not all—for in the bar, seated at tea at the nicest possible little table, drawn close up before the brightest possible little fire, was a buxom widow of somewhere about eight-and-forty or thereabouts, with a face as comfortable as the bar, who was evidently the landlady of the house, and the supreme ruler over all these agreeable possessions. There was only one drawback to the beauty of the whole picture, and that was a tall man—a very tall man— in a brown coat and bright basket buttons, and black whiskers and wavy black hair, who was seated at tea with the widow, and who it required no great penetration to discover was in a fair way of persuading her to be a widow no longer, but to confer upon him the privilege of sitting down in that bar, for and during the whole remainder of the term of his natural life.

‘Tom Smart was by no means of an irritable or envious disposition, but somehow or other the tall man with the brown coat and the bright basket buttons did rouse what little gall he had in his composition, and did make him feel extremely indignant, the more especially as he could now and then observe, from his seat before the glass, certain little affectionate familiarities passing between the tall man and the widow, which sufficiently denoted that the tall man was as high in favour as he was in size. Tom was fond of hot punch—I may venture to say he was very fond of hot punch—and after he had seen the vixenish mare well fed and well littered down, and had eaten every bit of the nice little hot dinner which the widow tossed up for him with her own hands, he just ordered a tumbler of it by way of experiment. Now, if there was one thing in the whole range of domestic art, which the widow could manufacture better than another, it was this identical article; and the first tumbler was adapted to Tom Smart’s taste with such peculiar nicety, that he ordered a second with the least possible delay. Hot punch is a pleasant thing, gentlemen—an extremely pleasant thing under any circumstances—but in that snug old parlour, before the roaring fire, with the wind blowing outside till every timber in the old house creaked again, Tom Smart found it perfectly delightful. He ordered another tumbler, and then another—I am not quite certain whether he didn’t order another after that—but the more he drank of the hot punch, the more he thought of the tall man.

‘“Confound his impudence!” said Tom to himself, “what business has he in that snug bar? Such an ugly villain too!” said Tom. “If the widow had any taste, she might surely pick up some better fellow than that.” Here Tom’s eye wandered from the glass on the chimney-piece to the glass on the table; and as he felt himself becoming gradually sentimental, he emptied the fourth tumbler of punch and ordered a fifth.

‘Tom Smart, gentlemen, had always been very much attached to the public line. It had been long his ambition to stand in a bar of his own, in a green coat, knee-cords, and tops. He had a great notion of taking the chair at convivial dinners, and he had often thought how well he could preside in a room of his own in the talking way, and what a capital example he could set to his customers in the drinking department. All these things passed rapidly through Tom’s mind as he sat drinking the hot punch by the roaring fire, and he felt very justly and properly indignant that the tall man should be in a fair way of keeping such an excellent house, while he, Tom Smart, was as far off from it as ever. So, after deliberating over the two last tumblers, whether he hadn’t a perfect right to pick a quarrel with the tall man for having contrived to get into the good graces of the buxom widow, Tom Smart at last arrived at the satisfactory conclusion that he was a very ill-used and persecuted individual, and had better go to bed.

“Se quella volpe marina conoscesse abbastanza bene le tonalità della voce di Tom da comprenderne il significato, o se preferisse rimanere ferma piuttosto che continuare ad avanzare, beh, questo naturalmente non posso dirlo. Ma so per certo che non appena Tom finì di parlare, lei drizzò le orecchie e iniziò a muoversi con una tale velocità che il calesse color fango cominciò a tremolare così forte da far pensare che tutte le raggi rosse potessero staccarsi e volare via sull’erba di Marlborough Downs; nemmeno Tom, nonostante usasse la frusta, riuscì a fermarla o rallentarla, finché lei non si arrestò di sua volontà davanti a una locanda situata sul lato destro della strada, a circa mezzo miglio dalla fine del pendio.”

‘Tom gettò uno sguardo rapido alla parte superiore della casa mentre consegnava le redini al postiglione e riponeva la frusta nella scatola. Era un posto strano e vecchio, costruito con una sorta di tegole, come se fossero incastonate tra loro con travi a forma di croce; le finestre a padiglione sporgevano completamente sopra il sentiero, c’era una porta bassa con un portico scuro e alcuni gradini ripidi che conducevano all’interno della casa, al contrario del modo moderno, caratterizzato da mezza dozzina di gradini poco ripidi. Tuttavia, l’aspetto era confortevole: dalla finestra del bar proveniva una luce forte e allegra che illuminava chiaramente la strada e anche il recinto dall’altra parte; nella finestra opposta c’era una luce rossa che, a volte appena visibile, altre volte brillante attraverso le tende tirate, segno che all’interno ardeva un fuoco vivace. Notando questi dettagli con l’occhio di un viaggiatore esperto, Tom scese da cavallo con tutta l’agilità consentita dalle sue membra semi-congelate e entrò nella casa.’

In meno di cinque minuti, Tom si trovò nella stanza di fronte al bar – proprio quella in cui aveva immaginato il fuoco ardere intensamente – davanti a un vero e proprio falò, composto da quasi un secchio di carbone e abbastanza legna da costruire mezza dozzina di cespugli di more, ammucchiata fino a metà camino. Il fuoco scoppiettava e ruggiva con un suono che avrebbe scaldato il cuore di qualsiasi persona ragionevole. Era davvero confortevole, ma non era tutto: una ragazza ben vestita, con occhi luminosi e gambe snelle, stava stendendo un panno bianco pulito sul tavolo. Mentre Tom sedeva con i piedi calzati nelle pantofole, appoggiato allo schienale della sedia, poté ammirare attraverso lo specchio sopra il camino tutta la bellezza del bar: file ordinate di bottiglie verdi con etichette dorate, vasetti di sottaceti e marmellate, formaggi e prosciutti cotti. Era davvero tentatore. Ma nemmeno questo era tutto: nel bar, seduta a tavola davanti al fuoco più vivace possibile, c’era una donna robusta, sulla quarantina, con un viso altrettanto accogliente del locale stesso; evidentemente era la proprietaria di quella casa e l’unica padrona di tutte quelle cose piacevoli. L’unica nota stonata in tutta quella scena, era un uomo alto, molto alto, vestito con un cappotto marrone e bottoni lucidi; aveva baffi neri e capelli ondulati neri, ed era seduto a tavola con la donna. Non ci voleva molta perspicacia per capire che stava cercando di convincerla a non essere più una vedova, ma a concedergli il privilegio di restare lì, nel bar, per il resto della sua vita.

‘Tom Smart non era affatto di natura irascibile o invidiosa, ma per qualche motivo quell’uomo alto con il cappotto marrone e i bottoni brillanti riusciva a suscitare in lui quel po’ di malanimo che aveva nel carattere, facendolo sentire estremamente offeso, soprattutto perché ogni tanto, dal suo posto davanti al bicchiere, osservava certi gesti affettuosi e familiari tra quell’uomo alto e la vedova, che dimostravano chiaramente quanto fosse apprezzato da lei, tanto quanto fosse alto di statura. A Tom piaceva molto il punch caldo; oserei dire che gli piacesse molto. Dopo aver visto quella donna malvagia nutrire bene il proprio animale e poi mangiare tutto quel delizioso pasto caldo che la vedova gli aveva preparato con le sue stesse mani, ordinò un bicchiere di punch per fare un esperimento. Ora, se c’era qualcosa nell’intera gamma delle arti domestiche che quella vedova sapesse preparare meglio di chiunque altro, era proprio questo. Il primo bicchiere preparato per Tom Smart fu così perfetto che ordinò subito un secondo. Il punch caldo è una cosa deliziosa, signori, davvero molto deliziosa in qualsiasi circostanza. Ma in quella confortevole stanza vecchia, davanti al fuoco scoppiettante, con il vento che soffiava fuori facendo scricchiolare ogni singolo pezzo di legno della casa, a Tom sembrò ancora più delizioso. Ne ordinò un altro bicchiere, e poi un altro ancora. Non sono sicuro se ne abbia ordinato un altro dopo. Ma più beveva quel punch caldo, più pensava a quell’uomo alto.

“Che sfacciataggine!” pensò Tom tra sé. “Che cosa c’entra lui in quel bar così accogliente? Inoltre, che brutto malvagio, ” continuò. “Se la vedova avesse un po’ di gusto, sicuramente sceglierebbe qualcuno di meglio, ” Mentre parlava, lo sguardo di Tom passò dal bicchiere sul camino a quello sul tavolo; e sentendosi gradualmente prendere da sentimenti malinconici, bevve l’ultimo bicchiere di punch e ne ordinò un quinto.

‘Tom Smart, signori, era sempre stato molto legato al mondo del bar. Da tempo il suo ambizione era quella di possedere un proprio locale, con giacca verde, cravatte e camicie eleganti. Sognava di presiedere alle cene conviviali in modo impeccabile, e spesso si chiedeva quanto bene potesse fare da padrone di casa, con il suo modo di parlare così affascinante. E pensava anche a quanto potesse essere un ottimo esempio per i suoi clienti nel campo del bere. Tutti questi pensieri gli passarono rapidamente per la mente mentre beveva il punch caldo accanto al fuoco scoppiettante; si sentì profondamente offeso dal fatto che quell’uomo alto potesse gestire un locale così eccellente, mentre lui, Tom Smart, era ancora lontano dall’realizzare quel sogno. Dopo averci pensato a lungo, concluse finalmente che era davvero una vittima di ingiustizie e persecuzioni. E decise quindi che fosse meglio andare a letto.’

‘Up a wide and ancient staircase the smart girl preceded Tom, shading the chamber candle with her hand, to protect it from the currents of air which in such a rambling old place might have found plenty of room to disport themselves in, without blowing the candle out, but which did blow it out nevertheless—thus affording Tom’s enemies an opportunity of asserting that it was he, and not the wind, who extinguished the candle, and that while he pretended to be blowing it alight again, he was in fact kissing the girl. Be this as it may, another light was obtained, and Tom was conducted through a maze of rooms, and a labyrinth of passages, to the apartment which had been prepared for his reception, where the girl bade him good-night and left him alone.

‘It was a good large room with big closets, and a bed which might have served for a whole boarding-school, to say nothing of a couple of oaken presses that would have held the baggage of a small army; but what struck Tom’s fancy most was a strange, grim-looking, high backed chair, carved in the most fantastic manner, with a flowered damask cushion, and the round knobs at the bottom of the legs carefully tied up in red cloth, as if it had got the gout in its toes. Of any other queer chair, Tom would only have thought it was a queer chair, and there would have been an end of the matter; but there was something about this particular chair, and yet he couldn’t tell what it was, so odd and so unlike any other piece of furniture he had ever seen, that it seemed to fascinate him. He sat down before the fire, and stared at the old chair for half an hour.—Damn the chair, it was such a strange old thing, he couldn’t take his eyes off it.

‘“Well,” said Tom, slowly undressing himself, and staring at the old chair all the while, which stood with a mysterious aspect by the bedside, “I never saw such a rum concern as that in my days. Very odd,” said Tom, who had got rather sage with the hot punch—“very odd.” Tom shook his head with an air of profound wisdom, and looked at the chair again. He couldn’t make anything of it though, so he got into bed, covered himself up warm, and fell asleep.

‘In about half an hour, Tom woke up with a start, from a confused dream of tall men and tumblers of punch; and the first object that presented itself to his waking imagination was the queer chair.

‘“I won’t look at it any more,” said Tom to himself, and he squeezed his eyelids together, and tried to persuade himself he was going to sleep again. No use; nothing but queer chairs danced before his eyes, kicking up their legs, jumping over each other’s backs, and playing all kinds of antics.

“‘I may as well see one real chair, as two or three complete sets of false ones,” said Tom, bringing out his head from under the bedclothes. There it was, plainly discernible by the light of the fire, looking as provoking as ever.

‘Tom gazed at the chair; and, suddenly as he looked at it, a most extraordinary change seemed to come over it. The carving of the back gradually assumed the lineaments and expression of an old, shrivelled human face; the damask cushion became an antique, flapped waistcoat; the round knobs grew into a couple of feet, encased in red cloth slippers; and the whole chair looked like a very ugly old man, of the previous century, with his arms akimbo. Tom sat up in bed, and rubbed his eyes to dispel the illusion. No. The chair was an ugly old gentleman; and what was more, he was winking at Tom Smart.

‘Tom was naturally a headlong, careless sort of dog, and he had had five tumblers of hot punch into the bargain; so, although he was a little startled at first, he began to grow rather indignant when he saw the old gentleman winking and leering at him with such an impudent air. At length he resolved that he wouldn’t stand it; and as the old face still kept winking away as fast as ever, Tom said, in a very angry tone—

‘“What the devil are you winking at me for?”

‘“Because I like it, Tom Smart,” said the chair; or the old gentleman, whichever you like to call him. He stopped winking though, when Tom spoke, and began grinning like a superannuated monkey.

‘“How do you know my name, old nut-cracker face?” inquired Tom Smart, rather staggered; though he pretended to carry it off so well.

‘“Come, come, Tom,” said the old gentleman, “that’s not the way to address solid Spanish mahogany. Damme, you couldn’t treat me with less respect if I was veneered.” When the old gentleman said this, he looked so fierce that Tom began to grow frightened.

‘“I didn’t mean to treat you with any disrespect, Sir,” said Tom, in a much humbler tone than he had spoken in at first.

‘“Well, well,” said the old fellow, “perhaps not—perhaps not. Tom—”

‘“Sir—”

‘“I know everything about you, Tom; everything. You’re very poor, Tom.”

‘“I certainly am,” said Tom Smart. “But how came you to know that?”

‘“Never mind that,” said the old gentleman; “you’re much too fond of punch, Tom.”

‘Tom Smart was just on the point of protesting that he hadn’t tasted a drop since his last birthday, but when his eye encountered that of the old gentleman he looked so knowing that Tom blushed, and was silent.

‘“Tom,” said the old gentleman, “the widow’s a fine woman—remarkably fine woman—eh, Tom?” Here the old fellow screwed up his eyes, cocked up one of his wasted little legs, and looked altogether so unpleasantly amorous, that Tom was quite disgusted with the levity of his behaviour— at his time of life, too!

‘“I am her guardian, Tom,” said the old gentleman.

‘“Are you?” inquired Tom Smart.

‘“I knew her mother, Tom,” said the old fellow: “and her grandmother. She was very fond of me—made me this waistcoat, Tom.”

‘“Did she?” said Tom Smart.

‘“And these shoes,” said the old fellow, lifting up one of the red cloth mufflers; “but don’t mention it, Tom. I shouldn’t like to have it known that she was so much attached to me. It might occasion some unpleasantness in the family.” When the old rascal said this, he looked so extremely impertinent, that, as Tom Smart afterwards declared, he could have sat upon him without remorse.

Su una larga e antica scala, la ragazza intelligente precedette Tom, schermando la candela con la mano per proteggerla dalle correnti d’aria che, in un posto così vecchio e disordinato, avrebbero potuto facilmente spegnerla. Ma la candela si spense comunque. Questo diede ai nemici di Tom l’opportunità di sostenere che fosse stato lui, e non il >vento, ad estinguerla. E che, mentre fingeva di riacceserla, in realtà stesse baciando la ragazza. Comunque sia, fu accesa un’altra luce, e Tom fu condotto attraverso un labirinto di stanze e corridoi fino all’appartamento preparato per il suo arrivo. Lì, la ragazza gli augurò la buona :notte e lo lasciò da solo.

Era una stanza grande e confortevole, con armadi enormi e un letto che avrebbe potuto ospitare l’intera scuola internata, per non parlare di due cassapanche di quercia in grado di contenere il bagaglio di un intero esercito; ma ciò che colpì di più Tom fu una strana sedia dall’aspetto cupo e dallo schienale alto, scolpita in modo assolutamente fantastico. La sedia era dotata di un cuscino di damasco a fiori, e i pomelli rotondi presenti alla base delle gambe erano stati attentamente legati con stoffa rossa, come se avesse “l’artrosi” alle dita dei piedi. Di qualsiasi altra sedia strana Tom si sarebbe limitato a pensare che fosse davvero insolita; ma questa sedia aveva qualcosa di particolare, anche se lui non riusciva a capire esattamente cosa fosse. Era così diversa da qualsiasi altro pezzo di arredamento avesse mai visto, che sembrava letteralmente affascinarlo. Si sedette davanti al camino e fissò quella vecchia sedia per mezz’ora. Maledetta sedia: era davvero un oggetto così strano che non riusciva a staccare gli occhi da essa.

“Beh,” disse Tom, mentre si spogliava lentamente e fissava quella vecchia sedia che stava lì, accanto al letto, con un aspetto misterioso, “non ho mai visto niente del genere nella mia vita. Molto strano,” aggiunse Tom, ormai piuttosto saggeggiato a causa di quel punch caldo, “Molto strano.” Scosse la testa con aria di profonda saggezza e guardò di nuovo quella sedia. Non riuscì comunque a capirne il significato, quindi si mise a letto, si coprì bene e si addormentò.

“In circa mezz’ora, Tom si svegliò di scatto da un sogno confuso in cui c’erano uomini alti e bottiglie di punch; la prima cosa che apparve alla sua mente sveglia fu quella strana sedia.”

“Non voglio più guardarlo,” si disse Tom, stringendo forte le palpebre e cercando di convincersi che avrebbe potuto dormire di nuovo. Ma era inutile: davanti ai suoi occhi continuavano ad apparire strane sedie che sollevavano le gambe, saltavano una sopra l’altra e facevano ogni sorta di buffonate.

“Potrei benissimo vedere una sedia vera, invece di due o tre set completi di sedie false,” disse Tom, tirando fuori la testa da sotto le coperte. Ecco lì: chiaramente visibile alla luce del fuoco, e sempre altrettanto provocatoria come prima.

‘Tom fissò la sedia; e, all’improvviso, mentre la guardava, sembrò che le sue caratteristiche subissero un cambiamento straordinario. La scultura sullo schienale assunse gradualmente i tratti e l’espressione di un vecchio volto raggrinzito; il cuscino di damasco divenne una giacca antica con le maniche a sbuffo; i pomelli rotondi si trasformarono in due piedi avvolti in pantofole di stoffa rossa. L’intera sedia assomigliava a un vecchio uomo molto brutto, del secolo precedente, con le braccia incrociate sul petto. Tom si alzò a sedere nel letto e si strofinò gli occhi per scacciare quell’illusione. No: la sedia era davvero un brutto vecchio gentiluomo. E, cosa ancora più strana, stava facendo l’occhiolino a Tom Smart.’

‘Tom era naturalmente un cane impulsivo e negligente, e inoltre aveva bevuto cinque bicchieri di punch caldo; quindi, sebbene all’inizio fosse un po’ spaventato, cominciò ad arrabbiarsi quando vide quell’anziano signore che gli faceva l’occhiolino in modo così sfacciato. Alla fine decise che non avrebbe più tollerato quella situazione; e poiché quel volto anziano continuava a fare l’occhiolino con la stessa frequenza di prima, Tom disse, con tono molto arrabbiato, ’

“Ma che diavolo stai facendo, mi fai l’occhiolino per quale motivo?”

“Perché mi piace, Tom Smart,” disse il vecchio signore, o come volete chiamarlo. Però smise di ammiccare quando Tom parlò e iniziò a sorridere come una scimmia anziana.

“Come fai a conoscere il mio nome, vecchio con quella faccia da cracker di noci?” chiese Tom Smart, piuttosto sbalordito; anche se cercò di far finta che tutto fosse molto normale.

“Ma come, ma come, Tom,” disse il vecchio signore, “non è così che si deve trattare il solido mogano spagnolo. Perbacco, non potresti mostrarmi meno rispetto nemmeno se fossi rivestito di laminato!” Quando il vecchio signore disse queste parole, aveva un’espressione così minacciosa che Tom iniziò ad avere paura.

“Non volevo affatto mancarvi di rispetto, signore,” disse Tom, usando un tono molto più umile rispetto a prima.

“Beh, forse no,” disse l’uomo anziano, “forse no. Tom, ”

“Sir–”

“So tutto di te, Tom, tutto. Sei molto povero, Tom.”

“Certo che lo sono,” disse Tom Smart. “Ma come facevi a saperlo?”

“Lascia perdere,” disse il vecchio signore; “tu ami troppo il pugilato, Tom.”

“Tom Smart stava proprio per protestare dicendo di non aver assaggiato nulla da quando aveva compiuto gli anni l’ultima volta, ma quando i suoi occhi incrociarono quelli del vecchio signore, guardò in modo così complice che Tom arrossì e rimase in silenzio.”

“‘Tom,’ disse il vecchio signore, ‘quella vedova è una donna davvero bella, straordinariamente bella, eh, Tom?’ A quel punto il vecchio strinse gli occhi, sollevò una delle sue gambe magre e ossute, e assunse un’aria così volgaremente amorosa che Tom ne fu profondamente disgustato, a quell’età, per di più!”

“Sono il suo tutore, Tom”, disse il vecchio signore.

“Sei tu?”, chiese Tom Smart.

“Conoscevo sua madre, Tom,” disse l’uomo anziano: “e anche sua nonna. Lei mi voleva molto bene. Me ne ha fatto questo gilet, Tom.”

“Davvero lo ha fatto?” disse Tom Smart.

“E queste scarpe,” disse l’uomo anziano, sollevando uno dei fazzoletti di stoffa rossa; “ma non parlarne, Tom. Non vorrei che si sapesse che lei era così legata a me. Potrebbe causare qualche dispiacere in famiglia.” Quando il vecchio furfante disse queste cose, aveva un’aria così estremamente impertinente che, come Tom Smart dichiarò in seguito, avrebbe potuto sedersi sopra di lui senza rimorsi.

‘“I have been a great favourite among the women in my time, Tom,” said the profligate old debauchee; “hundreds of fine women have sat in my lap for hours together. What do you think of that, you dog, eh!” The old gentleman was proceeding to recount some other exploits of his youth, when he was seized with such a violent fit of creaking that he was unable to proceed.

‘“Just serves you right, old boy,” thought Tom Smart; but he didn’t say anything.

‘“Ah!” said the old fellow, “I am a good deal troubled with this now. I am getting old, Tom, and have lost nearly all my nails. I have had an operation performed, too—a small piece let into my back—and I found it a severe trial, Tom.”

‘“I dare say you did, Sir,” said Tom Smart.

‘“However,” said the old gentleman, “that’s not the point. Tom! I want you to marry the widow.”

‘“Me, Sir!” said Tom.

‘“You,” said the old gentleman.

‘“Bless your reverend locks,” said Tom (he had a few scattered horse- hairs left)—“bless your reverend locks, she wouldn’t have me.” And Tom sighed involuntarily, as he thought of the bar.

‘“Wouldn’t she?” said the old gentleman firmly.

‘“No, no,” said Tom; “there’s somebody else in the wind. A tall man—a confoundedly tall man—with black whiskers.”

‘“Tom,” said the old gentleman; “she will never have him.”

‘“Won’t she?” said Tom. “If you stood in the bar, old gentleman, you’d tell another story.”

‘“Pooh, pooh,” said the old gentleman. “I know all about that.”

‘“About what?” said Tom.

‘“The kissing behind the door, and all that sort of thing, Tom,” said the old gentleman. And here he gave another impudent look, which made Tom very wroth, because as you all know, gentlemen, to hear an old fellow, who ought to know better, talking about these things, is very unpleasant—nothing more so.

‘“I know all about that, Tom,” said the old gentleman. “I have seen it done very often in my time, Tom, between more people than I should like to mention to you; but it never came to anything after all.”

‘“You must have seen some queer things,” said Tom, with an inquisitive look.

‘“You may say that, Tom,” replied the old fellow, with a very complicated wink. “I am the last of my family, Tom,” said the old gentleman, with a melancholy sigh.

‘“Was it a large one?” inquired Tom Smart.

‘“There were twelve of us, Tom,” said the old gentleman; “fine, straight-backed, handsome fellows as you’d wish to see. None of your modern abortions—all with arms, and with a degree of polish, though I say it that should not, which it would have done your heart good to behold.”

‘“And what’s become of the others, Sir?” asked Tom Smart—

‘The old gentleman applied his elbow to his eye as he replied, “Gone, Tom, gone. We had hard service, Tom, and they hadn’t all my constitution. They got rheumatic about the legs and arms, and went into kitchens and other hospitals; and one of ‘em, with long service and hard usage, positively lost his senses—he got so crazy that he was obliged to be burnt. Shocking thing that, Tom.”

‘“Dreadful!” said Tom Smart.

‘The old fellow paused for a few minutes, apparently struggling with his feelings of emotion, and then said—

‘“However, Tom, I am wandering from the point. This tall man, Tom, is a rascally adventurer. The moment he married the widow, he would sell off all the furniture, and run away. What would be the consequence? She would be deserted and reduced to ruin, and I should catch my death of cold in some broker’s shop.”

‘“Yes, but—”

‘“Don’t interrupt me,” said the old gentleman. “Of you, Tom, I entertain a very different opinion; for I well know that if you once settled yourself in a public-house, you would never leave it, as long as there was anything to drink within its walls.”

‘“I am very much obliged to you for your good opinion, Sir,” said Tom Smart.

‘“Therefore,” resumed the old gentleman, in a dictatorial tone, “you shall have her, and he shall not.”

‘“What is to prevent it?” said Tom Smart eagerly.

‘“This disclosure,” replied the old gentleman; “he is already married.”

‘“How can I prove it?” said Tom, starting half out of bed.

‘The old gentleman untucked his arm from his side, and having pointed to one of the oaken presses, immediately replaced it, in its old position.

‘“He little thinks,” said the old gentleman, “that in the right-hand pocket of a pair of trousers in that press, he has left a letter, entreating him to return to his disconsolate wife, with six—mark me, Tom—six babes, and all of them small ones.”

‘As the old gentleman solemnly uttered these words, his features grew less and less distinct, and his figure more shadowy. A film came over Tom Smart’s eyes. The old man seemed gradually blending into the chair, the damask waistcoat to resolve into a cushion, the red slippers to shrink into little red cloth bags. The light faded gently away, and Tom Smart fell back on his pillow, and dropped asleep.

‘Morning aroused Tom from the lethargic slumber, into which he had fallen on the disappearance of the old man. He sat up in bed, and for some minutes vainly endeavoured to recall the events of the preceding night. Suddenly they rushed upon him. He looked at the chair; it was a fantastic and grim-looking piece of furniture, certainly, but it must have been a remarkably ingenious and lively imagination, that could have discovered any resemblance between it and an old man.

‘“How are you, old boy?” said Tom. He was bolder in the daylight—most men are.

‘The chair remained motionless, and spoke not a word.

‘“Miserable morning,” said Tom. No. The chair would not be drawn into conversation.

‘“Which press did you point to?—you can tell me that,” said Tom. Devil a word, gentlemen, the chair would say.

‘“It’s not much trouble to open it, anyhow,” said Tom, getting out of bed very deliberately. He walked up to one of the presses. The key was in the lock; he turned it, and opened the door. There was a pair of trousers there. He put his hand into the pocket, and drew forth the identical letter the old gentleman had described!

“Sono sempre stato molto amato dalle donne del mio tempo, Tom,” disse il vecchio dissoluto; “centinaia di belle donne sono sedute sulle mie ginocchia per ore intere. Cosa ne pensi tu, eh, cane!” Il vecchio signore stava per raccontare altre avventure della sua giovinezza, quando fu colpito da un attacco così violento di tremori che non riuscì più a continuare.

“Te lo meriti davvero, vecchio mio”, pensò Tom Smart; ma non disse nulla.

“Ah!” disse l’uomo anziano, “Ora sono davvero molto preoccupato per questo problema. Sto invecchiando, Tom, e ho perso quasi tutte le unghie. Mi hanno anche fatto un intervento chirurgico: mi hanno inserito un piccolo pezzo di metallo nella schiena. E devo dire che è stato davvero una grande sofferenza, Tom.”

“Credo proprio che lo abbiate fatto, signore”, disse Tom Smart.

“Tuttavia,” disse il vecchio signore, “non è questo il punto. Tom. Voglio che tu sposi la vedova.”

“Me, signore!”, disse Tom.

“Tu,” disse il vecchio signore.

“Benedetti siano i vostri venerabili capelli,” disse Tom (gli erano rimasti alcuni peli di cavallo sparsi, ) “Benedetti siano i vostri venerabili capelli. Lei non mi ha voluto.” E Tom sospirò involontariamente, pensando a quella barra.

“Non lo farebbe forse?”, disse con fermezza il vecchio signore.

“No, no,” disse Tom; “c’è qualcun altro nel vento. Un uomo alto, un uomo incredibilmente alto, con baffi neri.”

“Tom”, disse il vecchio signore, “lei non lo avrà mai”.

“Non lo farà mica?”, disse Tom. “Se vi trovaste lì dentro al bar, vecchio signore, direste qualcos’altro, ”

“Pfft, pfft“, disse il vecchio signore. “So tutto al riguardo“.

“Di cosa?” disse Tom.

“Quei baci dietro la porta e tutte quelle cose del genere, Tom,” disse il vecchio signore. E qui diede un altro sguardo impudente, che fece arrabbiare molto Tom, perché, come tutti voi sapete, signori, ascoltare un vecchio che dovrebbe saper meglio comportarsi parlare di queste cose è davvero molto sgradevole, nient’altro che sgradevole.

“Lo so tutto su questo, Tom,” disse il vecchio signore. “L’ho visto accadere molte volte durante la mia epoca, Tom, tra molte più persone di quante vorrei menzionare. Ma alla fine non è mai portato a nulla.”

“Devi aver visto cose strane,” disse Tom, con uno sguardo curioso.

“Puoi dirlo, Tom,” rispose l’uomo anziano, con un battito di ciglia molto complesso. “Sono l’ultimo della mia famiglia, Tom,” disse il vecchio gentiluomo, con un sospiro melanconico.

“Era grande?” chiese Tom Smart.

“Eravamo dodici,” disse il vecchio signore; “ragazzi belli, dritti in piedi, attraenti, proprio come si potrebbe desiderare di vederli. Nessuno di quegli esseri deformi e degenerati dei tempi moderni, tutti con le braccia, e anche con un certo grado di raffinatezza, anche se devo dire che non ne avevano bisogno; sarebbe stato davvero bello per i vostri occhi vederli.”

“E cosa ne è stato degli altri, signore?” chiese Tom Smart.

‘Il vecchio signore si premette il gomito sugli occhi mentre rispondeva: “Se n’è andato, Tom, se n’è andato. Abbiamo avuto una vita dura, Tom. Loro non avevano la mia resistenza fisica. Hanno preso il reumatismo alle gambe e ai bracci, sono finiti in cucine e in altri ospedali. Uno di loro, dopo anni di duro lavoro e abusi, ha persino perso la ragione. È diventato così pazzo che hanno dovuto bruciarlo. Una cosa davvero scioccante, Tom, ”

“Terribile!”, disse Tom Smart.

“Quell’uomo anziano si fermò per alcuni minuti, chiaramente lottando con i propri sentimenti, e poi disse, ”

“Tuttavia, Tom, sto deviando dal punto. Quest’uomo alto, Tom, è un avventuriero disonesto. Non appena si sposerà della vedova, venderà tutti i mobili e scapperà via. Quali saranno le conseguenze? Lei rimarrà abbandonata e ridotta alla rovina, e io morirò di freddo in qualche negozio di pegni.”

“Sì, ma, davvero–”

“Non interrompetemi,” disse il vecchio signore. “Per quanto riguarda te, Tom, ho un’opinione molto diversa; so infatti che se una volta ti stabilissi in un ospedale pubblico, non lo lascieresti mai più, finché ci fosse qualcosa da bere al suo interno.”

“Sono molto grato per la sua buona opinione, signore,” disse Tom Smart.

“Pertanto,” riprese il vecchio signore con tono autoritario, “la avrai tu, e non lui.”

“Cosa potrebbe impedirlo?”, chiese Tom Smart con impazienza.

“Questa rivelazione, ”, rispose il vecchio signore, “lui è già sposato”.

“Come posso provarlo?”, disse Tom, alzandosi a metà dal letto.

Il vecchio signore si tolse il braccio dalla posizione laterale e, dopo aver indicato uno dei pressi in legno di quercia, lo rimise immediatamente nella sua posizione originale.

“Pochissimo si rende conto,” disse il vecchio signore, “che nella tasca destra di un paio di pantaloni, lì dentro nell’armadio, ha lasciato una lettera in cui lo si prega di tornare dalla sua disperata moglie, insieme a sei, ascoltami bene, Tom, sei bambini, e tutti ancora piccoli.”

Mentre il vecchio signore pronunciava seriamente queste parole, i suoi tratti diventavano sempre meno distinti e la sua figura sempre più sfocata. Un velo calò sugli occhi di Tom Smart; il vecchio sembrava fondersi gradualmente con la sedia: il gilet di damasco si trasformava in un cuscino, le pantofole rosse si riducevano a piccoli sacchetti di stoffa rossa. La luce svanì dolcemente, e Tom Smart si addormentò.

La mattina svegliò Tom dal torpido sonno in cui era caduto dopo la scomparsa dell’uomo anziano. Si alzò a sedere sul letto e, per alcuni minuti, cercò invano di ricordare gli eventi della precedente notte. All’improvviso tutto gli tornò in mente. Guardò la sedia: era certamente un pezzo di mobili fantastico e dall’aspetto sinistro, ma doveva trattarsi di una immaginazione straordinariamente ingegnosa e vivida per riuscire a scorgere qualche somiglianza tra essa e quell’uomo anziano.

“Come stai, vecchio mio?” disse Tom. Di giorno era più audace, la maggior parte delle persone lo è.

La sedia rimase immobile e non pronunciò una parola.

“Che mattina orribile, ”, disse Tom. No, la sedia non sembrava disposta a partecipare alla conversazione.

“Quale macchina tipografica hai indicato? Puoi dirmelo,” disse Tom. Per Dio, signori, la sedia stessa lo direbbe.

“Comunque, non è molto difficile aprirlo,” disse Tom, alzandosi dal letto con molta calma. Si avvicinò a uno dei cassetti; la chiave era nella serratura; la girò e aprì lo sportello. Lì dentro c’erano un paio di pantaloni. Infilò la mano nella tasca e ne tirò fuori la stessa lettera che il vecchio signore aveva descritto!

‘“Queer sort of thing, this,” said Tom Smart, looking first at the chair and then at the press, and then at the letter, and then at the chair again. “Very queer,” said Tom. But, as there was nothing in either, to lessen the queerness, he thought he might as well dress himself, and settle the tall man’s business at once—just to put him out of his misery.

‘Tom surveyed the rooms he passed through, on his way downstairs, with the scrutinising eye of a landlord; thinking it not impossible, that before long, they and their contents would be his property. The tall man was standing in the snug little bar, with his hands behind him, quite at home. He grinned vacantly at Tom. A casual observer might have supposed he did it, only to show his white teeth; but Tom Smart thought that a consciousness of triumph was passing through the place where the tall man’s mind would have been, if he had had any. Tom laughed in his face; and summoned the landlady.

‘“Good-morning ma’am,” said Tom Smart, closing the door of the little parlour as the widow entered.

‘“Good-morning, Sir,” said the widow. “What will you take for breakfast, sir?”

‘Tom was thinking how he should open the case, so he made no answer.

‘“There’s a very nice ham,” said the widow, “and a beautiful cold larded fowl. Shall I send ‘em in, Sir?”

‘These words roused Tom from his reflections. His admiration of the widow increased as she spoke. Thoughtful creature! Comfortable provider!

‘“Who is that gentleman in the bar, ma’am?” inquired Tom.

‘“His name is Jinkins, Sir,” said the widow, slightly blushing.

‘“He’s a tall man,” said Tom.

‘“He is a very fine man, Sir,” replied the widow, “and a very nice gentleman.”

‘“Ah!” said Tom.

‘“Is there anything more you want, Sir?” inquired the widow, rather puzzled by Tom’s manner.

‘“Why, yes,” said Tom. “My dear ma’am, will you have the kindness to sit down for one moment?”

‘The widow looked much amazed, but she sat down, and Tom sat down too, close beside her. I don’t know how it happened, gentlemen—indeed my uncle used to tell me that Tom Smart said he didn’t know how it happened either—but somehow or other the palm of Tom’s hand fell upon the back of the widow’s hand, and remained there while he spoke.

‘“My dear ma’am,” said Tom Smart—he had always a great notion of committing the amiable—“my dear ma’am, you deserve a very excellent husband—you do indeed.”

‘“Lor, Sir!” said the widow—as well she might; Tom’s mode of commencing the conversation being rather unusual, not to say startling; the fact of his never having set eyes upon her before the previous night being taken into consideration. “Lor, Sir!”

‘“I scorn to flatter, my dear ma’am,” said Tom Smart. “You deserve a very admirable husband, and whoever he is, he’ll be a very lucky man.” As Tom said this, his eye involuntarily wandered from the widow’s face to the comfort around him.

‘The widow looked more puzzled than ever, and made an effort to rise. Tom gently pressed her hand, as if to detain her, and she kept her seat. Widows, gentlemen, are not usually timorous, as my uncle used to say.

‘“I am sure I am very much obliged to you, Sir, for your good opinion,” said the buxom landlady, half laughing; “and if ever I marry again—”

’”If,” said Tom Smart, looking very shrewdly out of the right-hand corner of his left eye. “If—”

“Well,” said the widow, laughing outright this time, “_when _I do, I hope I shall have as good a husband as you describe.”

‘“Jinkins, to wit,” said Tom.

‘“Lor, sir!” exclaimed the widow.

‘“Oh, don’t tell me,” said Tom, “I know him.”

‘“I am sure nobody who knows him, knows anything bad of him,” said the widow, bridling up at the mysterious air with which Tom had spoken.

‘“Hem!” said Tom Smart.

‘The widow began to think it was high time to cry, so she took out her handkerchief, and inquired whether Tom wished to insult her, whether he thought it like a gentleman to take away the character of another gentleman behind his back, why, if he had got anything to say, he didn’t say it to the man, like a man, instead of terrifying a poor weak woman in that way; and so forth.

‘“I’ll say it to him fast enough,” said Tom, “only I want you to hear it first.”

‘“What is it?” inquired the widow, looking intently in Tom’s countenance.

‘“I’ll astonish you,” said Tom, putting his hand in his pocket.

‘“If it is, that he wants money,” said the widow, “I know that already, and you needn’t trouble yourself.” ‘“Pooh, nonsense, that’s nothing,” said Tom Smart, “I want money. ‘Tain’t that.”

‘“Oh, dear, what can it be?” exclaimed the poor widow.

‘“Don’t be frightened,” said Tom Smart. He slowly drew forth the letter, and unfolded it. “You won’t scream?” said Tom doubtfully.

‘“No, no,” replied the widow; “let me see it.”

‘“You won’t go fainting away, or any of that nonsense?” said Tom.

‘“No, no,” returned the widow hastily.

‘“And don’t run out, and blow him up,” said Tom; “because I’ll do all that for you. You had better not exert yourself.”

‘“Well, well,” said the widow, “let me see it.”

‘“I will,” replied Tom Smart; and, with these words, he placed the letter in the widow’s hand.

‘Gentlemen, I have heard my uncle say, that Tom Smart said the widow’s lamentations when she heard the disclosure would have pierced a heart of stone. Tom was certainly very tender-hearted, but they pierced his, to the very core. The widow rocked herself to and fro, and wrung her hands.

‘“Oh, the deception and villainy of the man!” said the widow.

‘“Frightful, my dear ma’am; but compose yourself,” said Tom Smart.

‘“Oh, I can’t compose myself,” shrieked the widow. “I shall never find anyone else I can love so much!”

‘“Oh, yes you will, my dear soul,” said Tom Smart, letting fall a shower of the largest-sized tears, in pity for the widow’s misfortunes. Tom Smart, in the energy of his compassion, had put his arm round the widow’s waist; and the widow, in a passion of grief, had clasped Tom’s hand. She looked up in Tom’s face, and smiled through her tears. Tom looked down in hers, and smiled through his.

‘I never could find out, gentlemen, whether Tom did or did not kiss the widow at that particular moment. He used to tell my uncle he didn’t, but I have my doubts about it. Between ourselves, gentlemen, I rather think he did.

‘At all events, Tom kicked the very tall man out at the front door half an hour later, and married the widow a month after. And he used to drive about the country, with the clay-coloured gig with the red wheels, and the vixenish mare with the fast pace, till he gave up business many years afterwards, and went to France with his wife; and then the old house was pulled down.’

‘Will you allow me to ask you,’ said the inquisitive old gentleman, ‘what became of the chair?’

‘Why,’ replied the one-eyed bagman, ‘it was observed to creak very much on the day of the wedding; but Tom Smart couldn’t say for certain whether it was with pleasure or bodily infirmity. He rather thought it was the latter, though, for it never spoke afterwards.’

‘Everybody believed the story, didn’t they?’ said the dirty-faced man, refilling his pipe.

‘Except Tom’s enemies,’ replied the bagman. ‘Some of ‘em said Tom invented it altogether; and others said he was drunk and fancied it, and got hold of the wrong trousers by mistake before he went to bed. But nobody ever minded what _they _said.’

‘Tom Smart said it was all true?’

‘Every word.’

‘And your uncle?’

‘Every letter.’

‘They must have been very nice men, both of ‘em,’ said the dirty-faced man.

‘Yes, they were,’ replied the bagman; ‘very nice men indeed!’

“Che strana situazione, ”, disse Tom Smart, guardando prima la sedia, poi la macchina da stampa, quindi la lettera, e infine di nuovo la sedia. “Molto strana davvero”, ripeté. Ma poiché nulla di ciò che aveva visto poteva in qualche modo alleviare quella stranezza, pensò che tanto valeva vestirsi e risolvere subito i problemi di quell’uomo alto, solo per farlo smettere di soffrire.

‘Tom osservò attentamente le stanze che attraversava mentre scendeva le scale, con lo sguardo attento di un proprietario; pensando che non fosse impossibile che, molto presto, quelle stanze e il loro contenuto diventassero sua proprietà. L’uomo alto stava in piedi nel piccolo bar, con le mani dietro la schiena, come se si sentisse davvero a >casa. Sorrise vagamente a Tom. Un osservatore casuale avrebbe potuto pensare che lo facesse soltanto per mostrare i suoi denti bianchi; ma Tom Smart intuì che in quel momento l’uomo alto provasse una sensazione di trionfo, se mai ne avesse avuta una. Tom rise in faccia a lui e chiamò la proprietaria.’

“Buongiorno signora,” disse Tom Smart, chiudendo la porta del piccolo salotto non appena la vedova entrò.

“Buongiorno, signore”, disse la vedova. “Cosa desidera per colazione, signore?”

“Tom stava pensando a come aprire la scatola, quindi non rispose.”

“C’è una molto bella carne di maiale,” disse la vedova, “e anche un bellissimo pollo freddo condito con lardo. Devo mandarveli dentro, signore?”

“Queste parole distolsero Tom dai suoi pensieri. Il suo ammiramento per la vedova aumentava man mano che lei parlava. Che persona premurosa e capace di prendersi cura degli altri!”

“Chi è quel signore al bar, signora?” chiese Tom.

“Si chiama Jinkins, signore,” disse la vedova, arrossendo leggermente.

“È un uomo alto,” disse Tom.

“È un uomo davvero gentile, signore”, rispose la vedova, “e un vero signore per bene”.

“Ah!”, disse Tom.

“C’è qualcos’altro che desiderate, signore?”, chiese la vedova, piuttosto perplessa dal comportamento di Tom.

“Sì, certo,” disse Tom. “Mia cara signora, le dispiacerebbe sedersi un momento?”

La vedova sembrava molto sorpresa, ma si sedette, e anche Tom si sedette accanto a lei. Non so come sia successo, signori. Anzi, mio zio mi raccontava che anche Tom Smart diceva di non sapere come fosse avvenuto. Comunque sia, la palma della mano di Tom finì sulla schiena della mano della vedova e rimase lì mentre parlava.

“Mia cara signora,” disse Tom Smart – che aveva sempre una grande passione per le frasi gentili e affettuose – “mia cara signora, meritate davvero un marito eccellente. Lo meritate davvero.”

“Signore mio!” disse la vedova, come poteva fare altrimenti; il modo in cui Tom aveva iniziato la conversazione era piuttosto insolito, per non dire sorprendente; soprattutto considerando che prima di quella notte non l’aveva mai vista nemmeno una volta. “Signore mio!”

“Non mi abbasso a lusinghe, mia cara signora,” disse Tom Smart. “Meritate un marito davvero meraviglioso, e chiunque sia, sarà un uomo molto fortunato.” Mentre parlava, il suo sguardo si allontanò involontariamente dal viso della vedova per posarsi sul lusso che la circondava.

“La vedova sembrava ancora più perplessa del solito e cercò di alzarsi. Tom le premette dolcemente la mano, come se volesse trattenerla, e lei rimase seduta. Le vedove, signori, di solito non sono timide, come usava dire mio zio.”

“Sono sicura di essere molto in debito con voi, signore, per la vostra buona opinione,” disse la rotonda padrona di casa, ridendo a metà; “e se mai mi risposo, ”

“Se, ”, disse Tom Smart, guardando con aria molto astuta dall’angolo destro del suo occhio sinistro. “Se, ”

“Beh,” disse la vedova, ridendo apertamente questa volta, “quando lo farò, spero di avere un marito altrettanto buono di quello che descrivi tu.”

“‘Jinkins, appunto,’ disse Tom.”

“Signori, mio signore!”, esclamò la vedova.

“Ah, non dirmelo, ”, disse Tom, “lo conosco”.

“Sono sicura che nessuno che lo conosca abbia qualcosa di negativo da dire su di lui”, disse la vedova, turbata dall’atmosfera misteriosa con cui Tom aveva parlato.

“Ehm!”, disse Tom Smart.

“La vedova iniziò a pensare che fosse giunto il momento di piangere, quindi tirò fuori il fazzoletto e chiese se Tom volesse insultarla, se riteneva che fosse comportamento da gentiluomo distruggere la reputazione di un altro gentiluomo alle sue spalle; perché, se aveva qualcosa da dire, non lo diceva in faccia a quell’uomo, da uomo, invece di terrorizzare una povera donna debole in quel modo. E così via.”

“Glielo dirò abbastanza in fretta”, disse Tom, “ma voglio che tu lo senta prima”.

“Che cos’è?” chiese la vedova, guardando attentamente il volto di Tom.

“Vi stupirò,” disse Tom, mettendo la mano in tasca.

“Se è così, vuol dire che vuole soldi,” disse la vedova, “Lo so già, non c’è bisogno che ti preoccupi.” “Pff, sciocchezze, non è niente,” disse Tom Smart, “Io voglio soldi. E basta.”

“Oh, mio Dio, cosa può essere?” esclamò la povera vedova.

“Non avere paura,” disse Tom Smart. Estrasse lentamente la lettera e la aprì. “Non urlerai, vero?” chiese Tom con esitazione.

“No, no,” rispose la vedova; “lasciami vederlo.”

“Non sverrai mica, o cose del genere, vero?” disse Tom.

“No, no,” rispose prontamente la vedova.

“E non finire il carburante, e fai esplodere quella cosa,” disse Tom; “perché farò tutto questo per te. È meglio che tu non ti sforzi troppo.”

“Beh, beh, ”, disse la vedova, “lasciami vederlo.”

“Lo farò,” rispose Tom Smart; e, dicendo queste parole, porse la lettera nella mano della vedova.

‘Signori, ho sentito mio zio dire che Tom Smart affermava che i lamenti della vedova, quando venne a sapere la verità, avrebbero potuto penetrare anche il cuore di pietra. Tom era certamente molto compassionevole, ma quei lamenti gli penetrarono nel profondo dell’anima. La vedova si dondolava avanti e indietro, stringendosi le mani.’

“Ah, che inganno e malvagità in quell’uomo!”, disse la vedova.

“Terribile, mia cara signora. Ma si calmi,” disse Tom Smart.

“Oh, non riesco a calmarmi,” gridò la vedova. “Non troverò mai più nessuno che io possa amare così tanto!”

“Oh, sì che lo farai, mia cara ‘anima,” disse Tom Smart, versando una pioggia di lacrime delle più grandi dimensioni, per compassione delle sfortune della vedova. Tom Smart, animato dalla sua compassione, aveva messo un braccio intorno alla vita della vedova; e lei, presa da un’onda di dolore, aveva stretto la mano di Tom. Alzò lo sguardo sul suo viso e sorrise tra le lacrime. Anche Tom guardò il suo viso e sorrise a sua volta.

“Signori, non sono mai riuscito a scoprire se Tom abbia baciato la vedova in quel particolare momento. Lui diceva sempre a mio zio che non l’aveva fatto, ma io ne ho dei dubbi. Tra di noi, signori, penso piuttosto che l’abbia fatto.”

“In ogni caso, mezz’ora dopo Tom cacciò quell’uomo molto alto dalla porta d’ingresso e sposò la vedova un mese dopo. Poi viaggiava per il paese con quella carrozza di colore giallo terra con ruote rosse, e quel cavallo dal pelo rossastro che correva veloce; continuò così per molti anni, fino a quando non smise l’attività e andò in Francia con sua moglie. In seguito, la vecchia casa fu demolita.”

“Le permetterà di chiederglielo?” disse il curioso vecchio signore, “che fine ha fatto quella sedia?”

“Perché,” rispose il mercante cieco, “si notò che cigolava molto nel giorno del matrimonio; ma Tom Smart non poteva essere sicuro se ciò fosse dovuto a piacere o a una qualche infermità fisica. Piuttosto pensava che si trattasse di quest’ultima, perché dopo quel giorno il mobile non parlò mai più.”

“Tutti credevano a quella storia, vero?” disse l’uomo dal viso sporco, riempiendo la sua pipa.

“Tranne gli nemici di Tom,” rispose il venditore ambulante. “Alcuni dicevano che Tom l’avesse inventato tutto; altri sostenevano che fosse ubriaco e se lo fosse immaginato, e che prima di andare a letto avesse preso per errore i pantaloni sbagliati. Ma a nessuno importava mai quello che loro dicevano.”

“Tom Smart ha detto che era tutto vero?”

“Ogni parola.”

“E tuo zio?”

“Ogni singola lettera.”

“Devono essere stati uomini molto gentili, entrambi,” disse l’uomo dal viso sporco.

“Sì, lo erano davvero,” rispose il banchiere; “uomini molto gentili, senza dubbio!”

CHAPTER XV. IN WHICH IS GIVEN A FAITHFUL PORTRAITURE OF TWO DISTINGUISHED PERSONS; AND AN ACCURATE DESCRIPTION OF A PUBLIC BREAKFAST IN THEIR HOUSE AND GROUNDS: WHICH PUBLIC BREAKFAST LEADS TO THE RECOGNITION OF AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE, AND THE COMMENCEMENT OF ANOTHER

CAPITOLO XV. IN CUI VIENE DATO UN RAPPRESENTAZIONE fedele di due persone distinte; e una descrizione accurata di una colazione pubblica nella loro >casa e nei loro terreni: tale colazione pubblica conduce al riconoscimento di un vecchio conoscente, e all’inizio di una nuova relazione.

CHAPTER

Mr. Pickwick’s conscience had been somewhat reproaching him for his recent neglect of his friends at the Peacock; and he was just on the point of walking forth in quest of them, on the third morning after the election had terminated, when his faithful valet put into his hand a card, on which was engraved the following inscription:—

Mrs. Leo Hunter THE DEN. EATANSWILL.

‘Person’s a-waitin’,’ said Sam, epigrammatically.

‘Does the person want me, Sam?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘He wants you partickler; and no one else ‘ll do, as the devil’s private secretary said ven he fetched avay Doctor Faustus,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘He. Is it a gentleman?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘A wery good imitation o’ one, if it ain’t,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘But this is a lady’s card,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Given me by a gen’l’m’n, howsoever,’ replied Sam, ‘and he’s a-waitin’ in the drawing-room—said he’d rather wait all day, than not see you.’

Mr. Pickwick, on hearing this determination, descended to the drawing- room, where sat a grave man, who started up on his entrance, and said, with an air of profound respect:—

‘Mr. Pickwick, I presume?’

‘The same.’

‘Allow me, Sir, the honour of grasping your hand. Permit me, Sir, to shake it,’ said the grave man.

‘Certainly,’ said Mr. Pickwick. The stranger shook the extended hand, and then continued—

‘We have heard of your fame, sir. The noise of your antiquarian discussion has reached the ears of Mrs. Leo Hunter—my wife, sir; I am Mr. Leo Hunter’—the stranger paused, as if he expected that Mr. Pickwick would be overcome by the disclosure; but seeing that he remained perfectly calm, proceeded—

‘My wife, sir—Mrs. Leo Hunter—is proud to number among her acquaintance all those who have rendered themselves celebrated by their works and talents. Permit me, sir, to place in a conspicuous part of the list the name of Mr. Pickwick, and his brother-members of the club that derives its name from him.’

‘I shall be extremely happy to make the acquaintance of such a lady, sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘You _shall _make it, sir,’ said the grave man. ‘To-morrow morning, sir, we give a public breakfast—a fete champetre—to a great number of those who have rendered themselves celebrated by their works and talents. Permit Mrs. Leo Hunter, Sir, to have the gratification of seeing you at the Den.’

‘With great pleasure,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Mrs. Leo Hunter has many of these breakfasts, Sir,’ resumed the new acquaintance—‘“feasts of reason,” sir, “and flows of soul,” as somebody who wrote a sonnet to Mrs. Leo Hunter on her breakfasts, feelingly and originally observed.’

‘Was he celebrated for his works and talents?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘He was Sir,’ replied the grave man, ‘all Mrs. Leo Hunter’s acquaintances are; it is her ambition, sir, to have no other acquaintance.’

‘It is a very noble ambition,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘When I inform Mrs. Leo Hunter, that that remark fell from your lips, sir, she will indeed be proud,’ said the grave man. ‘You have a gentleman in your train, who has produced some beautiful little poems, I think, sir.’

‘My friend Mr. Snodgrass has a great taste for poetry,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘So has Mrs. Leo Hunter, Sir. She dotes on poetry, sir. She adores it; I may say that her whole soul and mind are wound up, and entwined with it. She has produced some delightful pieces, herself, sir. You may have met with her “Ode to an Expiring Frog,” sir.’

‘I don’t think I have,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘You astonish me, Sir,’ said Mr. Leo Hunter. ‘It created an immense sensation. It was signed with an “L” and eight stars, and appeared originally in a lady’s magazine. It commenced—

‘“Can I view thee panting, lying On thy stomach, without sighing; Can I unmoved see thee dying On a log Expiring frog!”’

‘Beautiful!’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Fine,’ said Mr. Leo Hunter; ‘so simple.’

‘Very,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘The next verse is still more touching. Shall I repeat it?’

‘If you please,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘It runs thus,’ said the grave man, still more gravely.

‘“Say, have fiends in shape of boys, With wild halloo, and brutal noise, Hunted thee from marshy joys, With a dog, Expiring frog!”’

‘Finely expressed,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘All point, Sir,’ said Mr. Leo Hunter; ‘but you shall hear Mrs. Leo Hunter repeat it. She can do justice to it, Sir. She will repeat it, in character, Sir, to-morrow morning.’

‘In character!’

‘As Minerva. But I forgot—it’s a fancy-dress dejeune.’

‘Dear me,’ said Mr. Pickwick, glancing at his own figure—‘I can’t possibly—’

‘Can’t, sir; can’t!’ exclaimed Mr. Leo Hunter. ‘Solomon Lucas, the Jew in the High Street, has thousands of fancy-dresses. Consider, Sir, how many appropriate characters are open for your selection. Plato, Zeno, Epicurus, Pythagoras—all founders of clubs.’

‘I know that,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘but as I cannot put myself in competition with those great men, I cannot presume to wear their dresses.’

The grave man considered deeply, for a few seconds, and then said—

‘On reflection, Sir, I don’t know whether it would not afford Mrs. Leo Hunter greater pleasure, if her guests saw a gentleman of your celebrity in his own costume, rather than in an assumed one. I may venture to promise an exception in your case, sir—yes, I am quite certain that, on behalf of Mrs. Leo Hunter, I may venture to do so.’

‘In that case,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I shall have great pleasure in coming.’

‘But I waste your time, Sir,’ said the grave man, as if suddenly recollecting himself. ‘I know its value, sir. I will not detain you. I may tell Mrs. Leo Hunter, then, that she may confidently expect you and your distinguished friends? Good-morning, Sir, I am proud to have beheld so eminent a personage—not a step sir; not a word.’ And without giving Mr. Pickwick time to offer remonstrance or denial, Mr. Leo Hunter stalked gravely away.

capitolo

La conscienza del signor Pickwick lo rimproverava un po’ per aver trascurato di recente i suoi amici al Peacock; e proprio mentre stava per andare da loro, il terzo mattino dopo la fine delle elezioni, il suo fedele valletto gli mise in mano una carta su cui era incisa la seguente iscrizione:

Signora Leo Hunter, “La Tana”. Eatenswill.

“C’è qualcuno che aspetta,” disse Sam in modo pungente.

“Quella persona mi vuole davvero, Sam?”, chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Vuole che tu lo faccia in modo particolare; nessun altro potrebbe farlo, proprio come disse il segretario privato del diavolo quando andò a prendere il Dottor Fausto,” rispose il signor Weller.

“Lui. È un gentiluomo?” chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Un’ottima imitazione, se non addirittura la vera cosa”, rispose il signor Weller.

“Ma questa è una carta da signora,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Me l’ha dato un generale, in ogni caso,” rispose Sam, “e sta aspettando in salotto. Ha detto che preferirebbe aspettare tutto il giorno piuttosto che non vederti.”

Il signor Pickwick, sentendo questa decisione, scese nel salotto, dove sedeva un uomo serio, il quale si alzò non appena lo vide entrare e disse, con un tono di profondo rispetto:

“Signor Pickwick, presumo?”

“Lo stesso.”

“Permettetemi, signore, l’onore di stringere la vostra mano. Lasciate che vi stringa la mano,” disse quell’uomo serio.

“Certamente,” disse il signor Pickwick. Lo sconosciuto strinse la mano tesa e poi continuò.

“Abbiamo sentito parlare della vostra fama, signore. Il clamore delle vostre discussioni antiquarie è arrivato alle orecchie di Mrs. Leo Hunter, mia moglie, signore; io sono il signor Leo Hunter.” Lo sconosciuto fece una pausa, come se si aspettasse che il signor Pickwick rimanesse sopraffatto da questa rivelazione; ma vedendo che rimaneva completamente calmo, proseguì.

‘Mia moglie, signore – la signora Leo Hunter – è orgogliosa di annoverare tra i suoi conoscenti tutte quelle persone che si sono rese celebri grazie ai loro lavori e talenti. Permettetemi, signore, di inserire in una posizione ben visibile dell’elenco il nome del signor Pickwick e dei suoi fratelli membri del club che prende il nome da lui.’

“Sarò molto felice di conoscere una signora del genere, signore,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

“Riuscirete sicuramente, signore,” disse l’uomo serio. “Domani mattina organizzeremo una colazione pubblica, una vera e propria ‘festa campestre’, per molti di coloro che si sono fatti onorare grazie ai loro lavori e talenti. Permettete alla signora Leo Hunter di avere la gioia di vedervi al Den.”

“Con grande piacere,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

“La signora Leo Hunter organizza spesso questi pranzi, signore,” continuò la nuova conoscente, “‘feste della ragione’, signore, ‘e flussi di ‘anima’, come ha osservato con sentimento e originalità qualcuno che le ha scritto un >sonetto sui suoi pranzi.”

“Fu lui ad essere celebrato per le sue opere e i suoi talenti?”, chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Era un signore,” rispose l’uomo solenne, “tutti conoscevano la signora Leo Hunter; la sua ambizione, signore, era proprio quella di non avere altri conoscenti.”

“È un’ambizione molto nobile,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Quando informerò la signora Leo Hunter che quelle parole sono uscite dalle vostre labbra, signore, sarà davvero orgogliosa,” disse l’uomo serio. “Nel vostro treno c’è un gentiluomo che ha scritto alcuni bellissimi poemi, credo, signore.”

“Mio amico il signor Snodgrass ha un grande gusto per la poesia,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

“Anche la signora Leo Hunter lo sa, signore. Lei adora la poesia; posso dire che tutta la sua ‘anima e la sua mente sono dedicate a essa. Lei stessa ha scritto alcune opere davvero deliziose, signore. Forse avrete già letto la sua ‘Ode a una rana morente’.”

“Non credo di averla,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Mi stupite davvero, signore,” disse il signor Leo Hunter. “Ha suscitato un’enorme sensazione. Era firmato con una ‘L’ e otto stelle ed è apparso originariamente su una rivista femminile.”

“Posso guardarti ansimare, disteso sul ventre, senza provare alcun rimorso; posso assistere alla tua morte su un tronco, mentre una rana esala l’ultimo respiro, senza sentire nulla?”

“Bellissima!”, disse il signor Pickwick.

“Bene,” disse il signor Leo Hunter; “molto semplice.”

“Molto bene,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“La prossima strofa è ancora più commovente. Devo ripeterla?”

“Se vi compiacete,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“È così che funziona,” disse l’uomo serio, ancora più seriamente.

“Dicono che ci siano demoni con l’aspetto di ragazzi, che con grida selvagge e rumori brutali ti abbiano inseguito lontano dalle gioie umane, accompagnati da un cane, e da una rana morente!”

“Ben espresso,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Esattamente, signore,” disse il signor Leo Hunter; “ma ascolterete la signora Leo Hunter ripeterlo lei stessa. Lei è in grado di farne giustizia, signore. Lo ripeterà domani mattina, nel suo ruolo.”

“Nel carattere!”

“Come Minerva. Ma mi sono dimenticato: si tratta di un pranzo in abiti da festa.”

“Mio Dio,” disse il signor Pickwick, guardandosi il proprio aspetto, “non è possibile che io, ”

“Non posso, signore; non posso!” esclamò il signor Leo Hunter. “Solomon Lucas, quel ebreo della High Street, possiede migliaia di costumi eleganti. Pensateci, signore: quante figure adatte potete scegliere. Platone, Zenone, Epicuro, Pitagora, tutti fondatori di club.”

“Lo so,” disse il signor Pickwick; “ma poiché non posso competere con quegli uomini straordinari, non oso nemmeno indossare i loro abiti.”

L’uomo grave rifletté a lungo, per alcuni secondi, poi disse.

‘Riflettendoci bene, signore, non so se non farebbe maggiore piacere alla signora Leo Hunter se i suoi ospiti vedessero un gentiluomo della vostra fama nel suo abito naturale, piuttosto che in uno indossato a caso. Posso osare fare un’eccezione nel vostro caso. Sì, sono assolutamente certo di poterlo fare per conto della signora Leo Hunter.’

“In quel caso,” disse il signor Pickwick, “avrò grande piacere ad andare.”

“Ma sto perdendo il vostro tempo, signore,” disse l’uomo serio, come se all’improvviso si fosse ricordato di ciò che stava facendo. “Conosco bene il suo valore, signore. Non vi tratterrò oltre. Posso quindi dire alla signora Leo Hunter che può aspettarsi con fiducia la vostra visita e quella dei vostri illustri amici? Buongiorno, signore. È un onore per me aver avuto l’occasione di incontrare una persona così eminente. Nessun passo in più, signore; nessuna parola in più.” E senza dare al signor Pickwick il tempo di replicare o negare, il signor Leo Hunter se ne andò con aria solenne.

Mr. Pickwick took up his hat, and repaired to the Peacock, but Mr. Winkle had conveyed the intelligence of the fancy-ball there, before him.

‘Mrs. Pott’s going,’ were the first words with which he saluted his leader.

‘Is she?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘As Apollo,’ replied Winkle. ‘Only Pott objects to the tunic.’

‘He is right. He is quite right,’ said Mr. Pickwick emphatically.

‘Yes; so she’s going to wear a white satin gown with gold spangles.’

‘They’ll hardly know what she’s meant for; will they?’ inquired Mr. Snodgrass.

‘Of course they will,’ replied Mr. Winkle indignantly. ‘They’ll see her lyre, won’t they?’

‘True; I forgot that,’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

‘I shall go as a bandit,’ interposed Mr. Tupman.

‘What!’ said Mr. Pickwick, with a sudden start.

‘As a bandit,’ repeated Mr. Tupman, mildly.

‘You don’t mean to say,’ said Mr. Pickwick, gazing with solemn sternness at his friend—‘you don’t mean to say, Mr. Tupman, that it is your intention to put yourself into a green velvet jacket, with a two-inch tail?’

‘Such is my intention, Sir,’ replied Mr. Tupman warmly. ‘And why not, sir?’

‘Because, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, considerably excited—‘because you are too old, Sir.’

‘Too old!’ exclaimed Mr. Tupman.

‘And if any further ground of objection be wanting,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, ‘you are too fat, sir.’

‘Sir,’ said Mr. Tupman, his face suffused with a crimson glow, ‘this is an insult.’

‘Sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, in the same tone, ‘it is not half the insult to you, that your appearance in my presence in a green velvet jacket, with a two-inch tail, would be to me.’

‘Sir,’ said Mr. Tupman, ‘you’re a fellow.’

‘Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘you’re another!’

Mr. Tupman advanced a step or two, and glared at Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Pickwick returned the glare, concentrated into a focus by means of his spectacles, and breathed a bold defiance. Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle looked on, petrified at beholding such a scene between two such men.

‘Sir,’ said Mr. Tupman, after a short pause, speaking in a low, deep voice, ‘you have called me old.’

‘I have,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘And fat.’

‘I reiterate the charge.’

‘And a fellow.’

‘So you are!’

There was a fearful pause.

‘My attachment to your person, sir,’ said Mr. Tupman, speaking in a voice tremulous with emotion, and tucking up his wristbands meanwhile, ‘is great—very great—but upon that person, I must take summary vengeance.’

‘Come on, Sir!’ replied Mr. Pickwick. Stimulated by the exciting nature of the dialogue, the heroic man actually threw himself into a paralytic attitude, confidently supposed by the two bystanders to have been intended as a posture of defence.

‘What!’ exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass, suddenly recovering the power of speech, of which intense astonishment had previously bereft him, and rushing between the two, at the imminent hazard of receiving an application on the temple from each—‘what! Mr. Pickwick, with the eyes of the world upon you! Mr. Tupman! who, in common with us all, derives a lustre from his undying name! For shame, gentlemen; for shame.’

The unwonted lines which momentary passion had ruled in Mr. Pickwick’s clear and open brow, gradually melted away, as his young friend spoke, like the marks of a black-lead pencil beneath the softening influence of india-rubber. His countenance had resumed its usual benign expression, ere he concluded.

‘I have been hasty,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘very hasty. Tupman; your hand.’

The dark shadow passed from Mr. Tupman’s face, as he warmly grasped the hand of his friend.

‘I have been hasty, too,’ said he.

‘No, no,’ interrupted Mr. Pickwick, ‘the fault was mine. You will wear the green velvet jacket?’

‘No, no,’ replied Mr. Tupman.

‘To oblige me, you will,’ resumed Mr. Pickwick.

‘Well, well, I will,’ said Mr. Tupman.

It was accordingly settled that Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass, should all wear fancy-dresses. Thus Mr. Pickwick was led by the very warmth of his own good feelings to give his consent to a proceeding from which his better judgment would have recoiled—a more striking illustration of his amiable character could hardly have been conceived, even if the events recorded in these pages had been wholly imaginary.

Mr. Leo Hunter had not exaggerated the resources of Mr. Solomon Lucas. His wardrobe was extensive—very extensive—not strictly classical perhaps, not quite new, nor did it contain any one garment made precisely after the fashion of any age or time, but everything was more or less spangled; and what can be prettier than spangles! It may be objected that they are not adapted to the daylight, but everybody knows that they would glitter if there were lamps; and nothing can be clearer than that if people give fancy-balls in the day-time, and the dresses do not show quite as well as they would by night, the fault lies solely with the people who give the fancy-balls, and is in no wise chargeable on the spangles. Such was the convincing reasoning of Mr. Solomon Lucas; and influenced by such arguments did Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass engage to array themselves in costumes which his taste and experience induced him to recommend as admirably suited to the occasion.

A carriage was hired from the Town Arms, for the accommodation of the Pickwickians, and a chariot was ordered from the same repository, for the purpose of conveying Mr. and Mrs. Pott to Mrs. Leo Hunter’s grounds, which Mr. Pott, as a delicate acknowledgment of having received an invitation, had already confidently predicted in the Eatanswill Gazette ‘would present a scene of varied and delicious enchantment—a bewildering coruscation of beauty and talent—a lavish and prodigal display of hospitality—above all, a degree of splendour softened by the most exquisite taste; and adornment refined with perfect harmony and the chastest good keeping—compared with which, the fabled gorgeousness of Eastern fairyland itself would appear to be clothed in as many dark and murky colours, as must be the mind of the splenetic and unmanly being who could presume to taint with the venom of his envy, the preparations made by the virtuous and highly distinguished lady at whose shrine this humble tribute of admiration was offered.’ This last was a piece of biting sarcasm against the Independent, who, in consequence of not having been invited at all, had been, through four numbers, affecting to sneer at the whole affair, in his very largest type, with all the adjectives in capital letters.

Il signor Pickwick prese il suo cappello e si diresse verso il Peacock, ma il signor Winkle gli aveva già comunicato l’informazione riguardante la festa in maschera che si teneva lì.

“La signora Pott se ne va,” furono le prime parole con cui salutò il suo leader.

“È davvero lei?” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Come Apollo,” rispose Winkle. “Solo Pott si oppone a questa tunica.”

“Ha ragione. Ha assolutamente ragione,” disse il signor Pickwick con enfasi.

“Sì; quindi indosserà un abito da sera di seta bianca con decorazioni dorate.”

“Probabilmente non capiranno nemmeno a cosa serve; vero?” chiese il signor Snodgrass.

“Certo che lo faranno,” rispose il signor Winkle con indignazione. “Vederanno la sua lira, no?”

“Vero; me n’ero dimenticato,” disse il signor Snodgrass.

“Andrò a fare il bandito,” intervenne il signor Tupman.

“Che cosa!” esclamò il signor Pickwick, sobbalzando all’improvviso.

“Come un bandito,” ripeté gentilmente il signor Tupman.

“Non vorrà dire, ”, disse il signor Pickwick, guardando il suo amico con un’espressione solenne e severa, “non vorrà dire, signor Tupman, che intende indossare una giacca di velluto verde con una coda lunga due pollici?”

“È proprio questa la mia intenzione, signore,” rispose cordialmente il signor Tupman. “E perché no, signore?”

“Perché, signore,” disse il signor Pickwick con notevole emozione, “perché lei è troppo vecchio, signore.”

“Troppo vecchio!”, esclamò il signor Tupman.

“E se ci fossero ancora motivi di obiezione,” continuò il signor Pickwick, “allora siete troppo grasso, signore.”

“Signore,” disse il signor Tupman, con il viso arrossato fino al rosso fuoco, “questo è un insulto.”

“Signore,” rispose il signor Pickwick con lo stesso tono, “non sarebbe nemmeno la metà di un insulto per voi se la vostra apparizione davanti a me in una giacca di velluto verde, con una coda lunga due pollici, fosse per me.”

“Signore,” disse il signor Tupman, “lei è davvero un uomo d’onore.”

“Signore,” disse il signor Pickwick, “voi siete davvero unico!”

Il signor Tupman fece un paio di passi avanti e fissò con rabbia il signor Pickwick. Il signor Pickwick ricambiò lo sguardo, concentrandolo attraverso i suoi occhiali, e proferì una sfida audace. Il signor Snodgrass e il signor Winkle osservavano la scena, paralizzati dall’orrore di vedere un simile confronto tra due uomini del genere.

“Signore,” disse il signor Tupman dopo una breve pausa, parlando con voce bassa e profonda, “mi avete chiamato vecchio.”

“L’ho fatto,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“E grasso.”

“Ripeto l’accusa.”

“E un altro tizio, ”

“Quindi è vero!”

Ci fu un momento di silenzio pieno di paura.

“Il mio attaccamento verso di voi, signore,” disse il signor Tupman, con voce tremante per l’emozione, mentre intanto si sistemava i polsini, “è grande, molto grande, ma riguardo a quella persona, devo vendicarmi immediatamente.”

“Su, signore!”, rispose il signor Pickwick. Stimolato dall’atmosfera eccitante di quel dialogo, l’uomo eroico assunse davvero una posizione apparentemente paralizzata; i due spettatori, convinti che si trattasse di una postura difensiva, ne dedussero con fiducia ciò che volevano.

“Che cosa!” esclamò il signor Snodgrass, riacquistando improvvisamente la capacità di parlare – che l’intensa meraviglia gli aveva precedentemente impedito – e correndo tra i due, rischiando seriamente di ricevere un colpo sulla tempia da ciascuno di loro, “Che cosa! Il signor Pickwick, con tutti gli occhi del mondo puntati su di voi! Il signor Tupman, che, come noi tutti, trae lustro dal suo nome immortale! Per l’amor del cielo, signori, per l’amor del cielo!”

Le linee insolite che, per un momento, la passione aveva disegnato sulla fronte chiara e aperta del signor Pickwick, scomparvero gradualmente man mano che il suo giovane amico parlava; erano come i segni lasciati da una matita di grafite sotto l’effetto lenitivo della gomma da masticare. Il suo volto riprese presto l’espressione gentile e serena abituale, prima che finisse di parlare.

“Sono stato troppo affrettato,” disse il signor Pickwick, “davvero troppo affrettato. Tupman, dammi la tua mano.”

L’oscura ombra scomparve dal volto del signor Tupman quando strinse calorosamente la mano del suo amico.

“Anch’io sono stato troppo affrettato,” disse lui.

“No, no,” intervenne il signor Pickwick, “l’errore è stato mio. Indosserai la giacca di velluto verde?”

“No, no,” rispose il signor Tupman.

“Per costringermi ad agire, dovrete farlo,” riprese il signor Pickwick.

“Beh, beh, lo farò,” disse il signor Tupman.

Fu quindi deciso che il signor Tupman, il signor Winkle e il signor Snodgrass indossassero tutti abiti eleganti. Così, spinto dalla sincera bontà dei propri sentimenti, il signor Pickwick acconsentì a un comportamento dal quale la sua ragione avrebbe certamente rifuggito; non si potrebbe immaginare un esempio più evidente del suo carattere amabile, nemmeno se gli eventi descritti in queste pagine fossero stati completamente frutto dell’immaginazione.

Il signor Leo Hunter non aveva esagerato riguardo alle risorse del signor Solomon Lucas. Il suo guardaroba era vastissimo; forse non del tutto classico, né completamente nuovo, e in esso non c’era nessun capo realizzato secondo le mode specifiche di un determinato periodo o epoca, ma quasi tutti i vestiti erano adornati di paillettes. E cosa potrebbe essere più bello delle paillette? Si potrebbe obiettare che queste decorazioni non siano adatte alla luce del giorno, ma tutti sanno che brillerebbero se ci fossero lampade; inoltre, è evidente che se le persone organizzano feste durante il giorno e i vestiti non appaiono altrettanto belli di notte, la colpa ricade esclusivamente su chi organizza la festa, e in nessun modo sulle paillette. Questo era il ragionamento convincente del signor Solomon Lucas; influenzati da tali argomentazioni, il signor Tupman, il signor Winkle e il signor Snodgrass decisero di indossare abiti che, secondo il gusto e l’esperienza del signor Lucas, si adattavano perfettamente all’occasione.

Fu noleggiata una carrozza presso il Town Arms per ospitare i membri del gruppo di Pickwick; inoltre, fu ordinata un’altra vettura dallo stesso luogo per accompagnare il signor e la signora Pott nella tenuta della signora Leo Hunter. Il signor Pott, nel suo modo delicato di ringraziare per l’invito ricevuto, aveva già previsto con sicurezza, sul Eatanswill Gazette, che quel luogo avrebbe offerto uno spettacolo di grande bellezza e talento, un’esibizione generosa e squisita di ospitalità. Un lusso mitigato dal gusto più raffinato; in confronto a tutto ciò, anche la leggendaria magnificenza dei regni orientali delle fate sembrerebbe essere avvolta in colori cupi e oscuri. Quest’ultima frase rappresentava un sarcasmo tagliente nei confronti del Independent, che, non essendo stato affatto invitato, aveva per quattro numeri consecutivi cercato di deridere l’intera faccenda con toni estremamente aggressivi, utilizzando anche aggettivi scritti in maiuscolo.

The morning came: it was a pleasant sight to behold Mr. Tupman in full brigand’s costume, with a very tight jacket, sitting like a pincushion over his back and shoulders, the upper portion of his legs incased in the velvet shorts, and the lower part thereof swathed in the complicated bandages to which all brigands are peculiarly attached. It was pleasing to see his open and ingenuous countenance, well mustachioed and corked, looking out from an open shirt collar; and to contemplate the sugar-loaf hat, decorated with ribbons of all colours, which he was compelled to carry on his knee, inasmuch as no known conveyance with a top to it, would admit of any man’s carrying it between his head and the roof. Equally humorous and agreeable was the appearance of Mr. Snodgrass in blue satin trunks and cloak, white silk tights and shoes, and Grecian helmet, which everybody knows (and if they do not, Mr. Solomon Lucas did) to have been the regular, authentic, everyday costume of a troubadour, from the earliest ages down to the time of their final disappearance from the face of the earth. All this was pleasant, but this was as nothing compared with the shouting of the populace when the carriage drew up, behind Mr. Pott’s chariot, which chariot itself drew up at Mr. Pott’s door, which door itself opened, and displayed the great Pott accoutred as a Russian officer of justice, with a tremendous knout in his hand—tastefully typical of the stern and mighty power of the Eatanswill Gazette, and the fearful lashings it bestowed on public offenders.

‘Bravo!’ shouted Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass from the passage, when they beheld the walking allegory.

‘Bravo!’ Mr. Pickwick was heard to exclaim, from the passage.

‘Hoo-roar Pott!’ shouted the populace. Amid these salutations, Mr. Pott, smiling with that kind of bland dignity which sufficiently testified that he felt his power, and knew how to exert it, got into the chariot.

Then there emerged from the house, Mrs. Pott, who would have looked very like Apollo if she hadn’t had a gown on, conducted by Mr. Winkle, who, in his light-red coat could not possibly have been mistaken for anything but a sportsman, if he had not borne an equal resemblance to a general postman. Last of all came Mr. Pickwick, whom the boys applauded as loud as anybody, probably under the impression that his tights and gaiters were some remnants of the dark ages; and then the two vehicles proceeded towards Mrs. Leo Hunter’s; Mr. Weller (who was to assist in waiting) being stationed on the box of that in which his master was seated.

Every one of the men, women, boys, girls, and babies, who were assembled to see the visitors in their fancy-dresses, screamed with delight and ecstasy, when Mr. Pickwick, with the brigand on one arm, and the troubadour on the other, walked solemnly up the entrance. Never were such shouts heard as those which greeted Mr. Tupman’s efforts to fix the sugar-loaf hat on his head, by way of entering the garden in style.

The preparations were on the most delightful scale; fully realising the prophetic Pott’s anticipations about the gorgeousness of Eastern fairyland, and at once affording a sufficient contradiction to the malignant statements of the reptile Independent. The grounds were more than an acre and a quarter in extent, and they were filled with people! Never was such a blaze of beauty, and fashion, and literature. There was the young lady who ‘did’ the poetry in the Eatanswill Gazette, in the garb of a sultana, leaning upon the arm of the young gentleman who ‘did’ the review department, and who was appropriately habited in a field- marshal’s uniform—the boots excepted. There were hosts of these geniuses, and any reasonable person would have thought it honour enough to meet them. But more than these, there were half a dozen lions from London—authors, real authors, who had written whole books, and printed them afterwards—and here you might see ‘em, walking about, like ordinary men, smiling, and talking—aye, and talking pretty considerable nonsense too, no doubt with the benign intention of rendering themselves intelligible to the common people about them. Moreover, there was a band of music in pasteboard caps; four something-ean singers in the costume of their country, and a dozen hired waiters in the costume of _their _country—and very dirty costume too. And above all, there was Mrs. Leo Hunter in the character of Minerva, receiving the company, and overflowing with pride and gratification at the notion of having called such distinguished individuals together.

‘Mr. Pickwick, ma’am,’ said a servant, as that gentleman approached the presiding goddess, with his hat in his hand, and the brigand and troubadour on either arm.

‘What! Where!’ exclaimed Mrs. Leo Hunter, starting up, in an affected rapture of surprise.

‘Here,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Is it possible that I have really the gratification of beholding Mr. Pickwick himself!’ ejaculated Mrs. Leo Hunter.

‘No other, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, bowing very low. ‘Permit me to introduce my friends—Mr. Tupman—Mr. Winkle—Mr. Snodgrass—to the authoress of “The Expiring Frog.”’

Very few people but those who have tried it, know what a difficult process it is to bow in green velvet smalls, and a tight jacket, and high-crowned hat; or in blue satin trunks and white silks, or knee-cords and top-boots that were never made for the wearer, and have been fixed upon him without the remotest reference to the comparative dimensions of himself and the suit. Never were such distortions as Mr. Tupman’s frame underwent in his efforts to appear easy and graceful—never was such ingenious posturing, as his fancy-dressed friends exhibited.

‘Mr. Pickwick,’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter, ‘I must make you promise not to stir from my side the whole day. There are hundreds of people here, that I must positively introduce you to.’

Sorse la mattina: era davvero uno spettacolo piacevole vedere il signor Tupman vestito completamente in abiti da brigante, con una giacca molto stretta che gli aderiva perfettamente alle spalle; la parte superiore delle sue gambe era avvolta nei pantaloncini di velluto, mentre quella inferiore era coperta da complicati bendaggi, tipici di tutti i briganti. Era anche piacevole osservare il suo volto aperto e sincero, con i baffi ben curati che spuntavano dal colletto della camicia; inoltre, il cappello a forma di panetto di zucchero, decorato con nastri di tutti i colori, era costretto a rimanere sulle sue ginocchia, poiché nessun mezzo di trasporto dotato di tetto avrebbe permesso a un uomo di portarlo sopra la testa. Altrettanto umoristico e piacevole era l’aspetto del signor Snodgrass: indossava pantaloni di satin blu, mantello, calzamaglie e scarpe di seta bianca, oltre a un elmo greco; tutti sapevano (e se non lo sapevano, il signor Solomon Lucas lo spiegava) che questo era esattamente l’abbigliamento tipico di un trovatore, dall’antichità fino al momento della loro scomparsa definitiva dalla faccia della terra. Tutto ciò era piacevole, ma niente in confronto alle grida della folla quando la carrozza si fermò davanti alla casa del signor Pott: il signor Pott stesso, vestito come un ufficiale di giustizia russo e armato di un enorme manganello, rappresentava in modo efficace il potere severo e imponente del “Eatanswill Gazette” e le punizioni draconiane che infliggeva ai trasgressori pubblici.

“Bravo!”, gridarono il signor Tupman e il signor Snodgrass dal corridoio, quando videro quella “allegoria in movimento”.

“Bravo!” si sentì esclamare il signor Pickwick dal corridoio.

“Urrà, Pott!”, gridò la folla. Tra questi applausi, il signor Pott, sorridendo con quell’aria di dignità distaccata che dimostrava chiaramente quanto fosse consapevole del proprio potere e sapesse come esercitarlo, salì sul carro.

Poi uscì dalla casa la signora Pott, che sarebbe assomigliata molto a Apollo se non avesse indossato un abito; era accompagnata dal signor Winkle, il quale, con il suo cappotto di colore rosso chiaro, non avrebbe potuto essere scambiato per nient’altro che uno sportivo, se solo non avesse avuto anche una notevole somiglianza con un postino generale. Infine arrivò il signor Pickwick, che i ragazzi applaudirono con grande entusiasmo, probabilmente credendo che i suoi calzamaglie e i suoi gambali fossero resti dei tempi antichi; dopodiché i due veicoli si diressero verso la casa della signora Leo Hunter; il signor Weller, incaricato di assistere durante l’attesa, rimase vicino al veicolo su cui viaggiava il suo padrone.

Ogni uomo, donna, ragazzo, ragazza e bambino radunati per vedere i visitatori nei loro costumi stravaganti gridarono di gioia ed eccitazione quando il signor Pickwick, con il brigante su un braccio e il trovatore sull’altro, entrò solennemente. Non si erano mai sentiti tali grida quando il signor Tupman cercava di mettersi il cappello a forma di pane di zucchero in testa, nel tentativo di entrare nel giardino con stile.

I preparativi erano di una portata davvero deliziosa; si comprendeva appieno le previsioni profetiche di Pott riguardo alla magnificenza di quel regno incantato orientale, e al contempo ciò costituiva una netta contraddizione alle affermazioni maligne del giornale “Independent”. L’area su cui si svolgevano gli eventi superava i due ettari e mezzo ed era piena di persone. Non si era mai visto un simile splendore di bellezza, moda e cultura. C’era quella giovane signora che scriveva poesie per il “Eatanswill Gazette”, vestita da sultana e appoggiata al braccio del giovane gentiluomo incaricato della sezione recensioni, il quale era abbigliato in modo appropriato con l’uniforme di un feldmaresciallo, tranne che per le scarpe. C’erano moltissimi altri “geni” di questo genere; chiunque avrebbe considerato un grande onore incontrarli. Ma ancora più notevoli erano una mezza dozzina di autori veri e propri provenienti da Londra: avevano scritto intere opere e le avevano poi pubblicate. E lì li si poteva vedere, camminare tra la gente come persone normali, sorridere e parlare, anzi, a volte anche dire cose piuttosto assurde, ma senza dubbio con l’intenzione gentile di farsi comprendere dal pubblico comune. Inoltre, c’era un gruppo musicale composto da persone che indossavano cappelli di cartone; quattro cantanti in abiti tipici dei loro paesi d’origine, e una dozzina di camerieri assunti appositamente, vestiti anch’essi con abiti caratteristici dei loro paesi, e per di più molto sporchi. E soprattutto, c’era la signora Leo Hunter, nei panni di Minerva, che accoglieva tutti gli ospiti, traboccante di orgoglio e soddisfazione all’idea di aver riunito persone così distinte.

“Signor Pickwick, signora,” disse un servitore mentre quel gentiluomo si avvicinava alla “dea regina”, con il cappello in mano e il “brigante” e il “trovatore” ai suoi fianchi.

“Che cosa! Dove!” esclamò la signora Leo Hunter, alzandosi di scatto, con un’affettata espressione di sorpresa.

“Ecco,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“È possibile che io abbia davvero la gioia di vedere il signor Pickwick in persona!”, esclamò la signora Leo Hunter.

“Nessun altro, signora,” rispose il signor Pickwick inchinandosi profondamente. “Permettetemi di presentare i miei amici: il signor Tupman, il signor Winkle, il signor Snodgrass, all’autrice di ‘La rana morente’.”

Molte poche persone, se non quelle che l’hanno provato, sanno quanto sia difficile indossare abiti fatti di velluto verde, giacche strette e cappelli con corone alte; oppure abiti in raso blu e seta bianca, o calzoni con lacci fino al ginocchio e stivali alti che non erano mai stati progettati per chi li indossava, e che sono stati modificati senza tenere minimamente conto delle dimensioni del portatore. Mai come nel caso di Mr. Tupman si sono verificate tali distorsioni del corpo nell’effetto di apparire rilassati e aggraziati; mai si sono visti atteggiamenti così ingegnosi come quelli dimostrati dai suoi amici vestiti in modo eccentrico.

“Signor Pickwick”, disse la signora Leo Hunter, “devo farvi promettere di non allontanarvi da me per tutta la giornata. Ci sono centinaia di persone qui, e devo assolutamente presentarvelo tutte.”

‘You are very kind, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘In the first place, here are my little girls; I had almost forgotten them,’ said Minerva, carelessly pointing towards a couple of full-grown young ladies, of whom one might be about twenty, and the other a year or two older, and who were dressed in very juvenile costumes—whether to make them look young, or their mamma younger, Mr. Pickwick does not distinctly inform us.

‘They are very beautiful,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as the juveniles turned away, after being presented.

‘They are very like their mamma, Sir,’ said Mr. Pott, majestically.

‘Oh, you naughty man,’ exclaimed Mrs. Leo Hunter, playfully tapping the editor’s arm with her fan (Minerva with a fan!).

‘Why now, my dear Mrs. Hunter,’ said Mr. Pott, who was trumpeter in ordinary at the Den, ‘you know that when your picture was in the exhibition of the Royal Academy, last year, everybody inquired whether it was intended for you, or your youngest daughter; for you were so much alike that there was no telling the difference between you.’

‘Well, and if they did, why need you repeat it, before strangers?’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter, bestowing another tap on the slumbering lion of the Eatanswill Gazette.

‘Count, count,’ screamed Mrs. Leo Hunter to a well-whiskered individual in a foreign uniform, who was passing by.

‘Ah! you want me?’ said the count, turning back.

‘I want to introduce two very clever people to each other,’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter. ‘Mr. Pickwick, I have great pleasure in introducing you to Count Smorltork.’ She added in a hurried whisper to Mr. Pickwick—‘The famous foreigner—gathering materials for his great work on England— hem!—Count Smorltork, Mr. Pickwick.’

Mr. Pickwick saluted the count with all the reverence due to so great a man, and the count drew forth a set of tablets.

‘What you say, Mrs. Hunt?’ inquired the count, smiling graciously on the gratified Mrs. Leo Hunter, ‘Pig Vig or Big Vig—what you call—lawyer— eh? I see—that is it. Big Vig’—and the count was proceeding to enter Mr. Pickwick in his tablets, as a gentleman of the long robe, who derived his name from the profession to which he belonged, when Mrs. Leo Hunter interposed.

‘No, no, count,’ said the lady, ‘Pick-wick.’

‘Ah, ah, I see,’ replied the count. ‘Peek—christian name; Weeks— surname; good, ver good. Peek Weeks. How you do, Weeks?’

‘Quite well, I thank you,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, with all his usual affability. ‘Have you been long in England?’

‘Long—ver long time—fortnight—more.’

‘Do you stay here long?’

‘One week.’

‘You will have enough to do,’ said Mr. Pickwick smiling, ‘to gather all the materials you want in that time.’

‘Eh, they are gathered,’ said the count.

‘Indeed!’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘They are here,’ added the count, tapping his forehead significantly. ‘Large book at home—full of notes—music, picture, science, potry, poltic; all tings.’

‘The word politics, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘comprises in itself, a difficult study of no inconsiderable magnitude.’

‘Ah!’ said the count, drawing out the tablets again, ‘ver good—fine words to begin a chapter. Chapter forty-seven. Poltics. The word poltic surprises by himself—’ And down went Mr. Pickwick’s remark, in Count Smorltork’s tablets, with such variations and additions as the count’s exuberant fancy suggested, or his imperfect knowledge of the language occasioned.

‘Count,’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter.

‘Mrs. Hunt,’ replied the count.

‘This is Mr. Snodgrass, a friend of Mr. Pickwick’s, and a poet.’

‘Stop,’ exclaimed the count, bringing out the tablets once more. ‘Head, potry—chapter, literary friends—name, Snowgrass; ver good. Introduced to Snowgrass—great poet, friend of Peek Weeks—by Mrs. Hunt, which wrote other sweet poem—what is that name?—Fog—Perspiring Fog—ver good—ver good indeed.’ And the count put up his tablets, and with sundry bows and acknowledgments walked away, thoroughly satisfied that he had made the most important and valuable additions to his stock of information.

‘Wonderful man, Count Smorltork,’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter.

‘Sound philosopher,’ said Mr. Pott.

‘Clear-headed, strong-minded person,’ added Mr. Snodgrass.

A chorus of bystanders took up the shout of Count Smorltork’s praise, shook their heads sagely, and unanimously cried, ‘Very!’

As the enthusiasm in Count Smorltork’s favour ran very high, his praises might have been sung until the end of the festivities, if the four something-ean singers had not ranged themselves in front of a small apple-tree, to look picturesque, and commenced singing their national songs, which appeared by no means difficult of execution, inasmuch as the grand secret seemed to be, that three of the something-ean singers should grunt, while the fourth howled. This interesting performance having concluded amidst the loud plaudits of the whole company, a boy forthwith proceeded to entangle himself with the rails of a chair, and to jump over it, and crawl under it, and fall down with it, and do everything but sit upon it, and then to make a cravat of his legs, and tie them round his neck, and then to illustrate the ease with which a human being can be made to look like a magnified toad—all which feats yielded high delight and satisfaction to the assembled spectators. After which, the voice of Mrs. Pott was heard to chirp faintly forth, something which courtesy interpreted into a song, which was all very classical, and strictly in character, because Apollo was himself a composer, and composers can very seldom sing their own music or anybody else’s, either. This was succeeded by Mrs. Leo Hunter’s recitation of her far-famed ‘Ode to an Expiring Frog,’ which was encored once, and would have been encored twice, if the major part of the guests, who thought it was high time to get something to eat, had not said that it was perfectly shameful to take advantage of Mrs. Hunter’s good nature. So although Mrs. Leo Hunter professed her perfect willingness to recite the ode again, her kind and considerate friends wouldn’t hear of it on any account; and the refreshment room being thrown open, all the people who had ever been there before, scrambled in with all possible despatch- -Mrs. Leo Hunter’s usual course of proceedings being, to issue cards for a hundred, and breakfast for fifty, or in other words to feed only the very particular lions, and let the smaller animals take care of themselves.

“Siete molto gentile, signora,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Prima di tutto, ecco le mie piccole ragazze; quasi me ne ero dimenticata,” disse Minerva, indicando con noncuranza un paio di giovani donne adulte: una doveva avere circa vent’anni, l’altra uno o due anni in più, e indossavano abiti molto infantili. Se questo fosse stato fatto per farle sembrare più giovani, o per far sembrare la loro madre più giovane, il signor Pickwick non ce lo spiega con chiarezza.

“Sono molto belle,” disse il signor Pickwick mentre i giovani si allontanavano, dopo essere stati presentati a lui.

“Sono molto simili a loro madre, signore,” disse il signor Pott con aria maestosa.

“Ah, che uomo birichino,” esclamò la signora Leo Hunter, battendo scherzosamente il braccio dell’editore con il suo ventaglio (una Minerva con un ventaglio!).

“Perché proprio ora, cara signora Hunter?” disse il signor Pott, che di solito suonava la tromba al Den. “Sa bene che quando la sua foto è stata esposta all’Accademia Reale l’anno scorso, tutti chiedevano se fosse lei o sua figlia minore. Eravate così simili che non si riusciva a distinguerle.”

“Beh, e anche se l’avessero fatto, perché dovresti ripeterlo davanti a degli estranei?” disse la signora Leo Hunter, dando un altro colpetto sul dormiente “leone” del quotidiano Eatanswill.

“Conta, conta!”, gridò la signora Leo Hunter verso un individuo con una folta barba e in uniforme straniera che stava passando di lì.

“Ah! Vuoi me?” disse il conte, voltandosi indietro.

“Vorrei presentare due persone molto intelligenti l’una all’altra,” disse la signora Leo Hunter. “Signor Pickwick, mi fa grande piacere presentarvi il conte Smorltork.” Poi aggiunse sottovoce al signor Pickwick: “Quel famoso straniero che raccoglie materiale per la sua importante opera sull’Inghilterra, ehm, il conte Smorltork, signor Pickwick.”

Il signor Pickwick salutò il conte con tutto il rispetto dovuto a una persona così nobile; il conte poi tirò fuori un mazzo di tavolette.

“Cosa dice, signora Hunt?” chiese il conte, sorridendo gentilmente alla compiaciuta signora Leo Hunter. “Pig Vig o Big Vig, come lo chiamate voi, l’avvocato, eh? Capisco, è così. Big Vig, ” E il conte stava per annotare il nome del signor Pickwick sul suo taccuino, descrivendolo come un gentiluomo dall’abito lungo, il cui nome derivava dalla professione che esercitava, quando la signora Leo Hunter lo interruppe.

“No, no, conti,” disse la signora, “Pick-wick.”

“Ah, ah, capisco,” rispose il conte. “Peek, nome cristiano; Weeks, cognome, bene, davvero bene. Peek Weeks. Come stai, Weeks?”

“Molto bene, grazie,” rispose il signor Pickwick con tutta la sua solita affabilità. “Siete da molto in Inghilterra?”

“Molto tempo, quasi due settimane.”

“Rimani qui per molto tempo?”

“Una settimana.”

“Avrai abbastanza da fare,” disse il signor Pickwick sorridendo, “per raccogliere tutti i materiali che desideri in quel tempo.”

“Eh, sono tutti riuniti,” disse il conte.

“Certamente!” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Sono qui,” aggiunse il conte, battendosi significativamente la fronte.
“Un grande libro a >casa, pieno di appunti: musica, immagini, scienze, poesia, politica, di tutto.”

“La parola ‘politica’, signore”, disse il signor Pickwick, “rappresenta in sé uno studio difficile e di notevole portata.”

“Ah!” disse il conte, tirando fuori di nuovo le tavolette, “che belle parole, parole perfette per iniziare un capitolo. Capitolo quarantasette: Politica. La parola ‘politica’ stessa sorprende, ” E così venne trascritta la osservazione del signor Pickwick sulle tavolette del conte Smorltork, con tutte le variazioni e aggiunte che l’immaginazione fervida del conte gli suggerì, o che la sua scarsa conoscenza della lingua richiese.

“Conte,” disse la signora Leo Hunter.

“Signora Hunt,” rispose il conte.

“Questo è il signor Snodgrass, un amico del signor Pickwick e anche un poeta.”

“Basta,” esclamò il conte, estraendo di nuovo le tavolette. “Capitolo, poesia, nome: Snowgrass; davvero ottimo. Mi è stato presentato da Mrs. Hunt, che ha scritto anche un’altra bellissima poesia, come si chiama?. Fog, ‘Fog sudante’, davvero molto bello.” Il conte ripose le tavolette e, dopo diversi inchini e ringraziamenti, se ne andò, assolutamente soddisfatto di aver aggiunto informazioni estremamente importanti e preziose al proprio archivio.

“Un uomo meraviglioso, il Conte Smorltork,” disse la signora Leo Hunter.

“Un filosofo serio,” disse il signor Pott.

“Una persona lucida e decisa”, aggiunse il signor Snodgrass.

Un coro di spettatori ripeté le lodi del Conte Smorltork, scosse la testa in segno di approvazione e gridò all’unanimità: “Molto bene!”

L’entusiasmo a favore del Conte Smorltork era davvero molto alto; i suoi elogi avrebbero potuto continuare fino alla fine delle celebrazioni, se non fosse stato per quei quattro cantanti che si erano posizionati davanti a un piccolo albero di mele, per creare un’atmosfera pittoresca, e avevano iniziato a cantare le loro canzoni nazionali. Queste canzoni non sembravano affatto difficili da eseguire: il “segreto” stava nel fatto che tre dei cantanti dovevano grugnire, mentre il quarto doveva ululare. Questa interessante performance terminò tra gli applausi calorosi di tutti i presenti; subito dopo, un ragazzo iniziò a impigliarsi nelle sbarre di una sedia, a saltarci sopra, a strisciare sotto di essa, a cadere insieme ad essa, facendo praticamente di tutto tranne che sedersi su di essa. Poi si legò le gambe intorno al collo, dimostrando con questo come sia facile far sembrare una persona un rospo ingrandito. Tutti questi numeri suscitarono grande divertimento e soddisfazione tra il pubblico. Dopo di ciò, si sentì la voce della signora Pott che cantava dolcemente; questa canzone era molto classica e in linea con lo spirito dell’occasione, visto che anche Apollo era un compositore. E i compositori raramente cantano le proprie musiche, né quelle degli altri. Seguì poi la recitazione della famosa “Ode a una rana morente” della signora Leo Hunter; l’opera fu richiesta ancora una volta, e sarebbe stata richiesta anche una seconda, se la maggior parte degli ospiti, che ritenevano fosse giunto il momento di mangiare qualcosa, non avesse detto che era davvero vergognoso approfittare della gentilezza della signora Hunter. Così, nonostante la signora Leo Hunter dichiarasse di essere più che disposta a ripetere la recitazione, i suoi amici premurosi rifiutarono categoricamente; e quando la sala da rinfreschi fu aperta, tutte le persone che c’erano già state prima si affrettarono ad entrare. Il solito comportamento della signora Leo Hunter consisteva nel distribuire biglietti per cento persone e colazione per cinquanta. In altre parole, nutriva solo i “leoni” più importanti, lasciando che gli “animali” più piccoli si arrangiassero da soli.

‘Where is Mr. Pott?’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter, as she placed the aforesaid lions around her.

‘Here I am,’ said the editor, from the remotest end of the room; far beyond all hope of food, unless something was done for him by the hostess.

‘Won’t you come up here?’

‘Oh, pray don’t mind him,’ said Mrs. Pott, in the most obliging voice— ‘you give yourself a great deal of unnecessary trouble, Mrs. Hunter. You’ll do very well there, won’t you—dear?’

‘Certainly—love,’ replied the unhappy Pott, with a grim smile. Alas for the knout! The nervous arm that wielded it, with such a gigantic force on public characters, was paralysed beneath the glance of the imperious Mrs. Pott.

Mrs. Leo Hunter looked round her in triumph. Count Smorltork was busily engaged in taking notes of the contents of the dishes; Mr. Tupman was doing the honours of the lobster salad to several lionesses, with a degree of grace which no brigand ever exhibited before; Mr. Snodgrass having cut out the young gentleman who cut up the books for the Eatanswill Gazette, was engaged in an impassioned argument with the young lady who did the poetry; and Mr. Pickwick was making himself universally agreeable. Nothing seemed wanting to render the select circle complete, when Mr. Leo Hunter—whose department on these occasions, was to stand about in doorways, and talk to the less important people—suddenly called out—

‘My dear; here’s Mr. Charles Fitz-Marshall.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter, ‘how anxiously I have been expecting him. Pray make room, to let Mr. Fitz-Marshall pass. Tell Mr. Fitz- Marshall, my dear, to come up to me directly, to be scolded for coming so late.’

‘Coming, my dear ma’am,’ cried a voice, ‘as quick as I can—crowds of people—full room—hard work—very.’

Mr. Pickwick’s knife and fork fell from his hand. He stared across the table at Mr. Tupman, who had dropped his knife and fork, and was looking as if he were about to sink into the ground without further notice.

‘Ah!’ cried the voice, as its owner pushed his way among the last five- and-twenty Turks, officers, cavaliers, and Charles the Seconds, that remained between him and the table, ‘regular mangle—Baker’s patent—not a crease in my coat, after all this squeezing—might have “got up my linen” as I came along—ha! ha! not a bad idea, that—queer thing to have it mangled when it’s upon one, though—trying process—very.’

With these broken words, a young man dressed as a naval officer made his way up to the table, and presented to the astonished Pickwickians the identical form and features of Mr. Alfred Jingle.

The offender had barely time to take Mrs. Leo Hunter’s proffered hand, when his eyes encountered the indignant orbs of Mr. Pickwick.

‘Hollo!’ said Jingle. ‘Quite forgot—no directions to postillion—give ‘em at once—back in a minute.’

‘The servant, or Mr. Hunter will do it in a moment, Mr. Fitz-Marshall,’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter.

‘No, no—I’ll do it—shan’t be long—back in no time,’ replied Jingle. With these words he disappeared among the crowd.

‘Will you allow me to ask you, ma’am,’ said the excited Mr. Pickwick, rising from his seat, ‘who that young man is, and where he resides?’

‘He is a gentleman of fortune, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter, ‘to whom I very much want to introduce you. The count will be delighted with him.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Mr. Pickwick hastily. ‘His residence—’

‘Is at present at the Angel at Bury.’

‘At Bury?’

‘At Bury St. Edmunds, not many miles from here. But dear me, Mr. Pickwick, you are not going to leave us; surely Mr. Pickwick you cannot think of going so soon?’

But long before Mrs. Leo Hunter had finished speaking, Mr. Pickwick had plunged through the throng, and reached the garden, whither he was shortly afterwards joined by Mr. Tupman, who had followed his friend closely.

‘It’s of no use,’ said Mr. Tupman. ‘He has gone.’

‘I know it,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘and I will follow him.’

‘Follow him! Where?’ inquired Mr. Tupman.

‘To the Angel at Bury,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, speaking very quickly. ‘How do we know whom he is deceiving there? He deceived a worthy man once, and we were the innocent cause. He shall not do it again, if I can help it; I’ll expose him! Sam! Where’s my servant?’

‘Here you are, Sir,’ said Mr. Weller, emerging from a sequestered spot, where he had been engaged in discussing a bottle of Madeira, which he had abstracted from the breakfast-table an hour or two before. ‘Here’s your servant, Sir. Proud o’ the title, as the living skellinton said, ven they show’d him.’

‘Follow me instantly,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Tupman, if I stay at Bury, you can join me there, when I write. Till then, good-bye!’

Remonstrances were useless. Mr. Pickwick was roused, and his mind was made up. Mr. Tupman returned to his companions; and in another hour had drowned all present recollection of Mr. Alfred Jingle, or Mr. Charles Fitz-Marshall, in an exhilarating quadrille and a bottle of champagne. By that time, Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller, perched on the outside of a stage-coach, were every succeeding minute placing a less and less distance between themselves and the good old town of Bury St. Edmunds.

“Dove è il signor Pott?” chiese la signora Leo Hunter, mentre posizionava i suddetti leoni intorno a sé.

“Eccomi qui,” disse l’editore, dall’estremità più remota della stanza; ormai lontano da ogni possibilità di ottenere del cibo, a meno che la padrona di casa non facesse qualcosa per lui.

“Non vuoi venire qui su?”

“Oh, per favore non badate a lui,” disse la signora Pott con voce estremamente premurosa.
“Vi state dando un sacco di problemi inutili, signora Hunter. Starrete molto bene lì, vero? Carina, ”

“Certamente amore,” rispose il sfortunato Pott con un sorriso cupo. Ahimè quel manganello. Il braccio nervoso che lo impugnava, capace di esercitare una forza enorme su persone pubbliche, rimase paralizzato davanti allo sguardo imperioso della signora Pott.

La signora Leo Hunter guardò intorno a sé con aria trionfale. Il conte Smorltork era impegnato a prendere appunti sui contenuti dei piatti; il signor Tupman stava servendo con grande grazia la insalata di aragosta ad alcune “leonesse”; il signor Snodgrass, dopo aver licenziato il giovane che tagliava i libri per il Gazette di Eatanswill, era immerso in un acceso dibattito con la giovane donna che scriveva poesie; e il signor Pickwick si stava rendendo universalmente gradito. Sembrava non mancasse nulla per rendere completo quel ristretto circolo, quando il signor Leo Hunter – il cui compito in queste occasioni era quello di stare nei corridoi e parlare con le persone meno importanti – improvvisamente gridò.

“Mia cara; ecco il signor Charles Fitz-Marshall.”

“Oh mio Dio,” disse la signora Leo Hunter, “quanto ansiosamente lo stavo aspettando. Per favore fate spazio, così il signor Fitz-Marshall può passare. Dite al signor Fitz-Marshall di venire subito da me: devo rimproverarlo per essere arrivato così tardi.”

“Arrivo subito, mia cara signora,” gridò una voce, “il più in fretta possibile, folle di persone, la stanza piena, molto lavoro, davvero.”

Il coltello e la forchetta del signor Pickwick gli caddero di mano. Guardò dall’altra parte del tavolo il signor Tupman, che aveva anche lui perso il proprio coltello e la propria forchetta, e sembrava sul punto di sprofondare nel terreno da un momento all’altro.

‘Ah!’ gridò la voce, mentre il suo proprietario si faceva strada tra gli ultimi cinquanta o sessanta turchi, ufficiali, cavalieri e Charles il Secondo che rimanevano tra lui e il tavolo, ‘Una vera e propria macchina per strappare i vestiti. Il metodo brevettato di Baker. Nemmeno una piega sul mio cappotto, dopo tutto questo spingimento. Avrebbero anche potuto “strapparmi via la biancheria intima” mentre passavo. Ah! ah! Non è mica una cattiva idea. Strano davvero che i vestiti vengano strappati proprio quando li si indossa. Un metodo davvero efficace, ’

Con queste parole incoerenti, un giovane vestito da ufficiale di marina si avvicinò al tavolo e mostrò ai sorpresi membri del gruppo di Pickwick le stesse sembianze e i medesimi tratti fisici del signor Alfred Jingle.

Il colpevole non ebbe nemmeno il tempo di prendere la mano che la signora Leo Hunter gli tendeva, quando i suoi occhi incrociarono lo sguardo indignato del signor Pickwick.

“Salve!” disse Jingle. “Me ne sono completamente dimenticato. Non ho dato indicazioni al cocchiere. Dateglie subito. Tornerò tra un minuto.”

“Il servitore, o il signor Hunter lo farà tra un momento, signor Fitz-Marshall,” disse la signora Leo Hunter.

“No, no. Lo farò io. Non ci vorrà molto. Tornerò subito,” rispose Jingle. Con queste parole scomparve tra la folla.

“Permettetemi di chiedervelo, signora,” disse l’entusiasta signor Pickwick, alzandosi dal suo posto, “chi sia quel giovane e dove abiti?”

“È un gentiluomo molto ricco, il signor Pickwick,” disse la signora Leo Hunter, “e vorrei molto presentarvelo. Il conte sarà molto contento di conoscerlo.”

“Sì, sì,” disse prontamente il signor Pickwick. “La sua residenza, ”

“Attualmente si trova all’Angel di Bury.”

“Ad Bury?”

“A Bury St. Edmunds, a poche miglia da qui. Ma mio caro signor Pickwick, non ci lascerà mica! Davvero, non può pensare di andarsene così presto, ”

Ma molto prima che la signora Leo Hunter finisse di parlare, il signor Pickwick si era già fatto strada tra la folla ed era arrivato nel >jardino, dove poco dopo lo raggiunse anche il signor Tupman, che aveva seguito da vicino il suo amico.

“Non serve a nulla,” disse il signor Tupman. “È già andato.”

“Lo so,” disse il signor Pickwick, “e lo seguirò.”

“Seguitelo! Dove?” chiese il signor Tupman.

“All’Angelo di Bury,” rispose il signor Pickwick, parlando molto velocemente.
“Come facciamo a sapere chi sta ingannando lì? Una volta ha ingannato un uomo onesto, e noi ne siamo stati la causa innocente. Non lo farà più, se posso impedirglielo; lo smaschererò! Sam. Dove è il mio servitore?”

“Ecco qua, signore,” disse il signor Weller, uscendo da un angolo appartato dove aveva passato del tempo a discutere di una bottiglia di Madeira che aveva preso dal tavolo della colazione un’ora o due prima. “Eccomi al vostro servizio, signore. Orgoglioso di questo titolo, come disse quel vecchio scemo, ”

“Seguimi immediatamente,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Tupman, se resto a Bury, puoi raggiungermi lì quando scriverò. Intanto, addio!”

Le proteste furono inutili. Il signor Pickwick si svegliò e prese una decisione definitiva. Il signor Tupman tornò dai suoi compagni; e in un’ora, grazie a una vivace quadriglia e a una bottiglia di champagne, ogni ricordo del signor Alfred Jingle o del signor Charles Fitz-Marshall fu dimenticato. A quel momento, il signor Pickwick e Sam Weller, seduti sul retro di una carrozza, si allontanavano sempre di più dalla buona vecchia città di Bury St. Edmunds.

CHAPTER XVI. TOO FULL OF ADVENTURE TO BE BRIEFLY DESCRIBED

There is no month in the whole year in which nature wears a more beautiful appearance than in the month of August. Spring has many beauties, and May is a fresh and blooming month, but the charms of this time of year are enhanced by their contrast with the winter season. August has no such advantage. It comes when we remember nothing but clear skies, green fields, and sweet-smelling flowers—when the recollection of snow, and ice, and bleak winds, has faded from our minds as completely as they have disappeared from the earth—and yet what a pleasant time it is! Orchards and cornfields ring with the hum of labour; trees bend beneath the thick clusters of rich fruit which bow their branches to the ground; and the corn, piled in graceful sheaves, or waving in every light breath that sweeps above it, as if it wooed the sickle, tinges the landscape with a golden hue. A mellow softness appears to hang over the whole earth; the influence of the season seems to extend itself to the very wagon, whose slow motion across the well- reaped field is perceptible only to the eye, but strikes with no harsh sound upon the ear.

As the coach rolls swiftly past the fields and orchards which skirt the road, groups of women and children, piling the fruit in sieves, or gathering the scattered ears of corn, pause for an instant from their labour, and shading the sun-burned face with a still browner hand, gaze upon the passengers with curious eyes, while some stout urchin, too small to work, but too mischievous to be left at home, scrambles over the side of the basket in which he has been deposited for security, and kicks and screams with delight. The reaper stops in his work, and stands with folded arms, looking at the vehicle as it whirls past; and the rough cart-horses bestow a sleepy glance upon the smart coach team, which says as plainly as a horse’s glance can, ‘It’s all very fine to look at, but slow going, over a heavy field, is better than warm work like that, upon a dusty road, after all.’ You cast a look behind you, as you turn a corner of the road. The women and children have resumed their labour; the reaper once more stoops to his work; the cart-horses have moved on; and all are again in motion.

The influence of a scene like this, was not lost upon the well-regulated mind of Mr. Pickwick. Intent upon the resolution he had formed, of exposing the real character of the nefarious Jingle, in any quarter in which he might be pursuing his fraudulent designs, he sat at first taciturn and contemplative, brooding over the means by which his purpose could be best attained. By degrees his attention grew more and more attracted by the objects around him; and at last he derived as much enjoyment from the ride, as if it had been undertaken for the pleasantest reason in the world.

‘Delightful prospect, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Beats the chimbley-pots, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, touching his hat.

‘I suppose you have hardly seen anything but chimney-pots and bricks and mortar all your life, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, smiling.

‘I worn’t always a boots, sir,’ said Mr. Weller, with a shake of the head. ‘I wos a vaginer’s boy, once.’

‘When was that?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘When I wos first pitched neck and crop into the world, to play at leap- frog with its troubles,’ replied Sam. ‘I wos a carrier’s boy at startin’; then a vaginer’s, then a helper, then a boots. Now I’m a gen’l’m’n’s servant. I shall be a gen’l’m’n myself one of these days, perhaps, with a pipe in my mouth, and a summer-house in the back-garden. Who knows? I shouldn’t be surprised for one.’

‘You are quite a philosopher, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘It runs in the family, I b’lieve, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘My father’s wery much in that line now. If my mother-in-law blows him up, he whistles. She flies in a passion, and breaks his pipe; he steps out, and gets another. Then she screams wery loud, and falls into ‘sterics; and he smokes wery comfortably till she comes to agin. That’s philosophy, Sir, ain’t it?’

‘A very good substitute for it, at all events,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, laughing. ‘It must have been of great service to you, in the course of your rambling life, Sam.’

‘Service, sir,’ exclaimed Sam. ‘You may say that. Arter I run away from the carrier, and afore I took up with the vaginer, I had unfurnished lodgin’s for a fortnight.’

‘Unfurnished lodgings?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes—the dry arches of Waterloo Bridge. Fine sleeping-place—vithin ten minutes’ walk of all the public offices—only if there is any objection to it, it is that the sitivation’s rayther too airy. I see some queer sights there.’

Ah, I suppose you did,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with an air of considerable interest.

‘Sights, sir,’ resumed Mr. Weller, ‘as ‘ud penetrate your benevolent heart, and come out on the other side. You don’t see the reg’lar wagrants there; trust ‘em, they knows better than that. Young beggars, male and female, as hasn’t made a rise in their profession, takes up their quarters there sometimes; but it’s generally the worn-out, starving, houseless creeturs as roll themselves in the dark corners o’ them lonesome places—poor creeturs as ain’t up to the twopenny rope.’

‘And pray, Sam, what is the twopenny rope?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘The twopenny rope, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, ‘is just a cheap lodgin’ house, where the beds is twopence a night.’

‘What do they call a bed a rope for?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Bless your innocence, sir, that ain’t it,’ replied Sam. ‘Ven the lady and gen’l’m’n as keeps the hot-el first begun business, they used to make the beds on the floor; but this wouldn’t do at no price, ‘cos instead o’ taking a moderate twopenn’orth o’ sleep, the lodgers used to lie there half the day. So now they has two ropes, ‘bout six foot apart, and three from the floor, which goes right down the room; and the beds are made of slips of coarse sacking, stretched across ‘em.’

capitolo XVI. Troppo pieno di avventure per poter essere descritto brevemente

Non c’è alcun mese dell’anno in cui la >natura appaia più bella di agosto. La primavera possiede molte bellezze, e maggio è un mese fresco e fiorito, ma il fascino di questa stagione viene ulteriormente esaltato dal contrasto con l’inverno. Agosto, invece, non dispone di tale vantaggio: arriva in un momento in cui non pensiamo ad altro che a cieli sereni, campi verdi e fiori profumati; il ricordo della neve, del ghiaccio e dei venti freddi è ormai completamente svanito dalla nostra mente, proprio come sono scomparsi dalla terra. Eppure quale piacevole stagione! I frutteti e i campi di mais risuonano del rumore del lavoro; gli alberi si piegano sotto i pesanti grappoli di frutta che fanno quasi spezzare i rami; il mais, ammucchiato in graziose balle o ondeggiante al soffio della brezza, sembra quasi invogliare la falce a tagliarlo. Il paesaggio assume così un colore dorato. Una dolce armonia sembra avvolgere tutta la terra; l’influenza di questa stagione si estende persino ai carri che avanzano lentamente sui campi mietuti, i cui movimenti silenziosi sono percepibili soltanto con gli occhi, senza produrre alcun suono fastidioso alle orecchie.

Mentre il calesse si muove velocemente lungo i campi e gli orti che costeggiano la strada, gruppi di donne e bambini, che stanno impilando la frutta nei setacci o raccogliendo i chicchi di mais sparsi, si fermano per un istante dal loro lavoro. Con le mani ancora più abbronzate dal sole, guardano con curiosità i passeggeri del calesse; alcuni bambini, troppo piccoli per lavorare ma troppo dispettosi per essere lasciati a casa, si arrampicano sul bordo del cesto in cui sono stati messi al sicuro e ridono felici. Il mietitore interrompe il suo lavoro e resta fermo con le braccia incrociate, osservando il calesse che si allontana; i robusti cavalli da carri lanciano uno sguardo sonnolento verso la squadra di cocchieri eleganti. E quegli occhi dicono chiaramente: “È bello da guardare, ma viaggiare lentamente su un campo pesante è comunque meglio che lavorare sodo su una strada polverosa”. Tu ti giri indietro mentre svolti l’angolo della strada: le donne e i bambini hanno ripreso il loro lavoro; il mietitore si china di nuovo sul suo compito; i cavalli da carri proseguono il loro cammino. E tutto torna in movimento.

L’influenza di una scena del genere non passò inosservata nella mente ben organizzata del signor Pickwick. Concentrato sulla decisione presa di smascherare la vera natura del malvagio Jingle, ovunque questi potesse perseguire i suoi piani fraudolenti, all’inizio rimase silenzioso e meditabondo, riflettendo sui mezzi più efficaci per realizzare il suo scopo. Gradualmente, la sua attenzione iniziò ad essere attratta dagli oggetti che lo circondavano; alla fine, trasse tanto piacere dal viaggio, come se fosse stato intrapreso per la ragione più gradevole del mondo.

“Una prospettiva deliziosa, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Batte i campanelli della chiesa, signore,” rispose il signor Weller, toccandosi il cappello.

“Suppongo che in tutta la tua vita tu abbia visto soltanto comignoli, mattoni e malta, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick sorridendo.

“Non ho sempre indossato stivali, signore,” disse il signor Weller scuotendo la testa. “Una volta sono stato un ragazzo che lavorava per un venditore ambulante.”

“Quando è successo?” chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Quando sono arrivato per la prima volta in questo mondo, per ‘giocare a salto-in-the-air’ con i suoi problemi,” rispose Sam. “All’inizio facevo il ragazzo che portava le merci; poi sono diventato aiuto di un venditore ambulante, poi addetto alla pulizia delle scarpe. Ora sono servitore di un generale. Forse un giorno anch’io sarò un generale, con una pipa in bocca e una casa estiva nel giardino dietro casa. Chi lo sa? Non dovrei meravigliarmene affatto.”

“Sei davvero un filosofo, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“È una cosa di famiglia, credo, signore,” rispose il signor Weller. “Mio padre ormai è proprio così: se mia suocera lo arrabbia, lui fischia; lei perde la testa e rompe la sua pipa; lui ne prende un’altra. Poi lei urla molto forte e entra in uno stato di isteria; lui invece fuma tranquillamente finché non si calma di nuovo. Questa è la ‘filosofia’ della nostra famiglia, signore, non le pare?”

“Un ottimo sostituto, comunque,” rispose il signor Pickwick ridendo. “Deve esserti stato molto utile, nel corso della tua vita errante, Sam.”

“Servizio, signore,” esclamò Sam. “Si può proprio dire così. Prima di scappare dal tassista e prima ancora di iniziare a lavorare con quel vagabondo, avevo affittato una stanza per due settimane, ma non avevo ancora arredato nulla.”

“Appartamenti non arredati?” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Sì, gli archi secchi del Ponte di Waterloo. Ottimo posto dove dormire: a soli dieci minuti a piedi da tutti gli uffici pubblici. L’unica obiezione potrebbe essere che l’ambiente è un po’ troppo arioso. Credo ci siano alcune stranezze in quel luogo.”

“Ah, immagino di sì,” disse il signor Pickwick con un tono di notevole interesse.

“Scene del genere, signore,” continuò il signor Weller, “quando entrano nel vostro cuore benevolo e ne escono dall’altra parte. Non vedete quei vagabondi regolari laggiù; fidatevi di loro, sanno meglio di chiunque altro. Giovani mendicanti, maschi e femmine, che non hanno ancora trovato una sistemazione nella loro ‘professione’, a volte si rifugiano lì. Ma di solito sono creature stanche, affamate, senza fissa dimora. Poveri esseri che non valgono nemmeno due penny.”

“E dimmi, Sam, cos’è questa corda da due penny?” chiese il signor Pickwick.

“La corda da due penny, signore,” rispose il signor Weller, “è soltanto una sistemazione economica in una casa d’alloggio, dove i letti costano due penny a notte.”

“Perché chiamano ‘corda’ un letto?”, disse il signor Pickwick.

“Benedica la sua innocenza, signore, ”, rispose Sam. “Quando la signora e il generale arrivarono per aprire questo ostello, all’inizio facevano i letti sul pavimento; ma questo non andava affatto bene. Gli ospiti, invece di dormire per un paio d’ore, passavano lì metà della giornata. Ora hanno due corde, distanziate circa sei piedi l’una dall’altra e fissate a tre piedi dal pavimento; i letti sono fatti con strisce di sacco grezzo tese sopra quelle corde.”

‘Well,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Well,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘the adwantage o’ the plan’s hobvious. At six o’clock every mornin’ they let’s go the ropes at one end, and down falls the lodgers. Consequence is, that being thoroughly waked, they get up wery quietly, and walk away!’

‘Beg your pardon, sir,’ said Sam, suddenly breaking off in his loquacious discourse. ‘Is this Bury St. Edmunds?’

‘It is,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

The coach rattled through the well-paved streets of a handsome little town, of thriving and cleanly appearance, and stopped before a large inn situated in a wide open street, nearly facing the old abbey.

‘And this,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking up. ‘Is the Angel! We alight here, Sam. But some caution is necessary. Order a private room, and do not mention my name. You understand.’

‘Right as a trivet, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, with a wink of intelligence; and having dragged Mr. Pickwick’s portmanteau from the hind boot, into which it had been hastily thrown when they joined the coach at Eatanswill, Mr. Weller disappeared on his errand. A private room was speedily engaged; and into it Mr. Pickwick was ushered without delay.

‘Now, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘the first thing to be done is to—’

Order dinner, Sir,’ interposed Mr. Weller. ‘It’s wery late, sir.’

‘Ah, so it is,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking at his watch. ‘You are right, Sam.’

‘And if I might adwise, Sir,’ added Mr. Weller, ‘I’d just have a good night’s rest arterwards, and not begin inquiring arter this here deep ‘un till the mornin’. There’s nothin’ so refreshen’ as sleep, sir, as the servant girl said afore she drank the egg-cupful of laudanum.’

‘I think you are right, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘But I must first ascertain that he is in the house, and not likely to go away.’

‘Leave that to me, Sir,’ said Sam. ‘Let me order you a snug little dinner, and make my inquiries below while it’s a-getting ready; I could worm ev’ry secret out O’ the boots’s heart, in five minutes, Sir.’

Do so,’ said Mr. Pickwick; and Mr. Weller at once retired.

In half an hour, Mr. Pickwick was seated at a very satisfactory dinner; and in three-quarters Mr. Weller returned with the intelligence that Mr. Charles Fitz-Marshall had ordered his private room to be retained for him, until further notice. He was going to spend the evening at some private house in the neighbourhood, had ordered the boots to sit up until his return, and had taken his servant with him.

‘Now, sir,’ argued Mr. Weller, when he had concluded his report, ‘if I can get a talk with this here servant in the mornin’, he’ll tell me all his master’s concerns.’

‘How do you know that?’ interposed Mr. Pickwick.

‘Bless your heart, sir, servants always do,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘Oh, ah, I forgot that,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Well.’

‘Then you can arrange what’s best to be done, sir, and we can act accordingly.’

As it appeared that this was the best arrangement that could be made, it was finally agreed upon. Mr. Weller, by his master’s permission, retired to spend the evening in his own way; and was shortly afterwards elected, by the unanimous voice of the assembled company, into the taproom chair, in which honourable post he acquitted himself so much to the satisfaction of the gentlemen-frequenters, that their roars of laughter and approbation penetrated to Mr. Pickwick’s bedroom, and shortened the term of his natural rest by at least three hours.

Early on the ensuing morning, Mr. Weller was dispelling all the feverish remains of the previous evening’s conviviality, through the instrumentality of a halfpenny shower-bath (having induced a young gentleman attached to the stable department, by the offer of that coin, to pump over his head and face, until he was perfectly restored), when he was attracted by the appearance of a young fellow in mulberry- coloured livery, who was sitting on a bench in the yard, reading what appeared to be a hymn-book, with an air of deep abstraction, but who occasionally stole a glance at the individual under the pump, as if he took some interest in his proceedings, nevertheless.

‘You’re a rum ‘un to look at, you are!’ thought Mr. Weller, the first time his eyes encountered the glance of the stranger in the mulberry suit, who had a large, sallow, ugly face, very sunken eyes, and a gigantic head, from which depended a quantity of lank black hair. ‘You’re a rum ‘un!’ thought Mr. Weller; and thinking this, he went on washing himself, and thought no more about him.

Still the man kept glancing from his hymn-book to Sam, and from Sam to his hymn-book, as if he wanted to open a conversation. So at last, Sam, by way of giving him an opportunity, said with a familiar nod—

‘How are you, governor?’

‘I am happy to say, I am pretty well, Sir,’ said the man, speaking with great deliberation, and closing the book. ‘I hope you are the same, Sir?’

‘Why, if I felt less like a walking brandy-bottle I shouldn’t be quite so staggery this mornin’,’ replied Sam. ‘Are you stoppin’ in this house, old ‘un?’

The mulberry man replied in the affirmative.

‘How was it you worn’t one of us, last night?’ inquired Sam, scrubbing his face with the towel. ‘You seem one of the jolly sort—looks as conwivial as a live trout in a lime basket,’ added Mr. Weller, in an undertone.

‘I was out last night with my master,’ replied the stranger.

‘What’s his name?’ inquired Mr. Weller, colouring up very red with sudden excitement, and the friction of the towel combined.

‘Fitz-Marshall,’ said the mulberry man.

‘Give us your hand,’ said Mr. Weller, advancing; ‘I should like to know you. I like your appearance, old fellow.’

‘Well, that is very strange,’ said the mulberry man, with great simplicity of manner. ‘I like yours so much, that I wanted to speak to you, from the very first moment I saw you under the pump.’

“Beh,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Beh,” disse il signor Weller, “i vantaggi di questo piano sono ovvi. Ogni mattina alle sei, lasciamo che le corde vengano sciolte da un’estremità, e così gli inquilini cadono giù. Di conseguenza, essendo completamente svegliati, si alzano molto silenziosamente e se ne vanno!”

“Perdonatemi, signore,” disse Sam, interrompendo improvvisamente il suo discorso prolisso. “Questo è Bury St. Edmunds?”

“Sì,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

L’autista percorse velocemente le strade ben lastricate di una graziosa piccola città, dall’aspetto prospero e pulito, e si fermò davanti a un grande ostello situato su una strada larga e aperta, quasi di fronte all’antica abbazia.

“E questo,” disse il signor Pickwick alzando lo sguardo, “è l’Angelo! Scendiamo qui, Sam. Ma è necessario essere cauti. Prendi una stanza privata e non menzionare il mio nome. Capisci?”

“Esattamente come un portatovagliolo, signore,” rispose il signor Weller con un cenno d’intesa; e dopo aver tirato fuori la valigia del signor Pickwick dall’altro piede della carrozza, dove era stata gettata in fretta quando si erano imbarcati a Eatanswill, il signor Weller se ne andò per svolgere la sua commissione. Fu rapidamente prenotata una stanza privata; e il signor Pickwick fu fatto entrare senza indugio.

“Ora, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick, “la prima cosa da fare è, ”

“Ordini la cena, signore”, intervenne il signor Weller. “È molto tardi, signore.”

“Ah, capisco,” disse il signor Pickwick guardando l’orologio. “Hai ragione, Sam.”

“E se posso dare un consiglio, signore,” aggiunse il signor Weller, “io mi riposerei bene per tutta la notte, e non inizierei a indagare su questa faccenda fino al mattino. Non c’è nulla di più rinfrescante della sonno, signore, proprio come ha detto quella serva prima di bere quel bicchiere di laudano.”

“Penso che tu abbia ragione, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Ma devo prima assicurarmi che si trovi nella >casa e che non abbia intenzione di andarsene.”

“Lasci che me ne occupi io, signore,” disse Sam. “Lasciate che vi prepari una cena deliziosa e intanto faccio le mie indagini laggiù; in cinque minuti riuscirei a scoprire ogni segreto, signore.”

“Fallo,” disse il signor Pickwick; e il signor Weller se ne andò immediatamente.

In mezz’ora, il signor Pickwick era già seduto a tavola per una cena molto soddisfacente; e dopo tre quarti d’ora, il signor Weller tornò con la notizia che il signor Charles Fitz-Marshall aveva ordinato che la sua stanza privata fosse riservata per lui fino a nuove istruzioni. Intendeva trascorrere la serata in una casa privata nei dintorni, aveva fatto preparare le sue scarpe per il suo ritorno e aveva portato con sé il proprio servitore.

“Ora, signore,” argomentò il signor Weller una volta concluso il suo rapporto, “se riesco a parlare con questo servitore questa mattina, mi racconterà tutte le preoccupazioni di suo padrone.”

“Come fai a saperlo?” intervenne il signor Pickwick.

“Per carità, signore, i servitori fanno sempre così,” rispose il signor Weller.

“Ah, sì, me n’ero dimenticato,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Beh, ”

“Allora potrete decidere cosa sia meglio fare, signore, e noi agiremo di conseguenza.”

Poiché sembrava che questo fosse il miglior accordo possibile, fu finalmente deciso di attuarlo. Con il permesso del suo padrone, il signor Weller si ritirò per trascorrere la serata a modo suo; poco dopo fu eletto, all’unanimità dei presenti, alla carica di presidente della sala da bere, e in quell’onorevole ruolo si comportò così bene da soddisfare appieno i signori che vi frequentavano. I loro risate e i loro applausi raggiunsero persino la camera da letto del signor Pickwick, riducendo di almeno tre ore il tempo del suo riposo naturale.

All’alba del giorno seguente, il signor Weller stava eliminando gli ultimi effetti dell’allegria della sera precedente, utilizzando una doccia costata mezzo penny; grazie a questa offerta, un giovane addetto alle scuderie si era preso cura di lui, spruzzandogli acqua sulla testa e sul viso fino a quando non si fu completamente ripreso. In quel momento, il suo sguardo fu attratto da un giovane vestito con abiti color gelso, seduto su una panchina nel cortile: sembrava assorto nella lettura di un libro di inni, ma di tanto in tanto lanciava occhiate al signor Weller sotto la doccia, come se fosse interessato a ciò che stava facendo.

“Che tipo strano da guardare, ”, pensò il signor Weller la prima volta che i suoi occhi incrociarono lo sguardo di quell’estraneo vestito con un abito di seta, dall’aspetto brutto e pallido, con occhi molto infossati e una testa enorme, dalla quale pendevano lunghi capelli neri. “Che tipo strano, ”, ripeté tra sé il signor Weller; poi continuò a lavarsi, senza pensare più a lui.

Tuttavia, l’uomo continuava a guardare alternativamente il suo libro di >Inni e Sam, e poi di nuovo Sam e il suo libro di >Inni, come se volesse iniziare una conversazione. Alla fine, per dargli l’opportunità, Sam annuì con un gesto familiare e disse.

“Come sta, governatore?”

“Sono felice di dirlo, sto abbastanza bene, signore,” disse l’uomo, parlando con grande attenzione e chiudendo il libro. “Spero che anche voi stiate allo stesso modo, signore.”

“Perché, se non mi sentissi più come una bottiglia di brandy in movimento, non dovrei essere così stupido questa mattina,” rispose Sam. “Ti fermerai in questa vecchia casa, vero?”

L’uomo dei gelso rispose affermativamente.

“Come mai non eri tra di noi, la scorsa notte?”, chiese Sam, lavandosi il viso con l’asciugamano. “Sembri proprio uno di quelli che si divertono, sembri così allegro come un salmone vivo in un cesto di lime”, aggiunse Mr. Weller, con un tono particolare.

“Eravamo fuori ieri notte con il mio padrone,” rispose lo sconosciuto.

“Come si chiama?” chiese il signor Weller, arrossendo improvvisamente per l’emozione; il rossore era accentuato anche dal contatto con l’asciugamano.

“Fitz-Marshall,” disse l’uomo dei gelso.

“Dategli la mano,” disse il signor Weller avvicinandosi; “vorrei conoscerlo. Mi piace il suo aspetto, vecchio mio.”

“Beh, questo è davvero molto strano,” disse l’uomo dei gelso con grande semplicità di modi. “Mi piace molto il tuo modo di fare, tanto che ho voluto parlarti non appena ti ho visto sotto la pompa.”

Did you though?’

‘Upon my word. Now, isn’t that curious?’

‘Wery sing’ler,’ said Sam, inwardly congratulating himself upon the softness of the stranger. ‘What’s your name, my patriarch?’

‘Job.’

‘And a wery good name it is; only one I know that ain’t got a nickname to it. What’s the other name?’

‘Trotter,’ said the stranger. ‘What is yours?’

Sam bore in mind his master’s caution, and replied—

‘My name’s Walker; my master’s name’s Wilkins. Will you take a drop o’ somethin’ this mornin’, Mr. Trotter?’

Mr. Trotter acquiesced in this agreeable proposal; and having deposited his book in his coat pocket, accompanied Mr. Weller to the tap, where they were soon occupied in discussing an exhilarating compound, formed by mixing together, in a pewter vessel, certain quantities of British Hollands and the fragrant essence of the clove.

‘And what sort of a place have you got?’ inquired Sam, as he filled his companion’s glass, for the second time.

‘Bad,’ said Job, smacking his lips, ‘very bad.’

‘You don’t mean that?’ said Sam.

‘I do, indeed. Worse than that, my master’s going to be married.’

‘No.’

‘Yes; and worse than that, too, he’s going to run away with an immense rich heiress, from boarding-school.’

‘What a dragon!’ said Sam, refilling his companion’s glass. ‘It’s some boarding-school in this town, I suppose, ain’t it?’ Now, although this question was put in the most careless tone imaginable, Mr. Job Trotter plainly showed by gestures that he perceived his new friend’s anxiety to draw forth an answer to it. He emptied his glass, looked mysteriously at his companion, winked both of his small eyes, one after the other, and finally made a motion with his arm, as if he were working an imaginary pump-handle; thereby intimating that he (Mr. Trotter) considered himself as undergoing the process of being pumped by Mr. Samuel Weller.

‘No, no,’ said Mr. Trotter, in conclusion, ‘that’s not to be told to everybody. That is a secret—a great secret, Mr. Walker.’ As the mulberry man said this, he turned his glass upside down, by way of reminding his companion that he had nothing left wherewith to slake his thirst. Sam observed the hint; and feeling the delicate manner in which it was conveyed, ordered the pewter vessel to be refilled, whereat the small eyes of the mulberry man glistened.

‘And so it’s a secret?’ said Sam.

‘I should rather suspect it was,’ said the mulberry man, sipping his liquor, with a complacent face.

‘I suppose your mas’r’s wery rich?’ said Sam.

Mr. Trotter smiled, and holding his glass in his left hand, gave four distinct slaps on the pockets of his mulberry indescribables with his right, as if to intimate that his master might have done the same without alarming anybody much by the chinking of coin.

‘Ah,’ said Sam, ‘that’s the game, is it?’

The mulberry man nodded significantly.

‘Well, and don’t you think, old feller,’ remonstrated Mr. Weller, ‘that if you let your master take in this here young lady, you’re a precious rascal?’

‘I know that,’ said Job Trotter, turning upon his companion a countenance of deep contrition, and groaning slightly, ‘I know that, and that’s what it is that preys upon my mind. But what am I to do?’

‘Do!’ said Sam; ‘di-wulge to the missis, and give up your master.’

‘Who’d believe me?’ replied Job Trotter. ‘The young lady’s considered the very picture of innocence and discretion. She’d deny it, and so would my master. Who’d believe me? I should lose my place, and get indicted for a conspiracy, or some such thing; that’s all I should take by my motion.’

‘There’s somethin’ in that,’ said Sam, ruminating; ‘there’s somethin’ in that.’

‘If I knew any respectable gentleman who would take the matter up,’ continued Mr. Trotter. ‘I might have some hope of preventing the elopement; but there’s the same difficulty, Mr. Walker, just the same. I know no gentleman in this strange place; and ten to one if I did, whether he would believe my story.’

‘Come this way,’ said Sam, suddenly jumping up, and grasping the mulberry man by the arm. ‘My mas’r’s the man you want, I see.’ And after a slight resistance on the part of Job Trotter, Sam led his newly-found friend to the apartment of Mr. Pickwick, to whom he presented him, together with a brief summary of the dialogue we have just repeated.

‘I am very sorry to betray my master, sir,’ said Job Trotter, applying to his eyes a pink checked pocket-handkerchief about six inches square.

‘The feeling does you a great deal of honour,’ replied Mr. Pickwick; ‘but it is your duty, nevertheless.’

‘I know it is my duty, Sir,’ replied Job, with great emotion. ‘We should all try to discharge our duty, Sir, and I humbly endeavour to discharge mine, Sir; but it is a hard trial to betray a master, Sir, whose clothes you wear, and whose bread you eat, even though he is a scoundrel, Sir.’

‘You are a very good fellow,’ said Mr. Pickwick, much affected; ‘an honest fellow.’

‘Come, come,’ interposed Sam, who had witnessed Mr. Trotter’s tears with considerable impatience, ‘blow this ‘ere water-cart bis’ness. It won’t do no good, this won’t.’

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick reproachfully. ‘I am sorry to find that you have so little respect for this young man’s feelings.’

‘His feelin’s is all wery well, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘and as they’re so wery fine, and it’s a pity he should lose ‘em, I think he’d better keep ‘em in his own buzzum, than let ‘em ewaporate in hot water, ‘specially as they do no good. Tears never yet wound up a clock, or worked a steam ingin’. The next time you go out to a smoking party, young fellow, fill your pipe with that ‘ere reflection; and for the present just put that bit of pink gingham into your pocket. ‘Tain’t so handsome that you need keep waving it about, as if you was a tight-rope dancer.’

‘My man is in the right,’ said Mr. Pickwick, accosting Job, ‘although his mode of expressing his opinion is somewhat homely, and occasionally incomprehensible.’

“L’hai davvero pensato?”

“Per la mia parola. Non è forse curioso?”

“Davvero un tipo strano,” pensò Sam, compiaciuto della gentilezza di quell’estraneo. “Come ti chiami, mio buon uomo?”

“Lavoro.”

“E davvero un ottimo nome; è l’unico che conosco che non abbia alcun soprannome. Qual è l’altro nome?”

“Trotter,” disse lo sconosciuto. “E il tuo nome?”

“Sam tenne a mente l’avvertimento del suo padrone e rispose, ”

“Mi chiamo Walker; il mio padrone si chiama Wilkins. Vorrebbe bere qualcosa questa mattina, signor Trotter?”

Il signor Trotter acconsentì a questa piacevole proposta; e dopo aver messo il suo libro nella tasca del cappotto, accompagnò il signor Weller al rubinetto, dove presto iniziarono a discutere di una bevanda eccitante, preparata mescolando in un recipiente di stagno determinate quantità di gin britannico e l’essenza profumata del chiodo di garofano.

“E di che tipo è questo posto?” chiese Sam, mentre riempiva per la seconda volta il bicchiere del suo compagno.

“Malo,” disse Giobbe, schioccando le labbra, “davvero malo.”

“Non lo dici sul serio?” disse Sam.

“Sì, proprio così. E per di più, il mio padrone si sposa.”

‘No.’

“Sì; e peggio ancora, se ne andrà con una ricchissima ereditiera, che viene da un collegio.”

“Che drago terribile!” disse Sam, riempiendo di nuovo il bicchiere del suo compagno. “Dev’essere qualche collegio in questa città, vero?” Ora, sebbene questa domanda fosse posta con il tono più casuale possibile, il signor Job Trotter fece chiaramente capire con dei gesti che percepiva l’ansia del suo nuovo amico di ricevere una risposta. Vuotò il proprio bicchiere, guardò misteriosamente il compagno, strinse entrambi gli occhietti uno dopo l’altro e infine fece un movimento con il braccio, come se stesse azionando una maniglia immaginaria di una pompa; con questo gesto intendeva indicare che lui stesso si considerava essere sotto processo, come se fosse stato “sottoposto a una sorta di pompaggio” da parte del signor Samuel Weller.

“No, no,” disse infine il signor Trotter, “questo non si può dire a tutti. È un segreto, un grande segreto, signor Walker.” Mentre pronunciava queste parole, girò il bicchiere capovolto, come per ricordare al suo compagno che non gli era rimasto nulla con cui dissetarsi. Sam colse allusione e, notando il modo delicato in cui era stata fatta, ordinò che il recipiente di stagno venisse riempito di nuovo; alle parole di Sam, i piccoli occhi dell’uomo si illuminarono di gioia.

“Quindi è un segreto?” disse Sam.

“Piuttosto dovrei sospettarlo,” disse l’uomo dei gelso, sorseggiando il suo liquore con un’espressione compiaciuta.

“Immagino che vostro padrone sia molto ricco, vero?” disse Sam.

Il signor Trotter sorrise, tenne il bicchiere nella mano sinistra e con la destra diede quattro colpi distinti alle tasche dei suoi indumenti di seta, come per suggerire che anche il suo padrone avrebbe potuto fare lo stesso senza destare troppa attenzione con il rumore delle monete.

“Ah,” disse Sam, “quindi è così che funziona il gioco, vero?”

L’uomo dei gelso annuì con decisione.

“Beh,” obiettò il signor Weller, “non pensi anche tu, vecchio mio, che se lasci il tuo padrone accogliere questa giovane signora, sei davvero un bel furfante?”

“Lo so,” disse Job Trotter, rivolgendo al suo compagno un volto pieno di profondo rimorso e gemendo leggermente, “lo so, ed è proprio questo che mi tormenta continuamente. Ma cosa devo fare?”

“Fa’ così!” disse Sam; “vai dalla signora e arrenditi al tuo padrone.”

“Chi mi crederebbe?”, rispose Job Trotter. “La giovane signora è considerata l’incarnazione stessa dell’innocenza e della discrezione. Lei lo negherebbe, e lo farebbe anche il mio padrone. Chi mi crederebbe? Perderei il mio lavoro e verrei accusato di cospirazione o qualcosa del genere. Questo è tutto ciò che rischierei con la mia denuncia.”

“C’è qualcosa di vero in quello che dice,” rifletté Sam; “c’è davvero qualcosa di vero.”

“Se conoscessi qualche gentiluomo rispettabile disposto a intervenire in questa faccenda,” continuò il signor Trotter, “forse avrei qualche >speranza di impedire la fuga; ma c’è lo stesso problema, signor Walker, proprio lo stesso. Non conosco nessun gentiluomo in questo posto strano; e, a giudicare da tutto, anche se ne conoscessi uno, probabilmente non crederebbe alla mia storia.”

“Da questa parte,” disse Sam, alzandosi improvvisamente e afferrando il signor Trotter per il braccio. “Vedo che il mio padrone è proprio l’uomo che state cercando.” Dopo una leggera resistenza da parte di Job Trotter, Sam portò il suo nuovo amico nell’appartamento del signor Pickwick, dove lo presentò a lui, insieme a un breve riassunto del dialogo che avevamo appena ripetuto.

“Mi dispiace molto di aver tradito il mio padrone, signore,” disse Job Trotter, applicandosi agli occhi un fazzoletto da tasca a quadri rosa, di circa sei pollici di lato.

“Questo sentimento vi conferisce grande onore”, rispose il signor Pickwick; “ma comunque sia, è anche vostro dovere”.

“So che è mio dovere, Signore,” rispose Job con grande emozione. “Dovremmo tutti cercare di adempiere al nostro dovere, Signore, e io cerco umilmente di fare la mia parte; ma è davvero difficile tradire un padrone del quale si indossano i vestiti e si mangia il pane, anche se si tratta di una canaglia, ”

“Sei davvero un bravo ragazzo,” disse il signor Pickwick, molto commosso; “un uomo onesto.”

“Ma come, ma come,” intervenne Sam, che aveva assistito con notevole impazienza alle lacrime del signor Trotter, “smettila di perdere tempo con queste sciocchezze. Non servirà a nulla.”

“Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick in tono di rimprovero, “mi dispiace molto scoprire che tu rispetti così poco i sentimenti di questo giovane.”

“Le sue emozioni sono davvero molto intense, signore,” rispose il signor Weller; “e poiché sono così forti, e sarebbe un peccato che le perdesse, penso che sia meglio che le tenga per sé, piuttosto che lasciarle svanire nell’acqua calda, soprattutto visto che non servono a nulla. Le lacrime, ad esempio, non hanno mai fatto funzionare un orologio o azionato una macchina a vapore. La prossima volta che andrai a una festa con fumo, ragazzo mio, riempi la tua pipa con quelle ‘emozioni’, per ora, metti semplicemente quel pezzo di stoffa rosa nel tuo taschino. Non è così bello da doverlo mostrare in giro come se fossi un acrobata su fune sottile.”

“Mio uomo ha ragione,” disse il signor Pickwick avvicinandosi a Job, “anche se il modo in cui esprime le sue opinioni è piuttosto semplice e, a volte, incomprensibile.”

‘He is, sir, very right,’ said Mr. Trotter, ‘and I will give way no longer.’

Very well,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Now, where is this boarding-school?’

‘It is a large, old, red brick house, just outside the town, Sir,’ replied Job Trotter.

‘And when,’ said Mr. Pickwick—‘when is this villainous design to be carried into execution—when is this elopement to take place?’

‘To-night, Sir,’ replied Job.

‘To-night!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

‘This very night, sir,’ replied Job Trotter. ‘That is what alarms me so much.’

‘Instant measures must be taken,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘I will see the lady who keeps the establishment immediately.’

‘I beg your pardon, Sir,’ said Job, ‘but that course of proceeding will never do.’

‘Why not?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘My master, sir, is a very artful man.’

‘I know he is,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘And he has so wound himself round the old lady’s heart, Sir,’ resumed Job, ‘that she would believe nothing to his prejudice, if you went down on your bare knees, and swore it; especially as you have no proof but the word of a servant, who, for anything she knows (and my master would be sure to say so), was discharged for some fault, and does this in revenge.’

‘What had better be done, then?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Nothing but taking him in the very act of eloping, will convince the old lady, sir,’ replied Job.

‘All them old cats _will _run their heads agin milestones,’ observed Mr. Weller, in a parenthesis.

‘But this taking him in the very act of elopement, would be a very difficult thing to accomplish, I fear,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘I don’t know, sir,’ said Mr. Trotter, after a few moments’ reflection. ‘I think it might be very easily done.’

‘How?’ was Mr. Pickwick’s inquiry.

‘Why,’ replied Mr. Trotter, ‘my master and I, being in the confidence of the two servants, will be secreted in the kitchen at ten o’clock. When the family have retired to rest, we shall come out of the kitchen, and the young lady out of her bedroom. A post-chaise will be waiting, and away we go.’

‘Well?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Well, sir, I have been thinking that if you were in waiting in the garden behind, alone—’

‘Alone,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Why alone?’

‘I thought it very natural,’ replied Job, ‘that the old lady wouldn’t like such an unpleasant discovery to be made before more persons than can possibly be helped. The young lady, too, sir—consider her feelings.’

‘You are very right,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘The consideration evinces your delicacy of feeling. Go on; you are very right.’

‘Well, sir, I have been thinking that if you were waiting in the back garden alone, and I was to let you in, at the door which opens into it, from the end of the passage, at exactly half-past eleven o’clock, you would be just in the very moment of time to assist me in frustrating the designs of this bad man, by whom I have been unfortunately ensnared.’ Here Mr. Trotter sighed deeply.

‘Don’t distress yourself on that account,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘if he had one grain of the delicacy of feeling which distinguishes you, humble as your station is, I should have some hopes of him.’

Job Trotter bowed low; and in spite of Mr. Weller’s previous remonstrance, the tears again rose to his eyes.

‘I never see such a feller,’ said Sam, ‘Blessed if I don’t think he’s got a main in his head as is always turned on.’

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with great severity, ‘hold your tongue.’

‘Wery well, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘I don’t like this plan,’ said Mr. Pickwick, after deep meditation. ‘Why cannot I communicate with the young lady’s friends?’

‘Because they live one hundred miles from here, sir,’ responded Job Trotter.

‘That’s a clincher,’ said Mr. Weller, aside.

‘Then this garden,’ resumed Mr. Pickwick. ‘How am I to get into it?’

‘The wall is very low, sir, and your servant will give you a leg up.’

My servant will give me a leg up,’ repeated Mr. Pickwick mechanically. ‘You will be sure to be near this door that you speak of?’

‘You cannot mistake it, Sir; it’s the only one that opens into the garden. Tap at it when you hear the clock strike, and I will open it instantly.’

‘I don’t like the plan,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘but as I see no other, and as the happiness of this young lady’s whole life is at stake, I adopt it. I shall be sure to be there.’

Thus, for the second time, did Mr. Pickwick’s innate good-feeling involve him in an enterprise from which he would most willingly have stood aloof.

‘What is the name of the house?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Westgate House, Sir. You turn a little to the right when you get to the end of the town; it stands by itself, some little distance off the high road, with the name on a brass plate on the gate.’

‘I know it,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘I observed it once before, when I was in this town. You may depend upon me.’

Mr. Trotter made another bow, and turned to depart, when Mr. Pickwick thrust a guinea into his hand.

‘You’re a fine fellow,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘and I admire your goodness of heart. No thanks. Remember—eleven o’clock.’

‘There is no fear of my forgetting it, sir,’ replied Job Trotter. With these words he left the room, followed by Sam.

‘I say,’ said the latter, ‘not a bad notion that ‘ere crying. I’d cry like a rain-water spout in a shower on such good terms. How do you do it?’

‘It comes from the heart, Mr. Walker,’ replied Job solemnly. ‘Good- morning, sir.’

‘You’re a soft customer, you are; we’ve got it all out o’ you, anyhow,’ thought Mr. Weller, as Job walked away.

We cannot state the precise nature of the thoughts which passed through Mr. Trotter’s mind, because we don’t know what they were.

“Ha perfettamente ragione, signore,” disse il signor Trotter, “e non mi arrenderò più.”

“Molto bene,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Ora, dove si trova questa scuola privata?”

“È una grande casa vecchia in mattoni rossi, proprio fuori dalla città, signore,” rispose Job Trotter.

“E quando,” disse il signor Pickwick – “quando verrà attuato questo malvagio piano? Quando avverrà questa fuga?”

“Per la sera, signore,” rispose Job.

“Notte!” esclamò il signor Pickwick.

“Proprio questa notte, signore,” rispose Job Trotter. “È questo che mi preoccupa così tanto.”

“Devono essere prese immediate misure”, disse il signor Pickwick. “Andrò subito da quella signora che gestisce questa struttura”.

“Mi scusi, signore,” disse Giobbe, “ma quel modo di procedere non funzionerà mai.”

“Perché no?”, chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Mio signore, il mio padrone è un uomo davvero abile.”

“So che lo è,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“E si è conquistato davvero il cuore della vecchia signora, signore,” continuò Job, “al punto che lei non crederebbe mai nulla contro di lui, anche se voi vi metteste in ginocchio e lo giuraste; soprattutto perché non avete alcuna prova se non la parola di una serva che, chissà per quale motivo (e mio padrone ne sarebbe sicuro), è stata licenziata per qualche colpa e agisce ora in vendetta.”

“Allora, cosa sarebbe meglio fare?”, chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Solo cogliendola mentre tenta di fuggire con lui si potrà convincere quella vecchia signora, signore,” rispose Job.

“Tutti quei vecchi gatti continueranno a sbattere la testa contro gli ostacoli,” osservò il signor Weller, tra parentesi.

“Ma coglierlo proprio nel momento in cui fugge via sarebbe molto difficile da realizzare, temo,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Non lo so, signore,” disse il signor Trotter dopo alcuni momenti di riflessione. “Penso che possa essere fatto molto facilmente.”

“Come?” fu la domanda del signor Pickwick.

“Perché,” rispose il signor Trotter, “io e mio padrone, essendo in confidenza con quei due servitori, ci nasconderemo in cucina alle dieci in ora. Quando tutta la famiglia si sarà ritirata a riposare, usciremo dalla cucina, e la giovane signorina uscirà dalla sua camera da letto. Una posta ci aspetterà, e via saremo.”

“‘Beh?’” disse il signor Pickwick.

‘Beh, signore, ho pensato che se foste da solo nel giardino dietro, ’

“Da solo,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Perché da solo?”

“Pensavo fosse del tutto naturale,” rispose Giobbe, “che la vecchia signora non desiderasse che una scoperta così sgradevole venisse fatta davanti a più persone di quante ne potessero essere aiutate. E anche la giovane signorina, signore, considerate i suoi sentimenti.”

“Hai perfettamente ragione,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Questo gesto dimostra la tua sensibilità. Continua pure; hai davvero ragione.”

‘Beh, signore, ho pensato che se lei fosse ad aspettare da solo nel giardino posteriore, e io la facessi entrare dalla porta che si apre lì, dall’estremità del corridoio, esattamente alle undici e mezza, lei sarebbe proprio nel momento giusto per aiutarmi a sventare i piani di questo malvagio uomo, a causa del quale sono purtroppo finito in trappola.’ A queste parole, il signor Trotter sospirò profondamente.

“Non angosciarti per questo motivo,” disse il signor Pickwick; “se avesse anche solo un briciolo di quella sensibilità che ti caratterizza, nonostante la tua umile condizione, potrei avere ancora qualche speranza per lui.”

Job Trotter si inchinò profondamente; e nonostante le precedenti rimostranze del signor Weller, le lacrime gli salirono di nuovo agli occhi.

“Non ho mai visto un tipo del genere,” disse Sam, “Sono sicuro che abbia sempre qualcosa per la testa che lo fa pensare continuamente.”

“Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick con grande severità, “tieni a bada la lingua.”

“Molto bene, signore,” rispose il signor Weller.

“Non mi piace questo piano,” disse il signor Pickwick dopo una profonda riflessione. “Perché non posso comunicare con gli amici della giovane signora?”

“Perché vivono a cento miglia da qui, signore,” rispose Job Trotter.

“Questo è decisivo,” disse il signor Weller tra sé.

“Allora, questo giardino, ”, continuò il signor Pickwick. “Come faccio ad entrare?”

“Il muro è molto basso, signore; il suo servitore le darà una mano per aiutarla a salire.”

“Il mio servitore mi aiuterà,” ripeté meccanicamente il signor Pickwick. “Sarai sicuramente vicino a questa porta di cui parli, vero?”

“Non può esserci errore, signore; è l’unica che conduce nel giardino. Bussate quando sentite suonare la orologio, e io la aprirò immediatamente.”

“Non mi piace questo piano,” disse il signor Pickwick; “ma poiché non ne vedo altri e poiché la felicità di tutta la vita di questa giovane donna è in gioco, lo adotto. Sarò sicuramente presente.”

Così, per la seconda volta, la naturale bontà d’animo del signor Pickwick lo spinse a coinvolgersi in un’impresa da cui avrebbe volentieri mantenuto le distanze.

“Come si chiama questa casa?”, chiese il signor Pickwick.

‘La casa di Westgate, signore. Dopo aver raggiunto la fine della città, svoltate leggermente a destra; si trova un po’ in disparte dalla strada principale, e il nome è scritto su una targa di bronzo alla porta.’

“Lo so,” disse il signor Pickwick. “L’ho notato una volta prima, quando ero in questa città. Potete contare su di me.”

Il signor Trotter fece un altro inchino e si voltò per andarsene, quando il signor Pickwick gli mise una ghinea in mano.

“Sei davvero una brava persona,” disse il signor Pickwick, “e ammiro la tua bontà d’animo. No, grazie. Ricorda: le undici.”

“Non c’è alcun timore che io possa dimenticarlo, signore,” rispose Job Trotter. Con queste parole lasciò la stanza, seguito da Sam.

“Dico,” disse quest’ultimo, “non è mica una cattiva idea piangere. Anch’io piangerei come una fontana che sgorga acqua sotto la pioggia, per un rapporto così bello. Come fai tu a riuscirci?”

“Proviene dal cuore, signor Walker,” rispose Job con solennità. “Buongiorno, signore.”

“Sei davvero un cliente facile da manipolare. Comunque, abbiamo ottenuto tutto ciò che volevamo da te,” pensò il signor Weller mentre Job se ne andava.

Non possiamo definire con precisione la natura esatta dei pensieri che attraversarono la mente del signor Trotter, perché non sappiamo di cosa si trattasse.

The day wore on, evening came, and at a little before ten o’clock Sam Weller reported that Mr. Jingle and Job had gone out together, that their luggage was packed up, and that they had ordered a chaise. The plot was evidently in execution, as Mr. Trotter had foretold.

Half-past ten o’clock arrived, and it was time for Mr. Pickwick to issue forth on his delicate errand. Resisting Sam’s tender of his greatcoat, in order that he might have no encumbrance in scaling the wall, he set forth, followed by his attendant.

There was a bright moon, but it was behind the clouds. It was a fine dry night, but it was most uncommonly dark. Paths, hedges, fields, houses, and trees, were enveloped in one deep shade. The atmosphere was hot and sultry, the summer lightning quivered faintly on the verge of the horizon, and was the only sight that varied the dull gloom in which everything was wrapped—sound there was none, except the distant barking of some restless house-dog.

They found the house, read the brass plate, walked round the wall, and stopped at that portion of it which divided them from the bottom of the garden.

‘You will return to the inn, Sam, when you have assisted me over,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Wery well, Sir.’

‘And you will sit up, till I return.’

‘Cert’nly, Sir.’

‘Take hold of my leg; and, when I say “Over,” raise me gently.’

‘All right, sir.’

Having settled these preliminaries, Mr. Pickwick grasped the top of the wall, and gave the word ‘Over,’ which was literally obeyed. Whether his body partook in some degree of the elasticity of his mind, or whether Mr. Weller’s notions of a gentle push were of a somewhat rougher description than Mr. Pickwick’s, the immediate effect of his assistance was to jerk that immortal gentleman completely over the wall on to the bed beneath, where, after crushing three gooseberry-bushes and a rose- tree, he finally alighted at full length.

‘You ha’n’t hurt yourself, I hope, Sir?’ said Sam, in a loud whisper, as soon as he had recovered from the surprise consequent upon the mysterious disappearance of his master.

‘I have not hurt myself, Sam, certainly,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, from the other side of the wall, ‘but I rather think that _you _have hurt me.’

‘I hope not, Sir,’ said Sam.

‘Never mind,’ said Mr. Pickwick, rising, ‘it’s nothing but a few scratches. Go away, or we shall be overheard.’

‘Good-bye, Sir.’

‘Good-bye.’

With stealthy steps Sam Weller departed, leaving Mr. Pickwick alone in the garden.

Lights occasionally appeared in the different windows of the house, or glanced from the staircases, as if the inmates were retiring to rest. Not caring to go too near the door, until the appointed time, Mr. Pickwick crouched into an angle of the wall, and awaited its arrival.

It was a situation which might well have depressed the spirits of many a man. Mr. Pickwick, however, felt neither depression nor misgiving. He knew that his purpose was in the main a good one, and he placed implicit reliance on the high-minded Job. It was dull, certainly; not to say dreary; but a contemplative man can always employ himself in meditation. Mr. Pickwick had meditated himself into a doze, when he was roused by the chimes of the neighbouring church ringing out the hour—half-past eleven.

‘That’s the time,’ thought Mr. Pickwick, getting cautiously on his feet. He looked up at the house. The lights had disappeared, and the shutters were closed—all in bed, no doubt. He walked on tiptoe to the door, and gave a gentle tap. Two or three minutes passing without any reply, he gave another tap rather louder, and then another rather louder than that.

At length the sound of feet was audible upon the stairs, and then the light of a candle shone through the keyhole of the door. There was a good deal of unchaining and unbolting, and the door was slowly opened.

Now the door opened outwards; and as the door opened wider and wider, Mr. Pickwick receded behind it, more and more. What was his astonishment when he just peeped out, by way of caution, to see that the person who had opened it was—not Job Trotter, but a servant-girl with a candle in her hand! Mr. Pickwick drew in his head again, with the swiftness displayed by that admirable melodramatic performer, Punch, when he lies in wait for the flat-headed comedian with the tin box of music.

‘It must have been the cat, Sarah,’ said the girl, addressing herself to some one in the house. ‘Puss, puss, puss,—tit, tit, tit.’

But no animal being decoyed by these blandishments, the girl slowly closed the door, and re-fastened it; leaving Mr. Pickwick drawn up straight against the wall.

‘This is very curious,’ thought Mr. Pickwick. ‘They are sitting up beyond their usual hour, I suppose. Extremely unfortunate, that they should have chosen this night, of all others, for such a purpose— exceedingly.’ And with these thoughts, Mr. Pickwick cautiously retired to the angle of the wall in which he had been before ensconced; waiting until such time as he might deem it safe to repeat the signal.

He had not been here five minutes, when a vivid flash of lightning was followed by a loud peal of thunder that crashed and rolled away in the distance with a terrific noise—then came another flash of lightning, brighter than the other, and a second peal of thunder louder than the first; and then down came the rain, with a force and fury that swept everything before it.

Mr. Pickwick was perfectly aware that a tree is a very dangerous neighbour in a thunderstorm. He had a tree on his right, a tree on his left, a third before him, and a fourth behind. If he remained where he was, he might fall the victim of an accident; if he showed himself in the centre of the garden, he might be consigned to a constable. Once or twice he tried to scale the wall, but having no other legs this time, than those with which Nature had furnished him, the only effect of his struggles was to inflict a variety of very unpleasant gratings on his knees and shins, and to throw him into a state of the most profuse perspiration.

Il giorno trascorse lentamente, arrivò la sera, e poco prima delle dieci Sam Weller comunicò che il signor Jingle e Job erano usciti insieme, che i loro bagagli erano pronti e che avevano ordinato una carrozza. Chiaramente, il piano stava venendo attuato, proprio come il signor Trotter aveva previsto.

Le dieci e mezza suonarono, ed era arrivato il momento per il signor Pickwick di intraprendere la sua delicata missione. Rifiutando l’aiuto di Sam nel prendere il suo cappotto, in modo da non avere impedimenti nell’arrampicarsi sul muro, partì, seguito dal suo attendente.

C’era una luna luminosa, ma era nascosta dietro le nuvole. Era una bella notte secca, ma stranamente buia. Sentieri, siepi, campi, case e alberi erano avvolti in un’oscurità profonda. L’atmosfera era calda e afosa; i fulmini estivi tremolavano debolmente all’orizzonte, rappresentando l’unica cosa che rompeva quella monotona oscurità in cui tutto era avvolto. Non c’era alcun suono, tranne il lontano abbaiare di qualche cane irrequieto.

Trovarono la casa, lessero la targa di bronzo, camminarono intorno al muro e si fermarono nel tratto che li separava dal basso del giardino.

“Tornerai all’ostello, Sam, non appena avrai finito di aiutarmi,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Molto bene, signore.”

“E rimarrai seduto ad aspettarmi, finché non tornerò.”

“Certamente, signore.”

“Afferrami per la gamba; e quando dico ‘Alza’, sollevami delicatamente.”

“Va bene, signore.”

Dopo aver sistemato queste questioni preliminari, il signor Pickwick si aggrappò alla sommità del muro e gridò “Oltre!”, e l’ordine fu letteralmente obbedito. Che il suo -corpo possedesse una certa elasticità, simile a quella della sua mente, o che le idee del signor Weller riguardo a una spinta delicata fossero in realtà più violente di quelle del signor Pickwick, il risultato immediato fu che quel nobile gentiluomo venne letteralmente scaraventato oltre il muro, atterrando sul letto sottostante. Lì, dopo aver schiacciato tre cespugli di more e un albero di rose, riuscì finalmente ad atterrare completamente.

“Spero che non si sia fatto male, signore, ”, disse Sam sottovoce, non appena si fu ripreso dallo shock causato dalla misteriosa scomparsa del suo padrone.

“Non mi sono fatto male, Sam, di certo,” rispose il signor Pickwick dall’altra parte del muro, “ma penso piuttosto che sia stato tu a farmi male.”

“Non lo spero, signore,” disse Sam.

“Non importa,” disse il signor Pickwick alzandosi, “sono solo alcune graffiature. Vai via, altrimenti qualcuno potrebbe sentirci.”

Addio, signore.

Addio.

Con passi furtivi, Sam Weller se ne andò, lasciando il signor Pickwick da solo nel [jardino.

Di tanto in tanto, luci apparivano nelle diverse finestre della >casa o si riflettevano sulle scale, come se gli abitanti stessero andando a riposare. Senza voler avvicinarsi troppo alla porta, fino all’ora stabilita, il signor Pickwick si accovacciò in un angolo del muro e attese l’arrivo dell’ora designata.

Era una situazione che avrebbe potuto certamente deprimere lo spirito di molti uomini. Tuttavia, il signor Pickwick non provava né depressione né preoccupazioni. Sapeva che il suo scopo era fondamentalmente nobile, e confidava ciecamente in quella persona di nobili principi. Certo, l’atmosfera era noiosa, anzi, addirittura tetra; ma una persona contemplativa può sempre dedicarsi alla meditazione. Il signor Pickwick si era addormentato mentre meditava, quando fu svegliato dal suono delle campane della chiesa vicina che battevano le undici e mezza.

“È arrivato il momento,” pensò il signor Pickwick, alzandosi con cautela. Alzò lo sguardo verso la casa: le luci erano spente e le persiane chiuse; tutti dovevano essere a letto, senza alcun dubbio. Si avvicinò in punta di piedi alla porta e bussò delicatamente. Dopo due o tre minuti senza risposta, bussò ancora, questa volta più forte, e poi ancora una volta, ancora più forte.

Finalmente si udì il suono di passi sulle scale, e poi la luce di una candela filtrò attraverso la fessura della serratura. Ci fu molto rumore legato allo sciogliere delle catene e allo sbloccare dei chiavistelli, e infine la porta si aprì lentamente.

Ora la porta si aprì verso l’esterno; e man mano che si apriva sempre di più, il signor Pickwick indietreggiava sempre di più all’interno. Quanto fu sorpreso quando, per precauzione, sbirciò fuori e vide che la persona che aveva aperto la porta non era affatto Job Trotter, ma una serva con una candela in mano! Il signor Pickwick ritirò immediatamente la testa dentro, con la stessa rapidità dimostrata da quel meraviglioso attore melodrammatico, Punch, quando aspetta che arrivi il comico dal cervello di legno con la scatola di musica in metallo.

“Deve essere stata il gatto, Sarah,” disse la ragazza, rivolgendosi a qualcuno all’interno della >casa. “Micio, micio, micio, miagolio, miagolio, miagolio.”

Ma poiché nessun animale si lasciava ingannare da queste lusinghe, la ragazza chiuse lentamente la porta e la riassicurò; lasciando il signor Pickwick schiacciato contro il muro.

“È molto curioso,” pensò il signor Pickwick. “Devono essere svegli più tardi del solito, immagino. È davvero sfortunato che abbiano scelto proprio questa notte per farlo. Assolutamente sfortunato.” Con questi pensieri, il signor Pickwick si ritirò con cautela nell’angolo del muro dove si era nascosto prima; aspettando fino al momento che ritenesse sicuro ripetere il segnale.

Non era ancora passato nemmeno cinque minuti quando un vivido lampo di fulmine fu seguito da un forte tuono che rimbombò in lontananza con un fragore terribile; poi arrivò un altro lampo, ancora più intenso del precedente, e un secondo tuono ancora più forte del primo; infine iniziò a piovere, con una forza e una violenza tale da spazzare via tutto ciò che si trovava sul suo cammino.

Il signor Pickwick era perfettamente consapevole che un albero rappresenti un vicino molto pericoloso durante una tempesta elettrica. Aveva un albero a destra, uno a sinistra, un terzo davanti a sé e un quarto dietro di sé. Se fosse rimasto fermo dove si trovava, avrebbe potuto subire un incidente; se si fosse mostrato nel centro del giardino, sarebbe probabilmente finito nelle mani di una guardia di polizia. Una o due volte aveva provato ad arrampicarsi sul muro, ma questa volta, non avendo altre “gambe” se non quelle che >Natura gli aveva fornito, i suoi tentativi non fecero altro che causargli diversi dolorosi tagli alle ginocchia e ai polpacci, portandolo in uno stato di profonda sudorazione.

‘What a dreadful situation,’ said Mr. Pickwick, pausing to wipe his brow after this exercise. He looked up at the house—all was dark. They must be gone to bed now. He would try the signal again.

He walked on tiptoe across the moist gravel, and tapped at the door. He held his breath, and listened at the key-hole. No reply: very odd. Another knock. He listened again. There was a low whispering inside, and then a voice cried—

‘Who’s there?’

‘That’s not Job,’ thought Mr. Pickwick, hastily drawing himself straight up against the wall again. ‘It’s a woman.’

He had scarcely had time to form this conclusion, when a window above stairs was thrown up, and three or four female voices repeated the query—‘Who’s there?’

Mr. Pickwick dared not move hand or foot. It was clear that the whole establishment was roused. He made up his mind to remain where he was, until the alarm had subsided; and then by a supernatural effort, to get over the wall, or perish in the attempt.

Like all Mr. Pickwick’s determinations, this was the best that could be made under the circumstances; but, unfortunately, it was founded upon the assumption that they would not venture to open the door again. What was his discomfiture, when he heard the chain and bolts withdrawn, and saw the door slowly opening, wider and wider! He retreated into the corner, step by step; but do what he would, the interposition of his own person, prevented its being opened to its utmost width.

‘Who’s there?’ screamed a numerous chorus of treble voices from the staircase inside, consisting of the spinster lady of the establishment, three teachers, five female servants, and thirty boarders, all half- dressed and in a forest of curl-papers.

Of course Mr. Pickwick didn’t say who was there: and then the burden of the chorus changed into—‘Lor! I am so frightened.’

‘Cook,’ said the lady abbess, who took care to be on the top stair, the very last of the group—‘cook, why don’t you go a little way into the garden?’

Please, ma’am, I don’t like,’ responded the cook.

‘Lor, what a stupid thing that cook is!’ said the thirty boarders.

‘Cook,’ said the lady abbess, with great dignity; ‘don’t answer me, if you please. I insist upon your looking into the garden immediately.’

Here the cook began to cry, and the housemaid said it was ‘a shame!’ for which partisanship she received a month’s warning on the spot.

‘Do you hear, cook?’ said the lady abbess, stamping her foot impatiently.

‘Don’t you hear your missis, cook?’ said the three teachers.

‘What an impudent thing that cook is!’ said the thirty boarders.

The unfortunate cook, thus strongly urged, advanced a step or two, and holding her candle just where it prevented her from seeing at all, declared there was nothing there, and it must have been the wind. The door was just going to be closed in consequence, when an inquisitive boarder, who had been peeping between the hinges, set up a fearful screaming, which called back the cook and housemaid, and all the more adventurous, in no time.

‘What is the matter with Miss Smithers?’ said the lady abbess, as the aforesaid Miss Smithers proceeded to go into hysterics of four young lady power.

‘Lor, Miss Smithers, dear,’ said the other nine-and-twenty boarders.

‘Oh, the man—the man—behind the door!’ screamed Miss Smithers.

The lady abbess no sooner heard this appalling cry, than she retreated to her own bedroom, double-locked the door, and fainted away comfortably. The boarders, and the teachers, and the servants, fell back upon the stairs, and upon each other; and never was such a screaming, and fainting, and struggling beheld. In the midst of the tumult, Mr. Pickwick emerged from his concealment, and presented himself amongst them.

‘Ladies—dear ladies,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Oh. he says we’re dear,’ cried the oldest and ugliest teacher. ‘Oh, the wretch!’

‘Ladies,’ roared Mr. Pickwick, rendered desperate by the danger of his situation. ‘Hear me. I am no robber. I want the lady of the house.’

‘Oh, what a ferocious monster!’ screamed another teacher. ‘He wants Miss Tomkins.’

Here there was a general scream.

‘Ring the alarm bell, somebody!’ cried a dozen voices.

‘Don’t—don’t,’ shouted Mr. Pickwick. ‘Look at me. Do I look like a robber! My dear ladies—you may bind me hand and leg, or lock me up in a closet, if you like. Only hear what I have got to say—only hear me.’

‘How did you come in our garden?’ faltered the housemaid.

‘Call the lady of the house, and I’ll tell her everything,’ said Mr. Pickwick, exerting his lungs to the utmost pitch. ‘Call her—only be quiet, and call her, and you shall hear everything.’

It might have been Mr. Pickwick’s appearance, or it might have been his manner, or it might have been the temptation—irresistible to a female mind—of hearing something at present enveloped in mystery, that reduced the more reasonable portion of the establishment (some four individuals) to a state of comparative quiet. By them it was proposed, as a test of Mr. Pickwick’s sincerity, that he should immediately submit to personal restraint; and that gentleman having consented to hold a conference with Miss Tomkins, from the interior of a closet in which the day boarders hung their bonnets and sandwich-bags, he at once stepped into it, of his own accord, and was securely locked in. This revived the others; and Miss Tomkins having been brought to, and brought down, the conference began.

‘What did you do in my garden, man?’ said Miss Tomkins, in a faint voice.

‘I came to warn you that one of your young ladies was going to elope to- night,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, from the interior of the closet.

‘Elope!’ exclaimed Miss Tomkins, the three teachers, the thirty boarders, and the five servants. ‘Who with?’

Your friend, Mr. Charles Fitz-Marshall.’

“Che situazione terribile,” disse il signor Pickwick, fermandosi per asciugarsi la fronte dopo quel sforzo. Alzò lo sguardo verso la casa: tutto era buio. Dovevano essersi già andati a letto. Avrebbe provato di nuovo a mandare il segnale.

Camminò in punta di piedi sul ghiaietto umido e bussò alla porta. Trattenne il respiro e ascoltò attraverso la fessura della serratura. Nessuna risposta: molto strano. Bussò di nuovo. Ascoltò ancora. Dall’interno proveniva un sussurro sommesso, poi una voce gridò.

“Chi c’è?”

“Non è Job,” pensò il signor Pickwick, rialzandosi in fretta contro il muro. “È una donna.”

Non aveva ancora avuto il tempo di trarre questa conclusione, quando una finestra al piano di sopra fu aperta, e tre o quattro voci femminili ripeterono la stessa domanda: “Chi c’è là?”

Il signor Pickwick non osava muovere un dito. Era evidente che l’intera casa fosse stata svegliata. Decise di rimanere fermo dove si trovava, fino a quando il trambusto non si fosse placato; poi, con uno sforzo sovrannaturale, avrebbe cercato di superare il muro, o sarebbe morto nel tentativo.

Come tutte le decisioni del signor Pickwick, anche questa era la migliore che si potesse prendere nelle circostanze; purtroppo, però, si basava sull’ipotesi che loro non avrebbero mai osato aprire di nuovo la porta. Quanto fu imbarazzato quando sentì che le catene e i chiavistelli venivano rimossi e vide la porta aprirsi lentamente, sempre di più! Si ritirò nell’angolo, passo dopo passo; ma per quanto ci provasse, la sua stessa presenza impediva che la porta si aprisse completamente.

“Chi c’è là?” gridò un numeroso coro di voci acute proveniente dalle scale all’interno; il coro era composto dalla signorina zitella che gestiva la casa, da tre insegnanti, da cinque domestiche e da trenta pensionanti, tutti semi-nudi e con i capelli arruffati.

Naturalmente, il signor Pickwick non disse chi ci fosse; e allora il testo del coro cambiò in: “Oh mio Dio! Ho tanta paura.”

“Cucina,” disse la badessa, assicurandosi di trovarsi sul gradino più alto, l’ultimo del gruppo; “cucina, perché non vai un po’ nel jardino?”

“Per favore, signora, non mi piace,” rispose la cuoca.

“Dio mio, che persona stupida quella cuoca!” dissero i trenta pensionanti.

“Cucina,” disse la badessa con grande dignità; “se vuoi, non risponderemi. Insisto affinché tu controlli immediatamente il giardino.”

Qui la cuoca iniziò a piangere, e la cameriera disse che era “una vergogna” il comportamento da lei tenuto; per questo ricevette immediatamente una reprimenda ufficiale che le impose un mese di sospensione dal lavoro.

“Riesci a sentirmi, cuoca?”, disse l’abbadessa battendo impazientemente il piede.

“Non senti tua moglie che ti sta chiamando, cuoco?” dissero i tre insegnanti.

“Che donna sfacciata quella cuoca!” dissero i trenta pensionanti.

La sfortunata cuoca, così fortemente sollecitata, fece un paio di passi avanti e, tenendo la candela esattamente nel punto che le impediva di vedere qualsiasi cosa, dichiarò che lì non c’era nulla; doveva essere stato il vento. Proprio in quel momento la porta stava per essere chiusa, quando un inquisitore inquilino, che aveva spiato attraverso le serrature, lanciò un grido spaventoso, facendo tornare indietro cuoca e cameriera. E tutti quanti, ancora più curiosi, senza perdere un istante.

“Che cosa le è successo, signorina Smithers?” chiese la badessa, mentre la suddetta signorina Smithers iniziava a perdere il controllo di sé, manifestando sintomi isterici.

“Loro, signorina Smithers, cara,” dissero gli altri ventinove pensionanti.

“Oh, quell’uomo, quell’uomo dietro la porta!” gridò la signorina Smithers.

Non appena la badessa udì quel terribile grido, si ritirò nella sua camera da letto, chiuse a doppio chiave la porta e svenne tranquillamente. Gli studenti, gli insegnanti e i servitori caddero uno sopra l’altro sulle scale; non si era mai visto nulla del genere: urla, svenimenti, lotta. Nel mezzo di quel caos, il signor Pickwick uscì dal suo nascondiglio e si fece vedere in mezzo a loro.

“Signorelle, care signorelle,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Ah, dice che siamo care”, esclamò l’insegnante più anziana e più brutta. “Povero disgraziato, ”

“Signore,” gridò il signor Pickwick, disperato per la gravità della sua situazione, “ascoltatemi. Non sono un ladro. Voglio parlare con la padrona di questa casa.”

“Oh, che terribile mostro!” gridò un’altra insegnante. “Vuole prendere la signorina Tomkins.”

Qui si levò un grido generale.

“Suonate l’allarme, qualcuno!” gridarono una dozzina di voci.

“Non fatelo, non fatelo,” gridò il signor Pickwick. “Guardatemi: sembro forse un ladro? Care signore, potete legarmi le mani e i piedi, o rinchiudermi in un armadio, se volete. Ma ascoltate almeno ciò che ho da dire, per favore.”

“Come avete fatto ad entrare nel nostro giardino?”, balbettò la cameriera.

“Chiamate la padrona di questa casa, e le dirò tutto,” disse il signor Pickwick, sforzando al massimo i suoi polmoni. “Chiamatela, state solo in silenzio e chiamatela, e ascolterete tutto.”

Forse fu l’aspetto del signor Pickwick, o il suo modo di comportarsi, oppure la tentazione – irresistibile per una mente femminile – di scoprire qualcosa che al momento era avvolto nel mistero. Qualunque fosse la ragione, quella parte più razionale del gruppo (circa quattro persone) finì per cadere in uno stato di relativa calma. Fu loro proposto, come prova della sincerità del signor Pickwick, che si sottoponesse immediatamente a restrizioni personali; e quel gentiluomo, avendo accettato di incontrarsi con la signorina Tomkins all’interno di un armadio dove gli studenti che soggiornavano durante il giorno appendevano i loro cappelli e le borse del pranzo, vi entrò volontariamente e venne chiuso a chiave al suo interno. Questo rianimò gli altri; e dopo che la signorina Tomkins fu fatta entrare nell’armadio, l’incontro ebbe inizio.

“Cosa hai fatto nel mio giardino, ragazzo?”, disse la signorina Tomkins con voce debole.

“Sono venuto ad avvertirvi che una delle vostre giovani signore sta per fuggire, ” rispose il signor Pickwick dall’interno dell’armadio.

“Scappate via insieme!”, esclamarono la signorina Tomkins, le tre insegnanti, i trenta studenti interni e i cinque domestici. “Ma con chi?”

Il tuo amico, il signor Charles Fitz-Marshall.

‘My friend! I don’t know any such person.’

‘Well, Mr. Jingle, then.’

‘I never heard the name in my life.’

‘Then, I have been deceived, and deluded,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘I have been the victim of a conspiracy—a foul and base conspiracy. Send to the Angel, my dear ma’am, if you don’t believe me. Send to the Angel for Mr. Pickwick’s manservant, I implore you, ma’am.’

‘He must be respectable—he keeps a manservant,’ said Miss Tomkins to the writing and ciphering governess.

‘It’s my opinion, Miss Tomkins,’ said the writing and ciphering governess, ‘that his manservant keeps him, I think he’s a madman, Miss Tomkins, and the other’s his keeper.’

‘I think you are very right, Miss Gwynn,’ responded Miss Tomkins. ‘Let two of the servants repair to the Angel, and let the others remain here, to protect us.’

So two of the servants were despatched to the Angel in search of Mr. Samuel Weller; and the remaining three stopped behind to protect Miss Tomkins, and the three teachers, and the thirty boarders. And Mr. Pickwick sat down in the closet, beneath a grove of sandwich-bags, and awaited the return of the messengers, with all the philosophy and fortitude he could summon to his aid.

An hour and a half elapsed before they came back, and when they did come, Mr. Pickwick recognised, in addition to the voice of Mr. Samuel Weller, two other voices, the tones of which struck familiarly on his ear; but whose they were, he could not for the life of him call to mind.

A very brief conversation ensued. The door was unlocked. Mr. Pickwick stepped out of the closet, and found himself in the presence of the whole establishment of Westgate House, Mr Samuel Weller, and—old Wardle, and his destined son-in-law, Mr. Trundle!

‘My dear friend,’ said Mr. Pickwick, running forward and grasping Wardle’s hand, ‘my dear friend, pray, for Heaven’s sake, explain to this lady the unfortunate and dreadful situation in which I am placed. You must have heard it from my servant; say, at all events, my dear fellow, that I am neither a robber nor a madman.’

‘I have said so, my dear friend. I have said so already,’ replied Mr. Wardle, shaking the right hand of his friend, while Mr. Trundle shook the left.

‘And whoever says, or has said, he is,’ interposed Mr. Weller, stepping forward, ‘says that which is not the truth, but so far from it, on the contrary, quite the rewerse. And if there’s any number o’ men on these here premises as has said so, I shall be wery happy to give ‘em all a wery convincing proof o’ their being mistaken, in this here wery room, if these wery respectable ladies ‘ll have the goodness to retire, and order ‘em up, one at a time.’ Having delivered this defiance with great volubility, Mr. Weller struck his open palm emphatically with his clenched fist, and winked pleasantly on Miss Tomkins, the intensity of whose horror at his supposing it within the bounds of possibility that there could be any men on the premises of Westgate House Establishment for Young Ladies, it is impossible to describe.

Mr. Pickwick’s explanation having already been partially made, was soon concluded. But neither in the course of his walk home with his friends, nor afterwards when seated before a blazing fire at the supper he so much needed, could a single observation be drawn from him. He seemed bewildered and amazed. Once, and only once, he turned round to Mr. Wardle, and said—

‘How did you come here?’

‘Trundle and I came down here, for some good shooting on the first,’ replied Wardle. ‘We arrived to-night, and were astonished to hear from your servant that you were here too. But I am glad you are,’ said the old fellow, slapping him on the back—‘I am glad you are. We shall have a jovial party on the first, and we’ll give Winkle another chance—eh, old boy?’

Mr. Pickwick made no reply, he did not even ask after his friends at Dingley Dell, and shortly afterwards retired for the night, desiring Sam to fetch his candle when he rung.

The bell did ring in due course, and Mr. Weller presented himself.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking out from under the bed-clothes.

‘Sir,’ said Mr. Weller.

Mr. Pickwick paused, and Mr. Weller snuffed the candle.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick again, as if with a desperate effort.

‘Sir,’ said Mr. Weller, once more.

‘Where is that Trotter?’

‘Job, sir?’

‘Yes.

‘Gone, sir.’

‘With his master, I suppose?’

‘Friend or master, or whatever he is, he’s gone with him,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘There’s a pair on ‘em, sir.’

‘Jingle suspected my design, and set that fellow on you, with this story, I suppose?’ said Mr. Pickwick, half choking.

‘Just that, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘It was all false, of course?’

‘All, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Reg’lar do, sir; artful dodge.’

‘I don’t think he’ll escape us quite so easily the next time, Sam!’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘I don’t think he will, Sir.’

‘Whenever I meet that Jingle again, wherever it is,’ said Mr. Pickwick, raising himself in bed, and indenting his pillow with a tremendous blow, ‘I’ll inflict personal chastisement on him, in addition to the exposure he so richly merits. I will, or my name is not Pickwick.’

‘And venever I catches hold o’ that there melan-cholly chap with the black hair,’ said Sam, ‘if I don’t bring some real water into his eyes, for once in a way, my name ain’t Weller. Good-night, Sir!’

“Mio amico. Non conosco nessuna persona del genere.”

“Allora, signor Jingle.”

“Non ho mai sentito quel nome in vita mia.”

“Allora, sono stato ingannato e tratto in inganno,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Sono diventato vittima di una cospirazione, una cospirazione vile e meschina. Mandate a chiamare l’Angelo, mia cara signora, se non mi credete. Vi supplico, mandate a chiamare l’Angelo per il servitore del signor Pickwick.”

“Deve essere una persona rispettabile. Ha addirittura un servitore,” disse la signorina Tomkins alla governante incaricata di insegnare scrittura e cifratura.

“È solo la mia opinione, signorina Tomkins,” disse l’insegnante di scrittura e decifrazione, “ma penso che il suo servitore lo tenga prigioniero. Credo sia pazzo, signorina Tomkins, e l’altro sia soltanto colui che si occupa di lui.”

“Penso che tu abbia perfettamente ragione, signorina Gwynn,” rispose la signorina Tomkins. “Lasciamo che due delle domestiche vadano all’Angel, mentre le altre rimangano qui a proteggerci.”

So che due dei servitori furono inviati dal Signore verso l’Angelo alla ricerca del signor Samuel Weller; gli altri tre rimasero indietro per proteggere la signorina Tomkins, i tre insegnanti e i trenta studenti residenti. Il signor Pickwick si sedette in un angolo, sotto una serie di sacchetti del tipo “sandwich”, e attese il ritorno dei messaggeri con tutta la filosofia e la forza d’animo che riuscì a raccolgere.

Trascorsero un’ora e mezza prima che tornassero, e quando finalmente arrivarono, il signor Pickwick riconobbe, oltre alla voce del signor Samuel Weller, altre due voci i cui toni gli sembravano familiari; ma non riuscì assolutamente a ricordare a chi appartenevano.

Seguì una conversazione molto breve. La porta era aperta. Il signor Pickwick uscì dall’armadio e si trovò di fronte a tutta la comunità che abitava nella casa di Westgate: il signor Samuel Weller, e, l’anziano Wardle, nonché suo futuro genero, il signor Trundle!

“Mio caro amico,” disse il signor Pickwick, avvicinandosi e stringendo la mano di Wardle, “mio caro amico, per l’amore del cielo, spieghi a questa signora la sfortunata e terribile situazione in cui mi trovo. Deve averne già sentito parlare dal mio servitore; dica almeno, caro amico, che non sono né un ladro né un pazzo.”

“Lo ho detto, mio caro amico. Lo ho già detto,” rispose il signor Wardle, stringendo la mano destra del suo amico, mentre il signor Trundle stringeva quella sinistra.

“E chiunque dica, o abbia detto, di essere tale,” intervenne il signor Weller avvicinandosi, “dice qualcosa che non è affatto la verità, ma anzi l’opposto. E se ci sono qui delle persone che hanno detto una cosa del genere, sarò molto felice di fornire loro una prova schiacciante del loro errore, proprio in questa stanza, purché queste rispettabili signore abbiano la gentilezza di allontanarsi e di farle venire qui una alla volta.” Dopo aver pronunciato queste parole con grande enfasi, il signor Weller batté il palmo aperto della mano contro il pugno chiuso e fece l’occhiolino a Miss Tomkins. L’intensità del suo orrore, all’idea che potessero esserci uomini all’interno dell’istituto per giovani signore di Westgate House, è impossibile da descrivere.

La spiegazione del signor Pickwick, essendo già stata fornita in parte, fu presto completata. Tuttavia, né durante il suo cammino verso casa con i suoi amici, né in seguito, mentre sedeva davanti a un fuoco ardente a cena – che gli era così necessaria – fu possibile ottenere da lui alcuna osservazione. Sembrava confuso e sbalordito. Solo una volta, e una sola, si girò verso il signor Wardle e disse.

“Come sei arrivato qui?”

“Trundle ed io siamo scesi qui per fare un po’ di buona caccia la prima notte,” rispose Wardle. “Siamo arrivati di notte e siamo rimasti sorpresi quando il tuo servitore ci ha detto che anche tu eri qui. Ma sono contento che tu sia qui,” disse l’uomo anziano dandogli una pacca sulla schiena. “Sarà una bella festa la prima notte, e daremo un’altra possibilità a Winkle, eh, vecchio mio?”

Il signor Pickwick non rispose; nemmeno chiese notizie dei suoi amici a Dingley Dell, e poco dopo si ritirò per la notte, ordinando a Sam di portargli la candela quando avesse suonato.

Dopo un po’, la campanella suonò e il signor Weller si presentò.

“Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick, guardando fuori da sotto le coperte del letto.

“Signore,” disse il signor Weller.

Il signor Pickwick fece una pausa, e il signor Weller spense la candela.

“Sam,” disse di nuovo il signor Pickwick, come se stesse facendo un ultimo, disperato sforzo.

“Signore,” disse ancora una volta il signor Weller.

“Dove diavolo è finito quel Trotter?”

“Un lavoro, signore?”

“Sì, davvero.”

“Via, signore.”

“Con il suo padrone, immagino, ”

“Amico o padrone, o qualunque cosa sia, se n’è andato con lui,” rispose il signor Weller. “Ci sono due di loro, signore.”

“Jingle deve aver sospettato del mio piano e ha mandato quel tizio ad attaccarti, usando questa storia, immagino, ” disse il signor Pickwick, quasi soffocando.

“Solo questo, signore,” rispose il signor Weller.

“Tutto era falso, ovviamente, ”

“Sì, signore,” rispose il signor Weller. “Un comportamento regolare, signore, un astuto modo per eludere le responsabilità.”

“Non credo che la prossima volta riesca a sfuggirci così facilmente, Sam!” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Non credo che lo farà, signore.”

“Ogni volta che rivedo quel Jingle, ovunque si trovi,” disse il signor Pickwick, alzandosi a sedere nel letto e schiacciando il cuscino con un colpo violento, “gli infliggerò una punizione personale, in aggiunta alla pubblica umiliazione che merita ampiamente. Lo farò, o non mi chiamo Pickwick.”

“E ogni volta che riesco ad acciuffare quel tizio triste con i capelli neri,” disse Sam, “se non gli faccio versare un po’ d’acqua negli occhi, una volta almeno, allora il mio nome non è Weller. Buona notte, signore!”

CHAPTER XVII. SHOWING THAT AN ATTACK OF RHEUMATISM, IN SOME CASES, ACTS AS A QUICKENER TO INVENTIVE GENIUS

The constitution of Mr. Pickwick, though able to sustain a very considerable amount of exertion and fatigue, was not proof against such a combination of attacks as he had undergone on the memorable night, recorded in the last chapter. The process of being washed in the night air, and rough-dried in a closet, is as dangerous as it is peculiar. Mr. Pickwick was laid up with an attack of rheumatism.

But although the bodily powers of the great man were thus impaired, his mental energies retained their pristine vigour. His spirits were elastic; his good-humour was restored. Even the vexation consequent upon his recent adventure had vanished from his mind; and he could join in the hearty laughter, which any allusion to it excited in Mr. Wardle, without anger and without embarrassment. Nay, more. During the two days Mr. Pickwick was confined to bed, Sam was his constant attendant. On the first, he endeavoured to amuse his master by anecdote and conversation; on the second, Mr. Pickwick demanded his writing-desk, and pen and ink, and was deeply engaged during the whole day. On the third, being able to sit up in his bedchamber, he despatched his valet with a message to Mr. Wardle and Mr. Trundle, intimating that if they would take their wine there, that evening, they would greatly oblige him. The invitation was most willingly accepted; and when they were seated over their wine, Mr. Pickwick, with sundry blushes, produced the following little tale, as having been ‘edited’ by himself, during his recent indisposition, from his notes of Mr. Weller’s unsophisticated recital.

THE PARISH CLERK A TALE OF TRUE LOVE

‘Once upon a time, in a very small country town, at a considerable distance from London, there lived a little man named Nathaniel Pipkin, who was the parish clerk of the little town, and lived in a little house in the little High Street, within ten minutes’ walk from the little church; and who was to be found every day, from nine till four, teaching a little learning to the little boys. Nathaniel Pipkin was a harmless, inoffensive, good-natured being, with a turned-up nose, and rather turned-in legs, a cast in his eye, and a halt in his gait; and he divided his time between the church and his school, verily believing that there existed not, on the face of the earth, so clever a man as the curate, so imposing an apartment as the vestry-room, or so well-ordered a seminary as his own. Once, and only once, in his life, Nathaniel Pipkin had seen a bishop—a real bishop, with his arms in lawn sleeves, and his head in a wig. He had seen him walk, and heard him talk, at a confirmation, on which momentous occasion Nathaniel Pipkin was so overcome with reverence and awe, when the aforesaid bishop laid his hand on his head, that he fainted right clean away, and was borne out of church in the arms of the beadle.

‘This was a great event, a tremendous era, in Nathaniel Pipkin’s life, and it was the only one that had ever occurred to ruffle the smooth current of his quiet existence, when happening one fine afternoon, in a fit of mental abstraction, to raise his eyes from the slate on which he was devising some tremendous problem in compound addition for an offending urchin to solve, they suddenly rested on the blooming countenance of Maria Lobbs, the only daughter of old Lobbs, the great saddler over the way. Now, the eyes of Mr. Pipkin had rested on the pretty face of Maria Lobbs many a time and oft before, at church and elsewhere; but the eyes of Maria Lobbs had never looked so bright, the cheeks of Maria Lobbs had never looked so ruddy, as upon this particular occasion. No wonder then, that Nathaniel Pipkin was unable to take his eyes from the countenance of Miss Lobbs; no wonder that Miss Lobbs, finding herself stared at by a young man, withdrew her head from the window out of which she had been peeping, and shut the casement and pulled down the blind; no wonder that Nathaniel Pipkin, immediately thereafter, fell upon the young urchin who had previously offended, and cuffed and knocked him about to his heart’s content. All this was very natural, and there’s nothing at all to wonder at about it.

‘It is matter of wonder, though, that anyone of Mr. Nathaniel Pipkin’s retiring disposition, nervous temperament, and most particularly diminutive income, should from this day forth, have dared to aspire to the hand and heart of the only daughter of the fiery old Lobbs—of old Lobbs, the great saddler, who could have bought up the whole village at one stroke of his pen, and never felt the outlay—old Lobbs, who was well known to have heaps of money, invested in the bank at the nearest market town—who was reported to have countless and inexhaustible treasures hoarded up in the little iron safe with the big keyhole, over the chimney-piece in the back parlour—and who, it was well known, on festive occasions garnished his board with a real silver teapot, cream- ewer, and sugar-basin, which he was wont, in the pride of his heart, to boast should be his daughter’s property when she found a man to her mind. I repeat it, to be matter of profound astonishment and intense wonder, that Nathaniel Pipkin should have had the temerity to cast his eyes in this direction. But love is blind; and Nathaniel had a cast in his eye; and perhaps these two circumstances, taken together, prevented his seeing the matter in its proper light.

‘Now, if old Lobbs had entertained the most remote or distant idea of the state of the affections of Nathaniel Pipkin, he would just have razed the school-room to the ground, or exterminated its master from the surface of the earth, or committed some other outrage and atrocity of an equally ferocious and violent description; for he was a terrible old fellow, was Lobbs, when his pride was injured, or his blood was up. Swear! Such trains of oaths would come rolling and pealing over the way, sometimes, when he was denouncing the idleness of the bony apprentice with the thin legs, that Nathaniel Pipkin would shake in his shoes with horror, and the hair of the pupils’ heads would stand on end with fright.

CAPITOLO XVII. Dimostrazione che un attacco di reumatismo, in alcuni casi, agisce come acceleratore del genio inventivo

La costituzione del signor Pickwick, sebbene in grado di sopportare una notevole quantità di sforzo e fatica, non era sufficientemente resistente a un insieme di eventi negativi come quelli che aveva subito nella memorabile notte descritta nel capitolo precedente. Il processo di essere lavato nell’aria notturna e poi asciugato in modo rudimentale in un armadio risultava altrettanto pericoloso quanto insolito. Il signor Pickwick finì per ammalarsi di reumatismo a causa di questi effetti negativi.

Ma sebbene le forze fisiche di quell’uomo straordinario fossero state indebolite in questo modo, le sue energie mentali conservavano intatta la loro vitalità originale. Il suo spirito era elastico; il suo buon umore era tornato. Anche l’irritazione derivante dalla sua recente avventura era ormai svanita dalla sua mente; e poteva partecipare alle risate calorose che qualsiasi allusione ad essa suscitava in Mr. Wardle, senza rabbia né imbarazzo. Anzi, durante i due giorni in cui Mr. Pickwick fu costretto a letto, Sam fu il suo assistente costante. Il primo giorno cercò di intrattenere il proprio padrone con aneddoti e conversazioni; il secondo giorno, Mr. Pickwick chiese la sua scrivania, la penna e l’inchiostro, e rimase profondamente impegnato per tutta la giornata. Il terzo giorno, essendo in grado di sedersi nel suo letto, inviò il proprio valletto con un messaggio per Mr. Wardle e Mr. Trundle, invitandoli ad andare a bere lì quella sera, se lo desideravano; l’invito fu accettato con grande piacere. E quando si sedettero attorno al vino, Mr. Pickwick, arrossendo più volte, raccontò la seguente breve storia, affermando che fosse stata “editata” da lui stesso durante il suo recente malessere, sulla base delle note presunte durante le semplici narrazioni di Mr. Weller.

Il parroco, una storia d’amore vero.

C’era una volta, in un piccolissimo paese situato a notevole distanza da Londra, un uomo di nome Nathaniel Pipkin. Era il segretario parrocchiale di quel paesino e viveva in una piccola casa nella strada principale, a meno di dieci minuti a piedi dalla chiesa. Ogni giorno, dalle nove alle quattro, insegnava un po’ di letteratura ai bambini del posto. Nathaniel Pipkin era una persona innocua, gentile e dal carattere mite; aveva il naso leggermente in su, le gambe un po’ storte, un occhio strabico e camminava con difficoltà. Divideva il proprio tempo tra la chiesa e la scuola, credendo sinceramente che non esistesse al mondo nessuno più intelligente del curato, nessun ambiente più imponente della sacrestia, né nessun seminario più ben organizzato del suo. Una volta soltanto, nella sua vita, Nathaniel Pipkin ebbe l’opportunità di vedere un vescovo: un vero vescovo, con le maniche di seta e una parrucca in testa. Lo vide camminare e parlare durante una cerimonia di confermazione; in quel momento di grande solennità, Nathaniel Pipkin fu sopraffatto da reverenza e timore tale che svenne all’istante e dovette essere portato fuori dalla chiesa dai servitori.

‘Questo fu un grande evento, un’epoca straordinaria nella vita di Nathaniel Pipkin; l’unico evento che mai avesse turbato la tranquilla routine della sua esistenza. Un bel pomeriggio, mentre era immerso nei suoi calcoli matematici, alzò lo sguardo e i suoi occhi si posarono sul viso radioso di Maria Lobbs, l’unica figlia dell’anziano Lobbs, il famoso sellaio del quartiere. Ora, gli occhi di Mr. Pipkin avevano già incontrato più volte il bel viso di Maria Lobbs, in chiesa e altrove; ma quel giorno, i suoi occhi sembravano brillare ancora di più, le sue guance erano più rosee che mai. Non c’è da meravigliarsi quindi se Nathaniel Pipkin non riuscì a staccare lo sguardo da lei; né che Maria Lobbs, trovandosi fissata da un giovane uomo, ritirasse la testa dalla finestra da cui stava spiando e chiudesse le persiane. E nemmeno che Nathaniel Pipkin, subito dopo, si gettasse addosso al giovane monello che l’aveva offeso in precedenza, picchiandolo a sazietà. Tutto questo era del tutto naturale. Non c’è davvero nulla di strano in tutto ciò.’

‘È davvero motivo di profondo stupore e intensa meraviglia che Nathaniel Pipkin, con il suo carattere riservato, il suo temperamento nervoso e soprattutto i suoi scarsi mezzi finanziari, abbia mai osato aspirare al cuore e alla mano dell’unica figlia del vecchio Lobbs. Del vecchio Lobbs, quel grande sellaio che avrebbe potuto comprare l’intero villaggio con un solo gesto della sua penna senza nemmeno sentirne la spesa. Il vecchio Lobbs, di cui si sapeva che possedesse enormi somme di denaro investite in banca nella città più vicina. Di cui si diceva che nascondesse innumerevoli tesori nel piccolo armadio di ferro con la grande serratura, sopra il camino nello studio. E che, nelle occasioni festive, adornasse la sua tavola con una vera teiera d’argento, un bricco per la panna e una zuccheriera. Orgogliosissimo di tutto ciò, sperava che quegli oggetti diventassero proprietà di sua figlia quando avesse trovato l’uomo adatto. Ripeto: è davvero incomprensibile che Nathaniel Pipkin abbia avuto la sfrontatezza di guardare in questa direzione. Ma l’amore è cieco; e Nathaniel aveva già scelto. Forse queste due circostanze, insieme, gli impedirono di vedere le cose con chiarezza.’

‘Ora, se il vecchio Lobbs avesse anche solo lontanamente immaginato lo stato d’animo di Nathaniel Pipkin, avrebbe sicuramente distrutto la scuola, o eliminato il suo insegnante dalla faccia della terra, o commesso qualche altro atto di violenza altrettanto feroce e brutale; perché era davvero un individuo terribile, quel Lobbs. Quando il suo orgoglio veniva offeso, o quando si arrabbiava, non esitava a compiere atti estremamente violenti. Giuro! A volte, mentre denunciava l’ozio di quel giovane apprendista magro e ossuto, le sue imprecazioni risuonavano così forti che Nathaniel Pipkin tremava di terrore, e i capelli degli studenti si rizzavano tutti per la paura.’

‘Well! Day after day, when school was over, and the pupils gone, did Nathaniel Pipkin sit himself down at the front window, and, while he feigned to be reading a book, throw sidelong glances over the way in search of the bright eyes of Maria Lobbs; and he hadn’t sat there many days, before the bright eyes appeared at an upper window, apparently deeply engaged in reading too. This was delightful, and gladdening to the heart of Nathaniel Pipkin. It was something to sit there for hours together, and look upon that pretty face when the eyes were cast down; but when Maria Lobbs began to raise her eyes from her book, and dart their rays in the direction of Nathaniel Pipkin, his delight and admiration were perfectly boundless. At last, one day when he knew old Lobbs was out, Nathaniel Pipkin had the temerity to kiss his hand to Maria Lobbs; and Maria Lobbs, instead of shutting the window, and pulling down the blind, kissed _hers _to him, and smiled. Upon which Nathaniel Pipkin determined, that, come what might, he would develop the state of his feelings, without further delay.

‘A prettier foot, a gayer heart, a more dimpled face, or a smarter form, never bounded so lightly over the earth they graced, as did those of Maria Lobbs, the old saddler’s daughter. There was a roguish twinkle in her sparkling eyes, that would have made its way to far less susceptible bosoms than that of Nathaniel Pipkin; and there was such a joyous sound in her merry laugh, that the sternest misanthrope must have smiled to hear it. Even old Lobbs himself, in the very height of his ferocity, couldn’t resist the coaxing of his pretty daughter; and when she, and her cousin Kate—an arch, impudent-looking, bewitching little person— made a dead set upon the old man together, as, to say the truth, they very often did, he could have refused them nothing, even had they asked for a portion of the countless and inexhaustible treasures, which were hidden from the light, in the iron safe.

‘Nathaniel Pipkin’s heart beat high within him, when he saw this enticing little couple some hundred yards before him one summer’s evening, in the very field in which he had many a time strolled about till night-time, and pondered on the beauty of Maria Lobbs. But though he had often thought then, how briskly he would walk up to Maria Lobbs and tell her of his passion if he could only meet her, he felt, now that she was unexpectedly before him, all the blood in his body mounting to his face, manifestly to the great detriment of his legs, which, deprived of their usual portion, trembled beneath him. When they stopped to gather a hedge flower, or listen to a bird, Nathaniel Pipkin stopped too, and pretended to be absorbed in meditation, as indeed he really was; for he was thinking what on earth he should ever do, when they turned back, as they inevitably must in time, and meet him face to face. But though he was afraid to make up to them, he couldn’t bear to lose sight of them; so when they walked faster he walked faster, when they lingered he lingered, and when they stopped he stopped; and so they might have gone on, until the darkness prevented them, if Kate had not looked slyly back, and encouragingly beckoned Nathaniel to advance. There was something in Kate’s manner that was not to be resisted, and so Nathaniel Pipkin complied with the invitation; and after a great deal of blushing on his part, and immoderate laughter on that of the wicked little cousin, Nathaniel Pipkin went down on his knees on the dewy grass, and declared his resolution to remain there for ever, unless he were permitted to rise the accepted lover of Maria Lobbs. Upon this, the merry laughter of Miss Lobbs rang through the calm evening air—without seeming to disturb it, though; it had such a pleasant sound—and the wicked little cousin laughed more immoderately than before, and Nathaniel Pipkin blushed deeper than ever. At length, Maria Lobbs being more strenuously urged by the love-worn little man, turned away her head, and whispered her cousin to say, or at all events Kate did say, that she felt much honoured by Mr. Pipkin’s addresses; that her hand and heart were at her father’s disposal; but that nobody could be insensible to Mr. Pipkin’s merits. As all this was said with much gravity, and as Nathaniel Pipkin walked home with Maria Lobbs, and struggled for a kiss at parting, he went to bed a happy man, and dreamed all night long, of softening old Lobbs, opening the strong box, and marrying Maria.

The next day, Nathaniel Pipkin saw old Lobbs go out upon his old gray pony, and after a great many signs at the window from the wicked little cousin, the object and meaning of which he could by no means understand, the bony apprentice with the thin legs came over to say that his master wasn’t coming home all night, and that the ladies expected Mr. Pipkin to tea, at six o’clock precisely. How the lessons were got through that day, neither Nathaniel Pipkin nor his pupils knew any more than you do; but they were got through somehow, and, after the boys had gone, Nathaniel Pipkin took till full six o’clock to dress himself to his satisfaction. Not that it took long to select the garments he should wear, inasmuch as he had no choice about the matter; but the putting of them on to the best advantage, and the touching of them up previously, was a task of no inconsiderable difficulty or importance.

‘There was a very snug little party, consisting of Maria Lobbs and her cousin Kate, and three or four romping, good-humoured, rosy-cheeked girls. Nathaniel Pipkin had ocular demonstration of the fact, that the rumours of old Lobbs’s treasures were not exaggerated. There were the real solid silver teapot, cream-ewer, and sugar-basin, on the table, and real silver spoons to stir the tea with, and real china cups to drink it out of, and plates of the same, to hold the cakes and toast in. The only eye-sore in the whole place was another cousin of Maria Lobbs’s, and a brother of Kate, whom Maria Lobbs called “Henry,” and who seemed to keep Maria Lobbs all to himself, up in one corner of the table. It’s a delightful thing to see affection in families, but it may be carried rather too far, and Nathaniel Pipkin could not help thinking that Maria Lobbs must be very particularly fond of her relations, if she paid as much attention to all of them as to this individual cousin. After tea, too, when the wicked little cousin proposed a game at blind man’s buff, it somehow or other happened that Nathaniel Pipkin was nearly always blind, and whenever he laid his hand upon the male cousin, he was sure to find that Maria Lobbs was not far off. And though the wicked little cousin and the other girls pinched him, and pulled his hair, and pushed chairs in his way, and all sorts of things, Maria Lobbs never seemed to come near him at all; and once—once—Nathaniel Pipkin could have sworn he heard the sound of a kiss, followed by a faint remonstrance from Maria Lobbs, and a half-suppressed laugh from her female friends. All this was odd—very odd—and there is no saying what Nathaniel Pipkin might or might not have done, in consequence, if his thoughts had not been suddenly directed into a new channel.

‘Beh! Giorno dopo giorno, quando la scuola finiva e gli alunni se ne andavano, Nathaniel Pipkin si sedeva davanti alla finestra e, mentre fingeva di leggere un libro, gettava occhiate furtive nella direzione di Maria Lobbs, in cerca dei suoi occhi luminosi. Non erano trascorsi molti giorni che quegli occhi apparvero anche loro a una finestra al piano di sopra, apparentemente impegnati anch’essi nella lettura. Questo era davvero delizioso e rincuorante per Nathaniel Pipkin. Era un vero piacere sedersi lì per ore, ammirando quel bel viso quando lei abbassava lo sguardo; ma quando Maria Lobbs iniziava a sollevare gli occhi dal libro e a fissarlo, la sua gioia e ammirazione diventavano davvero infinite. Alla fine, un giorno, sapendo che il vecchio Lobbs non era in casa, Nathaniel Pipkin ebbe il coraggio di baciare la mano di Maria Lobbs. E lei, invece di chiudere la finestra o tirare giù le tende, gli baciò a sua volta la mano e sorrise. Allora Nathaniel Pipkin decise che, a qualunque costo, avrebbe portato avanti i suoi sentimenti senza ulteriori indugi.’

“Un piede più bello, un cuore più gioioso, un viso più incantevole o una figura più aggraziata, nessuno di questi attributi avrebbe mai potuto muoversi con tanta leggerezza sulla terra come quelli di Maria Lobbs, la figlia dell’anziano sellaio. Nei suoi occhi scintillanti c’era un luccichio malizioso che sarebbe riuscito a commuovere anche i cuori meno sensibili di quello di Nathaniel Pipkin; e il suo riso era così gioioso che persino il più duro misantropo non avrebbe potuto fare a meno di sorridere al sentirlo. Anche l’anziano Lobbs, nel pieno della sua ferocia, non riusciva a resistere alle lusinghe di sua figlia. E quando lei e sua cugina Kate – due creature vivaci, impudenti e incantevoli – si impegnavano insieme con determinazione per ottenere qualcosa da lui, come spesso accadeva, non avrebbe potuto rifiutarle nulla, nemmeno se gli avessero chiesto una parte di quei tesori innumerevoli e inesauribili nascosti nell’armadio di ferro, ”

Il cuore di Nathaniel Pipkin batteva forte quando vide quella deliziosa giovane coppia a qualche centinaio di metri da lui, una sera d’estate, proprio nel campo in cui aveva spesso passeggiato fino a tarda notte, riflettendo sulla bellezza di Maria Lobbs. Anche se in passato aveva spesso pensato a come avrebbe avvicinato Maria e le avrebbe confessato i suoi sentimenti, ora che lei si trovava improvvisamente davanti a lui, sentiva tutto il sangue del suo corpo salire al viso, con grave danno per le sue gambe, che tremavano sotto di lui. Quando loro si fermavano per raccogliere un fiore o ascoltare un uccello, Nathaniel faceva lo stesso, fingendo di essere assorto in meditazione, perché non sapeva proprio cosa fare quando, inevitabilmente, si sarebbero rivolti verso di lui. Anche se aveva paura di avvicinarsi, non sopportava l’idea di perderli di vista; quindi, quando loro acceleravano il passo, accelerava anche lui; quando si fermavano, si fermava pure lui. Avrebbero potuto continuare così per sempre, se non fosse stato per il buio. Ma Kate gli fece un cenno incoraggiante, e Nathaniel obbedì. Dopo molto imbarazzo da parte sua e risate smisurate da parte della maliziosa cugina, Nathaniel si inginocchiò sull’erba umida e dichiarò di voler rimanere lì per sempre, a meno che non gli fosse permesso di diventare il fidanzato ufficiale di Maria Lobbs. A queste parole, le risate gioiose di Maria risuonarono nell’aria serena della sera, senza sembrare disturbarla, anzi: avevano un suono così piacevole. La cugina rise ancora più forte, e Nathaniel arrossì ancora di più. Alla fine, spinta dalla passione del giovane, Maria girò la testa e sussurrò alla sua cugina, o forse fu Kate a dirlo, che si sentiva molto onorata dalle dichiarazioni di Nathaniel; che il suo cuore e la sua mano erano a disposizione di suo padre, ma che nessuno poteva ignorare i meriti di Nathaniel. Poiché tutto ciò fu detto con grande serietà, e poiché Nathaniel tornò a casa con Maria Lobbs, lottando per un bacio alla separazione, andò a letto felice, sognando tutta la notte di conquistare il cuore di Maria Lobbs.

Il giorno dopo, Nathaniel Pipkin vide il vecchio Lobbs uscire a cavallo del suo vecchio pony grigio. Dopo molti segnali fatti dalla cattiva piccola cugina attraverso la finestra – di cui Nathaniel non riusciva affatto a comprendere il significato – l’apprendista magro dalle gambe sottili venne a dirgli che il suo padrone non sarebbe tornato a casa per tutta la notte, e che le signore aspettavano il signor Pipkin per il tè, esattamente alle sei in punto. Come riuscirono a completare le lezioni quel giorno, né Nathaniel Pipkin né i suoi alunni lo sapevano con certezza; ma in qualche modo ce la fecero. Dopo che i ragazzi se ne furono andati, Nathaniel impiegò ben sei ore per vestirsi nel modo che riteneva più appropriato. Non che ci vollesse molto tempo per scegliere gli abiti da indossare, visto che non aveva molta scelta; ma sistemarli in modo ottimale e prepararsi adeguatamente richiese comunque un certo impegno e attenzione.

C’era un piccolo e molto intimo gruppo di persone: Maria Lobbs e sua cugina Kate, insieme a tre o quattro ragazze vivaci, di buon umore e con le guance rosee. Nathaniel Pipkin ebbe modo di constatare con i propri occhi che le voci riguardo ai tesori della vecchia Lobbs non erano affatto esagerate: sul tavolo c’erano davvero una teiera d’argento massello, un bricco per il latte e una zuccheriera d’argento; c’erano anche cucchiai d’argento veri per mescolare il tè, tazze di porcellana autentica per berlo, e piatti dello stesso materiale per contenere i dolci e il pane tostato. L’unica cosa che rovinava un po’ l’atmosfera era la presenza di un altro cugino di Maria Lobbs, fratello di Kate; Maria Lobbs lo chiamava “Henry” e sembrava tenerlo tutto per sé, in un angolo del tavolo. È davvero piacevole vedere l’affetto nelle famiglie, ma a volte può esagerare un po’. Nathaniel Pipkin non poté fare a meno di pensare che Maria Lobbs dovesse avere un debole particolare per tutti i suoi parenti, se dedicava loro tanta attenzione. Anche dopo il tè, quando quel cugino dispettoso propose di giocare a “braccio di ferro”, capitò spesso che Nathaniel Pipkin finisse per “non vedere” nulla, e ogni volta che cercava di toccare quel cugino maschio, si accorgeva sempre che Maria Lobbs era proprio lì vicina. E anche se quel cugino dispettoso e le altre ragazze lo pizzicavano, gli tiravano i capelli, gli spingevano le sedie davanti. Maria Lobbs sembrava comunque non avvicinarsi mai a lui. Una volta, una volta. Nathaniel Pipkin giurò di aver sentito il suono di un bacio, seguito da una debole rimprovera da parte di Maria Lobbs e da una risatina soffocata delle sue amiche. Tutto questo era davvero strano, molto strano. E non si sa cosa Nathaniel Pipkin avrebbe potuto fare, se i suoi pensieri non fossero stati improvvisamente deviati in un’altra direzione.

‘The circumstance which directed his thoughts into a new channel was a loud knocking at the street door, and the person who made this loud knocking at the street door was no other than old Lobbs himself, who had unexpectedly returned, and was hammering away, like a coffin-maker; for he wanted his supper. The alarming intelligence was no sooner communicated by the bony apprentice with the thin legs, than the girls tripped upstairs to Maria Lobbs’s bedroom, and the male cousin and Nathaniel Pipkin were thrust into a couple of closets in the sitting- room, for want of any better places of concealment; and when Maria Lobbs and the wicked little cousin had stowed them away, and put the room to rights, they opened the street door to old Lobbs, who had never left off knocking since he first began.

‘Now it did unfortunately happen that old Lobbs being very hungry was monstrous cross. Nathaniel Pipkin could hear him growling away like an old mastiff with a sore throat; and whenever the unfortunate apprentice with the thin legs came into the room, so surely did old Lobbs commence swearing at him in a most Saracenic and ferocious manner, though apparently with no other end or object than that of easing his bosom by the discharge of a few superfluous oaths. At length some supper, which had been warming up, was placed on the table, and then old Lobbs fell to, in regular style; and having made clear work of it in no time, kissed his daughter, and demanded his pipe.

‘Nature had placed Nathaniel Pipkin’s knees in very close juxtaposition, but when he heard old Lobbs demand his pipe, they knocked together, as if they were going to reduce each other to powder; for, depending from a couple of hooks, in the very closet in which he stood, was a large, brown-stemmed, silver-bowled pipe, which pipe he himself had seen in the mouth of old Lobbs, regularly every afternoon and evening, for the last five years. The two girls went downstairs for the pipe, and upstairs for the pipe, and everywhere but where they knew the pipe was, and old Lobbs stormed away meanwhile, in the most wonderful manner. At last he thought of the closet, and walked up to it. It was of no use a little man like Nathaniel Pipkin pulling the door inwards, when a great strong fellow like old Lobbs was pulling it outwards. Old Lobbs gave it one tug, and open it flew, disclosing Nathaniel Pipkin standing bolt upright inside, and shaking with apprehension from head to foot. Bless us! what an appalling look old Lobbs gave him, as he dragged him out by the collar, and held him at arm’s length.

‘“Why, what the devil do you want here?” said old Lobbs, in a fearful voice.

‘Nathaniel Pipkin could make no reply, so old Lobbs shook him backwards and forwards, for two or three minutes, by way of arranging his ideas for him.

‘“What do you want here?” roared Lobbs; “I suppose you have come after my daughter, now!”

‘Old Lobbs merely said this as a sneer: for he did not believe that mortal presumption could have carried Nathaniel Pipkin so far. What was his indignation, when that poor man replied—

‘“Yes, I did, Mr. Lobbs, I did come after your daughter. I love her, Mr. Lobbs.”

‘“Why, you snivelling, wry-faced, puny villain,” gasped old Lobbs, paralysed by the atrocious confession; “what do you mean by that? Say this to my face! Damme, I’ll throttle you!”

‘It is by no means improbable that old Lobbs would have carried his threat into execution, in the excess of his rage, if his arm had not been stayed by a very unexpected apparition: to wit, the male cousin, who, stepping out of his closet, and walking up to old Lobbs, said—

‘“I cannot allow this harmless person, Sir, who has been asked here, in some girlish frolic, to take upon himself, in a very noble manner, the fault (if fault it is) which I am guilty of, and am ready to avow. I love your daughter, sir; and I came here for the purpose of meeting her.”

‘Old Lobbs opened his eyes very wide at this, but not wider than Nathaniel Pipkin.

‘“You did?” said Lobbs, at last finding breath to speak.

‘“I did.”

‘“And I forbade you this house, long ago.”

‘“You did, or I should not have been here, clandestinely, to-night.”

‘I am sorry to record it of old Lobbs, but I think he would have struck the cousin, if his pretty daughter, with her bright eyes swimming in tears, had not clung to his arm.

‘“Don’t stop him, Maria,” said the young man; “if he has the will to strike me, let him. I would not hurt a hair of his gray head, for the riches of the world.”

‘The old man cast down his eyes at this reproof, and they met those of his daughter. I have hinted once or twice before, that they were very bright eyes, and, though they were tearful now, their influence was by no means lessened. Old Lobbs turned his head away, as if to avoid being persuaded by them, when, as fortune would have it, he encountered the face of the wicked little cousin, who, half afraid for her brother, and half laughing at Nathaniel Pipkin, presented as bewitching an expression of countenance, with a touch of slyness in it, too, as any man, old or young, need look upon. She drew her arm coaxingly through the old man’s, and whispered something in his ear; and do what he would, old Lobbs couldn’t help breaking out into a smile, while a tear stole down his cheek at the same time.

‘Five minutes after this, the girls were brought down from the bedroom with a great deal of giggling and modesty; and while the young people were making themselves perfectly happy, old Lobbs got down the pipe, and smoked it; and it was a remarkable circumstance about that particular pipe of tobacco, that it was the most soothing and delightful one he ever smoked.

‘Nathaniel Pipkin thought it best to keep his own counsel, and by so doing gradually rose into high favour with old Lobbs, who taught him to smoke in time; and they used to sit out in the garden on the fine evenings, for many years afterwards, smoking and drinking in great state. He soon recovered the effects of his attachment, for we find his name in the parish register, as a witness to the marriage of Maria Lobbs to her cousin; and it also appears, by reference to other documents, that on the night of the wedding he was incarcerated in the village cage, for having, in a state of extreme intoxication, committed sundry excesses in the streets, in all of which he was aided and abetted by the bony apprentice with the thin legs.’

La circostanza che indirizzò i suoi pensieri in una nuova direzione fu un forte bussare alla porta di strada; la persona che effettuava questo insistente bussare non era altri che il vecchio Lobbs stesso, che era tornato inaspettatamente e batteva sulla porta con forza, come se fosse un falegname. Voleva la sua cena. Non appena questa notizia fu comunicata dal giovane apprendista dalle gambe magre, le ragazze corsero di sopra nella camera da letto di Maria Lobbs, mentre il cugino maschio e Nathaniel Pipkin furono nascosti in due armadi della sala da pranzo, poiché non esistevano posti migliori dove nascondersi. Quando Maria Lobbs e quel malvagio cugino li ebbero messi al sicuro e sistemato la stanza, aprirono la porta di strada al vecchio Lobbs, che non aveva mai smesso di bussare da quando aveva iniziato.

‘Purtroppo accadde che il vecchio Lobbs, essendo molto affamato, si comportasse in modo terribile. Nathaniel Pipkin poteva sentirlo ringhiare come un vecchio mastino con la gola infiammata; e ogni volta che l’infortunato apprendista dalle gambe magre entrava nella stanza, il vecchio Lobbs iniziava immediatamente a insultarlo in modo selvaggio e osceno, sebbene apparentemente lo facesse soltanto per sfogare la sua rabbia con qualche imprecazione superflua. Alla fine, della cena che era stata riscaldata fu messa sul tavolo; il vecchio Lobbs si mise a mangiare con grande voracità, finì in un attimo, baciò sua figlia e chiese la sua pipa.’

‘La Natura aveva posizionato i ginocchi di Nathaniel Pipkin molto vicini l’uno all’altro; ma quando sentì il vecchio Lobbs chiedergli la sua pipa, essi si scontrarono con tale forza da sembrare sul punto di ridursi in polvere. Infatti, nello stesso armadio in cui si trovava, appeso a un paio di ganci, c’era una grande pipa dal fusto marrone e dalla bocca d’argento. Pipa che lui stesso aveva visto spesso nella bocca del vecchio Lobbs, ogni pomeriggio e sera, negli ultimi cinque anni. Le due ragazze andarono a cercare la pipa dappertutto, tranne dove sapevano che si trovasse; intanto il vecchio Lobbs se ne andava via in modo davvero stravagante. Alla fine, Nathaniel pensò all’armadio e vi andò. Ma per un uomo piccolo come lui non c’era speranza di aprire la porta: un tipo forte come il vecchio Lobbs la spingeva fuori con facilità. Il vecchio Lobbs tirò una volta, e la porta si aprì, rivelando Nathaniel Pipkin fermo lì dentro, tremante per la paura. Oh, che espressione terribile aveva il vecchio Lobbs mentre lo trascinava fuori per il colletto, ’

“Ma che diavolo vuoi qui?” disse il vecchio Lobbs con voce spaventata.

“Nathaniel Pipkin non riusciva a rispondere, così il vecchio Lobbs lo scosse avanti e indietro per due o tre minuti, nel tentativo di aiutarlo a ordinare i suoi pensieri.”

“Cosa vuoi qui?”, ringhiò Lobbs. “Immagino che tu sia venuto per mia figlia, vero?”

“Old Lobbs lo disse soltanto con disprezzo: non credeva infatti che una tale audacia umana potesse spingere Nathaniel Pipkin fino a quel punto. Quanta fu la sua indignazione quando quell’uomo povero rispose, ”

“Sì, l’ho fatto, signor Lobbs, sono davvero venuto a cercare sua figlia. La amo, signor Lobbs.”

“Ma tu, miserabile, piagnucoloso, meschino villano, ”, ansimò il vecchio Lobbs, paralizzato da quella orribile confessione; “che cosa intendi dire? Dillo in faccia a me! Maledizione, ti strozzerò!”

Non è affatto improbabile che il vecchio Lobbs avrebbe messo in atto la sua minaccia, spinto dall’ira, se non fosse stato trattenuto da un’apparizione del tutto inaspettata: ovvero dal suo cugino maschio, che uscì dal suo armadio e si avvicinò al vecchio Lobbs, dicendo.

“Non posso permettere che questa persona innocua, signore, che è stata invitata qui per qualche scherzo da ragazza, assuma, in modo molto nobile, la colpa (se davvero c’è una colpa) di cui sono io responsabile e che sono pronto ad ammettere. Amo vostra figlia, signore; sono venuto qui proprio per incontrarla.”

“A Old Lobbs aprì molto gli occhi in quel momento, ma non più di quanto li avesse aperti Nathaniel Pipkin.”

“Davvero l’hai fatto?” disse Lobbs, finalmente riuscendo a prendere fiato per parlare.

“Lo ho fatto.”

“E vi ho proibito di entrare in questa casa molto tempo fa.”

“Sei stato tu a farlo, altrimenti non sarei dovuto essere qui, in segreto, di notte.”

“Mi dispiace doverlo dire di quel vecchio Lobbs, ma penso che avrebbe colpito il cugino, se sua figlia bella, con i suoi occhi luminosi pieni di lacrime, non si fosse aggrappata al suo braccio.”

“Non fermarlo, Maria”, disse il giovane; “se ha la volontà di colpirmi, lascialo fare. Non gli farei male nemmeno a un capello bianco, per tutte le ricchezze del mondo.”

L’uomo anziano abbassò lo sguardo di fronte a questa rimprovera, e i suoi occhi incontrarono quelli di sua figlia. Avevo già accennato una o due volte che erano occhi molto luminosi; e sebbene ora fossero pieni di lacrime, il loro potere non era affatto diminuito. Il vecchio Lobbs distolse lo sguardo, come per evitare di essere persuaso da essi. Ma, per caso, incontrò il viso della malvagia cugina: lei, metà spaventata per suo fratello e metà ridendo di Nathaniel Pipkin, aveva un’espressione così affascinante, con quel tocco di astuzia che qualsiasi uomo, vecchio o giovane, non avrebbe potuto fare a meno di notare. Lei intrecciò il proprio braccio con quello dell’uomo anziano e gli sussurrò qualcosa all’orecchio; e, per quanto cercasse di trattenersi, il vecchio Lobbs non riuscì a impedirsi di sorridere, mentre una lacrima gli scivolava giù dalla guancia.

Cinque minuti dopo, le ragazze furono portate giù dal letto tra grandi risate e timidezza; mentre i giovani si divertivano un mondo, il vecchio Lobbs prese quella pipa di tabacco e iniziò a fumarla. Ed è stato davvero straordinario: quella pipa era la più rilassante e deliziosa che avesse mai fumato.

Nathaniel Pipkin ritenne fosse meglio tenere per sé i propri pensieri, e così facendo gradualmente guadagnò la grande stima di vecchio Lobbs, che gli insegnò a fumare al momento giusto; spesso, nelle belle serate, si sedevano insieme nel giardino a fumare e bere in gran compagnia. Presto riprese le forze dopo quella delusione amorosa, poiché il suo nome compare nei registri parrocchiali come testimone al matrimonio di Maria Lobbs con suo cugino; inoltre, da altri documenti risulta che, nella notte delle nozze, fu rinchiuso nella prigione del villaggio per aver commesso, in uno stato di estrema ebbrezza, vari atti indecorosi per le strade, atti in cui fu aiutato e incoraggiato da quel giovane apprendista dalle gambe magre.

CHAPTER XVIII. BRIEFLY ILLUSTRATIVE OF TWO POINTS; FIRST, THE POWER OF HYSTERICS, AND, SECONDLY, THE FORCE OF CIRCUMSTANCES

For two days after the _dejeune _at Mrs. Hunter’s, the Pickwickians remained at Eatanswill, anxiously awaiting the arrival of some intelligence from their revered leader. Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass were once again left to their own means of amusement; for Mr. Winkle, in compliance with a most pressing invitation, continued to reside at Mr. Pott’s house, and to devote his time to the companionship of his amiable lady. Nor was the occasional society of Mr. Pott himself wanting to complete their felicity. Deeply immersed in the intensity of his speculations for the public weal and the destruction of the Independent, it was not the habit of that great man to descend from his mental pinnacle to the humble level of ordinary minds. On this occasion, however, and as if expressly in compliment to any follower of Mr. Pickwick’s, he unbent, relaxed, stepped down from his pedestal, and walked upon the ground, benignly adapting his remarks to the comprehension of the herd, and seeming in outward form, if not in spirit, to be one of them.

Such having been the demeanour of this celebrated public character towards Mr. Winkle, it will be readily imagined that considerable surprise was depicted on the countenance of the latter gentleman, when, as he was sitting alone in the breakfast-room, the door was hastily thrown open, and as hastily closed, on the entrance of Mr. Pott, who, stalking majestically towards him, and thrusting aside his proffered hand, ground his teeth, as if to put a sharper edge on what he was about to utter, and exclaimed, in a saw-like voice—

‘Serpent!’

‘Sir!’ exclaimed Mr. Winkle, starting from his chair.

‘Serpent, Sir,’ repeated Mr. Pott, raising his voice, and then suddenly depressing it: ‘I said, serpent, sir—make the most of it.’

When you have parted with a man at two o’clock in the morning, on terms of the utmost good-fellowship, and he meets you again, at half-past nine, and greets you as a serpent, it is not unreasonable to conclude that something of an unpleasant nature has occurred meanwhile. So Mr. Winkle thought. He returned Mr. Pott’s gaze of stone, and in compliance with that gentleman’s request, proceeded to make the most he could of the ‘serpent.’ The most, however, was nothing at all; so, after a profound silence of some minutes’ duration, he said,—

‘Serpent, Sir! Serpent, Mr. Pott! What can you mean, Sir?—this is pleasantry.’

‘Pleasantry, sir!’ exclaimed Pott, with a motion of the hand, indicative of a strong desire to hurl the Britannia metal teapot at the head of the visitor. ‘Pleasantry, sir!—But—no, I will be calm; I will be calm, Sir;’ in proof of his calmness, Mr. Pott flung himself into a chair, and foamed at the mouth.

‘My dear sir,’ interposed Mr. Winkle.

‘_DEAR _Sir!’ replied Pott. ‘How dare you address me, as dear Sir, Sir? How dare you look me in the face and do it, sir?’

‘Well, Sir, if you come to that,’ responded Mr. Winkle, ‘how dare you look me in the face, and call me a serpent, sir?’

‘Because you are one,’ replied Mr. Pott.

‘Prove it, Sir,’ said Mr. Winkle warmly. ‘Prove it.’

A malignant scowl passed over the profound face of the editor, as he drew from his pocket the Independent of that morning; and laying his finger on a particular paragraph, threw the journal across the table to Mr. Winkle.

That gentleman took it up, and read as follows:—

‘Our obscure and filthy contemporary, in some disgusting observations on the recent election for this borough, has presumed to violate the hallowed sanctity of private life, and to refer in a manner not to be misunderstood, to the personal affairs of our late candidate—aye, and notwithstanding his base defeat, we will add, our future member, Mr. Fizkin. What does our dastardly contemporary mean? What would the ruffian say, if we, setting at naught, like him, the decencies of social intercourse, were to raise the curtain which happily conceals His private life from general ridicule, not to say from general execration? What, if we were even to point out, and comment on, facts and circumstances, which are publicly notorious, and beheld by every one but our mole-eyed contemporary—what if we were to print the following effusion, which we received while we were writing the commencement of this article, from a talented fellow-townsman and correspondent?

‘“LINES TO A BRASS POT

‘“Oh Pott! if you’d known How false she’d have grown, When you heard the marriage bells tinkle; You’d have done then, I vow, What you cannot help now,

‘What,’ said Mr. Pott solemnly—‘what rhymes to “tinkle,” villain?’

‘What rhymes to tinkle?’ said Mrs. Pott, whose entrance at the moment forestalled the reply. ‘What rhymes to tinkle? Why, Winkle, I should conceive.’ Saying this, Mrs. Pott smiled sweetly on the disturbed Pickwickian, and extended her hand towards him. The agitated young man would have accepted it, in his confusion, had not Pott indignantly interposed.

‘Back, ma’am—back!’ said the editor. ‘Take his hand before my very face!’

‘Mr. P.!’ said his astonished lady.

‘Wretched woman, look here,’ exclaimed the husband. ‘Look here, ma’am— “Lines to a Brass Pot.” “Brass Pot”; that’s me, ma’am. “False she’d have grown”; that’s you, ma’am—you.’ With this ebullition of rage, which was not unaccompanied with something like a tremble, at the expression of his wife’s face, Mr. Pott dashed the current number of the Eatanswill Independent at her feet.

‘Upon my word, Sir,’ said the astonished Mrs. Pott, stooping to pick up the paper. ‘Upon my word, Sir!’

Mr. Pott winced beneath the contemptuous gaze of his wife. He had made a desperate struggle to screw up his courage, but it was fast coming unscrewed again.

There appears nothing very tremendous in this little sentence, ‘Upon my word, sir,’ when it comes to be read; but the tone of voice in which it was delivered, and the look that accompanied it, both seeming to bear reference to some revenge to be thereafter visited upon the head of Pott, produced their effect upon him. The most unskilful observer could have detected in his troubled countenance, a readiness to resign his Wellington boots to any efficient substitute who would have consented to stand in them at that moment.

CAPITOLO XVIII. BREVE Illustrazione di due argomenti: in primo luogo, il potere dell’isteria; in secondo luogo, l’influenza delle circostanze.

Per due giorni dopo il dejeuner a casa della signora Hunter, i membri del gruppo di Pickwick rimasero a Eatanswill, nell’attesa ansiosa di ricevere qualche notizia dal loro rispettato leader. Il signor Tupman e il signor Snodgrass furono nuovamente lasciati a se stessi per divertirsi; il signor Winkle, invece, in risposta a un invito molto pressante, continuò a soggiornare a casa del signor Pott, dedicando il proprio tempo alla compagnia della sua affabile padrona di casa. Anche la presenza occasionale del signor Pott stesso non mancava di contribuire al loro benessere. Profondamente immerso nelle sue riflessioni sul bene pubblico e sulla distruzione del Independent, quell’uomo straordinario non aveva l’abitudine di scendere dal suo “pinnacolo mentale” per raggiungere il livello ordinario delle persone comuni. Tuttavia, in questa occasione – come se volesse espressamente onorare i seguaci del signor Pickwick – si rilassò, scese dal suo piedistallo e iniziò a parlare in modo comprensibile per tutti, mostrando, se non nello spirito, almeno nell’aspetto esteriore, di essere uno di loro.

Avendo questo famoso personaggio pubblico dimostrato un tale comportamento verso il signor Winkle, è facile immaginare l’enorme sorpresa che si dipinse sul volto di quest’ultimo quando, mentre sedeva da solo in sala da pranzo, la porta fu aperta e chiusa rapidamente all’ingresso del signor Pott. Quest’ultimo, avvicinandosi con aria maestosa e ignorando la mano che il signor Winkle gli tendeva, strinse i denti, come per rendere ancora più taglienti le parole che stava per pronunciare, e esclamò con una voce acuta e stridula.

“Serpente!”

“Signore!” esclamò il signor Winkle, alzandosi di scatto dalla sedia.

“Serpente, signore,” ripeté il signor Pott, alzando la voce per poi abbassarla improvvisamente: “Ho detto, serpente, signore, approfittatene al massimo.”

Quando ti separi da un uomo alle due di notte, in termini di massima amicizia, e poi lo rivedi alle nove e mezza, che ti saluta come se fossi un serpente, non è affatto irragionevole concludere che nel frattempo sia accaduto qualcosa di sgradevole. Così pensò il signor Winkle. Ricambiò lo sguardo freddo del signor Pott e, in risposta alla sua richiesta, cercò di “interpretare al meglio” quel comportamento ostile. Ma il risultato fu nullo. Dopo alcuni minuti di profondo silenzio, disse:

“Serpente, signore! Serpente, signor Pott! Cosa intende dire, signore?. Questo è davvero ridicolo.”

“Sciocchezze, signore!” esclamò Pott, facendo un gesto con la mano che indicava un forte desiderio di lanciare la teiera di metallo Britannia in testa al visitatore. “Sciocchezze, signore. Ma no, rimarrò calmo; rimarrò calmo, signore!” Per dimostrare la sua calma, il signor Pott si gettò su una sedia e iniziò a sbavare.

“Mio caro signore,” intervenne il signor Winkle.

“Caro Signore!”, rispose Pott. “Come osate chiamarmi ‘caro Signore’? Come osate guardarmi in faccia e farlo?”

“Beh, signore, se proprio dobbiamo arrivare a questo punto,” rispose il signor Winkle, “come osate guardarmi in faccia e chiamarmi serpente?”

“Perché tu sei uno di loro,” rispose il signor Pott.

“Dovete provarlo, signore,” disse calorosamente il signor Winkle. “Dovete provarlo davvero.”

Un’espressione minacciosa apparve sul volto serio dell’editore; tirò fuori dal taschino l’edizione del Independent di quella mattina e, posando un dito su un particolare paragrafo, gettò il giornale attraverso la tavola verso il signor Winkle.

Quel gentiluomo lo prese e lesse quanto segue:—

Il nostro oscuro e disgustoso contemporaneo, con alcune osservazioni ripugnanti riguardo alle recenti elezioni in questo distretto, si è permesso di violare la sacra intimità della vita privata e di menzionare, in modo del tutto inequivoco, gli affari personali del nostro defunto candidato. Sì, nonostante la sua sconfitta ignobile, aggiungiamo: il nostro futuro membro del parlamento, il signor Fizkin. Cosa intende davvero questo individuo spregevole? Cosa direbbe quel furfante se noi, proprio come lui, ignorassimo le regole della decenza sociale e sollevassimo il velo che nasconde felicemente la sua vita privata dalla derisione generale, o addirittura dall’odio universale? E cosa succederebbe se facessimo riferimento a fatti e circostanze noti a tutti, tranne che a questo nostro contemporaneo miope? E se pubblicassimo il seguente messaggio, ricevuto mentre scrivevamo l’inizio di questo articolo da un talentuoso concittadino e corrispondente?

#“Linee per una pentola di rame”

“Oh, Pott! Se solo avessi saputo quanto fosse falsa diventata, quando hai sentito suonare le campane del matrimonio; Allora sì che avresti fatto ciò che ora non puoi fare, ”

“Cosa,” disse il signor Pott con solennità, “cosa rima con ‘tinkle’, malvagio?”

“Cosa si rima con ‘tinkle’?” disse la signora Pott; il suo arrivo in quel momento impedì che qualcuno rispondesse. “Cosa si rima con ‘tinkle’? Ah, Winkle, forse potrei indovinare, ” Mentre parlava, la signora Pott sorrise dolcemente al confuso Pickwick e tese la mano verso di lui. Il giovane, in preda all’agitazione, avrebbe accettato quella mano, nella sua confusione, se solo la signora Pott non fosse intervenuta con indignazione.

“Tornate indietro, signora, tornate indietro!” disse l’editore. “Prendete la sua mano davanti ai miei occhi!”

“Signor P.!” esclamò la sua sorpresa signora.

“Maledetta donna, guarda qui,” esclamò il marito. “Guarda qui, signora, ‘Versi per una pentola di rame’; ‘Pentola di rame’, quella sono io, signora, ‘False illusioni avrebbe avuto’, quella sei tu, signora, tu.” Con questa esplosione di rabbia, accompagnata da un leggero tremore a causa dell’espressione sul viso di sua moglie, il signor Pott gettò a terra l’edizione corrente del “Eatanswill Independent”.

“Per la mia parola, signore,” disse la sorpresa signora Pott, chinandosi per raccogliere il foglio di carta. “Per la mia parola, signore!”

Il signor Pott si contrasse sotto lo sguardo sprezzante di sua moglie. Aveva fatto uno sforzo disperato per raccogliere tutto il proprio coraggio, ma quest’ultimo stava rapidamente svanendo di nuovo.

In questa breve frase, “Per la mia parola, signore”, non sembra esserci nulla di particolarmente significativo; tuttavia, il tono di voce con cui fu pronunciata e lo sguardo che l’accompagnava parevano alludere a qualche tipo di vendetta che sarebbe stata attuata in seguito contro Pott. Anche l’osservatore meno attento avrebbe potuto notare, sul suo volto turbato, un evidente desiderio di rinunciare alle sue “Wellington boots” in cambio di qualsiasi sostituto efficace fosse stato disposto a indossarle in quel momento.

Mrs. Pott read the paragraph, uttered a loud shriek, and threw herself at full length on the hearth-rug, screaming, and tapping it with the heels of her shoes, in a manner which could leave no doubt of the propriety of her feelings on the occasion.

‘My dear,’ said the terrified Pott, ‘I didn’t say I believed it;—I—’ but the unfortunate man’s voice was drowned in the screaming of his partner.

‘Mrs. Pott, let me entreat you, my dear ma’am, to compose yourself,’ said Mr. Winkle; but the shrieks and tappings were louder, and more frequent than ever.

‘My dear,’ said Mr. Pott, ‘I’m very sorry. If you won’t consider your own health, consider me, my dear. We shall have a crowd round the house.’ But the more strenuously Mr. Pott entreated, the more vehemently the screams poured forth.

Very fortunately, however, attached to Mrs. Pott’s person was a bodyguard of one, a young lady whose ostensible employment was to preside over her toilet, but who rendered herself useful in a variety of ways, and in none more so than in the particular department of constantly aiding and abetting her mistress in every wish and inclination opposed to the desires of the unhappy Pott. The screams reached this young lady’s ears in due course, and brought her into the room with a speed which threatened to derange, materially, the very exquisite arrangement of her cap and ringlets.

‘Oh, my dear, dear mistress!’ exclaimed the bodyguard, kneeling frantically by the side of the prostrate Mrs. Pott. ‘Oh, my dear mistress, what is the matter?’

‘Your master—your brutal master,’ murmured the patient.

Pott was evidently giving way.

‘It’s a shame,’ said the bodyguard reproachfully. ‘I know he’ll be the death on you, ma’am. Poor dear thing!’

He gave way more. The opposite party followed up the attack.

‘Oh, don’t leave me—don’t leave me, Goodwin,’ murmured Mrs. Pott, clutching at the wrist of the said Goodwin with an hysteric jerk. ‘You’re the only person that’s kind to me, Goodwin.’

At this affecting appeal, Goodwin got up a little domestic tragedy of her own, and shed tears copiously.

‘Never, ma’am—never,’ said Goodwin. ‘Oh, sir, you should be careful— you should indeed; you don’t know what harm you may do missis; you’ll be sorry for it one day, I know—I’ve always said so.’

The unlucky Pott looked timidly on, but said nothing.

‘Goodwin,’ said Mrs. Pott, in a soft voice.

‘Ma’am,’ said Goodwin.

‘If you only knew how I have loved that man—’

Don’t distress yourself by recollecting it, ma’am,’ said the bodyguard.

Pott looked very frightened. It was time to finish him.

‘And now,’ sobbed Mrs. Pott, ‘now, after all, to be treated in this way; to be reproached and insulted in the presence of a third party, and that party almost a stranger. But I will not submit to it! Goodwin,’ continued Mrs. Pott, raising herself in the arms of her attendant, ‘my brother, the lieutenant, shall interfere. I’ll be separated, Goodwin!’

‘It would certainly serve him right, ma’am,’ said Goodwin.

Whatever thoughts the threat of a separation might have awakened in Mr. Pott’s mind, he forbore to give utterance to them, and contented himself by saying, with great humility:—

‘My dear, will you hear me?’

A fresh train of sobs was the only reply, as Mrs. Pott grew more hysterical, requested to be informed why she was ever born, and required sundry other pieces of information of a similar description.

‘My dear,’ remonstrated Mr. Pott, ‘do not give way to these sensitive feelings. I never believed that the paragraph had any foundation, my dear—impossible. I was only angry, my dear—I may say outrageous—with the Independent people for daring to insert it; that’s all.’ Mr. Pott cast an imploring look at the innocent cause of the mischief, as if to entreat him to say nothing about the serpent.

‘And what steps, sir, do you mean to take to obtain redress?’ inquired Mr. Winkle, gaining courage as he saw Pott losing it.

‘Oh, Goodwin,’ observed Mrs. Pott, ‘does he mean to horsewhip the editor of the Independent—does he, Goodwin?’

‘Hush, hush, ma’am; pray keep yourself quiet,’ replied the bodyguard. ‘I dare say he will, if you wish it, ma’am.’

‘Certainly,’ said Pott, as his wife evinced decided symptoms of going off again. ‘Of course I shall.’

‘When, Goodwin—when?’ said Mrs. Pott, still undecided about the going off.

‘Immediately, of course,’ said Mr. Pott; ‘before the day is out.’

‘Oh, Goodwin,’ resumed Mrs. Pott, ‘it’s the only way of meeting the slander, and setting me right with the world.’

‘Certainly, ma’am,’ replied Goodwin. ‘No man as is a man, ma’am, could refuse to do it.’

So, as the hysterics were still hovering about, Mr. Pott said once more that he would do it; but Mrs. Pott was so overcome at the bare idea of having ever been suspected, that she was half a dozen times on the very verge of a relapse, and most unquestionably would have gone off, had it not been for the indefatigable efforts of the assiduous Goodwin, and repeated entreaties for pardon from the conquered Pott; and finally, when that unhappy individual had been frightened and snubbed down to his proper level, Mrs. Pott recovered, and they went to breakfast.

‘You will not allow this base newspaper slander to shorten your stay here, Mr. Winkle?’ said Mrs. Pott, smiling through the traces of her tears.

‘I hope not,’ said Mr. Pott, actuated, as he spoke, by a wish that his visitor would choke himself with the morsel of dry toast which he was raising to his lips at the moment, and so terminate his stay effectually.

‘I hope not.’

‘You are very good,’ said Mr. Winkle; ‘but a letter has been received from Mr. Pickwick—so I learn by a note from Mr. Tupman, which was brought up to my bedroom door, this morning—in which he requests us to join him at Bury to-day; and we are to leave by the coach at noon.’

‘But you will come back?’ said Mrs. Pott.

La signora Pott lesse il paragrafo, emise un grido acuto e si gettò a terra, battendo i tacchi delle scarpe sul tappeto del camino, in modo da non lasciare alcun >dubbio sulla natura dei suoi sentimenti in quell’occasione.

“Mia cara,” disse il terrorizzato Pott, “non ho detto di crederci. Io, ”
Ma la voce di quell’uomo sfortunato fu soffocata dal grido isterico della sua compagna.

“Signora Pott, la prego, mia cara signora, di calmarsi,” disse il signor Winkle; ma i gridi e i colpi continuavano ad essere più forti e più frequenti che mai.

“Mia cara,” disse il signor Pott, “mi dispiace molto. Se non pensi alla tua salute, pensa almeno a me. Ci sarà una folla intorno alla casa.” Ma più insistentemente il signor Pott pregava, più intensi diventavano i grida.

Fortunatamente, però, accanto a Mrs. Pott c’era una guardia del corpo: una giovane donna il cui compito apparente era assisterla durante le abluzioni, ma che si rivelava utile in molti modi, soprattutto nel favorire costantemente ogni desiderio e inclinazione della sua padrona, anche quelli contrari ai voleri della sfortunata Mrs. Pott. I grida raggiunsero presto le orecchie di questa giovane donna, che entrò nella stanza con una velocità tale da rischiare di rovinare completamente l’accurato arrangiamento dei suoi capelli e delle sue treccine.

“Oh, mia cara, mia adorata padrona!” esclamò il guardiano del corpo, inginocchiandosi disperatamente accanto alla signora Pott distesa a terra. “Oh, mia cara padrona, cosa è successo?”

“Il tuo padrone, il tuo crudele padrone,” mormorò il paziente.

Ovviamente, Pott stava cedendo.

“È un peccato,” disse il bodyguard in tono di rimprovero. “So che diventerà la tua morte, signora. Povera creatura, ”

Ha ceduto molto di più. L’altra parte ha continuato l’attacco.

“Oh, non lasciarmi. Non lasciarmi, Goodwin,” mormorò la signora Pott, afferrando con forza il polso di Goodwin in un gesto isterico. “Tu sei l’unica persona gentile con me, Goodwin.”

Di fronte a questo commovente appello, Goodwin iniziò a raccontare una piccola, domestica tragedia della sua vita e versò abbondanti lacrime.

“Mai, signora, mai,” disse Goodwin. “Oh, signore, dovreste essere cauto, davvero; non sapete che danno potreste causare alla signora. Un giorno ne pentirà, lo so. L’ho sempre detto.”

Il sfortunato Pott osservava la scena in modo timido, ma non disse nulla.

“Goodwin,” disse la signora Pott con voce dolce.

“Signora,” disse Goodwin.

“Se solo sapessi quanto ho amato quell’uomo, ”

“Non angosciatevi ricordandolo, signora,” disse il bodyguard.

Pott sembrava molto spaventato. Era arrivato il momento di finirlo.

“E ora,” singhiozzò la signora Pott, “ora, dopo tutto, essere trattata in questo modo; essere rimproverata e insultata davanti a una terza persona, e quella persona quasi uno sconosciuto. Ma non me ne starò zitta! Goodwin,” continuò la signora Pott, appoggiandosi alle braccia della sua ancella, “mio fratello, il tenente, interverrà. Mi separeranno, Goodwin!”

“Certamente gli servirebbe come leva, signora,” disse Goodwin.

Qualunque pensiero la minaccia di una separazione potesse aver suscitato nella mente del signor Pott, egli si astenne dal esprimerlo a parole, e si accontentò di dire, con grande umiltà:

“Mia cara, mi ascolterai?”

Un nuovo flusso di singhiozzi fu l’unica risposta: mentre la signora Pott diventava sempre più isterica, chiese spiegazioni su perché fosse mai nata e richiese altre informazioni del genere.

“Mia cara,” rimproverò il signor Pott, “non lasciarti prendere da questi sentimenti delicati. Non ho mai creduto che quel passaggio avesse alcun fondamento, mia cara. È impossibile. Ero semplicemente arrabbiato, mia cara. Anzi, potrei dire furioso, con quelle persone dell’Independent per aver osato inserirlo; nient’altro.” Il signor Pott lanciò uno sguardo supplichevole verso la causa “innocente” di tutto quel trambusto, come se volesse pregare quella persona di non parlare più di quella “serpente”.

“E quali misure intende intraprendere, signore, per ottenere giustizia?” chiese il signor Winkle, prendendo sempre più coraggio vedendo che Pott ne perdeva.

“Oh, Goodwin,” osservò la signora Pott, “intende davvero frustare il redattore del Independent, vero, Goodwin?”

“Shhh, shhh, signora. Per favore, stia in silenzio,” rispose la guardia del corpo. “Credo che lo farà, se lo desidera, signora.”

“Certo,” disse Pott, mentre sua moglie mostrava chiari segni di voler ricominciare a comportarsi in modo strano. “Certo che lo farò.”

“Quando, Goodwin, quando?”, disse la signora Pott, ancora indecisa se partire o meno.

“Subito, naturalmente,” disse il signor Pott; “prima che sia trascorsa la giornata.”

“Ah, Goodwin,” continuò la signora Pott, “è l’unico modo per affrontare queste calunnie e ristabilire la mia reputazione davanti a tutti.”

“Certamente, signora,” rispose Goodwin. “Nessun uomo che si consideri tale rifiuterebbe di farlo.”

Mentre l’isteria continuava a regnare nell’aria, il signor Pott ripeté ancora una volta che avrebbe fatto ciò che aveva promesso; ma la signora Pott era così sopraffatta dall’idea di essere stata anche solo sospettata, che per ben sei volte fu sul punto di ricadere in preda all’isteria. Senza dubbio sarebbe impazzita, se non fosse stato per gli instancabili sforzi del diligente Goodwin e per le continue suppliche di perdono da parte del signor Pott stesso. Alla fine, quando quell’infortunato individuo fu ridotto al suo giusto posto, la signora Pott si riprese e andarono a fare colazione.

“Non permetterà che queste calunnie diffuse da questo giornale riducano la durata della sua permanenza qui, signor Winkle?” disse la signora Pott, sorridendo nonostante le tracce delle sue lacrime.

“Non lo spero affatto,” disse il signor Pott, mosso dal desiderio che il suo visitatore si soffocasse con quel pezzetto di pane tostato secco che in quel momento stava portando alle labbra, così da porre effettivamente fine alla sua visita.

“Non lo spero affatto.”

“Sei molto bravo,” disse il signor Winkle; “ma è arrivata una lettera dal signor Pickwick. Lo so da una nota del signor Tupman, che questa mattina è stata portata alla mia porta; nella lettera ci chiede di raggiungerlo oggi a Bury; dobbiamo partire con la carrozza alle mezzogiorno.”

“Ma tornerai, vero?” disse la signora Pott.

‘Oh, certainly,’ replied Mr. Winkle.

‘You are quite sure?’ said Mrs. Pott, stealing a tender look at her visitor.

‘Quite,’ responded Mr. Winkle.

The breakfast passed off in silence, for each of the party was brooding over his, or her, own personal grievances. Mrs. Pott was regretting the loss of a beau; Mr. Pott his rash pledge to horsewhip the Independent; Mr. Winkle his having innocently placed himself in so awkward a situation. Noon approached, and after many adieux and promises to return, he tore himself away.

‘If he ever comes back, I’ll poison him,’ thought Mr. Pott, as he turned into the little back office where he prepared his thunderbolts.

‘If I ever do come back, and mix myself up with these people again,’ thought Mr. Winkle, as he wended his way to the Peacock, ‘I shall deserve to be horsewhipped myself—that’s all.’

His friends were ready, the coach was nearly so, and in half an hour they were proceeding on their journey, along the road over which Mr. Pickwick and Sam had so recently travelled, and of which, as we have already said something, we do not feel called upon to extract Mr. Snodgrass’s poetical and beautiful description.

Mr. Weller was standing at the door of the Angel, ready to receive them, and by that gentleman they were ushered to the apartment of Mr. Pickwick, where, to the no small surprise of Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass, and the no small embarrassment of Mr. Tupman, they found old Wardle and Trundle.

‘How are you?’ said the old man, grasping Mr. Tupman’s hand. ‘Don’t hang back, or look sentimental about it; it can’t be helped, old fellow. For her sake, I wish you’d had her; for your own, I’m very glad you have not. A young fellow like you will do better one of these days, eh?’ With this conclusion, Wardle slapped Mr. Tupman on the back, and laughed heartily.

‘Well, and how are you, my fine fellows?’ said the old gentleman, shaking hands with Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass at the same time. ‘I have just been telling Pickwick that we must have you all down at Christmas. We’re going to have a wedding—a real wedding this time.’

‘A wedding!’ exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass, turning very pale.

‘Yes, a wedding. But don’t be frightened,’ said the good-humoured old man; ‘it’s only Trundle there, and Bella.’

‘Oh, is that all?’ said Mr. Snodgrass, relieved from a painful doubt which had fallen heavily on his breast. ‘Give you joy, Sir. How is Joe?’

‘Very well,’ replied the old gentleman. ‘Sleepy as ever.’

‘And your mother, and the clergyman, and all of ‘em?’

‘Quite well.’

‘Where,’ said Mr. Tupman, with an effort—‘where is—she, Sir?’ and he turned away his head, and covered his eyes with his hand.

‘She!’ said the old gentleman, with a knowing shake of the head. ‘Do you mean my single relative—eh?’

Mr. Tupman, by a nod, intimated that his question applied to the disappointed Rachael.

‘Oh, she’s gone away,’ said the old gentleman. ‘She’s living at a relation’s, far enough off. She couldn’t bear to see the girls, so I let her go. But come! Here’s the dinner. You must be hungry after your ride. I am, without any ride at all; so let us fall to.’

Ample justice was done to the meal; and when they were seated round the table, after it had been disposed of, Mr. Pickwick, to the intense horror and indignation of his followers, related the adventure he had undergone, and the success which had attended the base artifices of the diabolical Jingle.

‘And the attack of rheumatism which I caught in that garden,’ said Mr. Pickwick, in conclusion, ‘renders me lame at this moment.’

‘I, too, have had something of an adventure,’ said Mr. Winkle, with a smile; and, at the request of Mr. Pickwick, he detailed the malicious libel of the Eatanswill Independent, and the consequent excitement of their friend, the editor.

Mr. Pickwick’s brow darkened during the recital. His friends observed it, and, when Mr. Winkle had concluded, maintained a profound silence. Mr. Pickwick struck the table emphatically with his clenched fist, and spoke as follows:—

‘Is it not a wonderful circumstance,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘that we seem destined to enter no man’s house without involving him in some degree of trouble? Does it not, I ask, bespeak the indiscretion, or, worse than that, the blackness of heart—that I should say so!—of my followers, that, beneath whatever roof they locate, they disturb the peace of mind and happiness of some confiding female? Is it not, I say—’

Mr. Pickwick would in all probability have gone on for some time, had not the entrance of Sam, with a letter, caused him to break off in his eloquent discourse. He passed his handkerchief across his forehead, took off his spectacles, wiped them, and put them on again; and his voice had recovered its wonted softness of tone when he said—

‘What have you there, Sam?’

‘Called at the post-office just now, and found this here letter, as has laid there for two days,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘It’s sealed vith a vafer, and directed in round hand.’

‘I don’t know this hand,’ said Mr. Pickwick, opening the letter. ‘Mercy on us! what’s this? It must be a jest; it—it—can’t be true.’

‘What’s the matter?’ was the general inquiry.

‘Nobody dead, is there?’ said Wardle, alarmed at the horror in Mr. Pickwick’s countenance.

Mr. Pickwick made no reply, but, pushing the letter across the table, and desiring Mr. Tupman to read it aloud, fell back in his chair with a look of vacant astonishment quite alarming to behold.

Mr. Tupman, with a trembling voice, read the letter, of which the following is a copy:—

Freeman’s Court, Cornhill, August 28th, 1827.

Bardell against Pickwick.

Sir,

Having been instructed by Mrs. Martha Bardell to commence an action against you for a breach of promise of marriage, for which the plaintiff lays her damages at fifteen hundred pounds, we beg to inform you that a writ has been issued against you in this suit in the Court of Common Pleas; and request to know, by return of post, the name of your attorney in London, who will accept service thereof.

“Oh, certamente,” rispose il signor Winkle.

“Sei davvero sicura?” disse la signora Pott, lanciando un’occhiata affettuosa alla sua visitatrice.

“Proprio così,” rispose il signor Winkle.

La colazione trascorse in silenzio, poiché ognuno dei presenti era immerso nei propri pensieri e nelle proprie rancori personali. La signora Pott rimpiangeva la perdita del proprio amante; il signor Pott si pentiva della promessa avventata di frustare l’Independent; il signor Winkle, invece, si rammaricava di essersi trovato in una situazione così imbarazzante per pura innocenza. Mezzogiorno si avvicinò, e dopo molti addii e promesse di tornare, se ne andò finalmente.

“Se mai dovesse tornare, lo avvelenerò,” pensò il signor Pott mentre entrava nel piccolo ufficio sul retro dove preparava i suoi “fulmini”.

“Se mai dovessi tornare e mescolarmi di nuovo con queste persone,” pensò il signor Winkle mentre si dirigeva verso il Peacock, “meriterei davvero di essere frustato, nient’altro.”

I suoi amici erano pronti, l’allenatore quasi lo era anch’egli; in mezz’ora partirono per la loro viaggio, lungo la stessa strada su cui poco tempo prima avevano viaggiato il signor Pickwick e Sam. Di questa strada, poiché ne abbiamo già parlato in precedenza, non riteniamo necessario riprodurre qui la descrizione poetica e incantevole fornita dal signor Snodgrass.

Il signor Weller stava in piedi alla porta dell’albergo, pronto ad accoglierli; grazie a quel gentiluomo furono accompagnati nell’appartamento del signor Pickwick. Lì, con grande sorpresa del signor Winkle e del signor Snodgrass, e non meno imbarazzo per il signor Tupman, trovarono il vecchio Wardle e Trundle.

“Come stai?” disse l’uomo anziano, stringendo la mano di Mr. Tupman. “Non essere troppo triste o sentimentale al riguardo; non si può fare nulla, vecchio mio. Per il suo bene, avrei voluto che tu l’avessi avuta; per il tuo bene, sono molto contento che tu non l’abbia avuta. Un giovane come te se la caverà meglio in futuro, eh?” Con queste parole, Wardle diede una pacca sulla schiena a Mr. Tupman e rise di cuore.

“Beh, e come state voi, miei cari amici?” disse il vecchio signore, stringendo la mano sia al signor Winkle che al signor Snodgrass nello stesso momento. “Stavo appena dicendo a Pickwick che dobbiamo assolutamente avervi tutti a Natale. Questa volta organizzeremo un vero matrimonio, ”

“Un matrimonio!”, esclamò il signor Snodgrass, impallidendo all’improvviso.

“Sì, un matrimonio. Ma non spaventatevi,” disse l’uomo anziano di buon umore; “ci saranno solo Trundle e Bella.”

“Ah, è tutto qui?” disse il signor Snodgrass, sollevato da un doloroso >dubbio che lo opprimeva profondamente. “Che gioia per me, signore. Come sta Joe?”

“Molto bene,” rispose il vecchio signore. “Come sempre, sono molto assonnato.”

“E tua madre, e il prete, e tutti gli altri?”

“Abbastanza bene.”

“Dove,” disse il signor Tupman con sforzo, “dove si trova, lei, signore?” Poi girò la testa e si coprì gli occhi con la mano.

“Lei!”, disse il vecchio signore scuotendo la testa in modo significativo. “Intendi la mia unica parente, eh?”

Il signor Tupman, con un cenno del capo, fece intendere che la sua domanda si riferiva alla delusa Rachael.

“Oh, se n’è andata,” disse il vecchio signore. “Vive da un parente, piuttosto lontano da qui. Non riusciva a sopportare la vista delle ragazze, quindi le ho permesso di andarsene. Ma venite! Ecco la cena. Dovete essere affamati dopo il vostro viaggio. Io lo sono, invece; non ho fatto alcun viaggio. Quindi mangiamo.”

Fu resa piena giustizia a quel pasto; e quando si sedettero intorno al tavolo, dopo che tutto era stato servito, il signor Pickwick, con grande orrore e indignazione da parte dei suoi seguaci, raccontò l’avventura che aveva vissuto e il successo ottenuto grazie agli astuti stratagemmi di quel diabolico Jingle.

“E l’attacco di reumatismo che ho contratto in quel giardino,” concluse il signor Pickwick, “mi rende zoppo in questo momento.”

“Anch’io ho vissuto una sorta di avventura,” disse il signor Winkle sorridendo; e su richiesta del signor Pickwick, raccontò in dettaglio l’infame diffamazione pubblicata dal giornale Eatanswill Independent e l’agitazione che ne derivò per il loro amico, l’editore.

La fronte del signor Pickwick si oscurò durante il recital. I suoi amici se ne accorsero e, quando il signor Winkle ebbe terminato, mantennero un profondo silenzio. Il signor Pickwick batté con forza sul tavolo con il pugno chiuso e disse quanto segue:—

“Non è forse una circostanza meravigliosa,” disse il signor Pickwick, “che sembriamo destinati a non entrare in casa di nessuno senza causargli qualche problema? Non dimostra forse, vi chiedo, l’imprudenza, o, peggio ancora, la malvagità d’animo dei miei seguaci, il fatto che, ovunque si rechino, disturbino la tranquillità e la felicità di donne fiduciose? Non è forse, ”

Probabilmente il signor Pickwick avrebbe continuato a parlare per ancora un po’, se non fosse stato l’arrivo di Sam con una lettera che lo fece interrompere nel suo eloquente discorso. Si asciugò la fronte con il fazzoletto, si tolse gli occhiali, li pulì e se li rimise; e la sua voce aveva ripreso la solita dolcezza quando disse.

“Cosa hai lì, Sam?”

“Ho appena telefonato all’ufficio postale e ho trovato questa lettera qui; è stata lasciata lì per due giorni,” rispose il signor Weller. “È sigillata con una ceralacca e indirizzata a mano.”

“Non conosco questa calligrafia,” disse il signor Pickwick aprendo la lettera. “Mia misericordia. Che cos’è questo? Deve essere uno scherzo; non può essere vero.”

“Che c’è che non va?” era la domanda generale.

“Nessuno è morto, vero?”, disse Wardle, allarmato dal terrore che si leggeva sul volto del signor Pickwick.

Il signor Pickwick non rispose nulla; invece, spingendo la lettera attraverso il tavolo e chiedendo al signor Tupman di leggerla ad alta voce, si appoggiò allo schienale della sedia con un’espressione di stupore vuoto e assolutamente allarmante da vedere.

Mr. Tupman, con voce tremante, lesse la lettera; di seguito ne è riportato il testo:–

Tribunale di Freeman, Cornhill, 28 agosto 1827.

Bardell contro Pickwick.

Signore,

Avendo ricevuto istruzioni dalla signora Martha Bardell di avviare un’azione legale contro di voi per mancata osservanza della promessa di matrimonio, e considerando che la somma del danno richiesto dall’autrice dell’azione è di millecinquecento sterline, vi informiamo che è stata emessa un’ingiunzione contro di voi presso il >Tribunale della Common Pleas; si prega inoltre di comunicarci, entro i termini previsti dalla posta, il nome del vostro avvocato a >Londra incaricato di ricevere la documentazione relativa a questa causa.

We are, Sir, Your obedient servants, Dodson & Fogg.

Mr. Samuel Pickwick.

There was something so impressive in the mute astonishment with which each man regarded his neighbour, and every man regarded Mr. Pickwick, that all seemed afraid to speak. The silence was at length broken by Mr. Tupman.

‘Dodson and Fogg,’ he repeated mechanically.

‘Bardell and Pickwick,’ said Mr. Snodgrass, musing.

‘Peace of mind and happiness of confiding females,’ murmured Mr. Winkle, with an air of abstraction.

‘It’s a conspiracy,’ said Mr. Pickwick, at length recovering the power of speech; ‘a base conspiracy between these two grasping attorneys, Dodson and Fogg. Mrs. Bardell would never do it;—she hasn’t the heart to do it;—she hasn’t the case to do it. Ridiculous—ridiculous.’

Of her heart,’ said Wardle, with a smile, ‘you should certainly be the best judge. I don’t wish to discourage you, but I should certainly say that, of her case, Dodson and Fogg are far better judges than any of us can be.’

‘It’s a vile attempt to extort money,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘I hope it is,’ said Wardle, with a short, dry cough.

‘Who ever heard me address her in any way but that in which a lodger would address his landlady?’ continued Mr. Pickwick, with great vehemence. ‘Who ever saw me with her? Not even my friends here—’

‘Except on one occasion,’ said Mr. Tupman.

Mr. Pickwick changed colour.

‘Ah,’ said Mr. Wardle. ‘Well, that’s important. There was nothing suspicious then, I suppose?’

Mr. Tupman glanced timidly at his leader. ‘Why,’ said he, ‘there was nothing suspicious; but—I don’t know how it happened, mind—she certainly was reclining in his arms.’

‘Gracious powers!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, as the recollection of the scene in question struck forcibly upon him; ‘what a dreadful instance of the force of circumstances! So she was—so she was.’

‘And our friend was soothing her anguish,’ said Mr. Winkle, rather maliciously.

‘So I was,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘I don’t deny it. So I was.’

‘Hollo!’ said Wardle; ‘for a case in which there’s nothing suspicious, this looks rather queer—eh, Pickwick? Ah, sly dog—sly dog!’ and he laughed till the glasses on the sideboard rang again.

‘What a dreadful conjunction of appearances!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, resting his chin upon his hands. ‘Winkle—Tupman—I beg your pardon for the observations I made just now. We are all the victims of circumstances, and I the greatest.’ With this apology Mr. Pickwick buried his head in his hands, and ruminated; while Wardle measured out a regular circle of nods and winks, addressed to the other members of the company.

‘I’ll have it explained, though,’ said Mr. Pickwick, raising his head and hammering the table. ‘I’ll see this Dodson and Fogg! I’ll go to London to-morrow.’

‘Not to-morrow,’ said Wardle; ‘you’re too lame.’

‘Well, then, next day.’

‘Next day is the first of September, and you’re pledged to ride out with us, as far as Sir Geoffrey Manning’s grounds at all events, and to meet us at lunch, if you don’t take the field.’

‘Well, then, the day after,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘Thursday.—Sam!’

‘Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘Take two places outside to London, on Thursday morning, for yourself and me.’

‘Wery well, Sir.’

Mr. Weller left the room, and departed slowly on his errand, with his hands in his pocket and his eyes fixed on the ground.

‘Rum feller, the hemperor,’ said Mr. Weller, as he walked slowly up the street. ‘Think o’ his makin’ up to that ‘ere Mrs. Bardell—vith a little boy, too! Always the vay vith these here old ‘uns howsoever, as is such steady goers to look at. I didn’t think he’d ha’ done it, though—I didn’t think he’d ha’ done it!’ Moralising in this strain, Mr. Samuel Weller bent his steps towards the booking-office.

Siamo, signore, i suoi fedeli servitori: Dodson & Fogg.

Il signor Samuel Pickwick.

C’era qualcosa di davvero impressionante nel silenzioso stupore con cui ognuno osservava il proprio vicino, e ogni uomo guardava il signor Pickwick, tanto che tutti sembravano temere di parlare. Alla fine, il silenzio fu rotto dal signor Tupman.

“Dodson and Fogg,” ripeté meccanicamente.

“Bardell e Pickwick”,” disse meditabondo il signor Snodgrass.

“La tranquillità d’animo e la felicità delle donne che si affidano a qualcuno, ”, mormorò il signor Winkle, con un tono distaccato.

“È una cospirazione,” disse finalmente il signor Pickwick, riacquistando la capacità di parlare; “una spregevole cospirazione tra questi due avvocati avidi, Dodson e Fogg. La signora Bardell non lo farebbe mai; non ne ha il cuore, né le motivazioni per farlo. Assurdo, assurdo.”

“Del suo cuore,” disse Wardle sorridendo, “sicuramente tu sei la migliore giudice. Non voglio scoraggiarti, ma devo dire che, per quanto riguarda il suo caso, Dodson e Fogg sono decisamente più qualificati di qualsiasi di noi.”

“È un tentativo vergognoso di estorcere denaro,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Spero che lo sia,” disse Wardle, con un breve colpo di tosse secca.

“Chi mai mi ha sentito rivolgermi a lei in modo diverso da quello in cui un inquilino si rivolgerebbe alla sua padrona di casa?” continuò il signor Pickwick con grande veemenza. “Chi mai mi ha visto con lei? Nemmeno i miei amici qui, ”

“Tranne in un’unica occasione,” disse il signor Tupman.

Il signor Pickwick cambiò colore.

“Ah,” disse il signor Wardle. “Beh, questo è importante. Allora non c’era nulla di sospetto, suppongo?”

Il signor Tupman guardò timidamente il suo capo. “Perché,” disse, “non c’era nulla di sospetto; ma, non so come sia successo, davvero, lei era sicuramente appoggiata tra le sue braccia.”

“Potenti divinità!” esclamò il signor Pickwick quando il ricordo di quella scena gli tornò improvvisamente alla mente; “che terribile esempio della forza delle circostanze. Quindi era così. Quindi era davvero così.”

“E il nostro amico cercava di consolarla nel suo dolore,” disse il signor Winkle, con una certa malizia.

“Lo so che lo ero,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Non lo nego. Lo so che lo ero.”

“Ehi!” disse Wardle; “per un caso in cui non c’è nulla di sospetto, questa situazione sembra davvero strana, eh, Pickwick? Ah, furbo cane, furbo cane!” e rise fino a quando i bicchieri sul comò non risuonarono di nuovo.

“Che terribile combinazione di circostanze!” esclamò il signor Pickwick, appoggiando il mento sulle mani. “Winkle. Tupman. Vi chiedo scusa per le osservazioni che ho fatto poco fa. Siamo tutti vittime delle circostanze, e io forse di più.” Con queste scuse, il signor Pickwick nascose la testa tra le mani e rimase a riflettere; intanto Wardle continuava a fare cenni del capo e occhiate agli altri membri del gruppo.

“Lo farò spiegare comunque,” disse il signor Pickwick, alzando la testa e battendo il pugno sul tavolo. “Farò i conti con quel Dodson e Fogg! Domani andrò a Londra.”

“Non domani,” disse Wardle; “sei troppo debole.”

“Allora, il giorno dopo.”

“Il giorno dopo è il primo di settembre, e sei promesso a venire con noi, almeno fino alle proprietà di Sir Geoffrey Manning, per poi incontrarci a pranzo, se non decidi di partire per il campo.”

“Beh,” disse il signor Pickwick, “il giorno dopo, cioè il Giovedì. Sam!”

“Signore,” rispose il signor Weller.

“Prendi due posti fuori da Londra, per giovedì mattina, per te e per me.”

“Molto bene, signore.”

Il signor Weller lasciò la stanza e si allontanò lentamente per svolgere la sua commissione, con le mani in tasca e lo sguardo fisso sul pavimento.

“Rum feller, l’imperatore,” disse il signor Weller mentre camminava lentamente per la strada. “Pensa un po’ a come si sia avvicinato a quella ‘certa’ signora Bardell, con anche un bambino! Sempre lo stesso comportamento da parte di questi vecchi, davvero curioso da osservare. Non pensavo che l’avrebbe fatto, però, non me l’aspettavo proprio!” Mentre pronunciava queste parole, il signor Samuel Weller proseguì verso l’ufficio di prenotazioni.

CHAPTER XIX. A PLEASANT DAY WITH AN UNPLEASANT TERMINATION

The birds, who, happily for their own peace of mind and personal comfort, were in blissful ignorance of the preparations which had been making to astonish them, on the first of September, hailed it, no doubt, as one of the pleasantest mornings they had seen that season. Many a young partridge who strutted complacently among the stubble, with all the finicking coxcombry of youth, and many an older one who watched his levity out of his little round eye, with the contemptuous air of a bird of wisdom and experience, alike unconscious of their approaching doom, basked in the fresh morning air with lively and blithesome feelings, and a few hours afterwards were laid low upon the earth. But we grow affecting: let us proceed.

In plain commonplace matter-of-fact, then, it was a fine morning—so fine that you would scarcely have believed that the few months of an English summer had yet flown by. Hedges, fields, and trees, hill and moorland, presented to the eye their ever-varying shades of deep rich green; scarce a leaf had fallen, scarce a sprinkle of yellow mingled with the hues of summer, warned you that autumn had begun. The sky was cloudless; the sun shone out bright and warm; the songs of birds, the hum of myriads of summer insects, filled the air; and the cottage gardens, crowded with flowers of every rich and beautiful tint, sparkled, in the heavy dew, like beds of glittering jewels. Everything bore the stamp of summer, and none of its beautiful colour had yet faded from the die.

Such was the morning, when an open carriage, in which were three Pickwickians (Mr. Snodgrass having preferred to remain at home), Mr. Wardle, and Mr. Trundle, with Sam Weller on the box beside the driver, pulled up by a gate at the roadside, before which stood a tall, raw- boned gamekeeper, and a half-booted, leather-legginged boy, each bearing a bag of capacious dimensions, and accompanied by a brace of pointers.

‘I say,’ whispered Mr. Winkle to Wardle, as the man let down the steps, ‘they don’t suppose we’re going to kill game enough to fill those bags, do they?’

‘Fill them!’ exclaimed old Wardle. ‘Bless you, yes! You shall fill one, and I the other; and when we’ve done with them, the pockets of our shooting-jackets will hold as much more.’

Mr. Winkle dismounted without saying anything in reply to this observation; but he thought within himself, that if the party remained in the open air, till he had filled one of the bags, they stood a considerable chance of catching colds in their heads.

‘Hi, Juno, lass-hi, old girl; down, Daph, down,’ said Wardle, caressing the dogs. ‘Sir Geoffrey still in Scotland, of course, Martin?’

The tall gamekeeper replied in the affirmative, and looked with some surprise from Mr. Winkle, who was holding his gun as if he wished his coat pocket to save him the trouble of pulling the trigger, to Mr. Tupman, who was holding his as if he was afraid of it—as there is no earthly reason to doubt he really was.

‘My friends are not much in the way of this sort of thing yet, Martin,’ said Wardle, noticing the look. ‘Live and learn, you know. They’ll be good shots one of these days. I beg my friend Winkle’s pardon, though; he has had some practice.’

Mr. Winkle smiled feebly over his blue neckerchief in acknowledgment of the compliment, and got himself so mysteriously entangled with his gun, in his modest confusion, that if the piece had been loaded, he must inevitably have shot himself dead upon the spot.

‘You mustn’t handle your piece in that ‘ere way, when you come to have the charge in it, Sir,’ said the tall gamekeeper gruffly; ‘or I’m damned if you won’t make cold meat of some on us.’

Mr. Winkle, thus admonished, abruptly altered his position, and in so doing, contrived to bring the barrel into pretty smart contact with Mr. Weller’s head.

‘Hollo!’ said Sam, picking up his hat, which had been knocked off, and rubbing his temple. ‘Hollo, sir! if you comes it this vay, you’ll fill one o’ them bags, and something to spare, at one fire.’

Here the leather-legginged boy laughed very heartily, and then tried to look as if it was somebody else, whereat Mr. Winkle frowned majestically.

‘Where did you tell the boy to meet us with the snack, Martin?’ inquired Wardle.

‘Side of One-tree Hill, at twelve o’clock, Sir.’

‘That’s not Sir Geoffrey’s land, is it?’

‘No, Sir; but it’s close by it. It’s Captain Boldwig’s land; but there’ll be nobody to interrupt us, and there’s a fine bit of turf there.’

‘Very well,’ said old Wardle. ‘Now the sooner we’re off the better. Will you join us at twelve, then, Pickwick?’

Mr. Pickwick was particularly desirous to view the sport, the more especially as he was rather anxious in respect of Mr. Winkle’s life and limbs. On so inviting a morning, too, it was very tantalising to turn back, and leave his friends to enjoy themselves. It was, therefore, with a very rueful air that he replied—

‘Why, I suppose I must.’

‘Ain’t the gentleman a shot, Sir?’ inquired the long gamekeeper.

‘No,’ replied Wardle; ‘and he’s lame besides.’

‘I should very much like to go,’ said Mr. Pickwick—‘very much.’

There was a short pause of commiseration.

‘There’s a barrow t’other side the hedge,’ said the boy. ‘If the gentleman’s servant would wheel along the paths, he could keep nigh us, and we could lift it over the stiles, and that.’

‘The wery thing,’ said Mr. Weller, who was a party interested, inasmuch as he ardently longed to see the sport. ‘The wery thing. Well said, Smallcheek; I’ll have it out in a minute.’

But here a difficulty arose. The long gamekeeper resolutely protested against the introduction into a shooting party, of a gentleman in a barrow, as a gross violation of all established rules and precedents.

CAPITOLO XIX. UN GIORNO PIACEVOLE CON UN TERMINE SPIACEVOLE

Gli uccelli, che, per la loro stessa tranquillità e comodità personale, erano all’oscuro delle preparazioni che venivano fatte per sorprenderli il primo settembre, lo accolsero senza alcun >dubbio come una delle mattine più piacevoli di quella stagione. Molti giovani fagiani, che si pavoneggiavano compiaciuti tra i resti dei campi coltivati, con tutta la vanità tipica della gioventù, e molti altri più anziani, che osservavano la loro leggerezza con quegli occhi rotondi e pieni di disprezzo propri degli uccelli saggi ed esperti, erano tutti ignari del pericolo imminente; si godevano il fresco dell’aria mattutina con sentimenti vivaci e gioiosi. E poche ore dopo, tutti giacevano a terra morti. Ma noi tendiamo ad esagerare: continuiamo pure il nostro racconto.

In parole semplici e banali, era una bella mattina: così bella che a stento si sarebbe potuto credere che quei pochi mesi di un’estate inglese fossero già trascorsi. Giardini recintati, campi, alberi, colline e brughiere offrivano allo sguardo le loro infinite sfumature di verde intenso; quasi nessuna foglia era caduta, e solo poche macchie gialle si mescolavano ai colori dell’estate, a segnale che l’autunno aveva appena iniziato. Il cielo era sereno; il sole splendeva caldo e luminoso; i canti degli uccelli e il ronzio di innumerevoli insetti riempivano l’aria; i giardini, pieni di fiori di ogni colore vivido e bello, brillavano sotto la rugiada, come tappeti di gioielli scintillanti. Tutto portava il segno dell’estate, e nessuno dei suoi bei colori era ancora sbiadito.

Era una mattina del genere quando una carrozza aperta, nella quale viaggiavano tre dei compagni di Pickwick (il signor Snodgrass aveva preferito rimanere a casa), il signor Wardle e il signor Trundle, insieme a Sam Weller seduto sul sedile accanto al cocchiere, si fermò davanti a un cancello lungo la strada. Davanti al cancello c’erano un alto guardiacaccia dalle ossa sporgenti e un ragazzo con stivali mezzi e calze di cuoio; entrambi portavano sacche di dimensioni notevoli e erano accompagnati da due fucili da caccia.

“Dico,” sussurrò il signor Winkle a Wardle mentre quest’ultimo faceva scendere le scale, “che non pensano certo che riusciremo a cacciare abbastanza selvaggina da riempire quelle borse, vero?”

“Riempiteli!” esclamò il vecchio Wardle. “Benissimo! Tu ne riempirai uno, e io l’altro; e quando avremo finito, le tasche delle nostre giacche da caccia saranno ancora più piene.”

Il signor Winkle scese da cavallo senza dire nulla in risposta a questo commento; ma pensò tra sé che, se il gruppo rimaneva all’aperto fino a quando non avesse riempito uno dei sacchi, c’era un notevole rischio che prendessero il raffreddore.

“Ciao, Juno, vieni qui, vecchia mia; giù, Daph, giù,” disse Wardle accarezzando i >cani. “Il signor Geoffrey è ancora in Scozia, vero, Martin?”

Il alto guardiacaccia rispose affermativamente, e con un certo stupore osservò il signor Winkle, che teneva in mano la sua pistola come se sperasse che la tasca del suo cappotto gli risparmiasse la fatica di premere il grilletto, mentre il signor Tupman la teneva come se ne avesse paura, poiché non esiste alcun motivo plausibile per dubitare che lo facesse davvero.

“I miei amici non sono ancora molto abili in questo genere di cose, Martin,” disse Wardle, notando lo sguardo dell’altro. “Si impara vivendo, sai. Un giorno diventeranno bravi. Però chiedo scusa al mio amico Winkle: lui ha un po’ di esperienza.”

Il signor Winkle sorrise debolmente, mostrando il suo fazzoletto blu in segno di ringraziamento per il complimento; poi, nella sua modesta confusione, si impigliò in modo così misterioso con la sua pistola che, se l’arma fosse stata carica, sarebbe inevitabilmente morto sul colpo.

“Non dovreste maneggiare quel pezzo di carne in quel modo, quando dovrete occuparvene voi stesso, signore,” disse bruscamente il alto guardiacaccia; “altrimenti, giuro su Dio, qualcuno di noi finirà per morire.”

Il signor Winkle, così rimproverato, cambiò improvvisamente posizione, e in questo modo riuscì a far sì che il barile entrasse in stretto contatto con la testa del signor Weller.

“Ehi!” disse Sam, raccogliendo il cappello che gli era caduto e strofinandosi la tempia. “Ehi, signore! Se venite in questo modo, riuscirete a riempire uno di quei sacchi, e anche qualcos’altro in più, con un solo incendio.”

Qui il ragazzo con le calze di pelle rise molto di cuore, poi cercò di comportarsi come se fosse qualcun altro; a questo, il signor Winkle aggrottò la fronte in modo maestoso.

“Dove hai detto al ragazzo di incontrarci con il snack, Martin?” chiese Wardle.

“Dal lato di Collina dell’Albero Unico, alle dodici in punto, signore.”

“Quella non è la terra di Sir Geoffrey, vero?”

“No, signore; ma si trova proprio vicino. È la terra del Capitano Boldwig; e non ci sarà nessuno che possa interromperci, inoltre c’è un ottimo pezzo di prato lì.”

“Molto bene,” disse il vecchio Wardle. “Più presto partiamo, meglio è. Allora ci raggiungerai alle dodici, Pickwick?”

Il signor Pickwick desiderava particolarmente assistere a quell’evento sportivo; soprattutto perché era piuttosto preoccupato per la vita e le membra del signor Winkle. In una mattina così incantevole, sarebbe stato davvero un peccato tornare indietro e lasciare che i suoi amici si divertissero da soli. Pertanto, rispose con un’aria molto rammaricata.

“Beh, immagino di doverlo fare.”

“Quel gentiluomo non è mica male a sparare, vero, signore?”, chiese il lungo guardiacaccia.

“No,” rispose Wardle; “e inoltre è zoppo.”

“Mi piacerebbe molto andare,” disse il signor Pickwick, “Molto.”

Ci fu un breve momento di compassione reciproca.

“C’è un carretto dall’altra parte del recinto,” disse il ragazzo. “Se il servitore del signore fosse disposto a spingere il carretto lungo i sentieri, potrebbe rimanere vicino a noi; così potremmo aiutarlo a sollevare il carretto oltre le staccionate.”

“La cosa più strana,” disse il signor Weller, che era interessato alla questione, poiché desiderava ardentemente assistere a quell’evento. “Davvero la cosa più strana. Bene detto, Smallcheek; me ne occuperò subito.”

Ma qui sorse un problema. Il lungo e rispettabile guardiacaccia si oppose con fermezza all’inclusione di un gentiluomo su una carriola nella squadra di cacciatori, considerandola una grave violazione di tutte le regole e i precedenti consolidati.

It was a great objection, but not an insurmountable one. The gamekeeper having been coaxed and feed, and having, moreover, eased his mind by ‘punching’ the head of the inventive youth who had first suggested the use of the machine, Mr. Pickwick was placed in it, and off the party set; Wardle and the long gamekeeper leading the way, and Mr. Pickwick in the barrow, propelled by Sam, bringing up the rear.

‘Stop, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, when they had got half across the first field.

‘What’s the matter now?’ said Wardle.

‘I won’t suffer this barrow to be moved another step,’ said Mr. Pickwick, resolutely, ‘unless Winkle carries that gun of his in a different manner.’

‘How am I to carry it?’ said the wretched Winkle.

‘Carry it with the muzzle to the ground,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘It’s so unsportsmanlike,’ reasoned Winkle.

‘I don’t care whether it’s unsportsmanlike or not,’ replied Mr. Pickwick; ‘I am not going to be shot in a wheel-barrow, for the sake of appearances, to please anybody.’

‘I know the gentleman’ll put that ‘ere charge into somebody afore he’s done,’ growled the long man.

‘Well, well—I don’t mind,’ said poor Winkle, turning his gun-stock uppermost—‘there.’

‘Anythin’ for a quiet life,’ said Mr. Weller; and on they went again.

‘Stop!’ said Mr. Pickwick, after they had gone a few yards farther.

‘What now?’ said Wardle.

‘That gun of Tupman’s is not safe: I know it isn’t,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Eh? What! not safe?’ said Mr. Tupman, in a tone of great alarm.

‘Not as you are carrying it,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘I am very sorry to make any further objection, but I cannot consent to go on, unless you carry it as Winkle does his.’

‘I think you had better, sir,’ said the long gamekeeper, ‘or you’re quite as likely to lodge the charge in yourself as in anything else.’

Mr. Tupman, with the most obliging haste, placed his piece in the position required, and the party moved on again; the two amateurs marching with reversed arms, like a couple of privates at a royal funeral.

The dogs suddenly came to a dead stop, and the party advancing stealthily a single pace, stopped too.

‘What’s the matter with the dogs’ legs?’ whispered Mr. Winkle. ‘How queer they’re standing.’

‘Hush, can’t you?’ replied Wardle softly. ‘Don’t you see, they’re making a point?’

‘Making a point!’ said Mr. Winkle, staring about him, as if he expected to discover some particular beauty in the landscape, which the sagacious animals were calling special attention to. ‘Making a point! What are they pointing at?’

‘Keep your eyes open,’ said Wardle, not heeding the question in the excitement of the moment. ‘Now then.’

There was a sharp whirring noise, that made Mr. Winkle start back as if he had been shot himself. Bang, bang, went a couple of guns—the smoke swept quickly away over the field, and curled into the air.

‘Where are they!’ said Mr. Winkle, in a state of the highest excitement, turning round and round in all directions. ‘Where are they? Tell me when to fire. Where are they—where are they?’

‘Where are they!’ said Wardle, taking up a brace of birds which the dogs had deposited at his feet. ‘Why, here they are.’

‘No, no; I mean the others,’ said the bewildered Winkle.

‘Far enough off, by this time,’ replied Wardle, coolly reloading his gun.

‘We shall very likely be up with another covey in five minutes,’ said the long gamekeeper. ‘If the gentleman begins to fire now, perhaps he’ll just get the shot out of the barrel by the time they rise.’

‘Ha! ha! ha!’ roared Mr. Weller.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, compassionating his follower’s confusion and embarrassment.

‘Sir.’

‘Don’t laugh.’

‘Certainly not, Sir.’ So, by way of indemnification, Mr. Weller contorted his features from behind the wheel-barrow, for the exclusive amusement of the boy with the leggings, who thereupon burst into a boisterous laugh, and was summarily cuffed by the long gamekeeper, who wanted a pretext for turning round, to hide his own merriment.

‘Bravo, old fellow!’ said Wardle to Mr. Tupman; ‘you fired that time, at all events.’

‘Oh, yes,’ replied Mr. Tupman, with conscious pride. ‘I let it off.’

‘Well done. You’ll hit something next time, if you look sharp. Very easy, ain’t it?’

‘Yes, it’s very easy,’ said Mr. Tupman. ‘How it hurts one’s shoulder, though. It nearly knocked me backwards. I had no idea these small firearms kicked so.’

‘Ah,’ said the old gentleman, smiling, ‘you’ll get used to it in time. Now then—all ready—all right with the barrow there?’

‘All right, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘Come along, then.’

‘Hold hard, Sir,’ said Sam, raising the barrow.

‘Aye, aye,’ replied Mr. Pickwick; and on they went, as briskly as need be.

‘Keep that barrow back now,’ cried Wardle, when it had been hoisted over a stile into another field, and Mr. Pickwick had been deposited in it once more.

‘All right, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, pausing.

‘Now, Winkle,’ said the old gentleman, ‘follow me softly, and don’t be too late this time.’

‘Never fear,’ said Mr. Winkle. ‘Are they pointing?’

‘No, no; not now. Quietly now, quietly.’ On they crept, and very quietly they would have advanced, if Mr. Winkle, in the performance of some very intricate evolutions with his gun, had not accidentally fired, at the most critical moment, over the boy’s head, exactly in the very spot where the tall man’s brain would have been, had he been there instead.

‘Why, what on earth did you do that for?’ said old Wardle, as the birds flew unharmed away.

‘I never saw such a gun in my life,’ replied poor Mr. Winkle, looking at the lock, as if that would do any good. ‘It goes off of its own accord. It _will _do it.’

‘Will do it!’ echoed Wardle, with something of irritation in his manner. ‘I wish it would kill something of its own accord.’

Era un’obiezione valida, ma non insormontabile. Dopo essere stato blandito e nutrito, e inoltre rassicurato riguardo al giovane inventore che aveva proposto per primo l’utilizzo di quella macchina, il guardiacaccia fece salire il signor Pickwick nella carriola e la comitiva si mise in movimento. Wardle e il guardiacaccia guidavano la strada, mentre il signor Pickwick era nella carriola, spinta da Sam che chiudeva la fila.

“Fermati, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick quando avevano attraversato metà del primo campo.

“Che c’è adesso?” disse Wardle.

“Non permetterò che questo carretto venga spostato di un altro passo,” disse risolutamente il signor Pickwick, “a meno che Winkle non utilizzi quell’arma in modo diverso.”

“Come posso portarlo?” disse il povero Winkle.

“Tenetelo con la canna rivolta verso il suolo,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

“È davvero poco sportivo,” ragionò Winkle.

“Non mi interessa se sia o meno scorretto dal punto di vista sportivo,” rispose il signor Pickwick; “non intendo certo finire in una carrozza a ruote, solo per mantenere un certo aspetto esteriore o per compiacere qualcuno.”

“So che quel gentiluomo farà in modo che qualcuno paghi per quella colpa prima di aver finito,” ringhiò l’uomo alto.

“Beh, beh, non mi dispiace,” disse povero Winkle, girando il calcio della sua pistola verso l’alto. “Lì.”

“Qualsiasi cosa pur di vivere in pace,” disse il signor Weller; e così continuarono il loro cammino.

“Fermatevi!” disse il signor Pickwick dopo che avevano percorso qualche metro in più.

“E ora cosa facciamo?” disse Wardle.

“Quella pistola di Tupman non è sicura. Lo so per certo,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Eh? Cosa? Non è sicuro?” disse il signor Tupman con tono di grande allarme.

“Non così come lo state portando,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Mi dispiace molto dover sollevare ulteriori obiezioni, ma non posso acconsentire a continuare, a meno che non lo portiate esattamente come lo fa Winkle.”

“Penso che sia meglio farlo, signore,” disse il lungo guardiacaccia, “altrimenti c’è altrettanta probabilità che la colpa ricada su di voi quanto su chiunque altro.”

Il signor Tupman, con la massima sollecitudine, posizionò il suo pezzo nel punto richiesto e il gruppo proseguì il cammino; i due dilettanti avanzavano tenendo le braccia incrociate all’indietro, come due soldati semplici durante un funerale reale.

I >cani si fermarono improvvisamente, e anche il gruppo che avanzava furtivamente si arrestò.

“Che cosa c’è che non va con le zampe di questi >cani?” sussurrò il signor Winkle. “Come stanno in piedi, in modo così strano, ”

“Zitta, non puoi fare silenzio? Non vedi che stanno cercando di attirare l’attenzione?” rispose Wardle in tono sommesso.

“Stanno facendo qualcosa di significativo!” disse il signor Winkle, guardandosi intorno come se si aspettasse di scoprire qualche particolare bellezza nel paesaggio, su cui gli saggi animali stavano attirando l’attenzione. “Stanno facendo qualcosa di significativo. A cosa stanno indicando?”

“Tenete gli occhi aperti,” disse Wardle, senza prestare attenzione alla domanda, nel fervore di quel momento. “Ora, ”

Si udì un forte rumore stridulo che fece sussultare il signor Winkle come se fosse stato colpito lui stesso. Bang, bang, risuonarono alcuni spari; il fumo si diffuse rapidamente sul campo e si arricciò verso l’alto.

“Dove sono!” disse il signor Winkle, nel più alto stato di eccitazione, girando in tutte le direzioni. “Dove sono? Ditemi quando devo sparare. Dove sono, ”

“Dove sono!” disse Wardle, prendendo un paio di uccelli che i cani avevano deposto ai suoi piedi. “Eccoli qui.”

“No, no; intendo gli altri,” disse il confuso Winkle.

“Abbastanza lontano, ormai,” rispose Wardle, caricando con calma la sua pistola.

“Probabilmente tra cinque minuti ne avremo un altro gruppo,” disse il lungo cacciatore. “Se il signore inizia a sparare ora, forse riuscirà a sparare proprio nel momento in cui si alzeranno.”

‘Ahahah!’ gridò il signor Weller.

“Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick, comprendendo la confusione e l’imbarazzo del suo seguace.

“Signore.”

“Non ridere.”

“Certamente no, signore.” Così, come forma di compensazione, il signor Weller contorse i lineamenti del viso dietro al carretto a ruote, per il divertimento esclusivo del ragazzo con i pantaloni lunghi; quest’ultimo scoppiò in una risata fragorosa, e fu immediatamente ammanettato dal lungo cacciatore, che cercava solo un pretesto per girarsi e nascondere la propria allegria.

“Bene fatto, vecchio mio!” disse Wardle a Mr. Tupman; “in ogni caso, hai sparato proprio in quel momento.”

“Ah sì,” rispose il signor Tupman, con un evidente orgoglio. “L’ho lasciato andare.”

“Bravo. La prossima volta colpirai qualcosa, se fai attenzione. Molto facile, vero?”

“Sì, è molto facile,” disse il signor Tupman. “Però fa davvero male alla spalla. Quasi mi ha fatto cadere all’indietro! Non immaginavo che queste piccole armi da fuoco avessero una tale potenza.”

“Ah,” disse il vecchio signore sorridendo, “con il tempo ci si abituerà. Ora, tutto pronto, va bene con quel carretto lì?”

“Va bene, signore,” rispose il signor Weller.

“Allora, andiamo.”

“Tenetevi forte, signore,” disse Sam, sollevando il carretto.

“Sì, sì,” rispose il signor Pickwick; e continuarono il loro cammino, con la dovuta rapidità.

“Tornate indietro con quel carretto subito!” gridò Wardle quando il carretto fu sollevato su un palo e trasportato in un altro campo, e quando il signor Pickwick fu di nuovo messo al suo interno.

“Va bene, signore,” rispose il signor Weller, dopo una breve pausa.

“Ora, Winkle,” disse il vecchio signore, “seguimi in silenzio e non essere troppo in ritardo questa volta.”

“Non avere mai paura,” disse il signor Winkle. “Stanno indicando qualcosa?”

“No, no; non ora. In silenzio, adesso, in silenzio.” Continuarono a muoversi lentamente e in modo molto silenzioso, se solo il signor Winkle, mentre eseguiva alcune manovre molto complicate con la sua pistola, non avesse accidentalmente sparato, nel momento più critico, proprio sopra la testa del ragazzo, esattamente nel punto in cui si sarebbe trovato il cervello dell’uomo alto, se fosse stato lui al suo posto.

“Ma perché diavolo l’hai fatto?” disse il vecchio Wardle, mentre gli uccelli se ne andavano illesi.

“Non ho mai visto una pistola del genere in vita mia,” rispose povero il signor Winkle, guardando la serratura, come se questo potesse servire a qualcosa. “Si spara da sola. Sicuramente lo farà.”

“Lo farò!” ripeté Wardle, con un tono leggermente irritato.
“Vorrei che potesse uccidere qualcosa da solo, ”

‘It’ll do that afore long, Sir,’ observed the tall man, in a low, prophetic voice.

‘What do you mean by that observation, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Winkle, angrily.

‘Never mind, Sir, never mind,’ replied the long gamekeeper; ‘I’ve no family myself, sir; and this here boy’s mother will get something handsome from Sir Geoffrey, if he’s killed on his land. Load again, Sir, load again.’

‘Take away his gun,’ cried Mr. Pickwick from the barrow, horror-stricken at the long man’s dark insinuations. ‘Take away his gun, do you hear, somebody?’

Nobody, however, volunteered to obey the command; and Mr. Winkle, after darting a rebellious glance at Mr. Pickwick, reloaded his gun, and proceeded onwards with the rest.

We are bound, on the authority of Mr. Pickwick, to state, that Mr. Tupman’s mode of proceeding evinced far more of prudence and deliberation, than that adopted by Mr. Winkle. Still, this by no means detracts from the great authority of the latter gentleman, on all matters connected with the field; because, as Mr. Pickwick beautifully observes, it has somehow or other happened, from time immemorial, that many of the best and ablest philosophers, who have been perfect lights of science in matters of theory, have been wholly unable to reduce them to practice.

Mr. Tupman’s process, like many of our most sublime discoveries, was extremely simple. With the quickness and penetration of a man of genius, he had at once observed that the two great points to be attained were— first, to discharge his piece without injury to himself, and, secondly, to do so, without danger to the bystanders—obviously, the best thing to do, after surmounting the difficulty of firing at all, was to shut his eyes firmly, and fire into the air.

On one occasion, after performing this feat, Mr. Tupman, on opening his eyes, beheld a plump partridge in the act of falling, wounded, to the ground. He was on the point of congratulating Mr. Wardle on his invariable success, when that gentleman advanced towards him, and grasped him warmly by the hand.

‘Tupman,’ said the old gentleman, ‘you singled out that particular bird?’

‘No,’ said Mr. Tupman—‘no.’

‘You did,’ said Wardle. ‘I saw you do it—I observed you pick him out—I noticed you, as you raised your piece to take aim; and I will say this, that the best shot in existence could not have done it more beautifully. You are an older hand at this than I thought you, Tupman; you have been out before.’

It was in vain for Mr. Tupman to protest, with a smile of self-denial, that he never had. The very smile was taken as evidence to the contrary; and from that time forth his reputation was established. It is not the only reputation that has been acquired as easily, nor are such fortunate circumstances confined to partridge-shooting.

Meanwhile, Mr. Winkle flashed, and blazed, and smoked away, without producing any material results worthy of being noted down; sometimes expending his charge in mid-air, and at others sending it skimming along so near the surface of the ground as to place the lives of the two dogs on a rather uncertain and precarious tenure. As a display of fancy- shooting, it was extremely varied and curious; as an exhibition of firing with any precise object, it was, upon the whole, perhaps a failure. It is an established axiom, that ‘every bullet has its billet.’ If it apply in an equal degree to shot, those of Mr. Winkle were unfortunate foundlings, deprived of their natural rights, cast loose upon the world, and billeted nowhere.

‘Well,’ said Wardle, walking up to the side of the barrow, and wiping the streams of perspiration from his jolly red face; ‘smoking day, isn’t it?’

‘It is, indeed,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. The sun is tremendously hot, even to me. I don’t know how you must feel it.’

‘Why,’ said the old gentleman, ‘pretty hot. It’s past twelve, though. You see that green hill there?’

‘Certainly.’

‘That’s the place where we are to lunch; and, by Jove, there’s the boy with the basket, punctual as clockwork!’

‘So he is,’ said Mr. Pickwick, brightening up. ‘Good boy, that. I’ll give him a shilling, presently. Now, then, Sam, wheel away.’

‘Hold on, sir,’ said Mr. Weller, invigorated with the prospect of refreshments. ‘Out of the vay, young leathers. If you walley my precious life don’t upset me, as the gen’l’m’n said to the driver when they was a-carryin’ him to Tyburn.’ And quickening his pace to a sharp run, Mr. Weller wheeled his master nimbly to the green hill, shot him dexterously out by the very side of the basket, and proceeded to unpack it with the utmost despatch.

‘Weal pie,’ said Mr. Weller, soliloquising, as he arranged the eatables on the grass. ‘Wery good thing is weal pie, when you know the lady as made it, and is quite sure it ain’t kittens; and arter all though, where’s the odds, when they’re so like weal that the wery piemen themselves don’t know the difference?’

‘Don’t they, Sam?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Not they, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, touching his hat. ‘I lodged in the same house vith a pieman once, sir, and a wery nice man he was—reg’lar clever chap, too—make pies out o’ anything, he could. “What a number o’ cats you keep, Mr. Brooks,” says I, when I’d got intimate with him. “Ah,” says he, “I do—a good many,” says he, “You must be wery fond o’ cats,” says I. “Other people is,” says he, a-winkin’ at me; “they ain’t in season till the winter though,” says he. “Not in season!” says I. “No,” says he, “fruits is in, cats is out.” “Why, what do you mean?” says I. “Mean!” says he. “That I’ll never be a party to the combination o’ the butchers, to keep up the price o’ meat,” says he. “Mr. Weller,” says he, a-squeezing my hand wery hard, and vispering in my ear—“don’t mention this here agin—but it’s the seasonin’ as does it. They’re all made o’ them noble animals,” says he, a-pointin’ to a wery nice little tabby kitten, “and I seasons ‘em for beefsteak, weal or kidney, ‘cording to the demand. And more than that,” says he, “I can make a weal a beef- steak, or a beef-steak a kidney, or any one on ‘em a mutton, at a minute’s notice, just as the market changes, and appetites wary!”’

“Accadrà molto presto, signore,” osservò l’uomo alto con una voce bassa e profetica.

“Cosa intende dire con quell’osservazione, signore?”, chiese il signor Winkle, con rabbia.

“Nessun problema, signore, nessun problema,” rispose il lungo guardiacaccia; “anch’io non ho famiglia, signore; e la madre di questo ragazzo riceverà qualcosa di sostanzioso da Sir Geoffrey, se viene ucciso sul suo territorio. Carichiate di nuovo, signore, carichiate di nuovo.”

“Toglietegli la pistola,” gridò il signor Pickwick dal carretto, terrorizzato dalle oscure insinuazioni di quell’uomo alto. “Toglietegli la pistola, avete capito? Qualcuno!”

Tuttavia, nessuno si offrì volontario per obbedire all’ordine; e il signor Winkle, dopo aver lanciato uno sguardo ribelle al signor Pickwick, ricaricò la sua pistola e proseguì insieme agli altri.

Siamo tenuti, per autorità del signor Pickwick, a dichiarare che il modo di procedere del signor Tupman dimostrava molto più prudenza e riflessione rispetto a quello adottato dal signor Winkle. Tuttavia, ciò in nessun modo diminuisce l’enorme autorità di quest’ultimo gentiluomo su tutte le questioni relative a questo campo; perché, come osserva magnificamente il signor Pickwick, è accaduto da tempi immemorabili che molti dei migliori e più capaci filosofi, che sono stati luminari assoluti nella scienza teorica, siano stati completamente incapaci di applicare tali conoscenze alla pratica.

Il metodo utilizzato da Mr. Tupman, come molte delle nostre scoperte più sublimi, era estremamente semplice. Con la rapidità e l’intuizione tipiche di un genio, egli comprese immediatamente che i due obiettivi principali da raggiungere erano: primo, sparare senza ferirsi; secondo, farlo senza mettere in pericolo gli spettatori. Ovviamente, dopo aver superato la difficoltà stessa di sparare, la cosa migliore da fare era chiudere bene gli occhi e sparare verso l’alto.

In un’occasione, dopo aver compiuto questo gesto, il signor Tupman, aprendo gli occhi, vide una pernice grassottella che stava cadendo a terra, ferita. Stava per congratularsi con il signor Wardle per il suo invariabile successo, quando quel gentiluomo si avvicinò a lui e lo afferrò calorosamente per la mano.

“Tupman,” disse il vecchio signore, “hai scelto proprio quell’uccello in particolare?”

“No,” disse il signor Tupman – “no.”

“L’hai fatto,” disse Wardle. “Ti ho visto farlo: ti ho osservato mentre lo sceglievi, mentre alzavi l’arma per prendere la mira. E devo dire che nemmeno il miglior tiratore al mondo avrebbe potuto fare di meglio. Sei più esperto in questo campo di quanto pensassi, Tupman. Hai già avuto esperienza in passato.”

Fu inutile che il signor Tupman protestasse, con un sorriso di auto-sacrificio, affermando di non averla mai avuta. Quel stesso sorriso fu considerato una prova del contrario; e da quel momento in poi la sua reputazione fu consolidata. Non è l’unica reputazione che possa essere acquisita così facilmente, né sono circostanze così fortunate limitate soltanto alla caccia alle pernici.

Nel frattempo, il signor Winkle sparava, lampeggiava e fumava senza produrre alcun risultato concreto degno di essere annotato; a volte sprecava la sua carica in aria, altre volte la faceva volare così vicino al suolo da mettere in pericolo la vita dei due >cani coinvolti. Come dimostrazione di abilità nel tiro, il suo comportamento era estremamente vario e curioso; tuttavia, se si considera l’obiettivo preciso del tiro stesso, probabilmente si trattava di un fallimento. Esiste un principio ben noto: “Ogni proiettile ha il proprio ‘luogo di destinazione’”. Se questo principio vale anche per i colpi sparati dal signor Winkle, allora questi proiettili erano davvero “orfani sfortunati”, privati dei loro diritti naturali, abbandonati nel mondo senza alcuna destinazione precisa.

“Beh,” disse Wardle, avvicinandosi al lato del carretto e asciugandosi le gocce di sudore dal suo viso rosso e sorridente; “giorno di fumo, non è vero?”

“È proprio così,” rispose il signor Pickwick. Il sole è terribilmente caldo, anche per me. Non so come tu possa sopportarlo.”

“Perché,” disse il vecchio signore, “fa abbastanza caldo. Anche se sono già passate le dodici. Vedi quella collina verde lì?”

‘Senz’altro.’

“È proprio lì che dovremmo pranzare; e, per Giove, c’è quel ragazzo con il cesto, puntuale come un orologio!”

“Lo so che lo è,” disse il signor Pickwick, illuminandosi in volto. “Bravo ragazzo. Gli darò un scellino tra poco. Ora, Sam, parti.”

“Aspetti un attimo, signore,” disse il signor Weller, rinvigorito all’idea di potersi rinfrescare. “Forza, giovani ragazzi. Se volete davvero rovinarmi la vita preziosa, non fatemi arrabbiare, proprio come quel generale disse al conducente quando lo stava portando a Tyburn.” E accelerando il passo, il signor Weller condusse il suo padrone con agilità su quella verde collina, lo fece uscire abilmente dal lato del cesto e iniziò subito ad aprirlo con la massima rapidità possibile.

“La torta di carne,” disse il signor Weller tra sé e sé, mentre sistemava i cibi sull’erba. “È davvero una cosa meravigliosa questa torta di carne, soprattutto quando sai che è stata preparata da quella signora, e sei sicuro che non ci siano gattini nascosti dentro; e poi, in fondo, qual è la differenza, se sono così simili alla vera carne che nemmeno i cuochi riescono a distinguerle?”

“Non è vero, Sam?”, disse il signor Pickwick.

“Non loro, signore,” rispose il signor Weller, toccandosi il cappello. “Una volta ho soggiornato nella stessa casa con un cantante. Un uomo davvero gentile e intelligente: riusciva a preparare torte con qualsiasi cosa gli capitasse sotto mano. ‘Quanti gatti possiede, signor Brooks?’ gli chiesi dopo esserci stretti in amicizia. ‘Ah,’ rispose lui, ‘ne ho molti. Deve proprio amare i gatti.’ ‘Anche altre persone li amano,’ dissi io. Lui mi fece l’occhiolino e aggiunse: ‘Ma non sono ancora “di stagione” fino all’inverno”, ’ ‘Non di stagione?’ ‘Esatto,’ disse lui. ‘I frutti sono di stagione, i gatti no.’ ‘Ma cosa intende?’ chiesi. ‘Intendo dire che non prenderò mai parte a quelle combinazioni dei macellai per mantenere alti i prezzi della carne, ’ Mi strinse forte la mano e sussurrò all’orecchio: ‘Non ne parli più qui. Ma è proprio la stagione che fa la differenza. Tutti questi gatti nobili vengono trasformati in bistecche di manzo, reni, o anche carne di montone, secondo le richieste del mercato e i gusti delle persone.’”

‘He must have been a very ingenious young man, that, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with a slight shudder.

‘Just was, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, continuing his occupation of emptying the basket, ‘and the pies was beautiful. Tongue—, well that’s a wery good thing when it ain’t a woman’s. Bread—knuckle o’ ham, reg’lar picter—cold beef in slices, wery good. What’s in them stone jars, young touch-and-go?’

‘Beer in this one,’ replied the boy, taking from his shoulder a couple of large stone bottles, fastened together by a leathern strap—‘cold punch in t’other.’

‘And a wery good notion of a lunch it is, take it altogether,’ said Mr. Weller, surveying his arrangement of the repast with great satisfaction. ‘Now, gen’l’m’n, “fall on,” as the English said to the French when they fixed bagginets.’

It needed no second invitation to induce the party to yield full justice to the meal; and as little pressing did it require to induce Mr. Weller, the long gamekeeper, and the two boys, to station themselves on the grass, at a little distance, and do good execution upon a decent proportion of the viands. An old oak afforded a pleasant shelter to the group, and a rich prospect of arable and meadow land, intersected with luxuriant hedges, and richly ornamented with wood, lay spread out before them.

‘This is delightful—thoroughly delightful!’ said Mr. Pickwick; the skin of whose expressive countenance was rapidly peeling off, with exposure to the sun.

‘So it is—so it is, old fellow,’ replied Wardle. ‘Come; a glass of punch!’

‘With great pleasure,’ said Mr. Pickwick; the satisfaction of whose countenance, after drinking it, bore testimony to the sincerity of the reply.

‘Good,’ said Mr. Pickwick, smacking his lips. ‘Very good. I’ll take another. Cool; very cool. Come, gentlemen,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, still retaining his hold upon the jar, ‘a toast. Our friends at Dingley Dell.’

The toast was drunk with loud acclamations.

‘I’ll tell you what I shall do, to get up my shooting again,’ said Mr. Winkle, who was eating bread and ham with a pocket-knife. ‘I’ll put a stuffed partridge on the top of a post, and practise at it, beginning at a short distance, and lengthening it by degrees. I understand it’s capital practice.’

‘I know a gen’l’man, Sir,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘as did that, and begun at two yards; but he never tried it on agin; for he blowed the bird right clean away at the first fire, and nobody ever seed a feather on him arterwards.’

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘Have the goodness to reserve your anecdotes till they are called for.’

‘Cert’nly, sir.’

Here Mr. Weller winked the eye which was not concealed by the beer-can he was raising to his lips, with such exquisite facetiousness, that the two boys went into spontaneous convulsions, and even the long man condescended to smile.

‘Well, that certainly is most capital cold punch,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking earnestly at the stone bottle; ‘and the day is extremely warm, and—Tupman, my dear friend, a glass of punch?’

‘With the greatest delight,’ replied Mr. Tupman; and having drank that glass, Mr. Pickwick took another, just to see whether there was any orange peel in the punch, because orange peel always disagreed with him; and finding that there was not, Mr. Pickwick took another glass to the health of their absent friend, and then felt himself imperatively called upon to propose another in honour of the punch-compounder, unknown.

This constant succession of glasses produced considerable effect upon Mr. Pickwick; his countenance beamed with the most sunny smiles, laughter played around his lips, and good-humoured merriment twinkled in his eye. Yielding by degrees to the influence of the exciting liquid, rendered more so by the heat, Mr. Pickwick expressed a strong desire to recollect a song which he had heard in his infancy, and the attempt proving abortive, sought to stimulate his memory with more glasses of punch, which appeared to have quite a contrary effect; for, from forgetting the words of the song, he began to forget how to articulate any words at all; and finally, after rising to his legs to address the company in an eloquent speech, he fell into the barrow, and fast asleep, simultaneously.

The basket having been repacked, and it being found perfectly impossible to awaken Mr. Pickwick from his torpor, some discussion took place whether it would be better for Mr. Weller to wheel his master back again, or to leave him where he was, until they should all be ready to return. The latter course was at length decided on; and as the further expedition was not to exceed an hour’s duration, and as Mr. Weller begged very hard to be one of the party, it was determined to leave Mr. Pickwick asleep in the barrow, and to call for him on their return. So away they went, leaving Mr. Pickwick snoring most comfortably in the shade.

That Mr. Pickwick would have continued to snore in the shade until his friends came back, or, in default thereof, until the shades of evening had fallen on the landscape, there appears no reasonable cause to doubt; always supposing that he had been suffered to remain there in peace. But he was _not _suffered to remain there in peace. And this was what prevented him.

Captain Boldwig was a little fierce man in a stiff black neckerchief and blue surtout, who, when he did condescend to walk about his property, did it in company with a thick rattan stick with a brass ferrule, and a gardener and sub-gardener with meek faces, to whom (the gardeners, not the stick) Captain Boldwig gave his orders with all due grandeur and ferocity; for Captain Boldwig’s wife’s sister had married a marquis, and the captain’s house was a villa, and his land ‘grounds,’ and it was all very high, and mighty, and great.

Mr. Pickwick had not been asleep half an hour when little Captain Boldwig, followed by the two gardeners, came striding along as fast as his size and importance would let him; and when he came near the oak tree, Captain Boldwig paused and drew a long breath, and looked at the prospect as if he thought the prospect ought to be highly gratified at having him to take notice of it; and then he struck the ground emphatically with his stick, and summoned the head-gardener.

“Deve essere stato un giovane molto ingegnoso, davvero,” disse il signor Pickwick con un leggero brivido.

“Proprio così, signore,” rispose il signor Weller, continuando nel suo compito di svuotare il cesto, “e le torte erano davvero deliziose. La lingua, beh, è una cosa molto positiva quando non appartiene a una donna. Il pane, prosciutto crudo, verdure fresche, manzo freddo a fette, ottimo davvero. E quelle giare di pietra, giovane impetuoso, che cosa contengono?”

“Birra in questa,” rispose il ragazzo, togliendo dalle spalle un paio di grandi bottiglie di pietra legate insieme da una cinghia di cuoio; “la seconda è birra ghiacciata.”

“E davvero un pranzo molto buono, prendetelo tutto,” disse il signor Weller, osservando con grande soddisfazione l’organizzazione del pasto. “Ora, signori, ‘mettetevi a mangiare’, come gli inglesi dicevano ai francesi quando questi preparavano le baionette.”

Non ebbe bisogno di alcuna seconda invito per convincere il gruppo ad apprezzare appieno il pasto; e nemmeno fu necessario insistere molto affinché il signor Weller, il lungo cacciatore, e i due ragazzi si posizionassero sull’erba, a una certa distanza, per gustare in modo appropriato una buona parte del cibo. Un vecchio quercio offriva un piacevole riparo al gruppo, mentre davanti a loro si estendeva una vasta area di terreni coltivabili e prati, intersecati da rigogliosi siepi e adornati da numerosi alberi.

“È delizioso, davvero delizioso!” disse il signor Pickwick; la pelle del suo volto espressivo stava rapidamente spellandosi a causa dell’esposizione al sole.

“È proprio così, è proprio così, vecchio mio,” rispose Wardle. “Vieni, un bicchiere di punch!”

“Con grande piacere,” disse il signor Pickwick; l’espressione soddisfatta sul suo volto, dopo averlo bevuto, testimoniava la sincerità della sua risposta.

“Bene,” disse il signor Pickwick, schioccandosi le labbra. “Molto bene. Ne prenderò un altro. Fresco, molto fresco. Venite, signori,” continuò il signor Pickwick, tenendo ancora in mano la jarra, “un brindisi ai nostri amici di Dingley Dell.”

Il brindisi fu bevuto tra grandi applausi.

“Vi dirò cosa farò per riprendere a sparare,” disse il signor Winkle, che stava mangiando pane e prosciutto con un coltello da tasca. “Metterò una pernice imbottita in cima a un palo e mi eserciterò, partendo da una distanza breve e aumentandola gradualmente. So che è l’unico modo efficace per migliorare.”

“Conosco un generale, signore,” disse il signor Weller, “che fece la stessa cosa e iniziò da una distanza di due metri; ma non ci provò mai più, perché con il primo colpo sparò e mandò l’uccello per aria completamente; da allora nessuno vide mai nemmeno una piuma addosso a lui.”

“Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Signore,” rispose il signor Weller.

“Per favore, riservate le vostre aneddoti fino a quando non vi verranno chiesti.”

“Certamente, signore.”

In quel momento, il signor Weller fece l’occhiolino con quell’occhio che non era nascosto dalla lattina di birra che stava portando alle labbra, con tale squisita ironia che i due ragazzi scoppiarono a ridere in modo incontrollato; persino quell’uomo alto si degnò di sorridere.

“Beh, questo è davvero un pugno gelido e deciso,” disse il signor Pickwick, guardando seriamente la bottiglia di vetro; “e inoltre fa un giorno estremamente caldo. Tupman, mio caro amico, che ne dici di un bicchiere di punch?”

“Con grande piacere,” rispose il signor Tupman; e dopo aver bevuto quel bicchiere, il signor Pickwick ne prese un altro, solo per verificare se nel punch ci fosse della scorza d’arancia, perché la scorza d’arancia gli dava sempre fastidio; e scoprendo che non ce n’era, il signor Pickwick ne bevve un altro ancora in onore del loro amico assente, e poi si sentì costretto a proporre un altro bicchiere, in onore di colui che aveva preparato quel punch, sconosciuto.

Questa continua sequenza di bicchieri ebbe un effetto considerevole su Pickwick; il suo volto si illuminò di sorrisi radiosi, le labbra gli tremavano dal ridere e nei suoi occhi brillava una gioia sincera. Cedendo gradualmente all’effetto di quel liquido inebriante, accentuato anche dal calore, Pickwick manifestò un forte desiderio di ricordare una canzone che aveva ascoltato da bambino; ma poiché questo tentativo fallì, cercò di stimolare la propria memoria bevendo ancora più punch, il che sembrò avere l’effetto opposto: invece di ricordare le parole della canzone, iniziò a dimenticare completamente come pronunciare qualsiasi parola; infine, dopo essersi alzato per rivolgere un discorso eloquente al gruppo, cadde nel carretto e si addormentò all’istante.

Dopo che il cestino fu rimesso a posto e si constatò essere assolutamente impossibile svegliare il signor Pickwick dal suo torpore, si scatenò una discussione su quale fosse la soluzione migliore: se fosse meglio che il signor Weller riportasse indietro il proprio padrone in carrozza, oppure lasciarlo dove si trovava fino a quando non sarebbero tutti pronti per tornare. Alla fine fu deciso di optare per la seconda opzione; poiché l’intera spedizione non avrebbe richiesto più di un’ora e il signor Weller insisteva molto per parteciparvi, si decise di lasciare il signor Pickwick addormentato nella carrozza e di chiamarlo al loro ritorno. Così partirono, lasciando il signor Pickwick che russava tranquillamente all’ombra.

Non sembra esserci alcun motivo ragionevole per >dubitare che il signor Pickwick avrebbe continuato a russare all’ombra fino al ritorno dei suoi amici, o, in loro assenza, fino a quando le ombre della sera non avessero avvolto il paesaggio; sempre ammesso che gli fosse stato permesso di rimanere lì in pace. Ma a lui non fu permesso di rimanere lì in pace. Ed è proprio questo che lo impedì di farlo.

Il Capitano Boldwig era un uomo piuttosto severo, con un fazzoletto da collo nero rigido e una giacca blu; quando si degnava di passeggiare per la sua proprietà, lo faceva sempre accompagnato da un grosso bastone di canna intrecciata con impugnatura in ottone, oltre che da due giardinieri dal viso umile. A loro (ai giardinieri, non al bastone) il Capitano Boldwig impartiva i suoi ordini con tutta la dovuta maestosità e ferocia. Poiché la sorella della moglie del capitano aveva sposato un marchese, e la casa del capitano era una vera villa; inoltre, le sue terre erano estese e molto belle.

Il signor Pickwick non aveva dormito nemmeno mezz’ora quando il piccolo capitano Boldwig, seguito dai due giardinieri, arrivò camminando velocemente, nel limite consentito dalla sua stazza e dall’importanza che si attribuiva; quando si avvicinò all’albero di quercia, il capitano Boldwig si fermò, trasse un lungo respiro e guardò intorno come se pensasse che quella vista dovesse essere particolarmente lusinghiera per lui. Poi batté forte a terra con il suo bastone e chiamò il capogiardiniere.

‘Hunt,’ said Captain Boldwig.

‘Yes, Sir,’ said the gardener.

‘Roll this place to-morrow morning—do you hear, Hunt?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘And take care that you keep this place in good order—do you hear, Hunt?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘And remind me to have a board done about trespassers, and spring guns, and all that sort of thing, to keep the common people out. Do you hear, Hunt; do you hear?’

‘I’ll not forget it, Sir.’

‘I beg your pardon, Sir,’ said the other man, advancing, with his hand to his hat.

‘Well, Wilkins, what’s the matter with you?’ said Captain Boldwig.

‘I beg your pardon, sir—but I think there have been trespassers here to-day.’

‘Ha!’ said the captain, scowling around him.

‘Yes, sir—they have been dining here, I think, sir.’

‘Why, damn their audacity, so they have,’ said Captain Boldwig, as the crumbs and fragments that were strewn upon the grass met his eye. ‘They have actually been devouring their food here. I wish I had the vagabonds here!’ said the captain, clenching the thick stick.

‘I wish I had the vagabonds here,’ said the captain wrathfully.

‘Beg your pardon, sir,’ said Wilkins, ‘but—’

‘But what? Eh?’ roared the captain; and following the timid glance of Wilkins, his eyes encountered the wheel-barrow and Mr. Pickwick.

‘Who are you, you rascal?’ said the captain, administering several pokes to Mr. Pickwick’s body with the thick stick. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Cold punch,’ murmured Mr. Pickwick, as he sank to sleep again.

‘What?’ demanded Captain Boldwig.

No reply.

‘What did he say his name was?’ asked the captain.

‘Punch, I think, sir,’ replied Wilkins.

‘That’s his impudence—that’s his confounded impudence,’ said Captain Boldwig. ‘He’s only feigning to be asleep now,’ said the captain, in a high passion. ‘He’s drunk; he’s a drunken plebeian. Wheel him away, Wilkins, wheel him away directly.’

Where shall I wheel him to, sir?’ inquired Wilkins, with great timidity.

‘Wheel him to the devil,’ replied Captain Boldwig.

‘Very well, sir,’ said Wilkins.

‘Stay,’ said the captain.

Wilkins stopped accordingly.

‘Wheel him,’ said the captain—‘wheel him to the pound; and let us see whether he calls himself Punch when he comes to himself. He shall not bully me—he shall not bully me. Wheel him away.’

Away Mr. Pickwick was wheeled in compliance with this imperious mandate; and the great Captain Boldwig, swelling with indignation, proceeded on his walk.

Inexpressible was the astonishment of the little party when they returned, to find that Mr. Pickwick had disappeared, and taken the wheel-barrow with him. It was the most mysterious and unaccountable thing that was ever heard of. For a lame man to have got upon his legs without any previous notice, and walked off, would have been most extraordinary; but when it came to his wheeling a heavy barrow before him, by way of amusement, it grew positively miraculous. They searched every nook and corner round, together and separately; they shouted, whistled, laughed, called—and all with the same result. Mr. Pickwick was not to be found. After some hours of fruitless search, they arrived at the unwelcome conclusion that they must go home without him.

Meanwhile Mr. Pickwick had been wheeled to the Pound, and safely deposited therein, fast asleep in the wheel-barrow, to the immeasurable delight and satisfaction not only of all the boys in the village, but three-fourths of the whole population, who had gathered round, in expectation of his waking. If their most intense gratification had been awakened by seeing him wheeled in, how many hundredfold was their joy increased when, after a few indistinct cries of ‘Sam!’ he sat up in the barrow, and gazed with indescribable astonishment on the faces before him.

A general shout was of course the signal of his having woke up; and his involuntary inquiry of ‘What’s the matter?’ occasioned another, louder than the first, if possible.

‘Here’s a game!’ roared the populace.

‘Where am I?’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

‘In the pound,’ replied the mob.

‘How came I here? What was I doing? Where was I brought from?’

Boldwig! Captain Boldwig!’ was the only reply.

‘Let me out,’ cried Mr. Pickwick. ‘Where’s my servant? Where are my friends?’

‘You ain’t got no friends. Hurrah!’ Then there came a turnip, then a potato, and then an egg; with a few other little tokens of the playful disposition of the many-headed.

How long this scene might have lasted, or how much Mr. Pickwick might have suffered, no one can tell, had not a carriage, which was driving swiftly by, suddenly pulled up, from whence there descended old Wardle and Sam Weller, the former of whom, in far less time than it takes to write it, if not to read it, had made his way to Mr. Pickwick’s side, and placed him in the vehicle, just as the latter had concluded the third and last round of a single combat with the town-beadle.

‘Run to the justice’s!’ cried a dozen voices.

‘Ah, run avay,’ said Mr. Weller, jumping up on the box. ‘Give my compliments—Mr. Veller’s compliments—to the justice, and tell him I’ve spiled his beadle, and that, if he’ll swear in a new ‘un, I’ll come back again to-morrow and spile him. Drive on, old feller.’

‘I’ll give directions for the commencement of an action for false imprisonment against this Captain Boldwig, directly I get to London,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as soon as the carriage turned out of the town.

‘We were trespassing, it seems,’ said Wardle.

‘I don’t care,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I’ll bring the action.’

‘No, you won’t,’ said Wardle.

‘I will, by—’ But as there was a humorous expression in Wardle’s face, Mr. Pickwick checked himself, and said, ‘Why not?’

‘Because,’ said old Wardle, half-bursting with laughter, ‘because they might turn on some of us, and say we had taken too much cold punch.’

Do what he would, a smile would come into Mr. Pickwick’s face; the smile extended into a laugh; the laugh into a roar; the roar became general. So, to keep up their good-humour, they stopped at the first roadside tavern they came to, and ordered a glass of brandy-and-water all round, with a magnum of extra strength for Mr. Samuel Weller.

“Caccia,” disse il Capitano Boldwig.

“Sì, signore,” disse il giardiniere.

“Rovina questo posto domani mattina. Capisci, Hunt?”

“Sì, signore.”

“E fai attenzione a mantenere questo posto in buone condizioni. Capisci, Hunt?”

“Sì, signore.”

“E ricordami di fare preparare un cartello riguardo ai intrusi, alle armi a percussione e a tutto quel genere di cose, per tenere alla larga la gente comune. Capisci, Hunt? Capisci?”

“Non lo dimenticherò mai, signore.”

“Perdonatemi, signore,” disse l’altro uomo avvicinandosi e portando la mano al cappello.

“Beh, Wilkins, che cosa ti è successo?” disse il Capitano Boldwig.

“Mi scusi, signore, ma penso che oggi ci siano stati intrusi qui.”

“Ha!” disse il capitano, guardandosi intorno con un’espressione cupa.

“Sì, signore, credo che stiano mangiando qui, signore.”

“Perdio, che audacia. Proprio così hanno fatto,” disse il Capitano Boldwig, vedendo i briciole e i frammenti sparsi sull’erba. “Hanno davvero mangiato qui. Vorrei avere questi vagabondi qui con me!” esclamò, stringendo forte il grosso bastone.

“Vorrei che questi vagabondi fossero qui,” disse il capitano con rabbia.

“Scusi, signore,” disse Wilkins, “ma, ”

“Ma cosa? Eh?” gridò il capitano; seguendo lo sguardo timido di Wilkins, i suoi occhi incontrarono la carriola a ruote e il signor Pickwick.

“Chi sei tu, birichino?” disse il capitano, dando diversi colpi con il grosso bastone sul corpo del signor Pickwick. “Come ti chiami?”

“Un pugno freddo, ”, mormorò il signor Pickwick mentre si addormentava di nuovo.

“Cosa?” chiese il Capitano Boldwig.

Nessuna risposta.

“Come si chiamava?” chiese il capitano.

“Punch, credo, signore,” rispose Wilkins.

“Quella è la sua sfrontatezza, quella maledetta sfrontatezza,” disse il Capitano Boldwig. “Ora sta solo fingendo di dormire,” aggiunse con grande indignazione. “È ubriaco, un plebeo ubriaco. Portatelo via, Wilkins, portatelo via immediatamente.”

“Dove dovrei portarlo, signore?”, chiese Wilkins con grande timidezza.

“Portatelo all’inferno in carrozzina,” rispose il Capitano Boldwig.

“Molto bene, signore,” disse Wilkins.

“Resta qui,” disse il capitano.

Wilkins si fermò di conseguenza.

“Portatelo via,” disse il capitano, “portatelo via e vediamo se si chiamerà ancora Punch quando tornerà in sé. Non oserà più intimidirmi. Non oserà.”

Allontanatosi, il signor Pickwick fu portato via su una sedia a rotelle, in conformità con questo imperioso ordine; e il grande capitano Boldwig, gonfio di indignazione, proseguì la sua passeggiata.

Indescrivibile fu lo stupore del piccolo gruppo quando tornò e scoprì che il signor Pickwick era scomparso, portando con sé anche la carriola a ruote. Fu l’evento più misterioso e inspiegabile di cui si fosse mai sentito parlare. Che un uomo zoppo riuscisse a mettersi in piedi senza alcun preavviso e se ne andasse a piedi sarebbe già stato straordinario; ma che potesse anche spingere una pesante carriola davanti a sé, per divertimento, diventava addirittura miracoloso. Cercarono in ogni angolo, insieme e separatamente; gridarono, fissero, risero, chiamarono, ma senza alcun risultato. Il signor Pickwick non si trovava da nessuna parte. Dopo ore di ricerche infruttuose, arrivarono alla conclusione sgradevole che avrebbero dovuto tornare a casa senza di lui.

Nel frattempo, il signor Pickwick era stato portato al “Pound” e lì depositato in sicurezza, addormentato profondamente nella carriola a ruote. Questo causò immensa gioia e soddisfazione non solo a tutti i ragazzi del villaggio, ma anche a tre quarti dell’intera popolazione, che si era radunata intorno in attesa del suo risveglio. Se la loro più grande gratificazione fosse stata quella di vederlo portare lì, quante centinaia di volte maggiore fu la loro gioia quando, dopo alcuni deboli grida di “Sam!”, si alzò nella carriola e fissò con stupore indescrivibile i volti davanti a sé.

Un grido generale fu naturalmente il segnale che si era svegliato; e la sua domanda involontaria “Che cosa c’è?” scatenò un altro grido, ancora più forte del primo, se possibile.

“Ecco un gioco!”, gridò la folla.

“Dove mi trovo?” esclamò il signor Pickwick.

“Nel mercato del bestiame”, rispose la folla.

“Come sono finito qui? Cosa stavo facendo? Da dove sono stato portato?”

“Boldwig! Capitano Boldwig!” fu l’unica risposta.

“Lasciatemi uscire,” gridò il signor Pickwick. “Dove è il mio servitore? Dove sono i miei amici?”

“Non hai amici. Evviva!” Poi arrivò un ravanello, poi una patata, e infine un uovo; insieme ad altri piccoli segni della natura giocosa di quella creatura a molte teste.

Per quanto tempo potesse essere durata questa scena, o quanta sofferenza potesse aver provato il signor Pickwick, nessuno lo sapeva. Se non fosse stato per una carrozza che passava velocemente e si fermò all’improvviso; da essa discesero il vecchio Wardle e Sam Weller. Quest’ultimo, in un tempo molto più breve di quello necessario per scriverlo, se non per leggerlo, raggiunse il signor Pickwick e lo aiutò a salire sulla carrozza, proprio nel momento in cui quest’ultimo aveva appena terminato la terza e ultima “round” di quel singolo scontro con il funzionario comunale.

“Correte dal giudice!”, gridarono una dozzina di voci.

“Ah, vai via,” disse il signor Weller, saltando su una scatola. “Porta i miei saluti, i saluti del signor Weller, al giudice, e digli che ho rovinato la sua cattedra; se vuole giurare su un’altra, tornerò domani per rovinarla di nuovo. Andiamo avanti, vecchio mio.”

“Darò istruzioni per avviare un’azione legale per false carcerazioni contro questo Capitano Boldwig, non appena arriverò a Londra”, disse il signor Pickwick non appena la carrozza lasciò la città.

“Sembra che stessimo violando il territorio proibito,” disse Wardle.

“Non mi interessa,” disse il signor Pickwick, “io porterò avanti l’azione.”

“No, non lo farai,” disse Wardle.

“Lo farò, con tutto il cuore, ” Ma poiché sul viso di Wardle si leggeva un’espressione umoristica, il signor Pickwick si trattenne e disse: “Perché no?”

“Perché,” disse il vecchio Wardle, ridendo a crepapelle, “perché potrebbero rivoltarsi contro di noi e dire che abbiamo bevuto troppo punch freddo.”

Qualunque cosa facesse, sul viso del signor Pickwick appariva sempre un sorriso; quel sorriso si trasformava in una risata, la risata in una gran risata, e presto tutti ridevano insieme. Così, per mantenere il loro buon umore, si fermarono alla prima taverna che incontrarono lungo la strada e ordinarono un bicchiere di brandy con acqua per tutti, oltre a una bottiglia extra forte per il signor Samuel Weller.

CHAPTER XX. SHOWING HOW DODSON AND FOGG WERE MEN OF BUSINESS, AND THEIR CLERKS MEN OF PLEASURE; AND HOW AN AFFECTING INTERVIEW TOOK PLACE BETWEEN MR. WELLER AND HIS LONG-LOST PARENT; SHOWING ALSO WHAT CHOICE SPIRITS ASSEMBLED AT THE MAGPIE AND STUMP, AND WHAT A CAPITAL CHAPTER THE NEXT ONE WILL BE

In the ground-floor front of a dingy house, at the very farthest end of Freeman’s Court, Cornhill, sat the four clerks of Messrs. Dodson & Fogg, two of his Majesty’s attorneys of the courts of King’s Bench and Common Pleas at Westminster, and solicitors of the High Court of Chancery—the aforesaid clerks catching as favourable glimpses of heaven’s light and heaven’s sun, in the course of their daily labours, as a man might hope to do, were he placed at the bottom of a reasonably deep well; and without the opportunity of perceiving the stars in the day-time, which the latter secluded situation affords.

The clerks’ office of Messrs. Dodson & Fogg was a dark, mouldy, earthy- smelling room, with a high wainscotted partition to screen the clerks from the vulgar gaze, a couple of old wooden chairs, a very loud-ticking clock, an almanac, an umbrella-stand, a row of hat-pegs, and a few shelves, on which were deposited several ticketed bundles of dirty papers, some old deal boxes with paper labels, and sundry decayed stone ink bottles of various shapes and sizes. There was a glass door leading into the passage which formed the entrance to the court, and on the outer side of this glass door, Mr. Pickwick, closely followed by Sam Weller, presented himself on the Friday morning succeeding the occurrence of which a faithful narration is given in the last chapter.

‘Come in, can’t you!’ cried a voice from behind the partition, in reply to Mr. Pickwick’s gentle tap at the door. And Mr. Pickwick and Sam entered accordingly.

‘Mr. Dodson or Mr. Fogg at home, sir?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, gently, advancing, hat in hand, towards the partition.

‘Mr. Dodson ain’t at home, and Mr. Fogg’s particularly engaged,’ replied the voice; and at the same time the head to which the voice belonged, with a pen behind its ear, looked over the partition, and at Mr. Pickwick.

It was a ragged head, the sandy hair of which, scrupulously parted on one side, and flattened down with pomatum, was twisted into little semi- circular tails round a flat face ornamented with a pair of small eyes, and garnished with a very dirty shirt collar, and a rusty black stock.

‘Mr. Dodson ain’t at home, and Mr. Fogg’s particularly engaged,’ said the man to whom the head belonged.

‘When will Mr. Dodson be back, sir?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Can’t say.’

‘Will it be long before Mr. Fogg is disengaged, Sir?’

‘Don’t know.’

Here the man proceeded to mend his pen with great deliberation, while another clerk, who was mixing a Seidlitz powder, under cover of the lid of his desk, laughed approvingly.

‘I think I’ll wait,’ said Mr. Pickwick. There was no reply; so Mr. Pickwick sat down unbidden, and listened to the loud ticking of the clock and the murmured conversation of the clerks.

‘That was a game, wasn’t it?’ said one of the gentlemen, in a brown coat and brass buttons, inky drabs, and bluchers, at the conclusion of some inaudible relation of his previous evening’s adventures.

‘Devilish good—devilish good,’ said the Seidlitz-powder man.

‘Tom Cummins was in the chair,’ said the man with the brown coat. ‘It was half-past four when I got to Somers Town, and then I was so uncommon lushy, that I couldn’t find the place where the latch-key went in, and was obliged to knock up the old ‘ooman. I say, I wonder what old Fogg ‘ud say, if he knew it. I should get the sack, I s’pose—eh?’

At this humorous notion, all the clerks laughed in concert.

‘There was such a game with Fogg here, this mornin’,’ said the man in the brown coat, ‘while Jack was upstairs sorting the papers, and you two were gone to the stamp-office. Fogg was down here, opening the letters when that chap as we issued the writ against at Camberwell, you know, came in—what’s his name again?’

‘Ramsey,’ said the clerk who had spoken to Mr. Pickwick.

‘Ah, Ramsey—a precious seedy-looking customer. “Well, sir,” says old Fogg, looking at him very fierce—you know his way—“well, Sir, have you come to settle?” “Yes, I have, sir,” said Ramsey, putting his hand in his pocket, and bringing out the money, “the debt’s two pound ten, and the costs three pound five, and here it is, Sir;” and he sighed like bricks, as he lugged out the money, done up in a bit of blotting-paper. Old Fogg looked first at the money, and then at him, and then he coughed in his rum way, so that I knew something was coming. “You don’t know there’s a declaration filed, which increases the costs materially, I suppose,” said Fogg. “You don’t say that, sir,” said Ramsey, starting back; “the time was only out last night, Sir.” “I do say it, though,” said Fogg, “my clerk’s just gone to file it. Hasn’t Mr. Jackson gone to file that declaration in Bullman and Ramsey, Mr. Wicks?” Of course I said yes, and then Fogg coughed again, and looked at Ramsey. “My God!” said Ramsey; “and here have I nearly driven myself mad, scraping this money together, and all to no purpose.” “None at all,” said Fogg coolly; “so you had better go back and scrape some more together, and bring it here in time.” “I can’t get it, by God!” said Ramsey, striking the desk with his fist. “Don’t bully me, sir,” said Fogg, getting into a passion on purpose. “I am not bullying you, sir,” said Ramsey. “You are,” said Fogg; “get out, sir; get out of this office, Sir, and come back, Sir, when you know how to behave yourself.” Well, Ramsey tried to speak, but Fogg wouldn’t let him, so he put the money in his pocket, and sneaked out. The door was scarcely shut, when old Fogg turned round to me, with a sweet smile on his face, and drew the declaration out of his coat pocket. “Here, Wicks,” says Fogg, “take a cab, and go down to the Temple as quick as you can, and file that. The costs are quite safe, for he’s a steady man with a large family, at a salary of five-and-twenty shillings a week, and if he gives us a warrant of attorney, as he must in the end, I know his employers will see it paid; so we may as well get all we can get out of him, Mr. Wicks; it’s a Christian act to do it, Mr. Wicks, for with his large family and small income, he’ll be all the better for a good lesson against getting into debt—won’t he, Mr. Wicks, won’t he?”— and he smiled so good-naturedly as he went away, that it was delightful to see him. He is a capital man of business,’ said Wicks, in a tone of the deepest admiration, ‘capital, isn’t he?’

CAPITOLO XX. In cui si dimostra come Dodson e Fogg fossero uomini d’affari, e i loro impiegati persone di piacere; inoltre si descrive un’intervista commovente tra il signor Weller e suo padre da tempo perduto; si illustra anche quale tipo di persone si radunarono al “Magpie and Stump”, e quanto il prossimo capitolo sarà importante.

Al piano terra, di fronte a una casa trasandata, all’estremità più lontana di Freeman’s Court, a Cornhill, sedevano i quattro impiegati dei signori Dodson & Fogg: due erano avvocati presso le corti della Corte Suprema e del Tribunale Comune di Westminster, mentre gli altri erano procuratori presso la Alta Corte di Cancelleria. Durante il loro lavoro quotidiano, quegli impiegati riuscivano a intravedere, seppur brevemente, la luce del cielo e il sole, proprio come un uomo potrebbe sperare di fare, se fosse posto nella parte più profonda di un pozzo abbastanza profondo. Inoltre, non avevano l’opportunità di osservare le stelle durante il giorno, cosa che quella situazione isolata gli impediva.

L’ufficio dei impiegati di Messrs. Dodson & Fogg era una stanza buia, umida e dall’odore terroso; c’era un alto paravento in legno che proteggeva gli impiegati dagli sguardi volgari del pubblico, alcune vecchie sedie di legno, un orologio dal ticchettio molto forte, un almanacco, uno stendibagagli, una serie di ganci per cappelli e alcuni scaffali su cui erano riposti mucchi di fogli sporchi etichettati, alcune vecchie scatole da negozio con etichette di carta, nonché varie bottiglie di inchiostro di pietra in decomposizione, di forme e dimensioni diverse. C’era una porta di vetro che conduceva nel corridoio d’ingresso del cortile; il venerdì mattina successivo all’episodio descritto, il signor Pickwick, seguito da Sam Weller, si presentò lì. Una descrizione fedele di quegli eventi si trova nell’ultimo capitolo.

“Entra pure, non puoi mica restare fuori!” gridò una voce dietro la parete, in risposta ai leggeri colpi di battito alla porta fatti da Mr. Pickwick. E così Mr. Pickwick e Sam entrarono.

“Il signor Dodson o il signor Fogg a casa, signore?”, chiese gentilmente il signor Pickwick, avvicinandosi con il cappello in mano verso la parete divisoria.

“Il signor Dodson non è a >casa, e il signor Fogg è particolarmente impegnato,” rispose la voce; nello stesso istante, la testa a cui apparteneva quella voce, con una penna dietro l’orecchio, spuntò oltre la parete e guardò verso il signor Pickwick.

Era una testa disordinata; i capelli sabbiosi, accuratamente divisi da un lato e spazzolati con la pomata, erano intrecciati a piccole code semicircolari attorno a un viso piatto, decorato da due piccoli occhi. Il tutto era completato da un colletto di camicia molto sporco e da una cravatta nera arrugginita.

“Il signor Dodson non è a >casa, e il signor Fogg è particolarmente impegnato,” disse l’uomo a cui apparteneva quella testa.

“Quando tornerà il signor Dodson, signore?”, chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Non posso dirlo.”

“Ci vorrà molto tempo prima che il signor Fogg riesca a liberarsi, signore?”

“Non lo so.”

Qui l’uomo iniziò a riparare la sua penna con grande attenzione, mentre un altro impiegato, che stava mescolando della polvere Seidlitz, sotto il coperchio della scrivania, rideva approvativamente.

“Penso che aspetterò,” disse il signor Pickwick. Non ci fu alcuna risposta; così il signor Pickwick si sedette senza essere stato invitato e ascoltò il forte ticchettio dell’orologio e i mormori dei impiegati.

“Quello era solo un gioco, vero?” disse uno dei signori, vestito con un cappotto marrone e bottoni di ottone, con macchie d’inchiostro sui pantaloni, alla fine di qualche racconto incomprensibile riguardante le avventure della sera precedente.

“Davvero incredibilmente buono, davvero incredibilmente buono,” disse l’uomo del sale di Seidlitz.

“Tom Cummins era seduto sulla sedia,” disse l’uomo con il cappotto marrone. “Erano le quattro e mezza quando arrivai a Somers Town, e in quel momento ero così ubriaco che non riuscivo nemmeno a trovare dove inserire la chiave di sicurezza; dovetti quindi bussare alla porta della vecchia signora. Mi chiedo davvero cosa direbbe il vecchio Fogg se lo sapesse. Immagino che mi licenzierebbero, eh?”

Alla menzione di questa idea umoristica, tutti i impiegati risero all’unisono.

“Stamattina c’è stata una certa situazione con Fogg,” disse l’uomo con il cappotto marrone. “Mentre Jack era di sopra a sistemare i documenti, e voi due eravate andati all’ufficio postale, Fogg era qui sotto a aprire le lettere. Quando è entrato quel tizio per cui abbiamo emesso l’ordine di arresto a Camberwell, sapete. Come si chiama?”

“Ramsey,” disse il commesso che aveva parlato con il signor Pickwick.

‘Ah, Ramsey, un cliente davvero prezioso, anche se dall’aspetto poco affidabile. “Beh, signore,” disse il vecchio Fogg, guardandolo con aria minacciosa – conoscete bene il suo modo di fare – “beh, signore, è venuto per saldare il debito?” “Sì, sono qui appunto per questo,” rispose Ramsey, tirando fuori i soldi dalla tasca. “Il debito ammonta a due sterline e dieci scellini, più le spese di tre sterline e cinque scellini. Ecco qua, signore.” Sospirò profondamente mentre porgeva il denaro, avvolto in un pezzo di carta assorbente. Il vecchio Fogg guardò prima i soldi, poi Ramsey, e infine tossì nel suo solito modo, facendomi capire che c’era qualcosa in arrivo. “Non sa che è stata presentata una dichiarazione che aumenta notevolmente le spese, ” disse Fogg. “Ma non può essere. Il termine per presentarla scadeva solo ieri sera,” replicò Ramsey. “Invece sì,” insistette Fogg. “Il mio impiegato è appena andato a presentarla. Non è forse il signor Jackson andato da Bullman e Ramsey, signor Wicks?” Naturalmente risposi di sì. Allora Fogg tossì di nuovo e guardò Ramsey con aria severa. “Mio Dio, ” esclamò Ramsey. “E io qui ho quasi impazzito per raccogliere questi soldi. E tutto per niente.” “Assolutamente no,” disse Fogg con calma. “Quindi è meglio che torni a raccoglierne ancora, e li porti qui entro domani.” “Non riesco a trovarli, ” disse Ramsey, battendo il pugno sul tavolo. “Non mi intimidisca, signore,” replicò Fogg, fingendo di arrabbiarsi. “Non la sto intimidendo, ” insistette Ramsey. “Lo sta facendo,” disse Fogg. “Vada via. Esca da questo ufficio. E torni quando saprà comportarsi come si deve.” Ramsey cercò di parlare, ma Fogg non glielo permise; così mise i soldi in tasca e se ne andò di nascosto. Appena la porta si chiuse, il vecchio Fogg si girò verso di me con un sorriso gentile e tirò fuori la dichiarazione dalla tasca del suo cappotto. “Ecco, Wicks,” disse. “Prenda una carrozza e vada subito al Temple a presentarla. Le spese sono sicure: si tratta di una persona affidabile, con una famiglia numerosa e uno stipendio di venti cinque scellini a settimana. Se ci darà un mandato legale, come sicuramente farà, so che i suoi datori di lavoro pagheranno. Quindi possiamo cercare di ottenere il massimo da lui. È un atto nobile, Wicks. Con quella famiglia numerosa e quel reddito limitato, avrà sicuramente imparato la lezione. Non è vero, Wicks?” E se ne andò con un sorriso così gentile che era davvero piacevole vederlo. “È davvero un uomo eccezionale nel suo lavoro,” disse Wicks, con profondo ammirazione. “Davvero eccezionale, ”

The other three cordially subscribed to this opinion, and the anecdote afforded the most unlimited satisfaction.

‘Nice men these here, Sir,’ whispered Mr. Weller to his master; ‘wery nice notion of fun they has, Sir.’

Mr. Pickwick nodded assent, and coughed to attract the attention of the young gentlemen behind the partition, who, having now relaxed their minds by a little conversation among themselves, condescended to take some notice of the stranger.

‘I wonder whether Fogg’s disengaged now?’ said Jackson.

‘I’ll see,’ said Wicks, dismounting leisurely from his stool. ‘What name shall I tell Mr. Fogg?’

‘Pickwick,’ replied the illustrious subject of these memoirs.

Mr. Jackson departed upstairs on his errand, and immediately returned with a message that Mr. Fogg would see Mr. Pickwick in five minutes; and having delivered it, returned again to his desk.

‘What did he say his name was?’ whispered Wicks.

‘Pickwick,’ replied Jackson; ‘it’s the defendant in Bardell and Pickwick.’

A sudden scraping of feet, mingled with the sound of suppressed laughter, was heard from behind the partition.

‘They’re a-twiggin’ of you, Sir,’ whispered Mr. Weller.

‘Twigging of me, Sam!’ replied Mr. Pickwick; ‘what do you mean by twigging me?’

Mr. Weller replied by pointing with his thumb over his shoulder, and Mr. Pickwick, on looking up, became sensible of the pleasing fact, that all the four clerks, with countenances expressive of the utmost amusement, and with their heads thrust over the wooden screen, were minutely inspecting the figure and general appearance of the supposed trifler with female hearts, and disturber of female happiness. On his looking up, the row of heads suddenly disappeared, and the sound of pens travelling at a furious rate over paper, immediately succeeded.

A sudden ring at the bell which hung in the office, summoned Mr. Jackson to the apartment of Fogg, from whence he came back to say that he (Fogg) was ready to see Mr. Pickwick if he would step upstairs.

Upstairs Mr. Pickwick did step accordingly, leaving Sam Weller below. The room door of the one-pair back, bore inscribed in legible characters the imposing words, ‘Mr. Fogg’; and, having tapped thereat, and been desired to come in, Jackson ushered Mr. Pickwick into the presence.

‘Is Mr. Dodson in?’ inquired Mr. Fogg.

‘Just come in, Sir,’ replied Jackson.

‘Ask him to step here.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Exit Jackson.

‘Take a seat, sir,’ said Fogg; ‘there is the paper, sir; my partner will be here directly, and we can converse about this matter, sir.’

Mr. Pickwick took a seat and the paper, but, instead of reading the latter, peeped over the top of it, and took a survey of the man of business, who was an elderly, pimply-faced, vegetable-diet sort of man, in a black coat, dark mixture trousers, and small black gaiters; a kind of being who seemed to be an essential part of the desk at which he was writing, and to have as much thought or feeling.

After a few minutes’ silence, Mr. Dodson, a plump, portly, stern-looking man, with a loud voice, appeared; and the conversation commenced.

‘This is Mr. Pickwick,’ said Fogg.

‘Ah! You are the defendant, Sir, in Bardell and Pickwick?’ said Dodson.

‘I am, sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Well, sir,’ said Dodson, ‘and what do you propose?’

‘Ah!’ said Fogg, thrusting his hands into his trousers’ pockets, and throwing himself back in his chair, ‘what do you propose, Mr Pickwick?’

‘Hush, Fogg,’ said Dodson, ‘let me hear what Mr. Pickwick has to say.’

‘I came, gentlemen,’ said Mr. Pickwick, gazing placidly on the two partners, ‘I came here, gentlemen, to express the surprise with which I received your letter of the other day, and to inquire what grounds of action you can have against me.’

‘Grounds of—’ Fogg had ejaculated this much, when he was stopped by Dodson.

‘Mr. Fogg,’ said Dodson, ‘I am going to speak.’

I beg your pardon, Mr. Dodson,’ said Fogg.

‘For the grounds of action, sir,’ continued Dodson, with moral elevation in his air, ‘you will consult your own conscience and your own feelings. We, Sir, we, are guided entirely by the statement of our client. That statement, Sir, may be true, or it may be false; it may be credible, or it may be incredible; but, if it be true, and if it be credible, I do not hesitate to say, Sir, that our grounds of action, Sir, are strong, and not to be shaken. You may be an unfortunate man, Sir, or you may be a designing one; but if I were called upon, as a juryman upon my oath, Sir, to express an opinion of your conduct, Sir, I do not hesitate to assert that I should have but one opinion about it.’ Here Dodson drew himself up, with an air of offended virtue, and looked at Fogg, who thrust his hands farther in his pockets, and nodding his head sagely, said, in a tone of the fullest concurrence, ‘Most certainly.’

‘Well, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with considerable pain depicted in his countenance, ‘you will permit me to assure you that I am a most unfortunate man, so far as this case is concerned.’

‘I hope you are, Sir,’ replied Dodson; ‘I trust you may be, Sir. If you are really innocent of what is laid to your charge, you are more unfortunate than I had believed any man could possibly be. What do you say, Mr. Fogg?’

‘I say precisely what you say,’ replied Fogg, with a smile of incredulity.

‘The writ, Sir, which commences the action,’ continued Dodson, ‘was issued regularly. Mr. Fogg, where is the _Praecipe _book?’

‘Here it is,’ said Fogg, handing over a square book, with a parchment cover.

‘Here is the entry,’ resumed Dodson. ‘“Middlesex, Capias MARTHA BARDELL, WIDOW, v. SAMUEL PICKWICK. Damages £1500. Dodson & Fogg for the plaintiff, Aug. 28, 1827.” All regular, Sir; perfectly.’ Dodson coughed and looked at Fogg, who said ‘Perfectly,’ also. And then they both looked at Mr. Pickwick.

Gli altri tre condivisero calorosamente questo parere, e l’aneddoto fornì la massima soddisfazione possibile.

“Uomini davvero gentili, signore,” sussurrò il signor Weller al suo padrone; “hanno davvero un’ottima idea di come divertirsi, signore.”

Il signor Pickwick annuì in segno di assenso e tossì per attirare l’attenzione dei giovani gentiluomini dietro la parete divisoria; questi, dopo essersi rilassati un po’ chiacchierando tra loro, decisero finalmente di prestare attenzione allo sconosciuto.

“Mi chiedo se Fogg sia ora libero”, disse Jackson.

“Vedremo,” disse Wicks, scendendo con calma dal suo sgabello. “Con quale nome dovrei presentarmi al signor Fogg?”

“‘Pickwick’,” rispose l’illustre protagonista di questi ricordi.

Il signor Jackson salì al piano di sopra per svolgere una commissione e tornò immediatamente con un messaggio: il signor Fogg avrebbe incontrato il signor Pickwick in cinque minuti; dopo averlo consegnato, tornò nuovamente alla sua scrivania.

“Come si chiamava?” sussurrò Wicks.

“‘Pickwick’,” rispose Jackson; “è l’imputato nel caso Bardell e Pickwick.”

Dietro la parete si udì all’improvviso il suono di piedi che strisciavano, mescolato a risate soffocate.

“Sono proprio come voi, signore,” sussurrò il signor Weller.

“Stai prendendomi in giro, Sam!” rispose il signor Pickwick; “che cosa intendi dire con questo scherzo?”

Il signor Weller rispose indicando con il pollice sopra la spalla; il signor Pickwick, alzando lo sguardo, si rese conto che tutti e quattro i impiegati, con espressioni di grande divertimento e le teste sporgenti oltre la griglia di legno, stavano osservando attentamente l’aspetto e l’insieme della figura di quel presunto seduttore di donne e disturbatore della loro felicità. Non appena alzò lo sguardo, quella fila di teste scomparve all’improvviso, e subito dopo si udì il suono delle penne che scrivevano velocemente sulla carta.

Un improvviso suono della campanella appesa nell’ufficio chiamò il signor Jackson nell’appartamento di Fogg; da lì tornò a dire che lui (Fogg) era pronto ad incontrare il signor Pickwick, se questi volesse salire al piano di sopra.

Al piano di sopra, il signor Pickwick salì come previsto, lasciando Sam Weller al piano di sotto.
La porta della stanza, situata sul lato posteriore, recava scritti in caratteri leggibili i nomi “Signor Fogg”. Dopo aver bussato e ricevuto il permesso di entrare, Jackson accompagnò il signor Pickwick all’interno.

“Il signor Dodson è in casa?” chiese il signor Fogg.

“Entri pure, signore,” rispose Jackson.

“Chiedigli di avvicinarsi qui.”

“Sì, signore.” Esce Jackson.

“Si sieda, signore,” disse Fogg; “ecco il documento, signore; mio socio arriverà subito e potremo discutere della questione insieme.”

Il signor Pickwick si sedette e prese il giornale, ma invece di leggerlo, diede un’occhiata veloce alle pagine per osservare l’uomo d’affari presente nella stanza: un individuo anziano, dalla faccia piena di brufoli, che seguiva una dieta a base esclusivamente di verdure; indossava un cappotto nero, pantaloni scuri e stivali neri. Sembrava essere parte integrante della scrivania su cui lavorava, e non pareva possedere alcun pensiero o sentimento propri.

Dopo alcuni minuti di silenzio, apparve il signor Dodson: un uomo robusto, corpulento e dall’aspetto severo, con una voce forte; e la conversazione iniziò.

“Questo è il signor Pickwick”, disse Fogg.

“Ah! Voi siete l’imputato, signore, nel caso Bardell e Pickwick?” disse Dodson.

“Sì, signore,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

“Beh, signore,” disse Dodson, “e cosa propone lei?”

“Ah!” disse Fogg, infilando le mani nelle tasche dei pantaloni e appoggiandosi allo schienale della sedia, “cosa propone, signor Pickwick?”

“Zitta, Fogg,” disse Dodson, “lasciami ascoltare quello che ha da dire il signor Pickwick.”

“Sono venuto, signori,” disse il signor Pickwick, guardando con calma i due suoi interlocutori, “sono venuto qui per esprimere la sorpresa che ho provato leggendo la vostra lettera di qualche giorno fa, e per chiedervi su quali basi possiate agire contro di me.”

“Motivi di, ” Fu tutto ciò che riuscì a dire Fogg, prima che Dodson lo interrompesse.

“Signor Fogg,” disse Dodson, “devo parlare.”

“Perdonatemi, signor Dodson,” disse Fogg.

“Per quanto riguarda le motivazioni della nostra azione, signore,” continuò Dodson, con un tono di moralità elevata, “dovrete fare riferimento alla vostra stessa coscienza e ai vostri sentimenti personali. Noi, invece, ci guidiamo esclusivamente dalle dichiarazioni del nostro cliente. Tali dichiarazioni possono essere vere o false, credibili o inverosimili; ma se sono vere e credibili, non esito a dire che le nostre motivazioni sono solide e inattaccabili. Potreste essere un uomo sfortunato, signore, o uno spietato; ma se mi venisse chiesto, in qualità di giurato sotto giuramento, di esprimere un parere sul vostro comportamento, non esiterei a dichiarare che avrei soltanto una opinione al riguardo.” A questo punto Dodson si erse in tutta la sua statura, con aria di offesa morale, e guardò Fogg, il quale infilò le mani ancora più nelle tasche e, annuendo saggiamente, disse con piena approvazione: “Certamente.”

“Beh, signore,” disse il signor Pickwick, con un evidente dolore sul viso, “le permetto di assicurarsi che io sono un uomo molto sfortunato, per quanto riguarda questo caso.”

“Spero che lo siate, signore,” rispose Dodson; “credo proprio che lo siate. Se siete davvero innocente di ciò di cui vi si accusa, allora siete più sfortunato di quanto avessi mai creduto possibile per un uomo. Che ne dite, signor Fogg?”

“Dico esattamente quello che dici tu,” rispose Fogg, con un sorriso di incredulità.

“Il mandato, signore, che dà inizio all’azione legale,” continuò Dodson, “è stato emesso regolarmente. Signor Fogg, dove si trova il libro dei mandati legali?”

“Eccolo qui,” disse Fogg, porgendo un libro quadrato con copertina di pergamena.

“Ecco l’atto processuale,” continuò Dodson. “‘Middlesex, Capias per MARTHA BARDELL, vedova, contro SAMUEL PICKWICK. Risarcimento danni di 1500 sterline. Dodson & Fogg per il querelante, 28 agosto 1827.’ Tutto regolare, signore; perfettamente.” Dodson tossì e guardò Fogg, che rispose anche lui “Perfettamente”. Poi entrambi guardarono il signor Pickwick.

‘I am to understand, then,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘that it really is your intention to proceed with this action?’

‘Understand, sir!—that you certainly may,’ replied Dodson, with something as near a smile as his importance would allow.

‘And that the damages are actually laid at fifteen hundred pounds?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘To which understanding you may add my assurance, that if we could have prevailed upon our client, they would have been laid at treble the amount, sir,’ replied Dodson.

‘I believe Mrs. Bardell specially said, however,’ observed Fogg, glancing at Dodson, ‘that she would not compromise for a farthing less.’

‘Unquestionably,’ replied Dodson sternly. For the action was only just begun; and it wouldn’t have done to let Mr. Pickwick compromise it then, even if he had been so disposed.

‘As you offer no terms, sir,’ said Dodson, displaying a slip of parchment in his right hand, and affectionately pressing a paper copy of it, on Mr. Pickwick with his left, ‘I had better serve you with a copy of this writ, sir. Here is the original, sir.’

‘Very well, gentlemen, very well,’ said Mr. Pickwick, rising in person and wrath at the same time; ‘you shall hear from my solicitor, gentlemen.’

‘We shall be very happy to do so,’ said Fogg, rubbing his hands.

‘Very,’ said Dodson, opening the door.

‘And before I go, gentlemen,’ said the excited Mr. Pickwick, turning round on the landing, ‘permit me to say, that of all the disgraceful and rascally proceedings—’

‘Stay, sir, stay,’ interposed Dodson, with great politeness. ‘Mr. Jackson! Mr. Wicks!’

‘Sir,’ said the two clerks, appearing at the bottom of the stairs.

‘I merely want you to hear what this gentleman says,’ replied Dodson. ‘Pray, go on, sir—disgraceful and rascally proceedings, I think you said?’

‘I did,’ said Mr. Pickwick, thoroughly roused. ‘I said, Sir, that of all the disgraceful and rascally proceedings that ever were attempted, this is the most so. I repeat it, sir.’

‘You hear that, Mr. Wicks,’ said Dodson.

‘You won’t forget these expressions, Mr. Jackson?’ said Fogg.

‘Perhaps you would like to call us swindlers, sir,’ said Dodson. ‘Pray do, Sir, if you feel disposed; now pray do, Sir.’

‘I do,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘You _are _swindlers.’

‘Very good,’ said Dodson. ‘You can hear down there, I hope, Mr. Wicks?’

‘Oh, yes, Sir,’ said Wicks.

‘You had better come up a step or two higher, if you can’t,’ added Mr. Fogg. ‘Go on, Sir; do go on. You had better call us thieves, Sir; or perhaps You would like to assault one of us. Pray do it, Sir, if you would; we will not make the smallest resistance. Pray do it, Sir.’

As Fogg put himself very temptingly within the reach of Mr. Pickwick’s clenched fist, there is little doubt that that gentleman would have complied with his earnest entreaty, but for the interposition of Sam, who, hearing the dispute, emerged from the office, mounted the stairs, and seized his master by the arm.

‘You just come away,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Battledore and shuttlecock’s a wery good game, vhen you ain’t the shuttlecock and two lawyers the battledores, in which case it gets too excitin’ to be pleasant. Come avay, Sir. If you want to ease your mind by blowing up somebody, come out into the court and blow up me; but it’s rayther too expensive work to be carried on here.’

And without the slightest ceremony, Mr. Weller hauled his master down the stairs, and down the court, and having safely deposited him in Cornhill, fell behind, prepared to follow whithersoever he should lead.

Mr. Pickwick walked on abstractedly, crossed opposite the Mansion House, and bent his steps up Cheapside. Sam began to wonder where they were going, when his master turned round, and said—

‘Sam, I will go immediately to Mr. Perker’s.’

‘That’s just exactly the wery place vere you ought to have gone last night, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘I think it is, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘I _know _it is,’ said Mr. Weller.

‘Well, well, Sam,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘we will go there at once; but first, as I have been rather ruffled, I should like a glass of brandy- and-water warm, Sam. Where can I have it, Sam?’

Mr. Weller’s knowledge of London was extensive and peculiar. He replied, without the slightest consideration—

‘Second court on the right hand side—last house but vun on the same side the vay—take the box as stands in the first fireplace, ‘cos there ain’t no leg in the middle o’ the table, which all the others has, and it’s wery inconvenient.’

Mr. Pickwick observed his valet’s directions implicitly, and bidding Sam follow him, entered the tavern he had pointed out, where the hot brandy- and-water was speedily placed before him; while Mr. Weller, seated at a respectful distance, though at the same table with his master, was accommodated with a pint of porter.

The room was one of a very homely description, and was apparently under the especial patronage of stage-coachmen; for several gentleman, who had all the appearance of belonging to that learned profession, were drinking and smoking in the different boxes. Among the number was one stout, red-faced, elderly man, in particular, seated in an opposite box, who attracted Mr. Pickwick’s attention. The stout man was smoking with great vehemence, but between every half-dozen puffs, he took his pipe from his mouth, and looked first at Mr. Weller and then at Mr. Pickwick. Then, he would bury in a quart pot, as much of his countenance as the dimensions of the quart pot admitted of its receiving, and take another look at Sam and Mr. Pickwick. Then he would take another half-dozen puffs with an air of profound meditation and look at them again. At last the stout man, putting up his legs on the seat, and leaning his back against the wall, began to puff at his pipe without leaving off at all, and to stare through the smoke at the new-comers, as if he had made up his mind to see the most he could of them.

“Allora devo intendere,” disse il signor Pickwick, “che davvero avete l’intenzione di portare a termine questa azione?”

“Capisco, signore. Certo che sì,” rispose Dodson, con un sorriso appena percettibile, tanto quanto la sua importanza glielo permetteva.

“E quindi il danno ammonta effettivamente a millecinquecento sterline?” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Potete aggiungere anche la mia garanzia: se fossimo riusciti a convincere il nostro cliente, avrebbero pagato una somma triplicata, signore,” rispose Dodson.

“Credo però che la signora Bardell abbia detto esplicitamente,” osservò Fogg, lanciando un’occhiata a Dodson, “che non avrebbe accettato nemmeno una riduzione di un penny.”

“Senza dubbio,” rispose Dodson con fermezza. Poiché l’azione era appena iniziata, non sarebbe stato giusto permettere al signor Pickwick di comprometterla in quel momento, anche se ne avesse avuto l’intenzione.

“Poiché non propone nessuna condizione, signore,” disse Dodson, mostrando con la destra un foglio di pergamena e premendo con la sinistra una copia cartacea su Pickwick con affetto, “è meglio che vi consegni una copia di questo mandato, signore. Ecco l’originale.”

“Molto bene, signori, molto bene,” disse il signor Pickwick alzandosi personalmente e, allo stesso tempo, arrabbiato; “sentiranno cosa dirà il mio avvocato, signori.”

“Sarà un grande piacere per noi farlo,” disse Fogg, strofinandosi le mani.

“Molto bene,” disse Dodson, aprendo la porta.

“E prima di andarmene, signori,” disse l’eccitato signor Pickwick, voltandosi sul ballatoio, “permettetemi di dire che, di tutte le azioni vergognose e disoneste, ”

“Per favore, aspettate, signori,” intervenne Dodson con grande cortesia. “Signor Jackson! Signor Wicks!”

“Signore,” dissero i due impiegati, comparendo in fondo alle scale.

“Voglio semplicemente che ascoltiate ciò che dice questo signore,” rispose Dodson.
“Per favore, continui, signore, procedimenti vergognosi e disonesti, se ricordo bene, ”

“Lo ho detto,” disse il signor Pickwick, completamente sveglio. “Ho detto, signore, che di tutte le azioni vergognose e disoneste mai tentate, questa è la più spregevole. Lo ripeto, signore.”

“Lo sente, signor Wicks,” disse Dodson.

“Non dimenticherà queste espressioni, signor Jackson?” disse Fogg.

“Forse vorreste chiamarci truffatori, signore,” disse Dodson. “Per favore, fatelo pure, se vi sentite in vena di farlo; suvvia, fatelo ora.”

“Lo faccio,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Voi siete truffatori.”

“Molto bene,” disse Dodson. “Spero che riusciate a sentirmi laggiù, signor Wicks, ”

“Sì, signore,” disse Wicks.

“Meglio che saliate ancora uno o due gradini, se ci riuscite,” aggiunse il signor Fogg. “Andate avanti, signore; fatelo pure. Potete anche chiamarci ladri, signore. O forse preferite aggredire uno di noi? Fatelo pure, signore; non opporremo la minima resistenza.”

Mentre Fogg si metteva in modo molto allettante all’altezza del pugno chiuso di Mr. Pickwick, non c’è quasi alcun >dubbio che quel signore avrebbe acconsentito alla sua sincera preghiera, se non fosse stato per l’intervento di Sam, il quale, sentendo la discussione, uscì dall’ufficio, salì le scale e afferrò il suo padrone per un braccio.

“Vai pure via,” disse il signor Weller. “Il gioco del battledore e della palla è davvero divertente, quando non si è la palla stessa e non ci sono due avvocati che fanno da battledori. In quel caso diventa troppo eccitante per essere piacevole. Vieni con me, signore. Se vuoi distrarti facendo esplodere qualcuno, vieni nel giardino e fallo con me. Ma è un’impresa un po’ troppo costosa per poterla fare qui dentro.”

E senza la minima cerimonia, il signor Weller trascinò il suo padrone giù per le scale, attraverso l’cortile, e una volta depositato al sicuro in Cornhill, lo seguì, pronto ad andare ovunque lui decidesse di dirigersi.

Il signor Pickwick camminava assorto nei suoi pensieri, attraversò di fronte alla residenza casa e prese la direzione di Cheapside. Sam iniziò a chiedersi dove stessero andando, quando il suo padrone si girò e disse.

“Sam, andrò immediatamente da Mr. Perker.”

“È proprio quel posto dove avreste dovuto andare ieri sera, signore,” rispose il signor Weller.

“Penso che lo sia, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Lo so che è così,” disse il signor Weller.

“Beh, beh, Sam,” rispose il signor Pickwick, “andrò lì subito; ma prima, poiché sono un po’ scosso, vorrei un bicchiere di brandy con acqua calda. Dove posso trovarlo, Sam?”

La conoscenza di Mr. Weller su Londra era vasta e particolare. Rispondeva senza il minimo indugio.

‘Il secondo corridoio sul lato destro – l’ultima casa, ma sulla stessa parte del corridoio – prendete quella scatola che si trova nel primo caminetto, perché non c’è nessuna gamba al centro del tavolo, come invece hanno tutte le altre, e questo è davvero molto scomodo.’

Il signor Pickwick seguì tacitamente le istruzioni del suo valletto e, dopo aver chiesto a Sam di seguirlo, entrò nella taverna che questi gli aveva indicato. Lì gli fu subito servita della brandy calda mescolata con acqua; intanto il signor Weller, seduto a una certa distanza ma allo stesso tavolo del suo padrone, ricevette una pinta di birra.

La stanza aveva un aspetto molto accogliente e, a quanto pare, era particolarmente frequentata da cocchieri teatrali; infatti, diversi signori che sembravano appartenere a quella professione stavano bevendo e fumando nelle varie cabine. Tra di loro c’era un uomo robusto, dal viso rosso, anziano, seduto in una cabina opposta, che attirò l’attenzione del signor Pickwick. L’uomo fumava con grande intensità, ma ogni volta che tirava sei boccate, prendeva la pipa dalla bocca e guardava prima il signor Weller e poi il signor Pickwick. Poi nascondeva tutta la parte del suo viso che il contenitore in cui teneva la pipa permetteva di vedere, e li osservava di nuovo. Alla fine, l’uomo appoggiò le gambe sul sedile, si appoggiò alla parete e continuò a fumare senza sosta, fissando i nuovi arrivati attraverso il fumo, come se avesse deciso di osservarli il più possibile.

At first the evolutions of the stout man had escaped Mr. Weller’s observation, but by degrees, as he saw Mr. Pickwick’s eyes every now and then turning towards him, he began to gaze in the same direction, at the same time shading his eyes with his hand, as if he partially recognised the object before him, and wished to make quite sure of its identity. His doubts were speedily dispelled, however; for the stout man having blown a thick cloud from his pipe, a hoarse voice, like some strange effort of ventriloquism, emerged from beneath the capacious shawls which muffled his throat and chest, and slowly uttered these sounds—‘Wy, Sammy!’

‘Who’s that, Sam?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Why, I wouldn’t ha’ believed it, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, with astonished eyes. ‘It’s the old ‘un.’

‘Old one,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘What old one?’

‘My father, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘How are you, my ancient?’ And with this beautiful ebullition of filial affection, Mr. Weller made room on the seat beside him, for the stout man, who advanced pipe in mouth and pot in hand, to greet him.

‘Wy, Sammy,’ said the father, ‘I ha’n’t seen you, for two year and better.’

‘Nor more you have, old codger,’ replied the son. ‘How’s mother-in-law?’

‘Wy, I’ll tell you what, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, senior, with much solemnity in his manner; ‘there never was a nicer woman as a widder, than that ‘ere second wentur o’ mine—a sweet creetur she was, Sammy; all I can say on her now, is, that as she was such an uncommon pleasant widder, it’s a great pity she ever changed her condition. She don’t act as a vife, Sammy.’

Don’t she, though?’ inquired Mr. Weller, junior.

The elder Mr. Weller shook his head, as he replied with a sigh, ‘I’ve done it once too often, Sammy; I’ve done it once too often. Take example by your father, my boy, and be wery careful o’ widders all your life, ‘specially if they’ve kept a public-house, Sammy.’ Having delivered this parental advice with great pathos, Mr. Weller, senior, refilled his pipe from a tin box he carried in his pocket; and, lighting his fresh pipe from the ashes of the old One, commenced smoking at a great rate.

‘Beg your pardon, sir,’ he said, renewing the subject, and addressing Mr. Pickwick, after a considerable pause, ‘nothin’ personal, I hope, sir; I hope you ha’n’t got a widder, sir.’

‘Not I,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, laughing; and while Mr. Pickwick laughed, Sam Weller informed his parent in a whisper, of the relation in which he stood towards that gentleman.

‘Beg your pardon, sir,’ said Mr. Weller, senior, taking off his hat, ‘I hope you’ve no fault to find with Sammy, Sir?’

‘None whatever,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Wery glad to hear it, sir,’ replied the old man; ‘I took a good deal o’ pains with his eddication, sir; let him run in the streets when he was wery young, and shift for hisself. It’s the only way to make a boy sharp, sir.’

‘Rather a dangerous process, I should imagine,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile.

‘And not a wery sure one, neither,’ added Mr. Weller; ‘I got reg’larly done the other day.’

‘No!’ said his father.

‘I did,’ said the son; and he proceeded to relate, in as few words as possible, how he had fallen a ready dupe to the stratagems of Job Trotter.

Mr. Weller, senior, listened to the tale with the most profound attention, and, at its termination, said—

‘Worn’t one o’ these chaps slim and tall, with long hair, and the gift o’ the gab wery gallopin’?’

Mr. Pickwick did not quite understand the last item of description, but, comprehending the first, said ‘Yes,’ at a venture.

‘T’ other’s a black-haired chap in mulberry livery, with a wery large head?’

‘Yes, yes, he is,’ said Mr. Pickwick and Sam, with great earnestness.

‘Then I know where they are, and that’s all about it,’ said Mr. Weller; ‘they’re at Ipswich, safe enough, them two.’

‘No!’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Fact,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘and I’ll tell you how I know it. I work an Ipswich coach now and then for a friend o’ mine. I worked down the wery day arter the night as you caught the rheumatic, and at the Black Boy at Chelmsford—the wery place they’d come to—I took ‘em up, right through to Ipswich, where the man-servant—him in the mulberries—told me they was a-goin’ to put up for a long time.’

‘I’ll follow him,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘we may as well see Ipswich as any other place. I’ll follow him.’

‘You’re quite certain it was them, governor?’ inquired Mr. Weller, junior.

‘Quite, Sammy, quite,’ replied his father, ‘for their appearance is wery sing’ler; besides that ‘ere, I wondered to see the gen’l’m’n so formiliar with his servant; and, more than that, as they sat in the front, right behind the box, I heerd ‘em laughing and saying how they’d done old Fireworks.’

‘Old who?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Old Fireworks, Sir; by which, I’ve no doubt, they meant you, Sir.’

There is nothing positively vile or atrocious in the appellation of ‘old Fireworks,’ but still it is by no means a respectful or flattering designation. The recollection of all the wrongs he had sustained at Jingle’s hands, had crowded on Mr. Pickwick’s mind, the moment Mr. Weller began to speak; it wanted but a feather to turn the scale, and ‘old Fireworks’ did it.

‘I’ll follow him,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with an emphatic blow on the table.

‘I shall work down to Ipswich the day arter to-morrow, Sir,’ said Mr. Weller the elder, ‘from the Bull in Whitechapel; and if you really mean to go, you’d better go with me.’

‘So we had,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘very true; I can write to Bury, and tell them to meet me at Ipswich. We will go with you. But don’t hurry away, Mr. Weller; won’t you take anything?’

‘You’re wery good, Sir,’ replied Mr. W., stopping short;—‘perhaps a small glass of brandy to drink your health, and success to Sammy, Sir, wouldn’t be amiss.’

‘Certainly not,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

All’inizio, le trasformazioni di quell’uomo robusto erano sfuggite all’osservazione del signor Weller, ma gradualmente, notando che gli occhi del signor Pickwick si rivolgevano di tanto in tanto verso di lui, anche lui iniziò a guardare nella stessa direzione, coprendosi gli occhi con la mano, come se riconoscesse in parte l’oggetto che aveva davanti e volesse esserne assolutamente certo riguardo alla sua identità. Tuttavia, i suoi dubbi furono presto dissipati: l’uomo robusto, infatti, dopo aver soffiato via una densa nuvola di fumo dalla sua pipa, emise una voce rauca, simile a un strano tentativo di ventriloquismo, proveniente da sotto i grandi scialli che coprivano la sua gola e il suo petto; lentamente pronunciò queste parole: “Ehi, Sammy!”

“Chi è, Sam?”, chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Perbene, non ci avrei mai creduto, signore,” rispose il signor Weller con occhi stupiti. “È proprio quel vecchio, ”

“Vecchio mio,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Quale vecchio?”

“Mio padre, signore,” rispose il signor Weller. “Come state, mio vecchio amico?” E con questa bellissima manifestazione di affetto filiale, il signor Weller fece spazio sul sedile accanto a sé per quell’uomo robusto, che si avvicinò con la pipa in bocca e la brocca in mano per salutarlo.

“Ehi, Sammy,” disse il padre, “non ti vedo da due anni, anzi, di più.”

“Nemmeno tu ne hai più, vecchio sciocco,” rispose il figlio. “Come sta la suocera?”

“Senti un po’, Sammy,” disse il signor Weller senior con grande solennità; “non c’è mai stata una donna più gentile da vedova di quella seconda moglie mia. Era davvero una persona adorabile, Sammy. Tutto quello che posso dire ora è che, dato quanto fosse una vedova così piacevole e unica, è davvero un peccato che abbia cambiato condizione. Non si comporta affatto come una moglie, Sammy.”

“Non è forse così?”, chiese il signor Weller Jr.

Il più anziano signor Weller scosse la testa e rispose con un sospiro: “L’ho fatto troppo spesso, Sammy. Troppo spesso. Prendi esempio da tuo padre, ragazzo mio, e fai molta attenzione alle donne per tutta la vita, soprattutto se hanno gestito un locale pubblico, Sammy.” Dopo aver espresso questo consiglio paterno con grande pathos, il signor Weller riempì di nuovo la sua pipa da una scatola di latta che portava in tasca; accendendo poi la nuova pipa con le ceneri della vecchia, iniziò a fumare con grande intensità.

“Perdonatemi, signore,” disse, riprendendo l’argomento e rivolgendosi al signor Pickwick, dopo una lunga pausa, “niente di personale, spero; non avrete mica un’altra moglie, vero, signore?”

“Non io,” rispose il signor Pickwick ridendo; e mentre il signor Pickwick rideva, Sam Weller sussurrò al padre la relazione che lo legava a quel gentiluomo.

“Perdonatemi, signore,” disse il signor Weller padre, togliendosi il cappello, “spero che non abbiate nulla da rimproverare a Sammy, signore, ”

“Nessuno affatto,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Sono molto felice di saperlo, signore,” rispose l’uomo anziano; “Ho fatto molti sforzi per la sua educazione, signore. L’ho lasciato girovagare per le strade quando era molto giovane, affinché imparasse a cavarsela da solo. È l’unico modo per rendere un ragazzo sveglio e capace di badare a se stesso, signore.”

“Piuttosto un processo pericoloso, immagino,” disse il signor Pickwick con un sorriso.

“E non proprio sicuro nemmeno,” aggiunse il signor Weller; “l’ho fatto davvero l’altro giorno.”

“No!”, disse suo padre.

“Lo ho fatto,” disse il figlio; e proseguì raccontando, nel minor numero possibile di parole, come fosse caduto facilmente vittima delle strategie di Job Trotter.

Il signor Weller, il più anziano, ascoltò la storia con la massima attenzione e, al suo termine, disse:

“Non c’era forse tra questi ragazzi uno snello e alto, con i capelli lunghi e il dono della parola, molto eloquente?”

Il signor Pickwick non capì del tutto l’ultimo punto descritto, ma, avendo compreso il primo, rispose “Sì” senza esitazione.

“Un tizio dai capelli neri, vestito di blu scuro, con una testa davvero molto grande, ”

“Sì, sì, lo è,” dissero il signor Pickwick e Sam con grande sincerità.

“Allora so dove si trovano, ed è tutto ciò che conta,” disse il signor Weller; “sono a Ipswich, al sicuro, quei due.”

“No!”, disse il signor Pickwick.

“Fatto,” disse il signor Weller, “e vi dirò come lo so. Di tanto in tanto lavoro come cocchiere per un mio amico a Ipswich. Quel giorno stesso, dopo la notte in cui voi avete preso il raffreddore reumatico, li ho portati fino al Black Boy di Chelmsford – proprio il posto dove erano diretti – e da lì fino a Ipswich. Il servitore, quello con i vestiti marroni, mi ha detto che avevano intenzione di trattenersi lì per un bel po’.”

“Lo seguirò,” disse il signor Pickwick; “dopotutto, Ipswich non è diversa da qualsiasi altro posto. Lo seguirò.”

“È davvero certo che fossero loro, governatore?”, chiese il signor Weller junior.

“Proprio così, Sammy, proprio così,” rispose suo padre. “Perché il loro aspetto è davvero molto particolare; inoltre, mi chiedevo perché quel generale fosse così a suo agio con il suo servitore. E poi, mentre sedevano in prima fila, proprio dietro la tribuna, li ho sentiti ridere e dire quanto fossero stati bravi nel ‘fare i fuochi d’artificio’.”

“Vecchio chi?” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Vecchi Fuochi d’Artificio, signore; senza alcun >dubbio, si riferivano a voi, signore.”

Non c’è nulla di veramente spregevole o atroce nell’appellativo “vecchio Fuochi d’Artificio”, ma comunque non si tratta affatto di un nome rispettoso o lusinghiero. Non appena il signor Weller iniziò a parlare, il ricordo di tutti i torti subiti a causa del signor Jingle assalì la mente del signor Pickwick; mancava solo qualcosa per far pendere l’equilibrio, e “vecchio Fuochi d’Artificio” fu quel qualcosa.

“Lo seguirò,” disse il signor Pickwick, dando un colpo deciso sul tavolo.

“Domani stesso partirò per Ipswich, signore,” disse il signor Weller il vecchio, “dal pub di Whitechapel; e se davvero intende andarci, farebbe meglio a venire con me.”

“Sì, ne avevamo,” disse il signor Pickwick; “esatto; posso scrivere a Bury e dirgli di incontrarmi a Ipswich. Viaggeremo con voi. Ma non andate via in fretta, signor Weller. Non vorrete prendere nulla con voi?”

“Siete davvero molto gentile, signore,” rispose il signor W., interrompendosi per un attimo; “forse un piccolo bicchiere di brandy per brindare alla vostra salute e al successo di Sammy non sarebbe affatto male, signore.”

“Certamente no,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

‘A glass of brandy here!’ The brandy was brought; and Mr. Weller, after pulling his hair to Mr. Pickwick, and nodding to Sam, jerked it down his capacious throat as if it had been a small thimbleful.

‘Well done, father,’ said Sam, ‘take care, old fellow, or you’ll have a touch of your old complaint, the gout.’

‘I’ve found a sov’rin’ cure for that, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, setting down the glass.

‘A sovereign cure for the gout,’ said Mr. Pickwick, hastily producing his note-book—‘what is it?’

‘The gout, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, ‘the gout is a complaint as arises from too much ease and comfort. If ever you’re attacked with the gout, sir, jist you marry a widder as has got a good loud woice, with a decent notion of usin’ it, and you’ll never have the gout agin. It’s a capital prescription, sir. I takes it reg’lar, and I can warrant it to drive away any illness as is caused by too much jollity.’ Having imparted this valuable secret, Mr. Weller drained his glass once more, produced a laboured wink, sighed deeply, and slowly retired.

‘Well, what do you think of what your father says, Sam?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, with a smile.

‘Think, Sir!’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘why, I think he’s the wictim o’ connubiality, as Blue Beard’s domestic chaplain said, vith a tear of pity, ven he buried him.’

There was no replying to this very apposite conclusion, and, therefore, Mr. Pickwick, after settling the reckoning, resumed his walk to Gray’s Inn. By the time he reached its secluded groves, however, eight o’clock had struck, and the unbroken stream of gentlemen in muddy high-lows, soiled white hats, and rusty apparel, who were pouring towards the different avenues of egress, warned him that the majority of the offices had closed for that day.

After climbing two pairs of steep and dirty stairs, he found his anticipations were realised. Mr. Perker’s ‘outer door’ was closed; and the dead silence which followed Mr. Weller’s repeated kicks thereat, announced that the officials had retired from business for the night.

‘This is pleasant, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘I shouldn’t lose an hour in seeing him; I shall not be able to get one wink of sleep to-night, I know, unless I have the satisfaction of reflecting that I have confided this matter to a professional man.’

‘Here’s an old ‘ooman comin’ upstairs, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘p’raps she knows where we can find somebody. Hollo, old lady, vere’s Mr. Perker’s people?’

‘Mr. Perker’s people,’ said a thin, miserable-looking old woman, stopping to recover breath after the ascent of the staircase—‘Mr. Perker’s people’s gone, and I’m a-goin’ to do the office out.’

Are you Mr. Perker’s servant?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘I am Mr. Perker’s laundress,’ replied the woman.

‘Ah,’ said Mr. Pickwick, half aside to Sam, ‘it’s a curious circumstance, Sam, that they call the old women in these inns, laundresses. I wonder what’s that for?’

‘’Cos they has a mortal awersion to washing anythin’, I suppose, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking at the old woman, whose appearance, as well as the condition of the office, which she had by this time opened, indicated a rooted antipathy to the application of soap and water; ‘do you know where I can find Mr. Perker, my good woman?’

‘No, I don’t,’ replied the old woman gruffly; ‘he’s out o’ town now.’

‘That’s unfortunate,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘where’s his clerk? Do you know?’

‘Yes, I know where he is, but he won’t thank me for telling you,’ replied the laundress.

‘I have very particular business with him,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Won’t it do in the morning?’ said the woman.

‘Not so well,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Well,’ said the old woman, ‘if it was anything very particular, I was to say where he was, so I suppose there’s no harm in telling. If you just go to the Magpie and Stump, and ask at the bar for Mr. Lowten, they’ll show you in to him, and he’s Mr. Perker’s clerk.’

With this direction, and having been furthermore informed that the hostelry in question was situated in a court, happy in the double advantage of being in the vicinity of Clare Market, and closely approximating to the back of New Inn, Mr. Pickwick and Sam descended the rickety staircase in safety, and issued forth in quest of the Magpie and Stump.

This favoured tavern, sacred to the evening orgies of Mr. Lowten and his companions, was what ordinary people would designate a public-house. That the landlord was a man of money-making turn was sufficiently testified by the fact of a small bulkhead beneath the tap-room window, in size and shape not unlike a sedan-chair, being underlet to a mender of shoes: and that he was a being of a philanthropic mind was evident from the protection he afforded to a pieman, who vended his delicacies without fear of interruption, on the very door-step. In the lower windows, which were decorated with curtains of a saffron hue, dangled two or three printed cards, bearing reference to Devonshire cider and Dantzic spruce, while a large blackboard, announcing in white letters to an enlightened public, that there were 500,000 barrels of double stout in the cellars of the establishment, left the mind in a state of not unpleasing doubt and uncertainty as to the precise direction in the bowels of the earth, in which this mighty cavern might be supposed to extend. When we add that the weather-beaten signboard bore the half- obliterated semblance of a magpie intently eyeing a crooked streak of brown paint, which the neighbours had been taught from infancy to consider as the ‘stump,’ we have said all that need be said of the exterior of the edifice.

On Mr. Pickwick’s presenting himself at the bar, an elderly female emerged from behind the screen therein, and presented herself before him.

“Un bicchiere di brandy!” Il brandy fu portato; e il signor Weller, dopo essersi tirato i capelli verso il signor Pickwick e fatto un cenno a Sam, lo ingollò tutto d’un fiato, come se si fosse trattato di una piccolissima quantità.

“Bravo, papà,” disse Sam, “stai attento, vecchio mio, altrimenti riprenderai con quel tuo vecchio problema: l’artrite.”

“Ho trovato una cura efficace per quella malattia, Sammy,” disse il signor Weller, posando il bicchiere.

“Una cura efficace per l’ gotta,” disse il signor Pickwick, estraendo in fretta il suo taccuino; “di cosa si tratta?”

“La gotta, signore,” rispose il signor Weller, “la gotta è un disturbo che insorge a causa di troppa facilità e comodità nella vita quotidiana. Se mai doveste essere colpiti dalla gotta, signore, sposatevi senz’altro una vedova con una voce forte e chiara, che sappia usarla in modo appropriato. E non avrete più problemi di gotta. È una vera e propria ricetta infallibile, signore! Io la seguo regolarmente, e vi assicuro che può eliminare qualsiasi malattia causata da troppa baldoria.” Dopo aver condiviso questo prezioso consiglio, il signor Weller bevve un altro sorso, fece un cenno d’intesa con gli occhi, sospirò profondamente e si ritirò lentamente.

“Beh, cosa ne pensi di quello che dice tuo padre, Sam?” chiese il signor Pickwick sorridendo.

“Pensateci bene, signore!” rispose il signor Weller; “in fondo, credo che sia la vittima della convivenza coniugale, proprio come disse con un pianto di compassione il cappellano domestico di Barba Blu quando lo seppellirono.”

Non ci fu alcuna risposta a questa conclusione molto appropriata; pertanto, il signor Pickwick, dopo aver regolato i conti, riprese il suo cammino verso il Gray’s Inn. Tuttavia, quando arrivò nei suoi tranquilli giardini, erano già le otto di sera; la folla ininterrotta di gentiluomini con stivali infangati, cappelli bianchi sporchi e abiti arrugginiti che si dirigevano verso le varie uscite gli fece capire che la maggior parte degli uffici aveva già chiuso per quella giornata.

Dopo aver salito due piani di scale ripide e sporche, scoprì che le sue aspettative si erano avverate. La “porta esterna” del signor Perker era chiusa; e il silenzio assoluto che seguì i ripetuti calci del signor Weller contro di essa indicava che gli ufficiali avevano terminato le loro attività per quella notte.

“È piacevole, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick; “Non dovrei perdere nemmeno un’ora per andarlo a trovare; so che non riuscirei a chiudere occhio per tutta la notte, se non avessi la soddisfazione di sapere che ho affidato questa questione a un professionista.”

“Ecco una vecchia signora che sta salendo le scale, signore,” rispose il signor Weller; “forse sa dove possiamo trovare qualcuno. Ehi, signora, siete voi la gente del signor Perker?”

“La gente del signor Perker,” disse una vecchia donna magra e dall’aspetto misero, fermandosi per riprendere fiato dopo essere salita le scale, “la gente del signor Perker se n’è andata, e ora dovrò occuparmi io delle faccende.”

“Siete il servitore del signor Perker?” chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Sono la lavandaia del signor Perker,” rispose la donna.

“Ah,” disse il signor Pickwick, parlando a mezza voce con Sam, “è una circostanza curiosa, Sam, chiamano le vecchie donne in queste locande ‘lavandaie’. Mi chiedo perché.”

“Perché provano un profondo disgusto nel lavare qualsiasi cosa, immagino, signore,” rispose il signor Weller.

“Non dovrei meravigliarmi,” disse il signor Pickwick, guardando la vecchia donna; l’aspetto di lei, così come lo stato dell’ufficio che aveva aperto a quell’ora, indicavano chiaramente un’avversione profonda all’uso del sapone e dell’acqua. “Sa dove posso trovare il signor Perker, mia buona donna?”

“No, non è qui,” rispose la vecchia donna in tono brusco; “è via dalla città in questo momento.”

“È davvero sfortunato,” disse il signor Pickwick; “dove è il suo impiegato? Lo sai?”

“Sì, so dove si trova, ma non mi ringrazierà per avervelo detto,” rispose la lavandaia.

“Ho degli affari molto particolari da sbrigare con lui,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Non va bene fare quello al mattino?” disse la donna.

“Non proprio così bene,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

“Beh,” disse la vecchia donna, “se si trattasse di qualcosa di molto importante, avrei dovuto dire dove si trovava. Quindi penso che non ci sia niente di male a dirvelo. Andate semplicemente al Magpie and Stump e chiedete al bar del signor Lowten; vi faranno entrare da lui. Lui è l’impiegato del signor Perker.”

Con questa direzione, e avendo inoltre appreso che l’ostello in questione si trovava in un >cortile, contenti del doppio vantaggio di essere vicino al Clare Market e di trovarsi quasi dietro il New Inn, il signor Pickwick e Sam scesero con sicurezza la traballante scala e si misero in cerca della Magpie and Stump.

Questo locale, tanto amato da Mr. Lowten e dai suoi compagni per le loro serate di baldoria, era ciò che la gente comune avrebbe definito una “ taverna pubblica”. Il fatto che il proprietario fosse un uomo d’affari lo dimostrava chiaramente: sotto la finestra del bar c’era una piccola cabina, simile per dimensioni e forma a una portantina, affittata a un calzolaio. Inoltre, la sua natura filantropica era evidente dal fatto che permetteva a un venditore di dolciumi di esercitare il proprio mestiere senza alcuna paura di essere disturbato, proprio davanti alla porta del locale. Le finestre inferiori, decorate con tende di colore arancione, mostravano due o tre cartelli pubblicitari che promuovevano sidro del Devonshire e abeti della Danzica; inoltre, un grande cartello nero annunciava, in caratteri bianchi, che nei sotterranei del locale si trovavano 500.000 barili di birra forte. Il tutto creava una sorta di perplessità e incertezza riguardo alla direzione esatta in cui si estendesse questa enorme “caverna”. E se aggiungiamo che la insegna, logorata dal tempo, presentava l’immagine appena leggibile di un corvo che fissava con attenzione una striscia marrone di vernice, beh, abbiamo detto tutto ciò che c’è da dire sull’esterno di questo locale.

Quando il signor Pickwick si presentò al bancone, una donna anziana emerse da dietro la tenda situata lì e gli si avvicinò.

‘Is Mr. Lowten here, ma’am?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes, he is, Sir,’ replied the landlady. ‘Here, Charley, show the gentleman in to Mr. Lowten.’

‘The gen’l’m’n can’t go in just now,’ said a shambling pot-boy, with a red head, ‘cos’ Mr. Lowten’s a-singin’ a comic song, and he’ll put him out. He’ll be done directly, Sir.’

The red-headed pot-boy had scarcely finished speaking, when a most unanimous hammering of tables, and jingling of glasses, announced that the song had that instant terminated; and Mr. Pickwick, after desiring Sam to solace himself in the tap, suffered himself to be conducted into the presence of Mr. Lowten.

At the announcement of ‘A gentleman to speak to you, Sir,’ a puffy-faced young man, who filled the chair at the head of the table, looked with some surprise in the direction from whence the voice proceeded; and the surprise seemed to be by no means diminished, when his eyes rested on an individual whom he had never seen before.

‘I beg your pardon, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘and I am very sorry to disturb the other gentlemen, too, but I come on very particular business; and if you will suffer me to detain you at this end of the room for five minutes, I shall be very much obliged to you.’

The puffy-faced young man rose, and drawing a chair close to Mr. Pickwick in an obscure corner of the room, listened attentively to his tale of woe.

‘Ah,’ he said, when Mr. Pickwick had concluded, ‘Dodson and Fogg—sharp practice theirs—capital men of business, Dodson and Fogg, sir.’

Mr. Pickwick admitted the sharp practice of Dodson and Fogg, and Lowten resumed.

‘Perker ain’t in town, and he won’t be, neither, before the end of next week; but if you want the action defended, and will leave the copy with me, I can do all that’s needful till he comes back.’

‘That’s exactly what I came here for,’ said Mr. Pickwick, handing over the document. ‘If anything particular occurs, you can write to me at the post-office, Ipswich.’

‘That’s all right,’ replied Mr. Perker’s clerk; and then seeing Mr. Pickwick’s eye wandering curiously towards the table, he added, ‘will you join us, for half an hour or so? We are capital company here to- night. There’s Samkin and Green’s managing-clerk, and Smithers and Price’s chancery, and Pimkin and Thomas’s out o’ doors—sings a capital song, he does—and Jack Bamber, and ever so many more. You’re come out of the country, I suppose. Would you like to join us?’

Mr. Pickwick could not resist so tempting an opportunity of studying human nature. He suffered himself to be led to the table, where, after having been introduced to the company in due form, he was accommodated with a seat near the chairman and called for a glass of his favourite beverage.

A profound silence, quite contrary to Mr. Pickwick’s expectation, succeeded.

‘You don’t find this sort of thing disagreeable, I hope, sir?’ said his right hand neighbour, a gentleman in a checked shirt and Mosaic studs, with a cigar in his mouth.

‘Not in the least,’ replied Mr. Pickwick; ‘I like it very much, although I am no smoker myself.’

‘I should be very sorry to say I wasn’t,’ interposed another gentleman on the opposite side of the table. ‘It’s board and lodgings to me, is smoke.’

Mr. Pickwick glanced at the speaker, and thought that if it were washing too, it would be all the better.

Here there was another pause. Mr. Pickwick was a stranger, and his coming had evidently cast a damp upon the party.

‘Mr. Grundy’s going to oblige the company with a song,’ said the chairman.

‘No, he ain’t,’ said Mr. Grundy.

‘Why not?’ said the chairman.

‘Because he can’t,’ said Mr. Grundy.

‘You had better say he won’t,’ replied the chairman.

‘Well, then, he won’t,’ retorted Mr. Grundy. Mr. Grundy’s positive refusal to gratify the company occasioned another silence.

‘Won’t anybody enliven us?’ said the chairman, despondingly.

‘Why don’t you enliven us yourself, Mr. Chairman?’ said a young man with a whisker, a squint, and an open shirt collar (dirty), from the bottom of the table.

‘Hear! hear!’ said the smoking gentleman, in the Mosaic jewellery.

‘Because I only know one song, and I have sung it already, and it’s a fine of “glasses round” to sing the same song twice in a night,’ replied the chairman.

This was an unanswerable reply, and silence prevailed again.

‘I have been to-night, gentlemen,’ said Mr. Pickwick, hoping to start a subject which all the company could take a part in discussing, ‘I have been to-night, in a place which you all know very well, doubtless, but which I have not been in for some years, and know very little of; I mean Gray’s Inn, gentlemen. Curious little nooks in a great place, like London, these old inns are.’

‘By Jove!’ said the chairman, whispering across the table to Mr. Pickwick, ‘you have hit upon something that one of us, at least, would talk upon for ever. You’ll draw old Jack Bamber out; he was never heard to talk about anything else but the inns, and he has lived alone in them till he’s half crazy.’

The individual to whom Lowten alluded, was a little, yellow, high- shouldered man, whose countenance, from his habit of stooping forward when silent, Mr. Pickwick had not observed before. He wondered, though, when the old man raised his shrivelled face, and bent his gray eye upon him, with a keen inquiring look, that such remarkable features could have escaped his attention for a moment. There was a fixed grim smile perpetually on his countenance; he leaned his chin on a long, skinny hand, with nails of extraordinary length; and as he inclined his head to one side, and looked keenly out from beneath his ragged gray eyebrows, there was a strange, wild slyness in his leer, quite repulsive to behold.

This was the figure that now started forward, and burst into an animated torrent of words. As this chapter has been a long one, however, and as the old man was a remarkable personage, it will be more respectful to him, and more convenient to us, to let him speak for himself in a fresh one.

“Il signor Lowten è qui, signora?” chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Sì, lo è, signore,” rispose la padrona di casa. “Ecco, Charley, accompagni il gentiluomo da Mr. Lowten.”

“Il generale non può entrare adesso,” disse un ragazzo barcollante con la testa rossa, “perché il signor Lowten sta cantando una canzone comica. Lo caccierà fuori appena finirà. Finirà subito, signore.”

Il ragazzo dai capelli rossi aveva appena finito di parlare, quando un coro unanime di colpi sui tavoli e tintinnio di bicchieri annunciò che la canzone era terminata in quell’istante; e il signor Pickwick, dopo aver chiesto a Sam di divertirsi al bar, si lasciò accompagnare dal signor Lowten.

All’annuncio “Un gentiluomo desidera parlarle, signore”, un giovane dal viso paffuto, seduto all’estremità della tavola, guardò con sorpresa nella direzione da cui proveniva la voce; e la sua sorpresa sembrò non diminuire affatto quando i suoi occhi si posarono su una persona che non aveva mai visto prima.

“Perdonatemi, signore,” disse il signor Pickwick, “e mi dispiace molto di disturbare anche gli altri gentiluomini, ma sono qui per una questione molto importante. Se poteste concedermi cinque minuti in questo angolo della stanza, vi sarei molto grato.”

Il giovane dall’aspetto paffuto prese una rosa e, avvicinando una sedia al signor Pickwick in un angolo poco visibile della stanza, ascoltò attentamente la sua storia di sventure.

“Ah,” disse lui quando il signor Pickwick ebbe finito di parlare, “Dodson e Fogg, persone molto abili nel loro lavoro, veri esperti in affari, signore.”

Il signor Pickwick ammise l’efficacia delle pratiche commerciali di Dodson e Fogg, e così Lowten poté riprendere il suo lavoro.

‘Perker non è in città, e non tornerà nemmeno entro la fine della prossima settimana; ma se volete che l’affare venga portato a termine, lasciandomi il documento, posso occuparmene io fino al suo ritorno.’

“È esattamente per questo che sono venuto qui,” disse il signor Pickwick, porgendo il documento. “Se dovesse accadere qualcosa di particolare, potete scrivermi all’ufficio postale di Ipswich.”

“Va bene,” rispose il segretario del signor Perker; poi, vedendo che lo sguardo del signor Pickwick si dirigeva curiosamente verso il tavolo, aggiunse: “Vorreste unirvi a noi per mezz’ora o giù di lì? Stasera abbiamo compagnia davvero eccellente. C’è Samkin e Green, i direttori amministrativi; Smithers e Price, gli avvocati; Pimkin e Thomas. Cantano davvero bene. E c’è anche Jack Bamber, e molti altri ancora. Immagino che siate appena arrivato dal paese. Vorreste unirvi a noi?”

Il signor Pickwick non poté resistere a un’opportunità così allettante per studiare la >natura umana. Si lasciò condurre al tavolo, dove, dopo essere stato presentato formalmente al gruppo, gli fu assegnato un posto vicino al presidente e chiese un bicchiere della sua bevanda preferita.

Un profondo silenzio, del tutto contrario alle aspettative del signor Pickwick, calò su quel luogo.

“Spero che non trovi questa cosa sgradevole, signore”, disse il suo vicino di destra, un gentiluomo con una camicia a quadri e bottoni decorati a motivi mosaici, con un sigaro in bocca.

“Per niente,” rispose il signor Pickwick; “Mi piace molto, anche se io stesso non fumo.”

“Dovrei scusarmi molto se dico di no,” intervenne un altro gentiluomo dall’altra parte del tavolo. “Per me, fumare significa anche avere cibo e alloggio.”

Il signor Pickwick lanciò un’occhiata al parlante e pensò che, se anche quella cosa stesse lavandosi, sarebbe stato ancora meglio.

Ancora un momento di silenzio. Il signor Pickwick era uno sconosciuto, e il suo arrivo aveva chiaramente gettato un’ombra negativa sull’atmosfera del gruppo.

“Il signor Grundy canterà una canzone per l’azienda”, disse il presidente.

“No, non lo è,” disse il signor Grundy.

“Perché no?”, disse il presidente.

“Perché non può,” disse il signor Grundy.

“È meglio dire che non lo farà,” rispose il presidente.

“Beh, allora non lo farà,” ribatté il signor Grundy. Il suo deciso rifiuto di accontentare i presenti causò un altro silenzio.

“Non ci sarà nessuno che ci rallegri un po’?”, disse il presidente con disperazione.

“Perché non ci intrattieni tu stesso, signor Presidente?” disse un giovane con una barbetta, che strizzava gli occhi e aveva il colletto della camicia aperto (sporcato), seduto in fondo al tavolo.

“Sentite! Sentite!” disse il signore con i gioielli mozzafiato.

“Perché conosco solo una canzone, e l’ho già cantata; inoltre, sarebbe davvero scortese cantare la stessa canzone due volte nella stessa notte”, rispose il presidente.

Questa era una risposta inadeguata, e di nuovo regnò il silenzio.

“Sono stato ieri sera, signori,” disse il signor Pickwick, nella speranza di introdurre un argomento su cui tutti potessero discutere, “sono stato ieri sera in un posto che sicuramente conoscete molto bene, ma in cui non sono più stato da molti anni e quindi ne so molto poco. Intendo dire Gray’s Inn, signori. Curiosi angoli nascosti in un luogo così grande come Londra, questi vecchi ostelli, ”

“Per Giove!”, disse il presidente, sussurrando al signor Pickwick dall’altra parte del tavolo, “avete scoperto qualcosa di cui, almeno uno di noi, parlerebbe per sempre. Farrete uscire fuori quel vecchio Jack Bamber: non si è mai sentito parlare di nient’altro che di ostelli. E ha vissuto da solo in quegli ostelli fino a diventare quasi pazzo.”

L’uomo di cui parlava Lowten era un uomo piccolo, di pelle gialla e con le spalle alte; il suo volto, a causa dell’abitudine di chinarsi in avanti quando taceva, non era stato notato da Mr. Pickwick in precedenza. Tuttavia, quando l’uomo anziano sollevò il proprio viso raggrinzito e lo fissò con uno sguardo acuto e indagatore, Pickwick si chiese come mai tali tratti così particolari fossero sfuggiti alla sua attenzione fino ad allora. Sul suo volto c’era sempre un sorriso cupo e fermo; appoggiava il mento su una mano lunga e magra, dalle unghie straordinariamente lunghe; e quando inclinava la testa da un lato, guardando con attenzione attraverso le sue sopracciglia grigie e disordinate, nel suo sguardo c’era qualcosa di strano, selvaggio e astuto, qualcosa davvero repellente da osservare.

Questa fu la figura che ora iniziò a parlare, riversando una cascata di parole animate e appassionate. Tuttavia, poiché questo capitolo è stato piuttosto lungo e l’uomo anziano era una persona davvero notevole, sarà più rispettoso nei suoi confronti, e anche più conveniente per noi, lasciare che sia lui stesso a parlare in un nuovo capitolo.

CHAPTER XXI. IN WHICH THE OLD MAN LAUNCHES FORTH INTO HIS FAVOURITE THEME, AND RELATES A STORY ABOUT A QUEER CLIENT

‘Aha!’ said the old man, a brief description of whose manner and appearance concluded the last chapter, ‘aha! who was talking about the inns?’

‘I was, Sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick—‘I was observing what singular old places they are.’

‘You!’ said the old man contemptuously. ‘What do _you _know of the time when young men shut themselves up in those lonely rooms, and read and read, hour after hour, and night after night, till their reason wandered beneath their midnight studies; till their mental powers were exhausted; till morning’s light brought no freshness or health to them; and they sank beneath the unnatural devotion of their youthful energies to their dry old books? Coming down to a later time, and a very different day, what do you know of the gradual sinking beneath consumption, or the quick wasting of fever—the grand results of “life” and dissipation—which men have undergone in these same rooms? How many vain pleaders for mercy, do you think, have turned away heart-sick from the lawyer’s office, to find a resting-place in the Thames, or a refuge in the jail? They are no ordinary houses, those. There is not a panel in the old wainscotting, but what, if it were endowed with the powers of speech and memory, could start from the wall, and tell its tale of horror—the romance of life, Sir, the romance of life! Common-place as they may seem now, I tell you they are strange old places, and I would rather hear many a legend with a terrific-sounding name, than the true history of one old set of chambers.’

There was something so odd in the old man’s sudden energy, and the subject which had called it forth, that Mr. Pickwick was prepared with no observation in reply; and the old man checking his impetuosity, and resuming the leer, which had disappeared during his previous excitement, said—

‘Look at them in another light—their most common-place and least romantic. What fine places of slow torture they are! Think of the needy man who has spent his all, beggared himself, and pinched his friends, to enter the profession, which is destined never to yield him a morsel of bread. The waiting—the hope—the disappointment—the fear—the misery— the poverty—the blight on his hopes, and end to his career—the suicide perhaps, or the shabby, slipshod drunkard. Am I not right about them?’ And the old man rubbed his hands, and leered as if in delight at having found another point of view in which to place his favourite subject.

Mr. Pickwick eyed the old man with great curiosity, and the remainder of the company smiled, and looked on in silence.

‘Talk of your German universities,’ said the little old man. ‘Pooh, pooh! there’s romance enough at home without going half a mile for it; only people never think of it.’

‘I never thought of the romance of this particular subject before, certainly,’ said Mr. Pickwick, laughing.

‘To be sure you didn’t,’ said the little old man; ‘of course not. As a friend of mine used to say to me, “What is there in chambers in particular?” “Queer old places,” said I. “Not at all,” said he. “Lonely,” said I. “Not a bit of it,” said he. He died one morning of apoplexy, as he was going to open his outer door. Fell with his head in his own letter-box, and there he lay for eighteen months. Everybody thought he’d gone out of town.’

‘And how was he found out at last?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘The benchers determined to have his door broken open, as he hadn’t paid any rent for two years. So they did. Forced the lock; and a very dusty skeleton in a blue coat, black knee-shorts, and silks, fell forward in the arms of the porter who opened the door. Queer, that. Rather, perhaps; rather, eh?’ The little old man put his head more on one side, and rubbed his hands with unspeakable glee.

‘I know another case,’ said the little old man, when his chuckles had in some degree subsided. ‘It occurred in Clifford’s Inn. Tenant of a top set—bad character—shut himself up in his bedroom closet, and took a dose of arsenic. The steward thought he had run away: opened the door, and put a bill up. Another man came, took the chambers, furnished them, and went to live there. Somehow or other he couldn’t sleep—always restless and uncomfortable. “Odd,” says he. “I’ll make the other room my bedchamber, and this my sitting-room.” He made the change, and slept very well at night, but suddenly found that, somehow, he couldn’t read in the evening: he got nervous and uncomfortable, and used to be always snuffing his candles and staring about him. “I can’t make this out,” said he, when he came home from the play one night, and was drinking a glass of cold grog, with his back to the wall, in order that he mightn’t be able to fancy there was any one behind him—“I can’t make it out,” said he; and just then his eyes rested on the little closet that had been always locked up, and a shudder ran through his whole frame from top to toe. “I have felt this strange feeling before,” said he, “I cannot help thinking there’s something wrong about that closet.” He made a strong effort, plucked up his courage, shivered the lock with a blow or two of the poker, opened the door, and there, sure enough, standing bolt upright in the corner, was the last tenant, with a little bottle clasped firmly in his hand, and his face—well!’ As the little old man concluded, he looked round on the attentive faces of his wondering auditory with a smile of grim delight.

‘What strange things these are you tell us of, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, minutely scanning the old man’s countenance, by the aid of his glasses.

‘Strange!’ said the little old man. ‘Nonsense; you think them strange, because you know nothing about it. They are funny, but not uncommon.’

CAPITOLO XXI. IN CUI IL VECCHIO AFFronta il suo argomento preferito e racconta una storia su un cliente strano.

‘Aha!’ disse l’uomo anziano; una breve descrizione del suo modo di comportarsi e del suo aspetto concludeva il capitolo precedente. ‘Aha! Chi stava parlando delle locande?’

“Sì, signore,” rispose il signor Pickwick – “stavo osservando quanto siano strani e antichi quei luoghi.”

“Tu!” disse l’uomo anziano con disprezzo. “Cosa sai tu dell’epoca in cui i giovani si chiudono in quelle stanze solitarie e leggono, ore dopo ore, notte dopo notte, fino a quando la loro ragione perde il senso sotto lo studio incessante; fino a quando le loro forze mentali vengono esaurite; fino a quando la luce dell’alba non porta loro né freschezza né salute. E fino a quando soccombono sotto quella dedizione eccessiva delle loro energie giovanili ai loro vecchi libri aridi? Parlando di tempi più recenti, di giorni molto diversi. Cosa sai tu dei danni causati dalla tubercolosi o dalla febbre, dei risultati tragici della vita dissoluta. Quanti supplicanti in cerca di misericordia hanno lasciato l’ufficio dell’avvocato, disperati, per cercare rifugio nel fiume Tamigi o in prigione? Non sono case ordinarie quelle. Ogni listello della vecchia tappezzeria potrebbe, se possedesse il dono del parlare e della memoria, raccontare storie orribili. La storia della vita, signore. Una storia davvero strana. Preferirei ascoltare molte leggende con nomi spaventosi piuttosto che conoscere la vera storia di quelle stanze antiche, ”

C’era qualcosa di così strano nell’improvvisa energia dell’uomo anziano, e nel motivo che l’aveva scatenata, che il signor Pickwick non era preparato a nessuna osservazione da fare in risposta; l’uomo anziano, quindi, controllando la propria impulsività e riprendendo quell’occhiolino che aveva smesso di mostrare durante l’eccitazione precedente, disse.

“Guardateli sotto un altro angolo di vista: nel loro aspetto più banale e meno romantico. Che luoghi terribili di tortura lenta sono! Pensate all’uomo bisognoso che ha speso tutto ciò che aveva, si è ridotto alla miseria, ha approfittato dei suoi amici pur di intraprendere una professione che non gli darà mai nemmeno un boccone di pane. L’attesa, la >speranza, la delusione, la >paura, la miseria, la )poverza. La rovina delle sue speranze, la fine della sua carriera. Forse il suicidio. Oppure l’ubriacone squallido e disordinato. Non ho ragione?” E l’uomo anziano si strofinò le mani, con un sorriso compiaciuto, come se avesse trovato un altro modo per esprimere il suo argomento preferito.

Il signor Pickwick osservò l’uomo anziano con grande curiosità; il resto del gruppo sorrise e osservò la scena in silenzio.

“Parlate pure delle vostre università tedesche,” disse il vecchietto. “Puf, puf! A >casa c’è abbastanza romanzo senza dover andare lontano; è solo che la gente non ci pensa mai.”

“Non avevo mai pensato alla romanza legata a questo particolare argomento, di certo,” disse il signor Pickwick, ridendo.

“Per essere sicuri che tu non l’abbia fatto,” disse il vecchietto; “certamente no. Come usava dire un mio amico: ‘Cosa ci c’è di particolare nelle stanze?’ ‘Posti strani,’ rispondevo io. ‘Niente affatto,’ diceva lui. ‘Solitari?’ ‘Per niente.’ Morì una mattina per un ictus, mentre stava per aprire la porta d’ingresso. Cadde con la testa dentro la propria cassetta della posta e rimase lì per diciotto mesi. Tutti pensarono che fosse andato via dalla città.”

“E come fece infine ad essere scoperto?” chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Il gruppo di persone decise a forzare la sua porta, visto che non pagava l’affitto da due anni. Così fecero. Forzarono la serratura; e un scheletro molto polveroso, con cappotto blu, pantaloncini neri e abiti di seta, cadde tra le braccia del portiere che aveva aperto la porta. Strano, vero? Forse, eh?” Il vecchietto inclinò ancora di più la testa da un lato e si strofinò le mani con inesprimibile gioia.

“Conosco un altro caso,” disse il vecchietto, quando i suoi risatini si furono in parte placati. “È accaduto all’ostello Clifford. Un inquilino del piano di sopra – di cattivo carattere – si chiuse nel suo armadio in camera da letto e inghiottì una dose di arsenico. Il custode pensò che fosse fuggito: aprì la porta e appese un conto. Un altro uomo arrivò, prese le stanze, le arredò e vi andò a vivere. Per qualche motivo, però, non riusciva a dormire. Era sempre inquieto e a disagio. ‘Strano,’ pensò. ‘Farò della stanza accanto la mia camera da letto, e di questa il salotto.’ Cambiò disposizione degli ambienti e quella notte dormì molto bene. Ma all’improvviso scoprì di non riuscire più a leggere la sera: si innervosiva, era sempre a disagio, e spesso spegneva le candele e guardava intorno con ansia. ‘Non capisco,’ disse una sera, tornando a casa dal teatro e bevendo un bicchiere di grog freddo, con la schiena appoggiata al muro per non immaginare che ci fosse qualcuno dietro di lui, ‘Non capisco, ’ E proprio in quel momento i suoi occhi si posarono sull’armadietto che era sempre stato chiuso a chiave. Un brivido gli attraversò tutto il corpo. ‘Ho già provato questa strana sensazione prima,’ disse, ‘Non posso fare a meno di pensare che ci sia qualcosa di strano in quell’armadietto.’ Fece uno sforzo, raccolse tutto il proprio coraggio, aprì la porta. E lì, davvero, nell’angolo, c’era l’ultimo inquilino. Con una piccola bottiglia stretta nella mano. E il suo viso, ‘Oh mio Dio!’ concluse il vecchietto, guardando intorno i volti attenti e curiosi del suo pubblico, con un sorriso di cupa soddisfazione.

“Che strane storie ci sta raccontando, signore,” disse il signor Pickwick, osservando attentamente il volto dell’uomo anziano con l’aiuto dei suoi occhiali.

“Strano!” disse il vecchietto. “Sciocchezze; li trovi strani perché non ne sai nulla. Sono divertenti, ma affatto non insoliti.”

‘Funny!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick involuntarily.

‘Yes, funny, are they not?’ replied the little old man, with a diabolical leer; and then, without pausing for an answer, he continued—

‘I knew another man—let me see—forty years ago now—who took an old, damp, rotten set of chambers, in one of the most ancient inns, that had been shut up and empty for years and years before. There were lots of old women’s stories about the place, and it certainly was very far from being a cheerful one; but he was poor, and the rooms were cheap, and that would have been quite a sufficient reason for him, if they had been ten times worse than they really were. He was obliged to take some mouldering fixtures that were on the place, and, among the rest, was a great lumbering wooden press for papers, with large glass doors, and a green curtain inside; a pretty useless thing for him, for he had no papers to put in it; and as to his clothes, he carried them about with him, and that wasn’t very hard work, either. Well, he had moved in all his furniture—it wasn’t quite a truck-full—and had sprinkled it about the room, so as to make the four chairs look as much like a dozen as possible, and was sitting down before the fire at night, drinking the first glass of two gallons of whisky he had ordered on credit, wondering whether it would ever be paid for, and if so, in how many years’ time, when his eyes encountered the glass doors of the wooden press. “Ah,” says he, “if I hadn’t been obliged to take that ugly article at the old broker’s valuation, I might have got something comfortable for the money. I’ll tell you what it is, old fellow,” he said, speaking aloud to the press, having nothing else to speak to, “if it wouldn’t cost more to break up your old carcass, than it would ever be worth afterward, I’d have a fire out of you in less than no time.” He had hardly spoken the words, when a sound resembling a faint groan, appeared to issue from the interior of the case. It startled him at first, but thinking, on a moment’s reflection, that it must be some young fellow in the next chamber, who had been dining out, he put his feet on the fender, and raised the poker to stir the fire. At that moment, the sound was repeated; and one of the glass doors slowly opening, disclosed a pale and emaciated figure in soiled and worn apparel, standing erect in the press. The figure was tall and thin, and the countenance expressive of care and anxiety; but there was something in the hue of the skin, and gaunt and unearthly appearance of the whole form, which no being of this world was ever seen to wear. “Who are you?” said the new tenant, turning very pale; poising the poker in his hand, however, and taking a very decent aim at the countenance of the figure. “Who are you?” “Don’t throw that poker at me,” replied the form; “if you hurled it with ever so sure an aim, it would pass through me, without resistance, and expend its force on the wood behind. I am a spirit.” “And pray, what do you want here?” faltered the tenant. “In this room,” replied the apparition, “my worldly ruin was worked, and I and my children beggared. In this press, the papers in a long, long suit, which accumulated for years, were deposited. In this room, when I had died of grief, and long-deferred hope, two wily harpies divided the wealth for which I had contested during a wretched existence, and of which, at last, not one farthing was left for my unhappy descendants. I terrified them from the spot, and since that day have prowled by night—the only period at which I can revisit the earth—about the scenes of my long-protracted misery. This apartment is mine: leave it to me.” “If you insist upon making your appearance here,” said the tenant, who had had time to collect his presence of mind during this prosy statement of the ghost’s, “I shall give up possession with the greatest pleasure; but I should like to ask you one question, if you will allow me.” “Say on,” said the apparition sternly. “Well,” said the tenant, “I don’t apply the observation personally to you, because it is equally applicable to most of the ghosts I ever heard of; but it does appear to me somewhat inconsistent, that when you have an opportunity of visiting the fairest spots of earth—for I suppose space is nothing to you—you should always return exactly to the very places where you have been most miserable.” “Egad, that’s very true; I never thought of that before,” said the ghost. “You see, Sir,” pursued the tenant, “this is a very uncomfortable room. From the appearance of that press, I should be disposed to say that it is not wholly free from bugs; and I really think you might find much more comfortable quarters: to say nothing of the climate of London, which is extremely disagreeable.” “You are very right, Sir,” said the ghost politely, “it never struck me till now; I’ll try change of air directly”—and, in fact, he began to vanish as he spoke; his legs, indeed, had quite disappeared. “And if, Sir,” said the tenant, calling after him, “if you _would _have the goodness to suggest to the other ladies and gentlemen who are now engaged in haunting old empty houses, that they might be much more comfortable elsewhere, you will confer a very great benefit on society.” “I will,” replied the ghost; “we must be dull fellows—very dull fellows, indeed; I can’t imagine how we can have been so stupid.” With these words, the spirit disappeared; and what is rather remarkable,’ added the old man, with a shrewd look round the table, ‘he never came back again.’

‘That ain’t bad, if it’s true,’ said the man in the Mosaic studs, lighting a fresh cigar.

‘If!’ exclaimed the old man, with a look of excessive contempt. ‘I suppose,’ he added, turning to Lowten, ‘he’ll say next, that my story about the queer client we had, when I was in an attorney’s office, is not true either—I shouldn’t wonder.’

“Divertente!”, esclamò involontariamente il signor Pickwick.

“Sì, divertente, non è vero?” rispose il vecchietto con un sorriso malizioso; poi, senza aspettare una risposta, continuò.

Il ragazzo era paralizzato dallo stupore; il giovane ribelle non provava alcuna paura.

“Non è male, se è vero,” disse l’uomo con i bottoni a forma di Mosè, accendendo un nuovo sigaro.

“‘Se solo,!’ esclamò l’uomo anziano, con un’espressione di profondo disprezzo. ‘Suppongo,’ aggiunse, rivolgendosi a Lowten, ‘che dica anche che la mia storia su quel cliente strano che abbiamo avuto quando lavoravo in uno studio legale non sia vera. Non dovrei meravigliarmi.’”

‘I shan’t venture to say anything at all about it, seeing that I never heard the story,’ observed the owner of the Mosaic decorations.

‘I wish you would repeat it, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Ah, do,’ said Lowten, ‘nobody has heard it but me, and I have nearly forgotten it.’

The old man looked round the table, and leered more horribly than ever, as if in triumph, at the attention which was depicted in every face. Then rubbing his chin with his hand, and looking up to the ceiling as if to recall the circumstances to his memory, he began as follows:—

THE OLD MAN’S TALE ABOUT THE QUEER CLIENT

‘It matters little,’ said the old man, ‘where, or how, I picked up this brief history. If I were to relate it in the order in which it reached me, I should commence in the middle, and when I had arrived at the conclusion, go back for a beginning. It is enough for me to say that some of its circumstances passed before my own eyes; for the remainder I know them to have happened, and there are some persons yet living, who will remember them but too well.

‘In the Borough High Street, near St. George’s Church, and on the same side of the way, stands, as most people know, the smallest of our debtors’ prisons, the Marshalsea. Although in later times it has been a very different place from the sink of filth and dirt it once was, even its improved condition holds out but little temptation to the extravagant, or consolation to the improvident. The condemned felon has as good a yard for air and exercise in Newgate, as the insolvent debtor in the Marshalsea Prison. [Better. But this is past, in a better age, and the prison exists no longer.]

‘It may be my fancy, or it may be that I cannot separate the place from the old recollections associated with it, but this part of London I cannot bear. The street is broad, the shops are spacious, the noise of passing vehicles, the footsteps of a perpetual stream of people—all the busy sounds of traffic, resound in it from morn to midnight; but the streets around are mean and close; poverty and debauchery lie festering in the crowded alleys; want and misfortune are pent up in the narrow prison; an air of gloom and dreariness seems, in my eyes at least, to hang about the scene, and to impart to it a squalid and sickly hue.

‘Many eyes, that have long since been closed in the grave, have looked round upon that scene lightly enough, when entering the gate of the old Marshalsea Prison for the first time; for despair seldom comes with the first severe shock of misfortune. A man has confidence in untried friends, he remembers the many offers of service so freely made by his boon companions when he wanted them not; he has hope—the hope of happy inexperience—and however he may bend beneath the first shock, it springs up in his bosom, and flourishes there for a brief space, until it droops beneath the blight of disappointment and neglect. How soon have those same eyes, deeply sunken in the head, glared from faces wasted with famine, and sallow from confinement, in days when it was no figure of speech to say that debtors rotted in prison, with no hope of release, and no prospect of liberty! The atrocity in its full extent no longer exists, but there is enough of it left to give rise to occurrences that make the heart bleed.

‘Twenty years ago, that pavement was worn with the footsteps of a mother and child, who, day by day, so surely as the morning came, presented themselves at the prison gate; often after a night of restless misery and anxious thoughts, were they there, a full hour too soon, and then the young mother turning meekly away, would lead the child to the old bridge, and raising him in her arms to show him the glistening water, tinted with the light of the morning’s sun, and stirring with all the bustling preparations for business and pleasure that the river presented at that early hour, endeavour to interest his thoughts in the objects before him. But she would quickly set him down, and hiding her face in her shawl, give vent to the tears that blinded her; for no expression of interest or amusement lighted up his thin and sickly face. His recollections were few enough, but they were all of one kind—all connected with the poverty and misery of his parents. Hour after hour had he sat on his mother’s knee, and with childish sympathy watched the tears that stole down her face, and then crept quietly away into some dark corner, and sobbed himself to sleep. The hard realities of the world, with many of its worst privations—hunger and thirst, and cold and want—had all come home to him, from the first dawnings of reason; and though the form of childhood was there, its light heart, its merry laugh, and sparkling eyes were wanting.

‘The father and mother looked on upon this, and upon each other, with thoughts of agony they dared not breathe in words. The healthy, strong- made man, who could have borne almost any fatigue of active exertion, was wasting beneath the close confinement and unhealthy atmosphere of a crowded prison. The slight and delicate woman was sinking beneath the combined effects of bodily and mental illness. The child’s young heart was breaking.

‘Winter came, and with it weeks of cold and heavy rain. The poor girl had removed to a wretched apartment close to the spot of her husband’s imprisonment; and though the change had been rendered necessary by their increasing poverty, she was happier now, for she was nearer him. For two months, she and her little companion watched the opening of the gate as usual. One day she failed to come, for the first time. Another morning arrived, and she came alone. The child was dead.

“Non oso dire assolutamente nulla al riguardo, visto che non ho mai sentito questa storia,” osservò il proprietario delle decorazioni a mosaico.

“Desidererei che lo ripetesse, signore,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Ah, davvero,” disse Lowten, “nessuno l’ha mai sentito tranne me, e ormai quasi me ne sono dimenticato.”

L’uomo anziano guardò intorno al tavolo e fissò tutti con uno sguardo ancora più orribile del solito, come se fosse in preda alla trionfalia per l’attenzione che leggeva sui volti di tutti. Poi si strofinò il mento con la mano e alzò lo sguardo verso il soffitto, come se cercasse di ricordare certi dettagli nella sua memoria, e iniziò a raccontare quanto segue:–

la storia dell’uomo anziano sul cliente strano

“Non ha molta importanza,” disse l’uomo anziano, “dove o come abbia raccolto questa breve storia. Se dovessi raccontarla nell’ordine in cui mi è arrivata, inizierei a metà e, una volta raggiunta la conclusione, dovrei tornare indietro per trovare l’inizio. È sufficiente che io dica che alcune delle sue circostanze si sono svolte davanti ai miei occhi; per il resto so con certezza che sono accadute, e ci sono ancora alcune persone in vita che se ne ricorderanno molto bene.”

“In Borough High Street, vicino alla chiesa di San Giorgio, e sullo stesso lato della strada, si trova, come la maggior parte delle persone sa, la più piccola delle nostre prigioni per debitori: il Marshalsea. Anche se in tempi successivi è diventata un posto molto diverso da quel rifugio di sporcizia e disordine che un tempo era, anche le sue condizioni migliorate offrono ben poco tentazione agli spreconi o alcun conforto ai negligenti. Il criminale condannato ha a Newgate lo stesso spazio per respirare e fare esercizio fisico di quanto il debitore insolvente nel Marshalsea Prison. [Meglio. Ma questo appartiene a un’epoca passata, a tempi migliori; quella prigione non esiste più.]”

“Forse è solo una mia impressione, o forse perché non riesco a separare questo luogo dalle vecchie memorie ad esso legate, ma questa parte di Londra semplicemente non la sopporto. La strada è larga, i negozi sono spaziosi; il rumore dei veicoli che passano, i passi di una folla incessante, tutti questi suoni caratteristici del traffico risuonano lì dal mattino a mezzanotte. Ma le strade circostanti sono misere e anguste; povertà e decadenza marciscono nelle strette viuzze; mancanza e sfortuna sembrano essere intrappolate in queste prigioni anguste. Almeno ai miei occhi, l’atmosfera qui è cupa e desolata, e conferisce al luogo un aspetto squallido e malaticcio.”

“Molti occhi, che da tempo erano chiusi nella tomba, hanno osservato con indifferenza quella scena la prima volta che si sono introdotti nel vecchio carcere di Marshalsea; infatti, il dispero raramente arriva subito dopo il primo grave colpo della sfortuna. Un uomo ha fiducia in amici ancora non testati; ricorda le tante offerte di aiuto che gli sono state fatte liberamente dai suoi compagni quando non ne aveva alcun bisogno; ha >speranza, la speranza derivante dall’essere ancora inesperti. E per quanto possa piegarsi sotto il peso del primo shock, quella speranza risorge nel suo cuore e fiorisce per un breve momento, fino a quando non viene distrutta dalla delusione e dal disprezzo. Quanto rapidamente quegli stessi occhi, ormai profondamente incassati nelle orbite, hanno iniziato a brillare su volti consumati dalla fame e dall’isolamento. Nei tempi in cui non era affatto una metafora dire che i debitori marcivano in prigione, senza alcuna speranza di libertà! L’atrocità nella sua forma più estrema non esiste più, ma ne rimane abbastanza per causare sofferenze indicibili.”

“Venti anni fa, quel marciapiede era logoro a causa dei passi di una madre e di un bambino che, giorno dopo giorno, con la certezza dell’alba, si presentavano alla porta della prigione; spesso, dopo una notte di angoscia e preoccupazione, arrivavano lì un’ora prima del previsto. La giovane madre, allora, li conduceva silenziosamente verso il vecchio ponte, sollevava il bambino tra le braccia per fargli vedere le acque scintillanti del fiume, illuminate dalla luce dell’alba, e cercava di interessarlo a ciò che lo circondava. Ma lui si metteva subito giù, nascondeva il viso nel suo scialle e lasciava sfociare le lacrime che gli offuscavano la vista; sul suo volto magro e malaticcio non appariva alcun segno di interesse o divertimento. I suoi ricordi erano pochi, ma tutti legati alla povertà e alle sofferenze dei suoi genitori. Ore dopo ore, sedeva sulle ginocchia della madre, osservando con compassione le lacrime che le scorrevano lungo il viso, poi si allontanava in silenzio in un angolo buio e piangeva fino ad addormentarsi. Le dure realtà del mondo, con tutte le sue privazioni – fame, sete, freddo e povertà – gli erano già diventate familiari fin dai primi anni della sua vita; e sebbene avesse ancora l’aspetto di un bambino, la sua anima leggera, il suo riso gioioso e i suoi occhi brillanti mancavano del tutto.”

Il padre e la madre osservavano questa situazione, e anche l’un l’altro, con pensieri di angoscia che non osavano esprimere a parole. L’uomo sano e forte, in grado di sopportare quasi qualsiasi fatica fisica, stava decadendo a causa delle condizioni restrittive e dell’atmosfera malsana di una affollata prigione. La donna minuta e delicata stava crollando sotto l’effetto combinato di malattie fisiche e mentali. Il giovane cuore del >bambino si stava spezzando.

Arrivò l’>Inverno, e con esso settimane di freddo e piogge intense. La povera ragazza si era trasferita in un misero appartamento vicino al luogo dove suo marito era stato incarcerato; e sebbene quel cambiamento fosse stato reso necessario dalla loro crescente >poverità, ora lei era più felice, perché si trovava più vicina a lui. Per due mesi, lei e il suo piccolo compagno osservarono l’apertura del cancello come al solito. Un giorno non vennero; per la prima volta. Un altro mattino arrivarono, ma lei era sola. Il bambino era morto.

‘They little know, who coldly talk of the poor man’s bereavements, as a happy release from pain to the departed, and a merciful relief from expense to the survivor—they little know, I say, what the agony of those bereavements is. A silent look of affection and regard when all other eyes are turned coldly away—the consciousness that we possess the sympathy and affection of one being when all others have deserted us—is a hold, a stay, a comfort, in the deepest affliction, which no wealth could purchase, or power bestow. The child had sat at his parents’ feet for hours together, with his little hands patiently folded in each other, and his thin wan face raised towards them. They had seen him pine away, from day to day; and though his brief existence had been a joyless one, and he was now removed to that peace and rest which, child as he was, he had never known in this world, they were his parents, and his loss sank deep into their souls.

‘It was plain to those who looked upon the mother’s altered face, that death must soon close the scene of her adversity and trial. Her husband’s fellow-prisoners shrank from obtruding on his grief and misery, and left to himself alone, the small room he had previously occupied in common with two companions. She shared it with him; and lingering on without pain, but without hope, her life ebbed slowly away.

‘She had fainted one evening in her husband’s arms, and he had borne her to the open window, to revive her with the air, when the light of the moon falling full upon her face, showed him a change upon her features, which made him stagger beneath her weight, like a helpless infant.

‘“Set me down, George,” she said faintly. He did so, and seating himself beside her, covered his face with his hands, and burst into tears.

‘“It is very hard to leave you, George,” she said; “but it is God’s will, and you must bear it for my sake. Oh! how I thank Him for having taken our boy! He is happy, and in heaven now. What would he have done here, without his mother!”

‘“You shall not die, Mary, you shall not die;” said the husband, starting up. He paced hurriedly to and fro, striking his head with his clenched fists; then reseating himself beside her, and supporting her in his arms, added more calmly, “Rouse yourself, my dear girl. Pray, pray do. You will revive yet.”

‘“Never again, George; never again,” said the dying woman. “Let them lay me by my poor boy now, but promise me, that if ever you leave this dreadful place, and should grow rich, you will have us removed to some quiet country churchyard, a long, long way off—very far from here— where we can rest in peace. Dear George, promise me you will.”

‘“I do, I do,” said the man, throwing himself passionately on his knees before her. “Speak to me, Mary, another word; one look—but one!”

‘He ceased to speak: for the arm that clasped his neck grew stiff and heavy. A deep sigh escaped from the wasted form before him; the lips moved, and a smile played upon the face; but the lips were pallid, and the smile faded into a rigid and ghastly stare. He was alone in the world.

‘That night, in the silence and desolation of his miserable room, the wretched man knelt down by the dead body of his wife, and called on God to witness a terrible oath, that from that hour, he devoted himself to revenge her death and that of his child; that thenceforth to the last moment of his life, his whole energies should be directed to this one object; that his revenge should be protracted and terrible; that his hatred should be undying and inextinguishable; and should hunt its object through the world.

‘The deepest despair, and passion scarcely human, had made such fierce ravages on his face and form, in that one night, that his companions in misfortune shrank affrighted from him as he passed by. His eyes were bloodshot and heavy, his face a deadly white, and his body bent as if with age. He had bitten his under lip nearly through in the violence of his mental suffering, and the blood which had flowed from the wound had trickled down his chin, and stained his shirt and neckerchief. No tear, or sound of complaint escaped him; but the unsettled look, and disordered haste with which he paced up and down the yard, denoted the fever which was burning within.

‘It was necessary that his wife’s body should be removed from the prison, without delay. He received the communication with perfect calmness, and acquiesced in its propriety. Nearly all the inmates of the prison had assembled to witness its removal; they fell back on either side when the widower appeared; he walked hurriedly forward, and stationed himself, alone, in a little railed area close to the lodge gate, from whence the crowd, with an instinctive feeling of delicacy, had retired. The rude coffin was borne slowly forward on men’s shoulders. A dead silence pervaded the throng, broken only by the audible lamentations of the women, and the shuffling steps of the bearers on the stone pavement. They reached the spot where the bereaved husband stood: and stopped. He laid his hand upon the coffin, and mechanically adjusting the pall with which it was covered, motioned them onward. The turnkeys in the prison lobby took off their hats as it passed through, and in another moment the heavy gate closed behind it. He looked vacantly upon the crowd, and fell heavily to the ground.

‘Although for many weeks after this, he was watched, night and day, in the wildest ravings of fever, neither the consciousness of his loss, nor the recollection of the vow he had made, ever left him for a moment. Scenes changed before his eyes, place succeeded place, and event followed event, in all the hurry of delirium; but they were all connected in some way with the great object of his mind. He was sailing over a boundless expanse of sea, with a blood-red sky above, and the angry waters, lashed into fury beneath, boiling and eddying up, on every side. There was another vessel before them, toiling and labouring in the howling storm; her canvas fluttering in ribbons from the mast, and her deck thronged with figures who were lashed to the sides, over which huge waves every instant burst, sweeping away some devoted creatures into the foaming sea. Onward they bore, amidst the roaring mass of water, with a speed and force which nothing could resist; and striking the stem of the foremost vessel, crushed her beneath their keel. From the huge whirlpool which the sinking wreck occasioned, arose a shriek so loud and shrill— the death-cry of a hundred drowning creatures, blended into one fierce yell—that it rung far above the war-cry of the elements, and echoed, and re-echoed till it seemed to pierce air, sky, and ocean. But what was that—that old gray head that rose above the water’s surface, and with looks of agony, and screams for aid, buffeted with the waves! One look, and he had sprung from the vessel’s side, and with vigorous strokes was swimming towards it. He reached it; he was close upon it. They were _his _features. The old man saw him coming, and vainly strove to elude his grasp. But he clasped him tight, and dragged him beneath the water. Down, down with him, fifty fathoms down; his struggles grew fainter and fainter, until they wholly ceased. He was dead; he had killed him, and had kept his oath.

“Quelli che parlano con freddezza delle perdite di un povero uomo, considerandole come una liberazione felice dal dolore per la persona scomparsa, o come un sollievo misericordioso per chi è rimasto, quelli non sanno davvero quanto sia profonda l’agonia di tali perdite. Uno sguardo silenzioso pieno di affetto e considerazione, quando tutti gli altri distolgono lo sguardo con indifferenza; la consapevolezza di possedere la simpatia e l’affetto di qualcuno, mentre tutti gli altri ci hanno abbandonati, queste cose rappresentano un sostegno, un conforto nelle sofferenze più profonde, che nessuna ricchezza potrebbe comprare, né alcun potere potrebbe donare. Quel >bambino sedeva per ore ai piedi dei suoi genitori, con le manine piccole e paffute giunte insieme, il viso pallido e magro rivolto verso di loro. L’hanno visto consumarsi giorno dopo giorno; e sebbene la sua breve esistenza fosse stata priva di gioie, e ora fosse passato a quella pace e riposo che, in quanto >bambino, non aveva mai conosciuto in questo mondo, loro erano comunque i suoi genitori, e la sua perdita ha colpito profondamente le loro anime.”

Era evidente, per chi osservava il volto cambiato di quella madre, che la morte avrebbe presto posto fine alle sue sofferenze e alle sue prove. Gli altri prigionieri del suo marito evitavano di disturbare il suo dolore e la sua miseria, lasciandola sola nella piccola stanza che in precedenza condivideva con due compagni. Lei vi rimase, vivendo senza >dolore, ma anche senza >speranza; lentamente, la sua vita si spegneva.

Un sera, lei svenne tra le braccia di suo marito, che la portò alla finestra aperta per farla riprendere fiato con l’aria fresca. Quando la luce della luna illuminò completamente il suo viso, notò un cambiamento nei suoi tratti, tanto che barcollò sotto il suo peso, come un bambino indifeso.

“Mettimi giù, George,” disse lei debolmente. Lui lo fece e, sedendosi accanto a lei, si coprì il viso con le mani e scoppiò in lacrime.

“È molto difficile lasciarti, George,” disse lei; “ma è la volontà di Dio, e devi sopportarlo per il mio bene. Oh! quanto Gli sono grata per aver preso nostro figlio. Ora è felice, in cielo. Cosa avrebbe fatto qui, senza sua madre?”

“Non morirai, Mary, non morirai,” disse il marito, alzandosi di scatto. Camminava avanti e indietro in fretta, battendosi la testa con i pugni chiusi; poi si rimise a sedere accanto a lei, tenendola tra le braccia, e aggiunse più calmo: “Risvegliati, mia cara. Prega, per favore. Ti riprenderai.”

“Mai più, George, mai più,” disse la donna morente. “Lasciali seppellirmi accanto al mio povero ragazzo. Ma promettimi che, se mai lascerai questo terribile posto e diventerai ricco, ci farai trasferire in un tranquillo cimitero di campagna, lontano, molto lontano da qui, dove potremo riposare in pace. Caro George, promettimelo.”

“Sì, sì,” disse l’uomo, gettandosi appassionatamente in ginocchio davanti a lei. “Parla con me, Mary, ancora una parola, uno sguardo, solo uno!”

Smise di parlare: il braccio che gli stringeva il collo divenne rigido e pesante. Un profondo sospiro sfuggì dalla sua figura emaciata; le labbra si mossero, e un sorriso apparve sul suo volto, ma le labbra erano pallide, e quel sorriso svanì in uno sguardo rigido e orribile. Era solo nel mondo.

‘Quella notte, nel silenzio e nella desolazione della sua misera stanza, l’uomo sventurato si inginocchiò accanto al cadavere morto di sua moglie e invocò Dio affinché fosse testimone di un terribile giuramento: da quel momento in poi, si dedicava alla vendetta della sua morte e di quella di suo figlio; che fino all’ultimo istante della sua vita, tutte le sue energie sarebbero state dedicate a questo unico scopo; che la sua vendetta fosse lunga e terribile; che il suo odio fosse eterno e indelebile; e che inseguisse il suo obiettivo in tutto il mondo.’

‘Il più profondo dispero e una passione quasi umana avevano devastato il suo volto e il suo aspetto in quella singola notte, al punto che i suoi compagni di sventura si allontanavano spaventati ogni volta che lo incrociavano. I suoi occhi erano rossi e gonfi, il viso pallidissimo, e il suo corpo curvo come se fosse invecchiato improvvisamente. Si era morso il labbro inferiore fino a farlo sanguinare a causa dell’intensità del suo dolore interno; il sangue che ne era sceso gli aveva bagnato il mento, macchiando la camicia e il fazzoletto. Non emise alcuna lacrima né un lamento; ma lo sguardo agitato e i suoi movimenti frenetici avanti e indietro nel cortile rivelavano la febbre che lo consumava interiormente.’

Era necessario che il corpo di sua moglie fosse rimosso dalla prigione senza indugio. Ricevette la notizia con perfetta calma e ne condivise la legittimità. Quasi tutti i detenuti della prigione si erano radunati per assistere al trasporto del cadavere; quando apparve il vedovo, si fecero da parte. Lui avanzò rapidamente e si fermò da solo in un piccolo spazio recintato, vicino al cancello d’ingresso della prigione; la folla, per un istinto di rispetto, si era allontanata. Il semplice feretro fu portato avanti lentamente sulle spalle degli uomini. Un silenzio mortale regnava tra la folla, interrotto soltanto dai lamenti delle donne e dal rumore dei passi dei portatori sul selciato di pietra. Arrivarono nel punto dove si trovava il marito in lutto: si fermarono. Lui posò una mano sul feretro, sistemò meccanicamente il velo che lo copriva e fece loro segno di proseguire. Gli agenti di custodia nella hall della prigione si tolsero il cappello al suo passaggio; un attimo dopo, il pesante cancello si chiuse alle sue spalle. Lui guardò vacuamente la folla e cadde a terra privo di sensi.

Per molte settimane dopo l’evento, fu sorvegliato giorno e notte; nel delirio febbrile, né la consapevolezza della sua perdita né il ricordo del voto che aveva fatto lo abbandonarono nemmeno per un istante. Scene si alternavano davanti ai suoi occhi: luoghi diversi, eventi uno dopo l’altro, tutti in qualche modo collegati al grande obiettivo della sua mente. Sembrava navigare su un vasto oceano, con un cielo di un rosso sangue e acque furiose che si sollevavano intorno a lui; davanti a loro c’era un altro veliero che lottava disperatamente nella tempesta: le vele strappate, il ponte affollato di persone legate ai bordi. Onde gigantesche le investivano continuamente, trascinando alcune di esse verso la morte. Il veliero avanzava con una velocità inarrestabile, colpendo la prua dell’altro scafo e sommergendolo. Dall’enorme vortice creato dal relitto si alzò un grido straziante, il grido di centinaia di creature che annegavano. Un urlo così forte da sovrastare il fragore della tempesta, che echeggiò per l’etere. Ma cosa era quella testa grigia che emergeva dalla superficie dell’acqua, lanciando urla disperate per chiedere aiuto? Con un balzo, l’uomo si tuffò e iniziò a nuotare verso di essa. Raggiunse il relitto. Erano le sue stesse sembianze. Il vecchio lo vide arrivare e cercò invano di sfuggirgli; lui però lo afferrò con forza e lo trascinò sott’acqua. Giù, sempre più giù. I suoi movimenti diventarono sempre più deboli. Fino a quando cessarono del tutto. Era morto. L’aveva ucciso. E aveva mantenuto il suo voto.

‘He was traversing the scorching sands of a mighty desert, barefoot and alone. The sand choked and blinded him; its fine thin grains entered the very pores of his skin, and irritated him almost to madness. Gigantic masses of the same material, carried forward by the wind, and shone through by the burning sun, stalked in the distance like pillars of living fire. The bones of men, who had perished in the dreary waste, lay scattered at his feet; a fearful light fell on everything around; so far as the eye could reach, nothing but objects of dread and horror presented themselves. Vainly striving to utter a cry of terror, with his tongue cleaving to his mouth, he rushed madly forward. Armed with supernatural strength, he waded through the sand, until, exhausted with fatigue and thirst, he fell senseless on the earth. What fragrant coolness revived him; what gushing sound was that? Water! It was indeed a well; and the clear fresh stream was running at his feet. He drank deeply of it, and throwing his aching limbs upon the bank, sank into a delicious trance. The sound of approaching footsteps roused him. An old gray-headed man tottered forward to slake his burning thirst. It was he again! He wound his arms round the old man’s body, and held him back. He struggled, and shrieked for water—for but one drop of water to save his life! But he held the old man firmly, and watched his agonies with greedy eyes; and when his lifeless head fell forward on his bosom, he rolled the corpse from him with his feet.

‘When the fever left him, and consciousness returned, he awoke to find himself rich and free, to hear that the parent who would have let him die in jail—would! who _had _let those who were far dearer to him than his own existence die of want, and sickness of heart that medicine cannot cure—had been found dead in his bed of down. He had had all the heart to leave his son a beggar, but proud even of his health and strength, had put off the act till it was too late, and now might gnash his teeth in the other world, at the thought of the wealth his remissness had left him. He awoke to this, and he awoke to more. To recollect the purpose for which he lived, and to remember that his enemy was his wife’s own father—the man who had cast him into prison, and who, when his daughter and her child sued at his feet for mercy, had spurned them from his door. Oh, how he cursed the weakness that prevented him from being up, and active, in his scheme of vengeance!

‘He caused himself to be carried from the scene of his loss and misery, and conveyed to a quiet residence on the sea-coast; not in the hope of recovering his peace of mind or happiness, for both were fled for ever; but to restore his prostrate energies, and meditate on his darling object. And here, some evil spirit cast in his way the opportunity for his first, most horrible revenge.

‘It was summer-time; and wrapped in his gloomy thoughts, he would issue from his solitary lodgings early in the evening, and wandering along a narrow path beneath the cliffs, to a wild and lonely spot that had struck his fancy in his ramblings, seat himself on some fallen fragment of the rock, and burying his face in his hands, remain there for hours— sometimes until night had completely closed in, and the long shadows of the frowning cliffs above his head cast a thick, black darkness on every object near him.

‘He was seated here, one calm evening, in his old position, now and then raising his head to watch the flight of a sea-gull, or carry his eye along the glorious crimson path, which, commencing in the middle of the ocean, seemed to lead to its very verge where the sun was setting, when the profound stillness of the spot was broken by a loud cry for help; he listened, doubtful of his having heard aright, when the cry was repeated with even greater vehemence than before, and, starting to his feet, he hastened in the direction whence it proceeded.

‘The tale told itself at once: some scattered garments lay on the beach; a human head was just visible above the waves at a little distance from the shore; and an old man, wringing his hands in agony, was running to and fro, shrieking for assistance. The invalid, whose strength was now sufficiently restored, threw off his coat, and rushed towards the sea, with the intention of plunging in, and dragging the drowning man ashore.

‘“Hasten here, Sir, in God’s name; help, help, sir, for the love of Heaven. He is my son, Sir, my only son!” said the old man frantically, as he advanced to meet him. “My only son, Sir, and he is dying before his father’s eyes!”

‘At the first word the old man uttered, the stranger checked himself in his career, and, folding his arms, stood perfectly motionless.

‘“Great God!” exclaimed the old man, recoiling, “Heyling!”

‘The stranger smiled, and was silent.

‘“Heyling!” said the old man wildly; “my boy, Heyling, my dear boy, look, look!” Gasping for breath, the miserable father pointed to the spot where the young man was struggling for life.

‘“Hark!” said the old man. “He cries once more. He is alive yet. Heyling, save him, save him!”

‘The stranger smiled again, and remained immovable as a statue.

‘“I have wronged you,” shrieked the old man, falling on his knees, and clasping his hands together. “Be revenged; take my all, my life; cast me into the water at your feet, and, if human nature can repress a struggle, I will die, without stirring hand or foot. Do it, Heyling, do it, but save my boy; he is so young, Heyling, so young to die!”

‘“Listen,” said the stranger, grasping the old man fiercely by the wrist; “I will have life for life, and here is one. My child died, before his father’s eyes, a far more agonising and painful death than that young slanderer of his sister’s worth is meeting while I speak. You laughed—laughed in your daughter’s face, where death had already set his hand—at our sufferings, then. What think you of them now! See there, see there!”

Attraversava le ardenti sabbie di un immenso -deserto, a piedi nudi e >solo. La sabbia lo soffocava e gli accecava la vista; i suoi finissimi granelli penetravano nelle porzioni più profonde della sua pelle, irritandolo fino al punto di farlo impazzire. Enormi masse dello stesso materiale, trasportate dal vento e illuminate dal sole ardente, si profilavano in lontananza come colonne di fuoco vivo. Le ossa degli uomini che erano morti in quell’orribile desolazione giacevano sparse intorno a lui; una luce spaventosa avvolgeva tutto ciò che lo circondava. Oltre l’orizzonte, non si vedeva altro che oggetti di terrore e orrore. Tentando invano di gridare per chiedere aiuto, con la lingua incollata al palato, continuò a correre follemente avanti. Armato di una forza soprannaturale, si fece strada tra le dune di sabbia. Finché, esausto per la fatica e la sete, cadde privo di sensi a terra. Che freschezza deliziosa lo rianimò. Quel suono che sentiva, era acqua! Era davvero una sorgente; un limpido ruscello scorreva ai suoi piedi. Bevve avidamente, poi si sdraiò sulla riva, perdendosi in un dolce oblio. Il suono di passi che si avvicinavano lo risvegliò. Un vecchio dai capelli grigi barcollava verso di lui per placare la sua sete ardente. Era lui! Avvolse le braccia intorno al corpo dell’anziano e lo trattenne indietro. L’uomo lottò disperatamente, gridando per dell’acqua. Solo una goccia d’acqua avrebbe potuto salvarlo. Ma lui tenne saldamente il vecchio, osservando con occhi avidi le sue sofferenze. Quando la sua testa inerme cadde sul suo petto, scagliò il corpo lontano da sé con i piedi.

Quando la febbre lo lasciò e riprese conoscenza, si svegliò trovandosi ricco e libero; scoprì che il padre che avrebbe potuto lasciarlo morire in prigione, sì, proprio lui!, quello che aveva permesso a persone molto più preziose per lui della sua stessa vita di morire di fame e di malattie dell’anima che nessuna medicina poteva curare, era stato trovato morto nel suo letto. Quell’uomo aveva tutto il cuore necessario per lasciare suo figlio nella povertà, ma orgoglioso della propria salute e forza, aveva rimandato quell’atto fino a quando non fu troppo tardi. Ora, nell’aldilà, doveva sicuramente mordersi i denti al pensiero della ricchezza che la sua negligenza gli aveva lasciato. Si svegliò con queste realtà, e con molte altre ancora. Ricordò lo scopo per cui viveva, e si rese conto che il suo nemico era proprio il padre di sua moglie: l’uomo che lo aveva gettato in prigione, e che, quando sua figlia e suo nipote gli avevano chiesto pietà ai suoi piedi, li aveva scacciati via. Oh, quanto maledisse quella debolezza che gli impediva di agire con decisione nel suo piano di vendetta!

Si fece portare via dal luogo della sua perdita e del suo dolore, e fu trasferito in una tranquilla residenza sulla costa marittima; non nella speranza di riacquistare la pace mentale o la felicità, poiché entrambe erano ormai irrecuperabili; ma per riprendersi e riflettere sul suo oggetto d’amore. Ed è qui che qualche spirito malvagio gli fornì l’opportunità per la sua prima, più orribile vendetta.

Era la stagione estiva; avvolto nei suoi pensieri cupi, usciva dalle sue solitarie dimore all’inizio della sera e si incamminava lungo un sentiero stretto sotto le scogliere, fino a raggiungere un luogo selvaggio e desolato che gli era piaciuto durante i suoi vagabondaggi. Lì si sedeva su qualche frammento di roccia caduta, nascondendo il viso tra le mani, e rimaneva lì per ore, a volte fino a quando la notte non calava completamente, e le lunghe ombre delle scogliere sopra di lui gettavano un’oscurità densa e nera su ogni oggetto intorno a lui.

Era seduto lì, una serata tranquilla, nella sua solita posizione; di tanto in tanto alzava lo sguardo per osservare il volo di una gabbiana o seguiva con gli occhi quel meraviglioso sentiero color cremisi che, partendo dal centro dell’oceano, sembrava condurre fino al suo bordo, dove il sole stava tramontando. Quando il profondo silenzio di quel luogo fu interrotto da un forte grido d’aiuto, lui ascoltò, incerto se avesse davvero sentito bene; poi il grido si ripeté con ancora più intensità, e lui si alzò in piedi, dirigendosi rapidamente nella direzione da cui proveniva.

La storia si spiegò da sola all’istante: alcuni indumenti sparsi giacevano sulla riva; una testa umana era appena visibile sopra le onde, a poca distanza dalla costa; e un vecchio, stringendosi le mani per il dolore, correva avanti e indietro, gridando chiedendo aiuto. L’uomo malato, ormai sufficientemente in forze, si tolse il cappotto e corse verso il mare, con l’intenzione di tuffarsi e trarre in salvo l’uomo che stava annegando.

“Presto, signore, per amor di Dio; aiutateci, per l’amor del cielo! È mio figlio, il mio unico figlio!” gridava l’uomo anziano, correndogli incontro in preda al panico. “Il mio unico figlio, e sta morendo davanti ai miei occhi!”

Non appena l’uomo anziano pronunciò la prima parola, lo sconosciuto si fermò immediatamente nel suo movimento e, incrociando le braccia, rimase perfettamente immobile.

“Gran Dio!”, esclamò l’uomo anziano, indietreggiando, “Heyling!”

Lo sconosciuto sorrise e rimase in silenzio.

“‘Heyling!’ gridò l’uomo anziano disperatamente; ‘mio ragazzo, Heyling, mio caro ragazzo, guarda, guarda!’ Con il respiro affannoso, quel povero padre indicò il punto in cui il giovane stava lottando per la vita.’

“Ascoltate!” disse l’uomo anziano. “Piange di nuovo. È ancora vivo. Heyling, salvatelo, per favore!”

Lo sconosciuto sorrise di nuovo e rimase fermo come una statua.

“Ti ho fatto del male,” gridò l’uomo anziano, cadendo in ginocchio e stringendo le mani. “Ricambiami il male; prenditi tutto ciò che ho, la mia vita; gettami nell’acqua ai tuoi piedi, e se la natura umana può reprimere ogni resistenza, morirò senza muovere un dito. Fallo, Heyling, ma salva mio figlio; è così giovane, Heyling, ”

“Ascolta,” disse lo sconosciuto, afferrando con forza il polso dell’uomo anziano; “Voglio vita per vita. Ecco una prova: il mio figlio è morto davanti agli occhi di suo padre, in un modo molto più doloroso e atroce di quello che sta subendo quel giovane che diffama la virtù di sua sorella mentre parliamo. Hai riso, hai riso in faccia a tua figlia, mentre la morte aveva già messo le sue mani su di lei. Che ne pensi ora delle nostre sofferenze? Guarda lì, ”

‘As the stranger spoke, he pointed to the sea. A faint cry died away upon its surface; the last powerful struggle of the dying man agitated the rippling waves for a few seconds; and the spot where he had gone down into his early grave, was undistinguishable from the surrounding water.

‘Three years had elapsed, when a gentleman alighted from a private carriage at the door of a London attorney, then well known as a man of no great nicety in his professional dealings, and requested a private interview on business of importance. Although evidently not past the prime of life, his face was pale, haggard, and dejected; and it did not require the acute perception of the man of business, to discern at a glance, that disease or suffering had done more to work a change in his appearance, than the mere hand of time could have accomplished in twice the period of his whole life.

‘“I wish you to undertake some legal business for me,” said the stranger.

‘The attorney bowed obsequiously, and glanced at a large packet which the gentleman carried in his hand. His visitor observed the look, and proceeded.

‘“It is no common business,” said he; “nor have these papers reached my hands without long trouble and great expense.”

‘The attorney cast a still more anxious look at the packet; and his visitor, untying the string that bound it, disclosed a quantity of promissory notes, with copies of deeds, and other documents.

‘“Upon these papers,” said the client, “the man whose name they bear, has raised, as you will see, large sums of money, for years past. There was a tacit understanding between him and the men into whose hands they originally went—and from whom I have by degrees purchased the whole, for treble and quadruple their nominal value—that these loans should be from time to time renewed, until a given period had elapsed. Such an understanding is nowhere expressed. He has sustained many losses of late; and these obligations accumulating upon him at once, would crush him to the earth.”

‘“The whole amount is many thousands of pounds,” said the attorney, looking over the papers.

‘“It is,” said the client.

‘“What are we to do?” inquired the man of business.

‘“Do!” replied the client, with sudden vehemence. “Put every engine of the law in force, every trick that ingenuity can devise and rascality execute; fair means and foul; the open oppression of the law, aided by all the craft of its most ingenious practitioners. I would have him die a harassing and lingering death. Ruin him, seize and sell his lands and goods, drive him from house and home, and drag him forth a beggar in his old age, to die in a common jail.”

‘“But the costs, my dear Sir, the costs of all this,” reasoned the attorney, when he had recovered from his momentary surprise. “If the defendant be a man of straw, who is to pay the costs, Sir?”

‘“Name any sum,” said the stranger, his hand trembling so violently with excitement, that he could scarcely hold the pen he seized as he spoke— “any sum, and it is yours. Don’t be afraid to name it, man. I shall not think it dear, if you gain my object.”

‘The attorney named a large sum, at hazard, as the advance he should require to secure himself against the possibility of loss; but more with the view of ascertaining how far his client was really disposed to go, than with any idea that he would comply with the demand. The stranger wrote a cheque upon his banker, for the whole amount, and left him.

‘The draft was duly honoured, and the attorney, finding that his strange client might be safely relied upon, commenced his work in earnest. For more than two years afterwards, Mr. Heyling would sit whole days together, in the office, poring over the papers as they accumulated, and reading again and again, his eyes gleaming with joy, the letters of remonstrance, the prayers for a little delay, the representations of the certain ruin in which the opposite party must be involved, which poured in, as suit after suit, and process after process, was commenced. To all applications for a brief indulgence, there was but one reply—the money must be paid. Land, house, furniture, each in its turn, was taken under some one of the numerous executions which were issued; and the old man himself would have been immured in prison had he not escaped the vigilance of the officers, and fled.

‘The implacable animosity of Heyling, so far from being satiated by the success of his persecution, increased a hundredfold with the ruin he inflicted. On being informed of the old man’s flight, his fury was unbounded. He gnashed his teeth with rage, tore the hair from his head, and assailed with horrid imprecations the men who had been intrusted with the writ. He was only restored to comparative calmness by repeated assurances of the certainty of discovering the fugitive. Agents were sent in quest of him, in all directions; every stratagem that could be invented was resorted to, for the purpose of discovering his place of retreat; but it was all in vain. Half a year had passed over, and he was still undiscovered.

‘At length late one night, Heyling, of whom nothing had been seen for many weeks before, appeared at his attorney’s private residence, and sent up word that a gentleman wished to see him instantly. Before the attorney, who had recognised his voice from above stairs, could order the servant to admit him, he had rushed up the staircase, and entered the drawing-room pale and breathless. Having closed the door, to prevent being overheard, he sank into a chair, and said, in a low voice—

‘“Hush! I have found him at last.”

‘“No!” said the attorney. “Well done, my dear sir, well done.”

‘“He lies concealed in a wretched lodging in Camden Town,” said Heyling. “Perhaps it is as well we _did _lose sight of him, for he has been living alone there, in the most abject misery, all the time, and he is poor—very poor.”

Mentre lo sconosciuto parlava, indicò verso il mare. Un debole grido si dissolse sulla sua superficie; l’ultima strenua lotta dell’uomo morente agitò le onde per qualche secondo; e il punto in cui era scomparso nella sua prematura >tomba non si distingueva più dall’acqua circostante.

Erano trascorsi tre anni quando un gentiluomo scese da una carrozza privata davanti all’ufficio di un avvocato di Londra, allora ben noto per non essere particolarmente scrupoloso nelle sue attività professionali, e chiese di avere un colloquio privato per questioni importanti. Sebbene chiaramente non fosse ancora nella piena delle forze, il suo viso era pallido, segnato dalla stanchezza e dall’abbattimento; e non occorreva una grande perspicacia per capire, a prima vista, che malattia o sofferenza avevano causato in lui cambiamenti nell’aspetto molto maggiori di quelli che il semplice passare del tempo avrebbe potuto produrre in un periodo doppio della sua vita.

“Vorrei che tu svolgessi per me alcuni affari legali”, disse lo straniero.

L’avvocato si inchinò servilmente e lanciò un’occhiata a un grosso pacco che l’uomo teneva in mano. Il suo visitatore notò quel gesto e continuò il proprio discorso.

“Non si tratta di un affare comune,” disse; “inoltre, questi documenti non sono arrivati nelle mie mani senza molte difficoltà e notevoli spese.”

L’avvocato lanciò uno sguardo ancora più ansioso verso il pacco; il suo visitatore, sciogliendo la corda che lo legava, ne estrasse un certo numero di cambiali, insieme a copie di atti notarili e altri documenti.

“Su questi documenti,” disse il cliente, “l’uomo il cui nome vi è indicato ha raccolto, come vedrete, ingenti somme di denaro negli ultimi anni. Esisteva un accordo tacito tra lui e le persone a cui quei documenti furono inizialmente consegnati; da queste ho gradualmente acquistato l’intera collezione, al triplo e quadruplo del loro valore nominale, con la condizione che tali prestiti venissero rinnovati di tanto in tanto, fino a quando non fosse trascorso un determinato periodo. Tuttavia, tale accordo non è mai stato formalmente espresso per iscritto. Negli ultimi tempi ha subito molte perdite; e l’accumulo improvviso di queste obbligazioni lo distruggerebbe completamente.”

“La somma totale ammonta a molte migliaia di sterline,” disse l’avvocato, esaminando i documenti.

“È proprio così,” disse il cliente.

“Cosa dobbiamo fare?” chiese l’uomo d’affari.

“‘Fai pure!’ rispose il cliente con improvvisa veemenza. ‘Usa tutti gli strumenti della legge, ogni trucco che l’ingegno umano possa inventare e la malvagità attuare; metodi onesti o disonesti. Opprimilo apertamente, con tutte le astuzie dei suoi più abili praticanti. Voglio che muoia in modo lento e tormentoso. Distruggilo, confisca e venda le sue terre e i suoi beni, caccialo dalla sua casa e dalla sua dimora. E lascialo morire in prigione, da vecchio.’”

“Ma i costi, mio caro signore, i costi di tutto questo, ”, ragionò l’avvocato, una volta ripreso dal suo momento di sorpresa. “Se l’imputato è solo un fantoccio, chi dovrà pagare i costi, signore?”

“Qualsiasi somma,” disse lo sconosciuto, con la mano che tremava violentemente per l’emozione, al punto di non riuscire quasi a tenere la penna che aveva afferrato mentre parlava, “qualsiasi somma, e sarà tua. Non aver paura di dirlo: non la troverò troppo alta, se otterrai ciò che desidero.”

L’avvocato menzionò una somma considerevole, considerandola un rischio da correre, come anticipo necessario per proteggersi dal rischio di perdita; ma lo fece più che altro al fine di scoprire fino a che punto il suo cliente fosse realmente disposto ad andare avanti, piuttosto che con l’intenzione reale di far fronte a tale richiesta. Lo sconosciuto compilò un assegno sul proprio conto bancario per l’intera somma e se ne andò.

La richiesta fu debitamente accolta, e l’avvocato, ritenendo che il suo strano cliente potesse essere affidabile, iniziò seriamente a lavorare. Per più di due anni successivi, il signor Heyling trascorse intere giornate in ufficio, esaminando attentamente i documenti che continuavano ad accumularsi, leggendo ancora e ancora quelle lettere di rimprovero, quelle preghiere per un breve rinvio, quelle argomentazioni secondo cui la controparte sarebbe sicuramente andata incontro a rovina. Tutte queste richieste arrivavano una dopo l’altra. A ogni sollecitazione per ottenere un po’ di tempo in più, c’era sempre la stessa risposta: i soldi dovevano essere pagati. Terreni, case, mobili, tutto venne sequestrato nell’ambito delle numerose esecuzioni che furono avviate; e l’anziano stesso sarebbe finito in prigione se non fosse riuscito a eludere la sorveglianza degli ufficiali e a fuggire.

‘L’implacabile animosità di Heyling, lungi dall’essersi placata con il successo delle sue persecuzioni, aumentò cento volte di più con la rovina che aveva causato. Quando venne a sapere della fuga dell’uomo anziano, la sua furia divenne incontrollabile: digrignava i denti per la rabbia, si strappava i capelli e malediceva con parole orribili coloro che erano stati incaricati di eseguire l’ordine di arresto. Solo dopo ripetute assicurazioni riguardo alla certezza di trovare il fuggitivo riuscì a calmarsi un po’. Furono inviati agenti in tutte le direzioni per cercarlo; vennero adottate ogni strategia possibile al fine di scoprire dove si fosse nascosto, ma tutto fu inutile. Mezzo anno era trascorso e lui non era ancora stato trovato.’

‘Finalmente, una sera tardi, Heyling – di cui non si avevano notizie da molte settimane – apparve nella residenza privata del suo avvocato e comunicò che un gentiluomo desiderava vederlo immediatamente. Prima ancora che l’avvocato, riconosciuto la sua voce dal piano di sopra, potesse ordinare al servitore di farlo entrare, Heyling era già salito le scale ed era entrato nel salotto, pallido e senza fiato. Dopo aver chiuso la porta per evitare che qualcuno lo sentisse, si lasciò cadere su una sedia e disse, a voce bassa, ’

“Zitta! L’ho finalmente trovato.”

“‘No!’ disse l’avvocato. ‘Bene fatto, mio caro signore, davvero bene.’”

“Si nasconde in una misera abitazione a Camden Town,” disse Heyling.
“Forse è davvero così che lo abbiamo perso di vista. Perché ha vissuto lì da solo, nella più profonda povertà, per tutto questo tempo. Ed è povero. Molto povero.”

‘“Very good,” said the attorney. “You will have the caption made to- morrow, of course?”

‘“Yes,” replied Heyling. “Stay! No! The next day. You are surprised at my wishing to postpone it,” he added, with a ghastly smile; “but I had forgotten. The next day is an anniversary in his life: let it be done then.”

‘“Very good,” said the attorney. “Will you write down instructions for the officer?”

‘“No; let him meet me here, at eight in the evening, and I will accompany him myself.”

‘They met on the appointed night, and, hiring a hackney-coach, directed the driver to stop at that corner of the old Pancras Road, at which stands the parish workhouse. By the time they alighted there, it was quite dark; and, proceeding by the dead wall in front of the Veterinary Hospital, they entered a small by-street, which is, or was at that time, called Little College Street, and which, whatever it may be now, was in those days a desolate place enough, surrounded by little else than fields and ditches.

‘Having drawn the travelling-cap he had on half over his face, and muffled himself in his cloak, Heyling stopped before the meanest-looking house in the street, and knocked gently at the door. It was at once opened by a woman, who dropped a curtsey of recognition, and Heyling, whispering the officer to remain below, crept gently upstairs, and, opening the door of the front room, entered at once.

‘The object of his search and his unrelenting animosity, now a decrepit old man, was seated at a bare deal table, on which stood a miserable candle. He started on the entrance of the stranger, and rose feebly to his feet.

‘“What now, what now?” said the old man. “What fresh misery is this? What do you want here?”

‘“A word with you,” replied Heyling. As he spoke, he seated himself at the other end of the table, and, throwing off his cloak and cap, disclosed his features.

‘The old man seemed instantly deprived of speech. He fell backward in his chair, and, clasping his hands together, gazed on the apparition with a mingled look of abhorrence and fear.

‘“This day six years,” said Heyling, “I claimed the life you owed me for my child’s. Beside the lifeless form of your daughter, old man, I swore to live a life of revenge. I have never swerved from my purpose for a moment’s space; but if I had, one thought of her uncomplaining, suffering look, as she drooped away, or of the starving face of our innocent child, would have nerved me to my task. My first act of requital you well remember: this is my last.”

‘The old man shivered, and his hands dropped powerless by his side.

‘“I leave England to-morrow,” said Heyling, after a moment’s pause. “To- night I consign you to the living death to which you devoted her—a hopeless prison—”

‘He raised his eyes to the old man’s countenance, and paused. He lifted the light to his face, set it gently down, and left the apartment.

‘“You had better see to the old man,” he said to the woman, as he opened the door, and motioned the officer to follow him into the street. “I think he is ill.” The woman closed the door, ran hastily upstairs, and found him lifeless.

‘Beneath a plain gravestone, in one of the most peaceful and secluded churchyards in Kent, where wild flowers mingle with the grass, and the soft landscape around forms the fairest spot in the garden of England, lie the bones of the young mother and her gentle child. But the ashes of the father do not mingle with theirs; nor, from that night forward, did the attorney ever gain the remotest clue to the subsequent history of his queer client.’

As the old man concluded his tale, he advanced to a peg in one corner, and taking down his hat and coat, put them on with great deliberation; and, without saying another word, walked slowly away. As the gentleman with the Mosaic studs had fallen asleep, and the major part of the company were deeply occupied in the humorous process of dropping melted tallow-grease into his brandy-and-water, Mr. Pickwick departed unnoticed, and having settled his own score, and that of Mr. Weller, issued forth, in company with that gentleman, from beneath the portal of the Magpie and Stump.

CHAPTER XXII. MR. PICKWICK JOURNEYS TO IPSWICH AND MEETS WITH A ROMANTIC ADVENTURE WITH A MIDDLE-AGED LADY IN YELLOW CURL-PAPERS

That ‘ere your governor’s luggage, Sammy?’ inquired Mr. Weller of his affectionate son, as he entered the yard of the Bull Inn, Whitechapel, with a travelling-bag and a small portmanteau.

‘You might ha’ made a worser guess than that, old feller,’ replied Mr. Weller the younger, setting down his burden in the yard, and sitting himself down upon it afterwards. ‘The governor hisself’ll be down here presently.’

‘He’s a-cabbin’ it, I suppose?’ said the father.

‘Yes, he’s a havin’ two mile o’ danger at eight-pence,’ responded the son. ‘How’s mother-in-law this mornin’?’

‘Queer, Sammy, queer,’ replied the elder Mr. Weller, with impressive gravity. ‘She’s been gettin’ rayther in the Methodistical order lately, Sammy; and she is uncommon pious, to be sure. She’s too good a creetur for me, Sammy. I feel I don’t deserve her.’

‘Ah,’ said Mr. Samuel. ‘that’s wery self-denyin’ o’ you.’

‘Wery,’ replied his parent, with a sigh. ‘She’s got hold o’ some inwention for grown-up people being born again, Sammy—the new birth, I think they calls it. I should wery much like to see that system in haction, Sammy. I should wery much like to see your mother-in-law born again. Wouldn’t I put her out to nurse!’

‘What do you think them women does t’other day,’ continued Mr. Weller, after a short pause, during which he had significantly struck the side of his nose with his forefinger some half-dozen times. ‘What do you think they does, t’other day, Sammy?’

‘Don’t know,’ replied Sam, ‘what?’

“Molto bene”, disse l’avvocato. “Naturalmente, il testo verrà pronto entro domani, vero?”

“Sì,” rispose Heyling. “Resta. No! Il giorno dopo. Siete sorpresi dal mio desiderio di posticiparlo,” aggiunse, con un sorriso orribile; “ma me n’ero dimenticato. Il giorno dopo è un anniversario nella sua vita: che avvenga allora.”

“Molto bene”, disse l’avvocato. “Scriverà le istruzioni per l’ufficiale?”

“No; facciamolo incontrare qui da me alle otto di sera, e io lo accompagnerò personalmente.”

Si incontrarono nella notte stabilita e, noleggiando una vettura a cavalli, ordinarono al conducente di fermarsi all’angolo della vecchia strada di Pancras, dove si trovava l’ospizio parrocchiale. Quando scesero da là, era già buio pesto; proseguendo lungo il muro in fronte all’Ospedale Veterinario, entrarono in una piccola via laterale che, a quel tempo, si chiamava Little College Street. Ora che so non so come sia cambiata, allora era davvero un luogo desolato, circondato per lo più da campi e fossati.

Avvolgendosi la sciarpa attorno al viso e nascondendosi bene nel suo mantello, Heyling si fermò davanti alla casa dall’aspetto più squallido della strada e bussò delicatamente alla porta. Questa si aprì subito: una donna lo salutò con un breve inchino di riconoscimento. Heyling, sussurrando all’ufficiale di rimanere sotto, salì silenziosamente le scale ed entrò immediatamente nella stanza principale.

L’oggetto della sua ricerca e della sua inesauribile ostilità, ora un vecchio decrepito, sedeva davanti a un tavolo di legno grezzo, su cui c’era una misera candela. Al momento dell’ingresso dello sconosciuto, si alzò debolmente in piedi.

“Cosa ora, cosa ora?” disse l’uomo anziano. “Che nuova sventura è questa? Cosa vuoi qui?”

“Una parola con te,” rispose Heyling. Mentre parlava, si sedette all’altra estremità del tavolo e, togliendosi il mantello e il cappello, rivelò il proprio volto.

“L’uomo anziano sembrò perdere immediatamente la capacità di parlare. Si abbassò all’indietro sulla sedia, incrociò le mani e fissò quell’apparizione con uno sguardo misto di orrore e paura.”

“‘Sei anni sono passati oggi,’ disse Heyling, ‘il giorno in cui ho reclamato la vita che mi dovevate per mio figlio. Accanto al corpo senza vita di vostra figlia, vecchio uomo, giurai di dedicare la mia vita alla vendetta. Non ho mai deviato dal mio scopo nemmeno per un istante; ma se l’avessi fatto, il solo pensiero all’espressione silenziosa e sofferente di lei mentre moriva, o al viso affamato del nostro innocente bambino, mi avrebbe dato la forza necessaria per portare a termine la mia missione. Il mio primo atto di vendetta lo ricorderete bene. Questo è il mio ultimo.’”

“L’uomo anziano tremò, e le sue mani caddero inermi lungo i suoi fianchi.”

“Domani lascio l’Inghilterra,” disse Heyling dopo un momento di pausa. “Stasera vi abbandono alla morte vivente che avete scelto per lei, una prigione senza speranza, ”

Alzò lo sguardo sul volto dell’uomo anziano e si fermò. Portò la lampada davanti al viso, la posò delicatamente a terra e poi lasciò l’appartamento.

“È meglio che ti occupi di quell’uomo anziano,” disse all’ donna aprendo la porta e facendo segno all’ufficiale di seguirlo in strada. “Penso sia malato.” L’ donna chiuse la porta, corse di sopra e lo trovò privo di vita.

Sotto una semplice lapide, in uno dei cimiteri più tranquilli e isolati di Kent, dove fiori selvatici si mescolano all’erba e il paesaggio dolce lo rende il luogo più incantevole d’Inghilterra, riposano le ossa della giovane madre e del suo tenero >bambino. Ma le ceneri del padre non sono con loro; né, da quella notte in poi, l’avvocato riuscì mai a scoprire la minima traccia della successiva storia del suo strano cliente.

Quando l’uomo anziano concluse il suo racconto, si avvicinò a un gancio situato in un angolo, si tolse cappello e cappotto e li indossò con grande attenzione; poi, senza dire una parola in più, se ne andò lentamente. Mentre il signore con i bottoni a forma di tavolette mosaiche si era addormentato e la maggior parte dei presenti era profondamente impegnata nel divertente spettacolo di versare grasso fuso nel suo brandy e acqua, il signor Pickwick se ne andò inosservato. Dopo aver sistemato le questioni relative a sé stesso e al signor Weller, uscì insieme a quel gentiluomo da sotto l’ingresso del locale “Magpie and Stump”.

CAPITOLO XXII. IL SIGNOR PICKWICK VIAGGA A IPSWICH E VIVE UNA AVVENTURA ROMANTICA CON UNA DONNA DI MEZZ’ETÀ CHE USAVA PAPIRI PER I CAPELLI A ONDA GIALLA

“Quella è la valigia del tuo governatore, Sammy?” chiese il signor Weller al suo affettuoso figlio, mentre entravano nel cortile della Bull Inn, a Whitechapel, con una borsa da viaggio e un piccolo baule.

“Avresti potuto fare una supposizione ancora peggiore, vecchio mio,” rispose il signor Weller il giovane, posando il proprio carico nel cortile e poi sedendosi sopra di esso. “Il governatore in persona arriverà qui tra poco.”

“Sta andando in cabina, immagino?”, disse il padre.

“Sì, sta correndo un rischio enorme per soli otto penny,” rispose il figlio. “E come sta la suocera stamattina?”

“Strana, Sammie, davvero strana,” rispose il signor Weller più anziano con una gravità impressionante. “Ultimamente si è avvicinata molto all’ordine metodista, Sammie; e sicuramente è molto devota. È troppo buona per me, Sammie. Penso di non meritarla.”

“Ah,” disse il signor Samuel. “Quello è davvero un atto di grande autocontrollo da parte tua.”

“Davvero,” rispose suo padre con un sospiro. “Ha ideato qualche sistema per far rinascere gli adulti. La chiamano ‘rinascita’, credo. Mi piacerebbe molto vedere funzionare quel sistema, Sammy. Mi piacerebbe molto vedere tua suocera rinascere. Non la manderei subito a fare la infermiera!”

“Cosa credi che facciano le donne quei giorni, ”, continuò il signor Weller, dopo una breve pausa durante la quale aveva colpito ripetutamente il lato del proprio naso con l’indice. “Cosa pensi che facciano, Sammy?”

“Non lo so,” rispose Sam, “cosa?”

‘Goes and gets up a grand tea drinkin’ for a feller they calls their shepherd,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘I was a-standing starin’ in at the pictur shop down at our place, when I sees a little bill about it; “tickets half-a-crown. All applications to be made to the committee. Secretary, Mrs. Weller”; and when I got home there was the committee a-sittin’ in our back parlour. Fourteen women; I wish you could ha’ heard ‘em, Sammy. There they was, a-passin’ resolutions, and wotin’ supplies, and all sorts o’ games. Well, what with your mother-in-law a-worrying me to go, and what with my looking for’ard to seein’ some queer starts if I did, I put my name down for a ticket; at six o’clock on the Friday evenin’ I dresses myself out wery smart, and off I goes with the old ‘ooman, and up we walks into a fust-floor where there was tea-things for thirty, and a whole lot o’ women as begins whisperin’ to one another, and lookin’ at me, as if they’d never seen a rayther stout gen’l’m’n of eight-and-fifty afore. By and by, there comes a great bustle downstairs, and a lanky chap with a red nose and a white neckcloth rushes up, and sings out, “Here’s the shepherd a-coming to wisit his faithful flock;” and in comes a fat chap in black, vith a great white face, a-smilin’ avay like clockwork. Such goin’s on, Sammy! “The kiss of peace,” says the shepherd; and then he kissed the women all round, and ven he’d done, the man vith the red nose began. I was just a-thinkin’ whether I hadn’t better begin too—‘specially as there was a wery nice lady a-sittin’ next me—ven in comes the tea, and your mother-in-law, as had been makin’ the kettle bile downstairs. At it they went, tooth and nail. Such a precious loud hymn, Sammy, while the tea was a brewing; such a grace, such eatin’ and drinkin’! I wish you could ha’ seen the shepherd walkin’ into the ham and muffins. I never see such a chap to eat and drink— never. The red-nosed man warn’t by no means the sort of person you’d like to grub by contract, but he was nothin’ to the shepherd. Well; arter the tea was over, they sang another hymn, and then the shepherd began to preach: and wery well he did it, considerin’ how heavy them muffins must have lied on his chest. Presently he pulls up, all of a sudden, and hollers out, “Where is the sinner; where is the mis’rable sinner?” Upon which, all the women looked at me, and began to groan as if they was a-dying. I thought it was rather sing’ler, but howsoever, I says nothing. Presently he pulls up again, and lookin’ wery hard at me, says, “Where is the sinner; where is the mis’rable sinner?” and all the women groans again, ten times louder than afore. I got rather savage at this, so I takes a step or two for’ard and says, “My friend,” says I, “did you apply that ‘ere obserwation to me?” ‘Stead of beggin’ my pardon as any gen’l’m’n would ha’ done, he got more abusive than ever:—called me a wessel, Sammy—a wessel of wrath—and all sorts o’ names. So my blood being reg’larly up, I first gave him two or three for himself, and then two or three more to hand over to the man with the red nose, and walked off. I wish you could ha’ heard how the women screamed, Sammy, ven they picked up the shepherd from underneath the table—Hollo! here’s the governor, the size of life.’

As Mr. Weller spoke, Mr. Pickwick dismounted from a cab, and entered the yard.

‘Fine mornin’, Sir,’ said Mr. Weller, senior.

‘Beautiful indeed,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Beautiful indeed,’ echoes a red-haired man with an inquisitive nose and green spectacles, who had unpacked himself from a cab at the same moment as Mr. Pickwick. ‘Going to Ipswich, Sir?’

‘I am,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Extraordinary coincidence. So am I.’

Mr. Pickwick bowed.

‘Going outside?’ said the red-haired man.

Mr. Pickwick bowed again.

‘Bless my soul, how remarkable—I am going outside, too,’ said the red- haired man; ‘we are positively going together.’ And the red-haired man, who was an important-looking, sharp-nosed, mysterious-spoken personage, with a bird-like habit of giving his head a jerk every time he said anything, smiled as if he had made one of the strangest discoveries that ever fell to the lot of human wisdom.

‘I am happy in the prospect of your company, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Ah,’ said the new-comer, ‘it’s a good thing for both of us, isn’t it? Company, you see—company—is—is—it’s a very different thing from solitude—ain’t it?’

‘There’s no denying that ‘ere,’ said Mr. Weller, joining in the conversation, with an affable smile. ‘That’s what I call a self-evident proposition, as the dog’s-meat man said, when the housemaid told him he warn’t a gentleman.’

‘Ah,’ said the red-haired man, surveying Mr. Weller from head to foot with a supercilious look. ‘Friend of yours, sir?’

‘Not exactly a friend,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, in a low tone. ‘The fact is, he is my servant, but I allow him to take a good many liberties; for, between ourselves, I flatter myself he is an original, and I am rather proud of him.’

‘Ah,’ said the red-haired man, ‘that, you see, is a matter of taste. I am not fond of anything original; I don’t like it; don’t see the necessity for it. What’s your name, sir?’

‘Here is my card, sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, much amused by the abruptness of the question, and the singular manner of the stranger.

‘Ah,’ said the red-haired man, placing the card in his pocket-book, ‘Pickwick; very good. I like to know a man’s name, it saves so much trouble. That’s my card, sir. Magnus, you will perceive, sir—Magnus is my name. It’s rather a good name, I think, sir.’

‘A very good name, indeed,’ said Mr. Pickwick, wholly unable to repress a smile.

‘Yes, I think it is,’ resumed Mr. Magnus. ‘There’s a good name before it, too, you will observe. Permit me, sir—if you hold the card a little slanting, this way, you catch the light upon the up-stroke. There—Peter Magnus—sounds well, I think, sir.’

“Il ragazzo, per quanto fosse ancora piccolo, di notte colse una rosa e corse da Oliver,” disse il signor Weller. “Stavo guardando delle stampe nella bottega vicino a casa nostra quando vidi un avviso che diceva: ‘Biglietti a mezzo corone. Le richieste devono essere presentate al comitato. Segretaria, la signora Weller’; e quando tornai a casa, il comitato era già seduto nel salotto posteriore. Quattordici donne. Vorrei che le avessi sentite, Sammy! Stavano approvando risoluzioni, decidendo cosa fornire e organizzando ogni sorta di attività. Beh, con tua suocera che insisteva perché andassi, e io che temevo qualche guaio se ci fossi andato. Ho firmato per un biglietto; venerdì sera alle sei mi sono vestito molto bene e sono andato insieme a quella vecchia signora. Siamo entrati in una stanza dove c’era il tè per trenta persone, e molte donne hanno iniziato a sussurrare tra loro e a guardarmi come se non avessero mai visto un uomo robusto di ottantacinque anni prima. Poco dopo ci fu un gran trambusto al piano di sotto; arrivò un tizio alto con il naso rosso e una cravatta bianca che gridò: ‘Ecco il pastore che viene a visitare il suo fedele gregge!’ Poi entrò un uomo grasso in nero, con la faccia bianca e un sorriso smagliante. Che confusione, Sammy! Il pastore disse ‘Il bacio della pace’ e baciò tutte le donne; poi quello con il naso rosso iniziò a parlare. Stavo pensando se non dovesse essere il mio turno di parlare. Specialmente perché c’era una signora molto carina seduta accanto a me. Poi arrivò il tè, e tua suocera era già pronta con la teiera. Hanno iniziato a mangiare e bere. Che canti meravigliosi mentre il tè si preparava. Che eleganza, che banchetto! Vorrei che avessi visto il pastore mangiare quei panini. Non ho mai visto nessuno mangiare e bere così tanto. Quello con il naso rosso non era certo il tipo di persona con cui uno vorrebbe avere a che fare. Ma rispetto al pastore. Beh, dopo che il tè finì, cantarono un altro inno, poi il pastore iniziò a predicare. E lo fece davvero bene, considerando quanto pesanti dovevano essere quei panini sul suo petto. Poi, all’improvviso, si alzò e gridò: ‘Dove è il peccatore? Dove è quel misero peccatore?’ Tutte le donne mi guardarono e iniziarono a gemere come se stessero morendo. Pensai che fosse un po’ strano. Ma comunque non dissi nulla. Poi si alzò di nuovo, guardandomi attentamente, chiese: ‘Dove è il peccatore? Dove è quel misero peccatore?’ E tutte le donne gemettero ancora più forte. Ne ebbi abbastanza. Così feci un paio di passi avanti e dissi: ‘Amico mio, stavi forse parlando di me?’ Invece di chiedermi scusa come farebbe qualsiasi persona perbene, iniziò a insultarmi ancora di più. Mi chiamò peccatore, Sammy. Un vero peccatore. E così, con il sangue che mi ribolliva nelle vene, gli diedi due schiaffi. Poi ne diedi altri due all’uomo con il naso rosso. E me ne andai. Vorrei che avessi sentito come gridavano quelle donne. Quando lo sollevarono da sotto il tavolo. Ehi! Ecco il governatore. Proprio come nella vita reale, ”

Mentre il signor Weller parlava, il signor Pickwick scese da una carrozza e entrò nel cortile.

“Buongiorno, signore,” disse il signor Weller, il maggiore.

“Davvero bellissima,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

“Davvero bellissima,” commenta un uomo dai capelli rossi, con un naso curioso e occhiali verdi; aveva appena sceso da una cabina nello stesso momento in cui il signor Pickwick era arrivato. “Si reca a Ipswich, signore?”

“Lo sono,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

“Coincidenza straordinaria. Lo sono anch’io.”

Il signor Pickwick fece un inchino.

“Vai fuori?” disse l’uomo dai capelli rossi.

Il signor Pickwick si inchinò di nuovo.

“Mia povera ‘anima, che cosa straordinaria. Anch’io esco adesso,” disse l’uomo dai capelli rossi; “verremo davvero insieme.” Quell’uomo, dall’aspetto imponente, con il naso affilato e un modo di parlare misterioso, che aveva l’abitudine di scuotere la testa ogni volta che diceva qualcosa, sorrise come se avesse fatto una delle scoperte più strane mai capitate alla saggezza umana.

“Sono felice all’idea di poter condividere il vostro tempo, signore,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Ah,” disse il nuovo arrivato, “è una cosa positiva per entrambi, non è vero? La compagnia, capisci, la compagnia è qualcosa di molto diverso dalla solitudine, giusto?”

“Non si può negare che sia così,” disse il signor Weller, unendosi alla conversazione con un sorriso affabile. “Questo è esattamente ciò che io definisco una proposizione autoevidente, proprio come disse quel tizio che vendeva carne di cane, quando la cameriera gli disse che non era un gentiluomo.”

“Ah,” disse l’uomo dai capelli rossi, esaminando il signor Weller dalla testa ai piedi con un’aria sprezzante. “Un suo amico, signore?”

“Non proprio un amico,” rispose il signor Pickwick a bassa voce. “In realtà, è il mio servitore, ma gli permetto di prendersi molte libertà; a dire il vero, credo che sia una persona originale e ne sono piuttosto orgoglioso.”

“Ah,” disse l’uomo dai capelli rossi, “vedete, questa è una questione di gusto. Non mi piacciono le cose originali; non le trovo interessanti, né vedo il motivo per cui debbano esistere. Come si chiama, signore?”

“Ecco la mia carta, signore,” rispose il signor Pickwick, divertito molto dall’improvvisità della domanda e dal modo strano di quell’estraneo.

“Ah,” disse l’uomo dai capelli rossi, mettendo la carta nel portafoglio, “Pickwick; molto bene. Mi piace conoscere il nome delle persone, evita tanti problemi. Questa è la mia carta, signore. Magnus, vedrà, signore: Magnus è il mio nome. Penso sia un bel nome, vero?”

“Un nome davvero molto buono,” disse il signor Pickwick, senza riuscire affatto a trattenere un sorriso.

“Sì, penso che lo sia,” riprese il signor Magnus. “Inoltre, c’è anche un bel nome davanti a esso. Noterete. Permettetemi, signore: se tenete la carta leggermente inclinata in questa direzione, la luce illuminerà correttamente la parte superiore della scritta. Ecco. Peter Magnus. Penso che suoni molto bene, signore.”

‘Very,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Curious circumstance about those initials, sir,’ said Mr. Magnus. ‘You will observe—P.M.—post meridian. In hasty notes to intimate acquaintance, I sometimes sign myself “Afternoon.” It amuses my friends very much, Mr. Pickwick.’

‘It is calculated to afford them the highest gratification, I should conceive,’ said Mr. Pickwick, rather envying the ease with which Mr. Magnus’s friends were entertained.

‘Now, gen’l’m’n,’ said the hostler, ‘coach is ready, if you please.’

‘Is all my luggage in?’ inquired Mr. Magnus.

‘All right, sir.’

‘Is the red bag in?’

‘All right, Sir.’

‘And the striped bag?’

‘Fore boot, Sir.’

‘And the brown-paper parcel?’

‘Under the seat, Sir.’

‘And the leather hat-box?’

‘They’re all in, Sir.’

‘Now, will you get up?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Excuse me,’ replied Magnus, standing on the wheel. ‘Excuse me, Mr. Pickwick. I cannot consent to get up, in this state of uncertainty. I am quite satisfied from that man’s manner, that the leather hat-box is not in.’

The solemn protestations of the hostler being wholly unavailing, the leather hat-box was obliged to be raked up from the lowest depth of the boot, to satisfy him that it had been safely packed; and after he had been assured on this head, he felt a solemn presentiment, first, that the red bag was mislaid, and next that the striped bag had been stolen, and then that the brown-paper parcel ‘had come untied.’ At length when he had received ocular demonstration of the groundless nature of each and every of these suspicions, he consented to climb up to the roof of the coach, observing that now he had taken everything off his mind, he felt quite comfortable and happy.

‘You’re given to nervousness, ain’t you, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Weller, senior, eyeing the stranger askance, as he mounted to his place.

‘Yes; I always am rather about these little matters,’ said the stranger, ‘but I am all right now—quite right.’

‘Well, that’s a blessin’, said Mr. Weller. ‘Sammy, help your master up to the box; t’other leg, Sir, that’s it; give us your hand, Sir. Up with you. You was a lighter weight when you was a boy, sir.’

True enough, that, Mr. Weller,’ said the breathless Mr. Pickwick good- humouredly, as he took his seat on the box beside him.

‘Jump up in front, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Now Villam, run ‘em out. Take care o’ the archvay, gen’l’m’n. “Heads,” as the pieman says. That’ll do, Villam. Let ‘em alone.’ And away went the coach up Whitechapel, to the admiration of the whole population of that pretty densely populated quarter.

‘Not a wery nice neighbourhood, this, Sir,’ said Sam, with a touch of the hat, which always preceded his entering into conversation with his master.

‘It is not indeed, Sam,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, surveying the crowded and filthy street through which they were passing.

‘It’s a wery remarkable circumstance, Sir,’ said Sam, ‘that poverty and oysters always seem to go together.’

‘I don’t understand you, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘What I mean, sir,’ said Sam, ‘is, that the poorer a place is, the greater call there seems to be for oysters. Look here, sir; here’s a oyster-stall to every half-dozen houses. The street’s lined vith ‘em. Blessed if I don’t think that ven a man’s wery poor, he rushes out of his lodgings, and eats oysters in reg’lar desperation.’

‘To be sure he does,’ said Mr. Weller, senior; ‘and it’s just the same vith pickled salmon!’

‘Those are two very remarkable facts, which never occurred to me before,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘The very first place we stop at, I’ll make a note of them.’

By this time they had reached the turnpike at Mile End; a profound silence prevailed until they had got two or three miles farther on, when Mr. Weller, senior, turning suddenly to Mr. Pickwick, said—

‘Wery queer life is a pike-keeper’s, sir.’

‘A what?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘A pike-keeper.’

‘What do you mean by a pike-keeper?’ inquired Mr. Peter Magnus.

‘The old ‘un means a turnpike-keeper, gen’l’m’n,’ observed Mr. Samuel Weller, in explanation.

‘Oh,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I see. Yes; very curious life. Very uncomfortable.’

‘They’re all on ‘em men as has met vith some disappointment in life,’ said Mr. Weller, senior.

‘Ay, ay,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes. Consequence of vich, they retires from the world, and shuts themselves up in pikes; partly with the view of being solitary, and partly to rewenge themselves on mankind by takin’ tolls.’

‘Dear me,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I never knew that before.’

‘Fact, Sir,’ said Mr. Weller; ‘if they was gen’l’m’n, you’d call ‘em misanthropes, but as it is, they only takes to pike-keepin’.’

With such conversation, possessing the inestimable charm of blending amusement with instruction, did Mr. Weller beguile the tediousness of the journey, during the greater part of the day. Topics of conversation were never wanting, for even when any pause occurred in Mr. Weller’s loquacity, it was abundantly supplied by the desire evinced by Mr. Magnus to make himself acquainted with the whole of the personal history of his fellow-travellers, and his loudly-expressed anxiety at every stage, respecting the safety and well-being of the two bags, the leather hat-box, and the brown-paper parcel.

In the main street of Ipswich, on the left-hand side of the way, a short distance after you have passed through the open space fronting the Town Hall, stands an inn known far and wide by the appellation of the Great White Horse, rendered the more conspicuous by a stone statue of some rampacious animal with flowing mane and tail, distantly resembling an insane cart-horse, which is elevated above the principal door. The Great White Horse is famous in the neighbourhood, in the same degree as a prize ox, or a county-paper-chronicled turnip, or unwieldy pig—for its enormous size. Never was such labyrinths of uncarpeted passages, such clusters of mouldy, ill-lighted rooms, such huge numbers of small dens for eating or sleeping in, beneath any one roof, as are collected together between the four walls of the Great White Horse at Ipswich.

“Molto bene,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Una curiosa coincidenza riguardo a quelle iniziali, signore,” disse il signor Magnus. “Noterete che sono ‘P.M.’, cioè post meridian. Nei messaggi frettolosi inviati ad amici intimi, a volte mi firmo semplicemente ‘Afternoon’. I miei amici lo trovano molto divertente, signor Pickwick.”

“Si calcola che questo possa procurare loro la massima soddisfazione”, disse il signor Pickwick, provando quasi invidia per la facilità con cui gli amici del signor Magnus si divertivano.

“Ora, signore,” disse l’ostiere, “il calesse è pronto, se volete.”

“Tutta la mia roba è dentro?” chiese il signor Magnus.

“Va bene, signore.”

“La borsa rossa è dentro?”

“Va bene, signore.”

“E la borsa a strisce?”

“Prima ancora di tutto, signore.”

“E il pacco avvolto in carta marrone?”

“Sotto il sedile, signore.”

“E la scatola da cappelli di pelle?”

“Tutti sono dentro, signore.”

“Ora, vuoi alzarti?” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Scusi,” rispose Magnus, rimanendo fermo sulla ruota. “Scusi, signor Pickwick. Non posso acconsentire a alzarmi in questa situazione di incertezza. Dal comportamento di quell’uomo sono abbastanza sicuro che la scatola da cappelli di pelle non ci sia.”

Le solenni dichiarazioni del padrone di posta risultarono del tutto inutili; così la scatola da cappelli di pelle dovette essere recuperata dal fondo più profondo dello stivale, per convincerlo che fosse stata imballata con cura. Una volta rassicurato su questo punto, ebbe una serie di sinistre premonizioni: prima che il sacco rosso fosse andato perso, poi che quello a strisce fosse stato rubato, e infine che il pacco avvolto in carta marrone fosse stato sciolto. Alla fine, quando gli furono fornite prove concrete che tutte queste supposizioni erano prive di fondamento, acconsentì ad arrampicarsi sul tetto della carrozza, osservando che ora, essendo riuscito a liberarsi da ogni preoccupazione, si sentiva completamente a suo agio e felice.

“Siete incline alla nervosità, vero, signore?”, chiese il signor Weller senior, osservando con sospetto lo straniero mentre prendeva posto a tavola.

“Sì; di solito mi occupo un po’ di queste piccole cose,” disse lo sconosciuto, “ma adesso sto bene, davvero bene.”

“Beh, questa è davvero una benedizione”, disse il signor Weller. “Sammy, aiuta il tuo padrone ad alzarsi sulla sedia a rotelle; l’altra gamba, signore, esatto. Dammi la mano, signore. Alzati pure. Da ragazzo eri molto più leggero, vero?”

“È proprio vero, signor Weller,” disse il senza fiato signor Pickwick in tono bonario, mentre si sedeva nel palco accanto a lui.

“Salta avanti, Sammy,” disse il signor Weller. “Ora, Villam, mandali via. Fa’ attenzione all’arco, generale, ‘Testa in alto,’ come dice il cantante. Basta così, Villam. Lasciali soli.” E via partì la carrozza verso Whitechapel, suscitando l’ammirazione di tutta la popolazione di quel bellissimo e densamente abitato quartiere.

“Non è un quartiere molto bello, signore,” disse Sam, toccandosi leggermente il cappello, come faceva sempre prima di iniziare una conversazione con il suo padrone.

“Non proprio, Sam,” rispose il signor Pickwick, osservando la strada affollata e sporca attraverso cui stavano passando.

“È una circostanza davvero straordinaria, signore,” disse Sam, “che la povertà e le ostriche sembrino sempre andare di pari passo.”

“Non ti capisco, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Quello che voglio dire, signore,” disse Sam, “è che più povero è un posto, sembra esserci maggiore bisogno di ostriche. Guardate qui, signore: c’è un banchetto di ostriche ogni sei case. La strada ne è piena. Sono sicuro che, se una persona è davvero molto povera, esce immediatamente dalla sua abitazione e mangia ostriche in preda alla disperazione.”

“Certo che lo fa,” disse il signor Weller il maggiore; “ed è esattamente la stessa cosa anche con il salmone in scatola!”

“Sono due fatti davvero notevoli, di cui non mi ero mai reso conto prima,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Appena arriveremo al primo posto in cui faremo sosta, li annoterò.”

A quell’ora avevano già raggiunto il pedaggio di Mile End; un profondo silenzio regnava fino a quando non ebbero percorso altre due o tre miglia, quando il signor Weller, il maggiore, si rivolse improvvisamente al signor Pickwick e disse.

“La vita di un custode di pesci gatto è davvero strana, signore.”

“‘A cosa?’”, disse il signor Pickwick.

“Un custode di picche.”

“Cosa intendete per ‘custode di picche’?”, chiese il signor Peter Magnus.

“Quell’antico termine ‘un’ si riferisce a un custode di un pedaggio, per intenderci”, spiegò il signor Samuel Weller.

“Ah,” disse il signor Pickwick, “capisco. Sì, una vita davvero curiosa, e molto scomoda, per di più.”

“Sono tutti uomini che hanno incontrato delusioni nella vita,” disse il signor Weller, il più anziano.

“Ah, ah,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Sì. A causa di certe circostanze, si ritirano dal mondo e si chiudono in solitudine; in parte per desiderare la tranquillità, e in parte per vendicarsi dell’umanità imponendo tributi.”

“Mio Dio,” disse il signor Pickwick, “non lo sapevo affatto prima.”

“È proprio così, signore,” disse il signor Weller; “se fossero veri generali, li chiamereste misantropi, ma in realtà si limitano a fare la guardia con le lance.”

Con conversazioni del genere, caratterizzate dal prezioso fascino di unire divertimento e insegnamento, il signor Weller riusciva a rendere meno noiosa la durata della viaggio, per la maggior parte della giornata. Non mancavano mai argomenti di conversazione: anche quando si verificava una pausa nella loquacità del signor Weller, essa veniva prontamente colmata dal forte desiderio del signor Magnus di conoscere tutta la storia personale dei suoi compagni di viaggio, nonché dalla sua evidente preoccupazione per la sicurezza e il bene stare delle due borse, della scatola da cappelli in pelle e del pacchetto avvolto in carta marrone.

In via principale di Ipswich, sul lato sinistro della strada, poco dopo aver superato lo spazio aperto di fronte al Municipio, si trova una locanda conosciuta in tutta la zona con il nome di “Il Grande Cavallo Bianco”. Questo nome diventa ancora più evidente grazie a una statua in pietra raffigurante un animale selvaggio dall’ampia criniera e coda fluttuante, che ricorda vagamente un cavallo impazzito. La statua si trova sopra l’ingresso principale della locanda. Il “Grande Cavallo Bianco” è famoso nella zona, tanto quanto un bue da soma, un ravanello menzionato nelle cronache locali o un maiale ingombrante, per le sue dimensioni enormi. Non esistono mai stati, sotto lo stesso tetto, labirinti di corridoi non rivestiti, gruppi di stanze umide e scarsamente illuminate, né tantomeno innumerevoli piccoli locali adatti al mangiare o al dormire, come quelli presenti all’interno delle mura della locanda “Il Grande Cavallo Bianco” a Ipswich.

It was at the door of this overgrown tavern that the London coach stopped, at the same hour every evening; and it was from this same London coach that Mr. Pickwick, Sam Weller, and Mr. Peter Magnus dismounted, on the particular evening to which this chapter of our history bears reference.

‘Do you stop here, sir?’ inquired Mr. Peter Magnus, when the striped bag, and the red bag, and the brown-paper parcel, and the leather hat- box, had all been deposited in the passage. ‘Do you stop here, sir?’

‘I do,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Dear me,’ said Mr. Magnus, ‘I never knew anything like these extraordinary coincidences. Why, I stop here too. I hope we dine together?’

‘With pleasure,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘I am not quite certain whether I have any friends here or not, though. Is there any gentleman of the name of Tupman here, waiter?’

A corpulent man, with a fortnight’s napkin under his arm, and coeval stockings on his legs, slowly desisted from his occupation of staring down the street, on this question being put to him by Mr. Pickwick; and, after minutely inspecting that gentleman’s appearance, from the crown of his hat to the lowest button of his gaiters, replied emphatically—

‘No!’

‘Nor any gentleman of the name of Snodgrass?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘No!’

‘Nor Winkle?’

‘No!’

‘My friends have not arrived to-day, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘We will dine alone, then. Show us a private room, waiter.’

On this request being preferred, the corpulent man condescended to order the boots to bring in the gentlemen’s luggage; and preceding them down a long, dark passage, ushered them into a large, badly-furnished apartment, with a dirty grate, in which a small fire was making a wretched attempt to be cheerful, but was fast sinking beneath the dispiriting influence of the place. After the lapse of an hour, a bit of fish and a steak was served up to the travellers, and when the dinner was cleared away, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Peter Magnus drew their chairs up to the fire, and having ordered a bottle of the worst possible port wine, at the highest possible price, for the good of the house, drank brandy-and-water for their own.

Mr. Peter Magnus was naturally of a very communicative disposition, and the brandy-and-water operated with wonderful effect in warming into life the deepest hidden secrets of his bosom. After sundry accounts of himself, his family, his connections, his friends, his jokes, his business, and his brothers (most talkative men have a great deal to say about their brothers), Mr. Peter Magnus took a view of Mr. Pickwick through his coloured spectacles for several minutes, and then said, with an air of modesty—

‘And what do you think—what do you think, Mr. Pickwick—I have come down here for?’

‘Upon my word,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘it is wholly impossible for me to guess; on business, perhaps.’

‘Partly right, Sir,’ replied Mr. Peter Magnus, ‘but partly wrong at the same time; try again, Mr. Pickwick.’

‘Really,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I must throw myself on your mercy, to tell me or not, as you may think best; for I should never guess, if I were to try all night.’

‘Why, then, he-he-he!’ said Mr. Peter Magnus, with a bashful titter, ‘what should you think, Mr. Pickwick, if I had come down here to make a proposal, Sir, eh? He, he, he!’

‘Think! That you are very likely to succeed,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, with one of his beaming smiles.

‘Ah!’ said Mr. Magnus. ‘But do you really think so, Mr. Pickwick? Do you, though?’

‘Certainly,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘No; but you’re joking, though.’

‘I am not, indeed.’

‘Why, then,’ said Mr. Magnus, ‘to let you into a little secret, I think so too. I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Pickwick, although I’m dreadful jealous by nature—horrid—that the lady is in this house.’ Here Mr. Magnus took off his spectacles, on purpose to wink, and then put them on again.

‘That’s what you were running out of the room for, before dinner, then, so often,’ said Mr. Pickwick archly.

‘Hush! Yes, you’re right, that was it; not such a fool as to see her, though.’

‘No!’

‘No; wouldn’t do, you know, after having just come off a journey. Wait till to-morrow, sir; double the chance then. Mr. Pickwick, Sir, there is a suit of clothes in that bag, and a hat in that box, which, I expect, in the effect they will produce, will be invaluable to me, sir.’

‘Indeed!’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes; you must have observed my anxiety about them to-day. I do not believe that such another suit of clothes, and such a hat, could be bought for money, Mr. Pickwick.’

Mr. Pickwick congratulated the fortunate owner of the irresistible garments on their acquisition; and Mr. Peter Magnus remained a few moments apparently absorbed in contemplation.

‘She’s a fine creature,’ said Mr. Magnus.

‘Is she?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Very,’ said Mr. Magnus. ‘Very. She lives about twenty miles from here, Mr. Pickwick. I heard she would be here to-night and all to-morrow forenoon, and came down to seize the opportunity. I think an inn is a good sort of a place to propose to a single woman in, Mr. Pickwick. She is more likely to feel the loneliness of her situation in travelling, perhaps, than she would be at home. What do you think, Mr. Pickwick?’

‘I think it is very probable,’ replied that gentleman.

‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Mr. Peter Magnus, ‘but I am naturally rather curious; what may you have come down here for?’

‘On a far less pleasant errand, Sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, the colour mounting to his face at the recollection. ‘I have come down here, Sir, to expose the treachery and falsehood of an individual, upon whose truth and honour I placed implicit reliance.’

Fu davanti alla porta di questa taverna incolta che il calesse di Londra si fermava, ogni sera alle stesse ore; ed fu da questo stesso calesse di Londra che il signor Pickwick, Sam Weller e il signor Peter Magnus scesero, nella particolare serata a cui si riferisce questo capitolo della nostra storia.

“Si ferma qui, signore?”, chiese il signor Peter Magnus quando la borsa a strisce, la borsa rossa, il pacchetto avvolto in carta marrone e la scatola da cappelli di pelle furono tutti depositati nel corridoio. “Si ferma qui, signore?”

“Sì,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Mio Dio,” disse il signor Magnus, “non avevo mai conosciuto coincidenze così straordinarie. Anzi, anch’io mi fermo qui. >Spero che possiamo pranzare insieme.”

“Con piacere,” rispose il signor Pickwick. “Tuttavia, non sono del tutto sicuro di avere degli amici qui. C’è qualche gentiluomo di nome Tupman, cameriere?”

Un uomo corpulento, con un fazzoletto che aveva usato per venti giorni sotto il braccio e calze dello stesso periodo sulle gambe, smise lentamente di fissare la strada davanti a sé, dopo che il signor Pickwick gli pose questa domanda; e, dopo aver esaminato attentamente l’aspetto di quel gentiluomo, dalla corona del suo cappello fino all’ultimo bottone delle sue calze, rispose con enfasi.

‘No!’

“Nessun gentiluomo di nome Snodgrass?” chiese il signor Pickwick.

‘No!’

“Né Winkle?”

‘No!’

“I miei amici non sono arrivati oggi, signore,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Allora mangeremo da soli. Mostrici una stanza privata, cameriere.”

Poiché questa richiesta fu accettata, l’uomo corpulento si degnò di ordinare che portassero dentro i bagagli dei signori; poi, guidandoli lungo un corridoio lungo e buio, li fece entrare in un appartamento grande ma mal arredato, con una grata sporca davanti al camino. Lì, un piccolo fuoco cercava invano di creare un’atmosfera accogliente, ma veniva rapidamente sopraffatto dall’ambiente deprimente dell’edificio. Dopo un’ora, ai viaggiatori furono serviti del pesce e una bistecca; quando la cena fu rimossa, il signor Pickwick e il signor Peter Magnus si avvicinarono al camino, ordinarono una bottiglia di vino porto di scarsa qualità al prezzo più alto possibile, per il bene dell’“ostello”, ovviamente, ma loro bevvero brandy mescolato con acqua.

Il signor Peter Magnus era naturalmente di indole molto loquace, e il brandy mescolato con un po’ d’acqua aveva l’effetto meraviglioso di far emergere i più profondi e nascosti segreti del suo cuore. Dopo aver raccontato varie cose su se stesso, sulla sua famiglia, sui suoi contatti, sui suoi amici, sulle sue barzellette, sui suoi affari e sui suoi fratelli (la maggior parte delle persone loquaci ha molto da dire sui propri fratelli), il signor Peter Magnus osservò il signor Pickwick attraverso i suoi occhiali colorati per diversi minuti, poi disse, con un tono di modestia.

“E allora cosa pensate, cosa pensate davvero, signor Pickwick? Perché sono sceso quaggiù?”

“Per la mia parola,” disse il signor Pickwick, “è assolutamente impossibile per me indovinare; forse si tratta di un affare.”

“In parte giusto, signore,” rispose il signor Peter Magnus, “ma in parte sbagliato allo stesso tempo; provi di nuovo, signor Pickwick.”

“Davvero,” disse il signor Pickwick, “devo affidarmi alla tua misericordia, per sapere se me lo dirai o no, come riterrai meglio; perché non riuscirei mai a indovinare, anche provando per tutta la notte.”

“E allora, ehehe!”, disse il signor Peter Magnus, ridacchiando timidamente, “cosa penserebbe lei, signor Pickwick, se fossi sceso qui per farle una proposta, eh? Eh, eh, eh!”

“Pensa! È molto probabile che tu abbia successo,” rispose il signor Pickwick con uno dei suoi sorrisi radiosi.

“Ah!” disse il signor Magnus. “Ma davvero lo pensate così, signor Pickwick? Lo credete davvero?”

“Certamente,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“No; ma stai scherzando, vero.”

“Non lo sono affatto.”

“Beh,” disse il signor Magnus, “allora vi dirò un piccolo segreto. Anzi, credo che anche voi la pensiate allo stesso modo. Non mi dispiace dirvelo, signor Pickwick, anche se per natura sono terribilmente geloso. Orrendamente geloso, del fatto che quella signora si trovi in questa >casa.” A quel punto il signor Magnus si tolse gli occhiali, apposta per fare l’occhiolino, e poi se li rimise.

“Ecco per cosa scappavi sempre fuori dalla stanza, prima di cena, così spesso,” disse il signor Pickwick con un sorriso ironico.

“Zitta! Sì, hai ragione, è stato proprio così; non sono così stupido da andare a cercarla, ”

‘No!’

“No; non sarebbe giusto, capisce, dopo essere appena tornato da un Viaggio. Aspetti fino a domani, signore; così le possibilità raddoppieranno. Signor Pickwick, c’è un abito in quella borsa e un cappello in quella scatola, che, credo, avranno per me un valore inestimabile.”

“Certamente!” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Sì; avrete sicuramente notato la mia ansia per loro oggi. Non credo che un abito del genere, e un cappello del genere, possano essere comprati con i soldi, signor Pickwick.”

Il signor Pickwick congratulò il fortunato proprietario di quegli abiti irresistibili per la loro acquisizione; mentre il signor Peter Magnus rimase per qualche momento apparentemente immerso nei suoi pensieri.

“È davvero una creatura meravigliosa,” disse il signor Magnus.

“È davvero lei?” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Molto bene,” disse il signor Magnus. “Vive a circa venti miglia da qui, signor Pickwick. Ho sentito che sarebbe arrivata qui stasera e domani mattina, quindi sono venuto subito per cogliere l’occasione. Penso che un ostello sia il posto giusto per chiedere a una donna single di sposarsi, signor Pickwick. Forse in viaggio si renderà conto più chiaramente della solitudine della sua situazione, rispetto a quando è a casa. Che ne pensa, signor Pickwick?”

“Credo che sia molto probabile,” rispose quel gentiluomo.

“Perdonatemi, signor Pickwick”, disse il signor Peter Magnus, “ma naturalmente sono piuttosto curioso. Per quale motivo siete sceso qui?”

“Per una missione molto meno piacevole, signore,” rispose il signor Pickwick, arrossendo al ricordo. “Sono venuto qui, signore, per smascherare la tradimento e la falsità di una persona su cui avevo riposto totale fiducia in termini di verità e onore.”

‘Dear me,’ said Mr. Peter Magnus, ‘that’s very unpleasant. It is a lady, I presume? Eh? ah! Sly, Mr. Pickwick, sly. Well, Mr. Pickwick, sir, I wouldn’t probe your feelings for the world. Painful subjects, these, sir, very painful. Don’t mind me, Mr. Pickwick, if you wish to give vent to your feelings. I know what it is to be jilted, Sir; I have endured that sort of thing three or four times.’

‘I am much obliged to you, for your condolence on what you presume to be my melancholy case,’ said Mr. Pickwick, winding up his watch, and laying it on the table, ‘but—’

‘No, no,’ said Mr. Peter Magnus, ‘not a word more; it’s a painful subject. I see, I see. What’s the time, Mr. Pickwick?’

Past twelve.’

‘Dear me, it’s time to go to bed. It will never do, sitting here. I shall be pale to-morrow, Mr. Pickwick.’

At the bare notion of such a calamity, Mr. Peter Magnus rang the bell for the chambermaid; and the striped bag, the red bag, the leathern hat- box, and the brown-paper parcel, having been conveyed to his bedroom, he retired in company with a japanned candlestick, to one side of the house, while Mr. Pickwick, and another japanned candlestick, were conducted through a multitude of tortuous windings, to another.

‘This is your room, sir,’ said the chambermaid.

‘Very well,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, looking round him. It was a tolerably large double-bedded room, with a fire; upon the whole, a more comfortable-looking apartment than Mr. Pickwick’s short experience of the accommodations of the Great White Horse had led him to expect.

‘Nobody sleeps in the other bed, of course,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Oh, no, Sir.’

‘Very good. Tell my servant to bring me up some hot water at half-past eight in the morning, and that I shall not want him any more to-night.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ and bidding Mr. Pickwick good-night, the chambermaid retired, and left him alone.

Mr. Pickwick sat himself down in a chair before the fire, and fell into a train of rambling meditations. First he thought of his friends, and wondered when they would join him; then his mind reverted to Mrs. Martha Bardell; and from that lady it wandered, by a natural process, to the dingy counting-house of Dodson & Fogg. From Dodson & Fogg’s it flew off at a tangent, to the very centre of the history of the queer client; and then it came back to the Great White Horse at Ipswich, with sufficient clearness to convince Mr. Pickwick that he was falling asleep. So he roused himself, and began to undress, when he recollected he had left his watch on the table downstairs.

Now this watch was a special favourite with Mr. Pickwick, having been carried about, beneath the shadow of his waistcoat, for a greater number of years than we feel called upon to state at present. The possibility of going to sleep, unless it were ticking gently beneath his pillow, or in the watch-pocket over his head, had never entered Mr. Pickwick’s brain. So as it was pretty late now, and he was unwilling to ring his bell at that hour of the night, he slipped on his coat, of which he had just divested himself, and taking the japanned candlestick in his hand, walked quietly downstairs.

The more stairs Mr. Pickwick went down, the more stairs there seemed to be to descend, and again and again, when Mr. Pickwick got into some narrow passage, and began to congratulate himself on having gained the ground-floor, did another flight of stairs appear before his astonished eyes. At last he reached a stone hall, which he remembered to have seen when he entered the house. Passage after passage did he explore; room after room did he peep into; at length, as he was on the point of giving up the search in despair, he opened the door of the identical room in which he had spent the evening, and beheld his missing property on the table.

Mr. Pickwick seized the watch in triumph, and proceeded to retrace his steps to his bedchamber. If his progress downward had been attended with difficulties and uncertainty, his journey back was infinitely more perplexing. Rows of doors, garnished with boots of every shape, make, and size, branched off in every possible direction. A dozen times did he softly turn the handle of some bedroom door which resembled his own, when a gruff cry from within of ‘Who the devil’s that?’ or ‘What do you want here?’ caused him to steal away, on tiptoe, with a perfectly marvellous celerity. He was reduced to the verge of despair, when an open door attracted his attention. He peeped in. Right at last! There were the two beds, whose situation he perfectly remembered, and the fire still burning. His candle, not a long one when he first received it, had flickered away in the drafts of air through which he had passed and sank into the socket as he closed the door after him. ‘No matter,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I can undress myself just as well by the light of the fire.’

The bedsteads stood one on each side of the door; and on the inner side of each was a little path, terminating in a rush-bottomed chair, just wide enough to admit of a person’s getting into or out of bed, on that side, if he or she thought proper. Having carefully drawn the curtains of his bed on the outside, Mr. Pickwick sat down on the rush-bottomed chair, and leisurely divested himself of his shoes and gaiters. He then took off and folded up his coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth, and slowly drawing on his tasselled nightcap, secured it firmly on his head, by tying beneath his chin the strings which he always had attached to that article of dress. It was at this moment that the absurdity of his recent bewilderment struck upon his mind. Throwing himself back in the rush- bottomed chair, Mr. Pickwick laughed to himself so heartily, that it would have been quite delightful to any man of well-constituted mind to have watched the smiles that expanded his amiable features as they shone forth from beneath the nightcap.

“Mio Dio,” disse il signor Peter Magnus, “è davvero molto spiacevole. Si tratta di una signora, presumo? Eh? Ah! Astuto, signor Pickwick, davvero astuto. Beh, signor Pickwick, non vorrei assolutamente indagare sui suoi sentimenti. Sono argomenti dolorosi, signore, molto dolorosi. Non si preoccupi per me, se desidera esprimere i propri sentimenti. So bene cosa significa essere abbandonati, signore; ho dovuto sopportare una cosa del genere tre o quattro volte.”

“Sono molto grato a voi per le vostre condoglianze riguardo a quella che presumete sia la mia situazione melanconica”, disse il signor Pickwick, mettendo in ordine l’orologio e posandolo sul tavolo, “ma, ”

“No, no,” disse il signor Peter Magnus, “nessuna altra parola; è un argomento doloroso. Capisco, capisco. Che ore sono, signor Pickwick?”

“Oltre le dodici.”

“Mio Dio, è già ora di andare a letto. Non va affatto bene stare seduta qui; domani sarò pallida, signor Pickwick.”

Al solo pensiero di una tale calamità, il signor Peter Magnus suonò il campanello per chiamare la cameriera; poi, dopo che il sacco a strisce, il sacco rosso, la scatola da cappelli in pelle e il pacchetto avvolto in carta marrone furono portati nella sua camera da letto, si ritirò insieme a un candelabro giapponese in un angolo della >casa, mentre il signor Pickwick e un altro candelabro giapponese vennero condotti, attraverso numerosi corridoi tortuosi, in un’altra parte della casa.

“Questa è la sua stanza, signore,” disse la cameriera.

“Molto bene,” rispose il signor Pickwick, guardandosi intorno. Era una stanza abbastanza grande, con un letto matrimoniale e un camino; in generale, un ambiente più confortevole di quanto la breve esperienza del signor Pickwick riguardo alle sistemazioni offerte dal Grande Cavallo Bianco gli avesse fatto sperare.

“Nessuno dorme nell’altro letto, naturalmente,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Oh, no, Signore.”

“Molto bene. Dica al mio servitore di portarmi un po’ d’acqua calda alle otto e mezza del mattino, e che non avrò più bisogno di lui per tutta la notte.”

“Sì, signore,” e dopo aver augurato al signor Pickwick una buona notte, la cameriera si ritirò, lasciandolo da solo.

Il signor Pickwick si sedette su una sedia davanti al focolare e cadde in profonde riflessioni. Prima pensò ai suoi amici, chiedendosi quando lo avrebbero raggiunto; poi il suo pensiero tornò alla signora Martha Bardell; da lì, seguendo un percorso naturale, si spostò verso la squallida agenzia di contabilità Dodson & Fogg. Da lì i suoi pensieri presero una direzione completamente diversa, dirigendosi verso il cuore della storia di quel cliente strano. E infine tornarono al “Grande Cavallo Bianco” di Ipswich, con tale chiarezza da convincere il signor Pickwick che stava per addormentarsi. Allora si riscosse e iniziò a spogliarsi, quando si ricordò di aver lasciato l’orologio sul tavolo al piano di sotto.

Questo orologio era particolarmente caro a Mr. Pickwick; lo portava sempre con sé, nascosto sotto il bordo del suo gilet, per un numero di anni così lungo che non ci sentiamo in dovere di specificarlo ora. L’idea di poter andare a dormire senza che l’orologio ticchettasse dolcemente sotto il cuscino o nella tasca del gilet non era mai venuta in mente a Mr. Pickwick. Poiché ormai era piuttosto tardi e lui non voleva suonare la campanella a quell’ora della notte, si infilò il cappotto che aveva appena tolto, prese con sé il candelabro di legno laccato e scese silenziosamente le scale.

Più il signor Pickwick scendeva le scale, più sembrava che ce ne fossero altre da discendere; e ancora e ancora, quando riusciva a raggiungere un passaggio stretto e iniziava a rallegrarsi di essere finalmente arrivato al piano terra, davanti ai suoi occhi sorpresi apparivano nuove rampe di scale. Alla fine raggiunse un salone in pietra; ricordava di averlo visto quando era entrato nella casa. Esplorò uno dopo l’altro tutti i corridoi, sbirciò all’interno di una stanza dopo l’altra; e finalmente, mentre stava per arrendersi in -disperazione, aprì la porta della stessa stanza in cui aveva trascorso la sera precedente, e vide i suoi oggetti smarriti sul tavolo.

Il signor Pickwick afferrò l’orologio trionfante e iniziò a tornare nella sua camera da letto. Se il suo percorso verso il basso era stato pieno di difficoltà e incertezze, il suo ritorno fu ancora più complicato. File intere di porte, decorate con stivali di ogni forma e dimensione, si diramavano in tutte le direzioni possibili. Un dozzina di volte provò ad aprire una porta che sembrava quella della sua camera, ma grida rudi dall’interno – “Chi diavolo è?” o “Cosa vuoi qui?” – lo costringevano a ritirarsi silenziosamente e rapidamente. Era ormai sull’orlo del dispero quando notò una porta aperta. Guardò all’interno. Ecco lì! I due letti, la loro posizione gli era ben ricordata, e il focolare ancora acceso. La sua candela, che non era molto lunga quando l’aveva ricevuta, si era spenta a causa delle correnti d’aria; era rimasta nella presa quando aveva chiuso la porta. “Non importa,” disse il signor Pickwick, “mi posso spogliare benissimo anche alla luce del focolare.”

I letti erano posizionati uno su ciascun lato della porta; sul lato interno di ognuno di essi c’era un piccolo sentiero che terminava in una sedia con fondo di paglia, abbastanza larga da permettere a una persona di salire o scendere dal letto, se lo riteneva opportuno. Dopo aver accuratamente tirato le tende del suo letto sul lato esterno, il signor Pickwick si sedette sulla sedia con fondo di paglia e si tolse con calma scarpe e stivali. Poi si tolse il cappotto, la giacca e il fazzoletto da collo, e lentamente indossò il berretto da notte a pomponi, assicurandoselo saldamente sulla testa con i lacci che aveva sempre legato sotto il mento. Fu in quel momento che gli venne in mente l’assurdità della sua recente confusione. Appoggiandosi di nuovo alla sedia con fondo di paglia, il signor Pickwick rise tra sé così forte che sarebbe stato davvero piacevole per chiunque avesse un cervello ben funzionante osservare i sorrisi che illuminavano il suo volto amabile sotto quel berretto da notte.

‘It is the best idea,’ said Mr. Pickwick to himself, smiling till he almost cracked the nightcap strings—‘it is the best idea, my losing myself in this place, and wandering about these staircases, that I ever heard of. Droll, droll, very droll.’ Here Mr. Pickwick smiled again, a broader smile than before, and was about to continue the process of undressing, in the best possible humour, when he was suddenly stopped by a most unexpected interruption: to wit, the entrance into the room of some person with a candle, who, after locking the door, advanced to the dressing-table, and set down the light upon it.

The smile that played on Mr. Pickwick’s features was instantaneously lost in a look of the most unbounded and wonder-stricken surprise. The person, whoever it was, had come in so suddenly and with so little noise, that Mr. Pickwick had had no time to call out, or oppose their entrance. Who could it be? A robber? Some evil-minded person who had seen him come upstairs with a handsome watch in his hand, perhaps. What was he to do?

The only way in which Mr. Pickwick could catch a glimpse of his mysterious visitor with the least danger of being seen himself, was by creeping on to the bed, and peeping out from between the curtains on the opposite side. To this manoeuvre he accordingly resorted. Keeping the curtains carefully closed with his hand, so that nothing more of him could be seen than his face and nightcap, and putting on his spectacles, he mustered up courage and looked out.

Mr. Pickwick almost fainted with horror and dismay. Standing before the dressing-glass was a middle-aged lady, in yellow curl-papers, busily engaged in brushing what ladies call their ‘back-hair.’ However the unconscious middle-aged lady came into that room, it was quite clear that she contemplated remaining there for the night; for she had brought a rushlight and shade with her, which, with praiseworthy precaution against fire, she had stationed in a basin on the floor, where it was glimmering away, like a gigantic lighthouse in a particularly small piece of water.

‘Bless my soul!’ thought Mr. Pickwick, ‘what a dreadful thing!’

‘Hem!’ said the lady; and in went Mr. Pickwick’s head with automaton- like rapidity.

‘I never met with anything so awful as this,’ thought poor Mr. Pickwick, the cold perspiration starting in drops upon his nightcap. ‘Never. This is fearful.’

It was quite impossible to resist the urgent desire to see what was going forward. So out went Mr. Pickwick’s head again. The prospect was worse than before. The middle-aged lady had finished arranging her hair; had carefully enveloped it in a muslin nightcap with a small plaited border; and was gazing pensively on the fire.

‘This matter is growing alarming,’ reasoned Mr. Pickwick with himself. ‘I can’t allow things to go on in this way. By the self-possession of that lady, it is clear to me that I must have come into the wrong room. If I call out she’ll alarm the house; but if I remain here the consequences will be still more frightful.’

Mr. Pickwick, it is quite unnecessary to say, was one of the most modest and delicate-minded of mortals. The very idea of exhibiting his nightcap to a lady overpowered him, but he had tied those confounded strings in a knot, and, do what he would, he couldn’t get it off. The disclosure must be made. There was only one other way of doing it. He shrunk behind the curtains, and called out very loudly—

‘Ha-hum!’

That the lady started at this unexpected sound was evident, by her falling up against the rushlight shade; that she persuaded herself it must have been the effect of imagination was equally clear, for when Mr. Pickwick, under the impression that she had fainted away stone-dead with fright, ventured to peep out again, she was gazing pensively on the fire as before.

‘Most extraordinary female this,’ thought Mr. Pickwick, popping in again. ‘Ha-hum!’

These last sounds, so like those in which, as legends inform us, the ferocious giant Blunderbore was in the habit of expressing his opinion that it was time to lay the cloth, were too distinctly audible to be again mistaken for the workings of fancy.

‘Gracious Heaven!’ said the middle-aged lady, ‘what’s that?’

‘It’s—it’s—only a gentleman, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick, from behind the curtains.

‘A gentleman!’ said the lady, with a terrific scream.

‘It’s all over!’ thought Mr. Pickwick.

‘A strange man!’ shrieked the lady. Another instant and the house would be alarmed. Her garments rustled as she rushed towards the door.

‘Ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick, thrusting out his head in the extremity of his desperation, ‘ma’am!’

Now, although Mr. Pickwick was not actuated by any definite object in putting out his head, it was instantaneously productive of a good effect. The lady, as we have already stated, was near the door. She must pass it, to reach the staircase, and she would most undoubtedly have done so by this time, had not the sudden apparition of Mr. Pickwick’s nightcap driven her back into the remotest corner of the apartment, where she stood staring wildly at Mr. Pickwick, while Mr. Pickwick in his turn stared wildly at her.

‘Wretch,’ said the lady, covering her eyes with her hands, ‘what do you want here?’

‘Nothing, ma’am; nothing whatever, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick earnestly.

‘Nothing!’ said the lady, looking up.

‘Nothing, ma’am, upon my honour,’ said Mr. Pickwick, nodding his head so energetically, that the tassel of his nightcap danced again. ‘I am almost ready to sink, ma’am, beneath the confusion of addressing a lady in my nightcap (here the lady hastily snatched off hers), but I can’t get it off, ma’am (here Mr. Pickwick gave it a tremendous tug, in proof of the statement). It is evident to me, ma’am, now, that I have mistaken this bedroom for my own. I had not been here five minutes, ma’am, when you suddenly entered it.’

“È l’idea migliore,” si disse il signor Pickwick sorridendo così tanto che quasi strappava i lacci del suo berretto da notte, “È davvero l’idea migliore: perdermi in questo posto, vagare per queste scale. Non ne ho mai sentita una simile. Divertente, molto divertente, ” A quel punto il signor Pickwick sorrise ancora, con un sorriso ancora più ampio del precedente, e stava per continuare a spogliarsi, nel miglior umore possibile, quando fu improvvisamente interrotto da qualcosa di completamente inaspettato: l’ingresso nella stanza di qualcuno munito di una candela. Questa persona, dopo aver chiuso la porta, si avvicinò al comodino e posò la candela sopra di esso.

Il sorriso che appariva sul volto del signor Pickwick scomparve all’istante, sostituito da un’espressione di sorpresa estrema e incontenibile. Quella persona, chiunque fosse, era entrata così improvvisamente e senza fare il minimo rumore che il signor Pickwick non aveva avuto nemmeno il tempo di gridare o opporsi al suo ingresso. Chi poteva essere? Un ladro? Qualcuno con cattive intenzioni che lo aveva visto salire le scale con un bell’orologio in mano. Cosa doveva fare?

L’unico modo in cui il signor Pickwick poteva gettare un’occhiata al suo misterioso visitatore senza rischio di essere visto a sua volta era arrampicarsi sul letto e spiare attraverso le tende dall’altra parte. Così fece: tenne attentamente chiuse le tende con la mano, in modo che non si vedesse altro di lui se non il viso e il berretto da notte; poi, indossando gli occhiali, raccolse tutto il proprio coraggio e guardò fuori.

Il signor Pickwick quasi svenne per lo spavento e la disperazione. Davanti allo specchio c’era una donna di mezza età, vestita con parrucche gialle, impegnata a pettinarsi quella che le donne chiamano “capelli posteriori”. Ora, chiaramente, quella donna intendeva trascorrere lì tutta la notte; aveva portato con sé una lampada a olio e un paralume, che, per una precauzione encomiabile contro gli incendi, aveva posizionato in una bacinella sul pavimento, dove brillava debolmente, come un gigantesco faro in uno specchio d’acqua particolarmente piccolo.

“Che cosa terribile!” pensò il signor Pickwick. “Benedica la mia ‘anima, ”

“Ehm!”, disse la signora; e la testa di Mr. Pickwick entrò all’interno con una velocità meccanica, quasi automatica.

“Non ho mai incontrato nulla di così terribile,” pensò povero il signor Pickwick, con il sudore freddo che cominciava a gocciolare dalla sua berretta da notte. “Mai. È davvero spaventoso.”

Era praticamente impossibile resistere a quel desiderio urgente di scoprire cosa sarebbe successo dopo. Così, ancora una volta, la testa del signor Pickwick spuntò fuori. La situazione era peggiore di prima: la donna di mezza età aveva finito di sistemarsi i capelli; li aveva avvolti con cura in un berretto da notte di mussola, bordato da una piccola treccia; e ora fissava pensierosa il fuoco.

“Questa situazione sta diventando sempre più preoccupante,” ragionò il signor Pickwick tra sé e sé.
“Non posso permettere che le cose continuino in questo modo. A giudicare dall’autocontrollo di quella signora, è evidente che devo essermi sbagliato stanza. Se chiamo, allarmerà tutta la casa; ma se rimango qui, le conseguenze saranno ancora più terribili.”

Il signor Pickwick, come è facile intuire, era uno degli esseri umani più modesti e delicati di cuore. Solo l’idea di mostrare la sua berretta da notte a una signora lo sopraffaceva; tuttavia aveva legato quei maledetti lacci in un nodo, e per quanto ci provasse, non riusciva a togliersela. Era necessario trovare un altro modo. Si nascose dietro le tende e gridò ad alta voce:

“Ah-ah, davvero!”

Era evidente che la signora fosse rimasta scioccata da quel suono inaspettato, dal modo in cui si appoggiò contro l’abat-jour; altrettanto chiaro era che si fosse convinta che tutto fosse frutto della sua immaginazione, perché quando il signor Pickwick, credendo che lei fosse svenuta per lo spavento, osò di nuovo sbirciare fuori, la trovò intenta a fissare pensierosa il fuoco, proprio come prima.

“Che donna straordinaria,” pensò il signor Pickwick entrando di nuovo. “Ah-ah!”

Questi ultimi suoni, proprio quelli con cui, secondo le leggende, il feroce gigante Blunderbore aveva l’abitudine di esprimere il suo parere sul fatto che fosse arrivato il momento di “mettere la tovaglia”, erano troppo chiaramente udibili per poter essere nuovamente scambiati per frutto dell’immaginazione.

“Mio Dio!” esclamò la donna di mezza età, “cos’è quello?”

“È, è solo un gentiluomo, signora,” disse il signor Pickwick da dietro le tende.

“Un gentiluomo!”, gridò la signora con un urlo terribile.

“È finita!”, pensò il signor Pickwick.

“Un uomo strano!” gridò la donna. In un attimo, l’>casa sarebbe stata allarmata. I suoi abiti frusciarono mentre correva verso la porta.

“Signora,” disse il signor Pickwick, sporgendo la testa con estrema disperazione, “signora!”

Ora, sebbene il signor Pickwick non avesse alcun obiettivo preciso nel mettere fuori la testa, questo gesto produsse immediatamente un ottimo risultato. La signora, come abbiamo già detto, si trovava vicino alla porta; per raggiungere le scale doveva passarvi davanti, e senza dubbio l’avrebbe fatto a quell’orario se non fosse stato per l’apparizione improvvisa del berretto da notte del signor Pickwick, che la costrinse a rifugiarsi nell’angolo più remoto dell’appartamento, dove rimase a fissare sbalordita il signor Pickwick, mentre quest’ultimo faceva lo stesso con lei.

“Poveretto, ”, disse la signora, coprendosi gli occhi con le mani, “che cosa vuoi qui?”

“Niente, signora; assolutamente niente, signora,” disse seriamente il signor Pickwick.

“Niente!” disse la signora, alzando lo sguardo.

“Niente, signora, per la mia onore,” disse il signor Pickwick, annuendo con tale energia che la piuma del suo berretto da notte iniziò di nuovo a dondolare. “Sono quasi pronto ad affondare nella confusione derivante dal dover rivolgermi a una signora indossando il mio berretto da notte, (in quel momento la signora se lo tolse rapidamente), ma non riesco a toglierlo, signora, (il signor Pickwick tirò con forza per dimostrare quanto stesse dicendo). Ora è evidente che ho scambiato questa camera per la mia. Non ero ancora stato qui da cinque minuti quando lei è entrata all’improvviso.”

‘If this improbable story be really true, Sir,’ said the lady, sobbing violently, ‘you will leave it instantly.’

‘I will, ma’am, with the greatest pleasure,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Instantly, sir,’ said the lady.

‘Certainly, ma’am,’ interposed Mr. Pickwick, very quickly. ‘Certainly, ma’am. I—I—am very sorry, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick, making his appearance at the bottom of the bed, ‘to have been the innocent occasion of this alarm and emotion; deeply sorry, ma’am.’

The lady pointed to the door. One excellent quality of Mr. Pickwick’s character was beautifully displayed at this moment, under the most trying circumstances. Although he had hastily put on his hat over his nightcap, after the manner of the old patrol; although he carried his shoes and gaiters in his hand, and his coat and waistcoat over his arm; nothing could subdue his native politeness.

‘I am exceedingly sorry, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick, bowing very low.

‘If you are, Sir, you will at once leave the room,’ said the lady.

‘Immediately, ma’am; this instant, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick, opening the door, and dropping both his shoes with a crash in so doing.

‘I trust, ma’am,’ resumed Mr. Pickwick, gathering up his shoes, and turning round to bow again—‘I trust, ma’am, that my unblemished character, and the devoted respect I entertain for your sex, will plead as some slight excuse for this—’ But before Mr. Pickwick could conclude the sentence, the lady had thrust him into the passage, and locked and bolted the door behind him.

Whatever grounds of self-congratulation Mr. Pickwick might have for having escaped so quietly from his late awkward situation, his present position was by no means enviable. He was alone, in an open passage, in a strange house in the middle of the night, half dressed; it was not to be supposed that he could find his way in perfect darkness to a room which he had been wholly unable to discover with a light, and if he made the slightest noise in his fruitless attempts to do so, he stood every chance of being shot at, and perhaps killed, by some wakeful traveller. He had no resource but to remain where he was until daylight appeared. So after groping his way a few paces down the passage, and, to his infinite alarm, stumbling over several pairs of boots in so doing, Mr. Pickwick crouched into a little recess in the wall, to wait for morning, as philosophically as he might.

He was not destined, however, to undergo this additional trial of patience; for he had not been long ensconced in his present concealment when, to his unspeakable horror, a man, bearing a light, appeared at the end of the passage. His horror was suddenly converted into joy, however, when he recognised the form of his faithful attendant. It was indeed Mr. Samuel Weller, who after sitting up thus late, in conversation with the boots, who was sitting up for the mail, was now about to retire to rest.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, suddenly appearing before him, ‘where’s my bedroom?’

Mr. Weller stared at his master with the most emphatic surprise; and it was not until the question had been repeated three several times, that he turned round, and led the way to the long-sought apartment.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as he got into bed, ‘I have made one of the most extraordinary mistakes to-night, that ever were heard of.’

‘Wery likely, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller drily.

‘But of this I am determined, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘that if I were to stop in this house for six months, I would never trust myself about it, alone, again.’

‘That’s the wery prudentest resolution as you could come to, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘You rayther want somebody to look arter you, Sir, when your judgment goes out a wisitin’.’

‘What do you mean by that, Sam?’ said Mr. Pickwick. He raised himself in bed, and extended his hand, as if he were about to say something more; but suddenly checking himself, turned round, and bade his valet ‘Good- night.’

‘Good-night, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller. He paused when he got outside the door—shook his head—walked on—stopped—snuffed the candle—shook his head again—and finally proceeded slowly to his chamber, apparently buried in the profoundest meditation.

“Se questa storia improbabile fosse davvero vera, signore,” disse la donna, singhiozzando violentemente, “la lascereste immediatamente.”

“Lo farò, signora, con grande piacere,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

“Subito, signore,” disse la donna.

“Certamente, signora,” intervenne molto rapidamente il signor Pickwick. “Certamente, signora. Sono, sono davvero molto dispiaciuto, signora,” disse il signor Pickwick comparendo in fondo al letto, “di essere stato la causa innocente di questa preoccupazione e di queste emozioni; mi dispiace profondamente, signora.”

La signora indicò la porta. In quel momento, nelle circostanze più difficili, si manifestò in modo eccellente un’ottima qualità del carattere del signor Pickwick. Anche se si era affrettato a mettersi il cappello sopra la berretta da notte, come fanno i vecchi agenti di pattuglia; anche se teneva le scarpe e i gambieri in mano, mentre il cappotto e la giacca gli pendevano dal braccio, nulla riuscì a soffocare la sua naturale cortesia.

“Mi dispiace moltissimo, signora,” disse il signor Pickwick inchinandosi profondamente.

“Se lo siete, signore, allora lasciate immediatamente questa stanza”, disse la signora.

“Subito, signora; in questo stesso istante, signora,” disse il signor Pickwick aprendo la porta e facendo cadere entrambe le sue scarpe con un tonfo.

“Confido, signora,” riprese il signor Pickwick, raccogliendo i propri stivali e voltandosi di nuovo per inchinarsi ancora una volta, “confido che la mia integrità e il profondo rispetto che provo per il vostro sesso possano costituire una scusa sufficiente per questo, ” Ma prima che il signor Pickwick potesse concludere la frase, la signora lo spinse dentro il corridoio e chiuse a chiave la porta dietro di lui.

Qualunque motivo di auto-compiacimento il signor Pickwick potesse provare per essere riuscito a uscire così silenziosamente dalla sua imbarazzante situazione precedente, la sua attuale condizione non era affatto invidiabile. Era solo, in un corridoio aperto, in una strana casa nel bel mezzo della notte, a metà vestito; non si poteva certo pensare che riuscisse a trovare la strada verso una stanza che non era stato in grado di individuare nemmeno con la luce. E se avesse fatto il minimo rumore nei suoi vani tentativi, correva il rischio di essere colpito e forse ucciso da qualche viaggiatore sveglio. Non gli restava altra scelta che rimanere lì fino all’alba. Così, dopo essersi aggirato a tentoni per alcuni passi nel corridoio e, con suo immenso spavento, inciampato in diversi paia di stivali, il signor Pickwick si accovacciò in un angolo del muro, aspettando l’alba con la massima calma possibile.

Tuttavia, non era destinato ad affrontare questa ulteriore prova di pazienza; infatti, non era ancora trascorso molto tempo da quando si era nascosto nel suo attuale rifugio, quando, per sua indicibile paura, all’estremità del corridoio apparve un uomo con una lampada in mano. Ma la sua paura si trasformò immediatamente in gioia quando riconobbe la figura del suo fedele attendente: era davvero il signor Samuel Weller, che, dopo essersi trattenuto così a lungo a conversare con l’uomo incaricato di ritirare la posta, stava ora per andare a riposare.

“Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick, apparendo all’improvviso davanti a lui, “dove si trova la mia camera da letto?”

Il signor Weller fissò il suo padrone con un’espressione di sorpresa estrema; e solo dopo che la domanda fu ripetuta per tre volte, si girò e guidò la strada verso l’appartamento tanto cercato.

“Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick mentre si metteva a letto, “ho commesso una delle più straordinarie errori che si siano mai sentiti, di questa notte.”

“Molto probabile, signore,” rispose seccamente il signor Weller.

“Ma su questo sono deciso, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick; “se dovessi trascorrere sei mesi in questa casa, non mi fiderei mai più di me stesso a restarci da solo.”

“È davvero la decisione più saggia che si possa prendere, signore,” rispose il signor Weller. “In realtà, vorreste che qualcuno vi tenesse d’occhio, quando la vostra capacità di giudizio tende a deviare, ”

“Cosa intendi dire con questo, Sam?”, chiese il signor Pickwick. Si alzò a sedere sul letto e tese la mano, come se stesse per aggiungere qualcosa; ma poi si trattenne, si girò e disse al suo valletto: “Buona notte”.

“Buona notte, signore,” rispose il signor Weller. Si fermò quando uscì dalla porta, scosse la testa, continuò a camminare, si fermò di nuovo, spense la candela, scosse ancora la testa e infine proseguì lentamente verso la sua stanza, apparentemente immerso in profonda meditazione.

CHAPTER XXIII. IN WHICH MR. SAMUEL WELLER BEGINS TO DEVOTE HIS ENERGIES TO THE RETURN MATCH BETWEEN HIMSELF AND MR. TROTTER

In a small room in the vicinity of the stableyard, betimes in the morning, which was ushered in by Mr. Pickwick’s adventure with the middle—aged lady in the yellow curl-papers, sat Mr. Weller, senior, preparing himself for his journey to London. He was sitting in an excellent attitude for having his portrait taken; and here it is.

It is very possible that at some earlier period of his career, Mr. Weller’s profile might have presented a bold and determined outline. His face, however, had expanded under the influence of good living, and a disposition remarkable for resignation; and its bold, fleshy curves had so far extended beyond the limits originally assigned them, that unless you took a full view of his countenance in front, it was difficult to distinguish more than the extreme tip of a very rubicund nose. His chin, from the same cause, had acquired the grave and imposing form which is generally described by prefixing the word ‘double’ to that expressive feature; and his complexion exhibited that peculiarly mottled combination of colours which is only to be seen in gentlemen of his profession, and in underdone roast beef. Round his neck he wore a crimson travelling-shawl, which merged into his chin by such imperceptible gradations, that it was difficult to distinguish the folds of the one, from the folds of the other. Over this, he mounted a long waistcoat of a broad pink-striped pattern, and over that again, a wide- skirted green coat, ornamented with large brass buttons, whereof the two which garnished the waist, were so far apart, that no man had ever beheld them both at the same time. His hair, which was short, sleek, and black, was just visible beneath the capacious brim of a low-crowned brown hat. His legs were encased in knee-cord breeches, and painted top- boots; and a copper watch-chain, terminating in one seal, and a key of the same material, dangled loosely from his capacious waistband.

We have said that Mr. Weller was engaged in preparing for his journey to London—he was taking sustenance, in fact. On the table before him, stood a pot of ale, a cold round of beef, and a very respectable-looking loaf, to each of which he distributed his favours in turn, with the most rigid impartiality. He had just cut a mighty slice from the latter, when the footsteps of somebody entering the room, caused him to raise his head; and he beheld his son.

‘Mornin’, Sammy!’ said the father.

The son walked up to the pot of ale, and nodding significantly to his parent, took a long draught by way of reply.

‘Wery good power o’ suction, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller the elder, looking into the pot, when his first-born had set it down half empty. ‘You’d ha’ made an uncommon fine oyster, Sammy, if you’d been born in that station o’ life.’

‘Yes, I des-say, I should ha’ managed to pick up a respectable livin’,’ replied Sam applying himself to the cold beef, with considerable vigour.

‘I’m wery sorry, Sammy,’ said the elder Mr. Weller, shaking up the ale, by describing small circles with the pot, preparatory to drinking. ‘I’m wery sorry, Sammy, to hear from your lips, as you let yourself be gammoned by that ‘ere mulberry man. I always thought, up to three days ago, that the names of Veller and gammon could never come into contract, Sammy, never.’

‘Always exceptin’ the case of a widder, of course,’ said Sam.

‘Widders, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller, slightly changing colour. ‘Widders are ‘ceptions to ev’ry rule. I have heerd how many ordinary women one widder’s equal to in pint o’ comin’ over you. I think it’s five-and- twenty, but I don’t rightly know vether it ain’t more.’

‘Well; that’s pretty well,’ said Sam.

‘Besides,’ continued Mr. Weller, not noticing the interruption, ‘that’s a wery different thing. You know what the counsel said, Sammy, as defended the gen’l’m’n as beat his wife with the poker, venever he got jolly. “And arter all, my Lord,” says he, “it’s a amiable weakness.” So I says respectin’ widders, Sammy, and so you’ll say, ven you gets as old as me.’

‘I ought to ha’ know’d better, I know,’ said Sam.

‘Ought to ha’ know’d better!’ repeated Mr. Weller, striking the table with his fist. ‘Ought to ha’ know’d better! why, I know a young ‘un as hasn’t had half nor quarter your eddication—as hasn’t slept about the markets, no, not six months—who’d ha’ scorned to be let in, in such a vay; scorned it, Sammy.’ In the excitement of feeling produced by this agonising reflection, Mr. Weller rang the bell, and ordered an additional pint of ale.

‘Well, it’s no use talking about it now,’ said Sam. ‘It’s over, and can’t be helped, and that’s one consolation, as they always says in Turkey, ven they cuts the wrong man’s head off. It’s my innings now, gov’nor, and as soon as I catches hold o’ this ‘ere Trotter, I’ll have a good ‘un.’

‘I hope you will, Sammy. I hope you will,’ returned Mr. Weller. ‘Here’s your health, Sammy, and may you speedily vipe off the disgrace as you’ve inflicted on the family name.’ In honour of this toast Mr. Weller imbibed at a draught, at least two-thirds of a newly-arrived pint, and handed it over to his son, to dispose of the remainder, which he instantaneously did.

‘And now, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, consulting a large double-faced silver watch that hung at the end of the copper chain. ‘Now it’s time I was up at the office to get my vay-bill and see the coach loaded; for coaches, Sammy, is like guns—they requires to be loaded with wery great care, afore they go off.’

At this parental and professional joke, Mr. Weller, junior, smiled a filial smile. His revered parent continued in a solemn tone—

‘I’m a-goin’ to leave you, Samivel, my boy, and there’s no telling ven I shall see you again. Your mother-in-law may ha’ been too much for me, or a thousand things may have happened by the time you next hears any news o’ the celebrated Mr. Veller o’ the Bell Savage. The family name depends wery much upon you, Samivel, and I hope you’ll do wot’s right by it. Upon all little pints o’ breedin’, I know I may trust you as vell as if it was my own self. So I’ve only this here one little bit of adwice to give you. If ever you gets to up’ards o’ fifty, and feels disposed to go a-marryin’ anybody—no matter who—jist you shut yourself up in your own room, if you’ve got one, and pison yourself off hand. Hangin’s wulgar, so don’t you have nothin’ to say to that. Pison yourself, Samivel, my boy, pison yourself, and you’ll be glad on it arterwards.’ With these affecting words, Mr. Weller looked steadfastly on his son, and turning slowly upon his heel, disappeared from his sight.

CAPITOLO XXIII. IN IL QUALE IL SIGOR SAMUEL WELLER INIZIA A DEDICARE LE SUE FORZE ALLA PARTITA DI RIPETIZIONE TRA LUI E IL SIGOR TROTTER

In una piccola stanza vicino alla scuderia, all’alba, proprio nel momento in cui iniziava l’avventura di Mr. Pickwick con la signora di mezza età dai capelli arricciati gialli, c’era il signor Weller senior che si preparava per il suo viaggio verso Londra. Era seduto in una posizione perfetta per farsi ritrarre; ed ecco il risultato.

È molto probabile che, in un qualche periodo precedente della sua carriera, il profilo di Mr. Weller presentasse tratti decisi e risoluti. Tuttavia, il suo viso si era allargato a causa di uno stile di vita agiato, e la sua espressione rifletteva una natura caratterizzata da una notevole rassegnazione; le sue linee volitive e carnose si erano estese al di là dei limiti originari, tanto che, se non lo si osservava completamente di fronte, era difficile distinguere altro che la punta estrema del suo naso molto rosso. Per lo stesso motivo, il suo mento aveva assunto quella forma grave e imponente che generalmente viene descritta aggiungendo il prefisso “doppio” a questa caratteristica espressiva; inoltre, il suo incarnato presentava quella particolare combinazione di colori maculati tipica degli uomini della sua professione, e anche del manzo arrosto poco cotto. Intorno al collo portava uno scialle da viaggio di colore rosso cremisi, che si fondeva con le linee del suo mento in modo così impercettibile da rendere difficile distinguere le pieghe dell’uno dalle pieghe dell’altro. Sopra lo scialle indossava un gilet lungo a righe rosa larghe; e ancora sopra, un cappotto verde con ampie falde, decorato con grandi bottoni di bronzo, due dei quali, posti sulla vita, erano così distanti l’uno dall’altro che nessuno aveva mai avuto la possibilità di vederli entrambi nello stesso momento. I suoi capelli, corti, lucidi e neri, erano appena visibili sotto il bordo ampio di un cappello marrone a tesa bassa. Le sue gambe erano avvolte in pantaloni con lacci fino al ginocchio e stivali alti; da una larga cintura pendeva mollemente una catena d’orologio di rame, terminante con un sigillo e una chiave dello stesso materiale.

Avevamo detto che il signor Weller era impegnato nei preparativi per il suo Viaggio verso Londra; in realtà, stava mangiando. Sul tavolo davanti a lui c’erano una pentola di birra, un pezzo di manzo freddo e un pane dall’aspetto molto appetitoso; li consumò uno dopo l’altro con la massima imparzialità. Aveva appena tagliato un grosso pezzo di pane quando il rumore di qualcuno che entrava nella stanza lo fece alzare lo sguardo, e vide suo figlio.

“Buongiorno, Sammy!” disse il padre.

Il figlio si avvicinò alla brocca di birra e, annuendo significativamente verso i suoi genitori, ne bevve un lungo sorso come risposta.

“Una potenza di aspirazione davvero notevole, Sammy,” disse il signor Weller il vecchio, guardando dentro la pentola dopo che suo figlio maggiore l’aveva posata mezza vuota. “Saresti diventato un ottimo raccoglitore di ostriche, Sammy, se solo fossi nato in quella condizione sociale.”

“Sì, credo che avrei potuto riuscire a guadagnarmi una vita decente,” rispose Sam, impegnandosi con notevole energia nel mangiare la carne di manzo fredda.

“Mi dispiace molto, Sammy,” disse il signor Weller più anziano, agitando la birra con la pentola mentre preparava il bicchiere per bere. “Mi dispiace davvero molto sentirtelo dire, dopo che sei stato ingannato da quel ‘tizio delle more’. Fino a tre giorni fa, pensavo sempre che i nomi Weller e inganno non potessero mai essere associati, Sammy, mai.”

“Sempre, naturalmente, tranne nel caso di una vedova,” disse Sam.

“Widders, Sammy,” rispose il signor Weller, cambiando leggermente colore. “I Widders sono un’eccezione a ogni regola. Ho sentito dire che quante donne comuni equivalgono a una donna sposata in termini di capacità di ‘comportarsi bene’ con voi. Penso siano ventiquattro, ma non ne sono del tutto sicuro.”

“Beh, è davvero molto bene,” disse Sam.

“Inoltre,” continuò il signor Weller, senza notare l’interruzione, “è una cosa del tutto diversa. Sai cosa ha detto l’avvocato, Sammy, quando difendeva quel generale che picchiava sua moglie con il poker ogni volta che si ubriacava, ‘E dopotutto, my Lord,’ diceva, ‘è una debolezza affascinante.’ Quindi io dico, riguardo alle mogli, Sammy, tu dirai lo stesso quando avrai raggiunto la mia età.”

“Avrei dovuto saperlo meglio, lo so,” disse Sam.

“Avrei dovuto saperlo meglio!”, ripeté il signor Weller battendo il pugno sul tavolo. “Avrei dovuto saperlo meglio. Conosco un giovane che non ha ricevuto nemmeno la metà della tua istruzione; che non ha dormito nei mercati, per niente, nemmeno per sei mesi. Eppure avrebbe disdegnato di essere accolto in quel modo. Lo avrebbe disdegnato, Sammy.” Nell’agitazione provocata da questi pensieri angosciosi, il signor Weller suonò il campanello e ordinò un’altra pinta di birra.

“Beh,” disse Sam, “ora non ha senso parlarne. È finita, e non si può più fare nulla. Ma c’è sempre un conforto, come dicono sempre in Turchia, quando tagliano la testa alla persona sbagliata. Ora tocca a me, signore. Non appena riesco ad acciuffare quel maledetto Trotter, gli darò una lezione.”

“Spero che lo farai, Sammy. Spero davvero che lo farai,” rispose il signor Weller. “Ecco, bevi alla tua salute, Sammy. E possa tu eliminare al più presto quella vergogna che hai gettato sul nome della nostra famiglia.” In onore di questo brindisi, il signor Weller bevve d’un fiato almeno due terzi di una pinta appena arrivata, poi passò la bottiglia a suo figlio perché finisse il resto, cosa che questi fece immediatamente.

“E ora, Sammy,” disse il signor Weller, consultando un grande orologio d’argento a doppia faccia che pendeva all’estremità della catena di rame. “Ora è l’ora di andare in ufficio a prendere il mio biglietto e controllare che il treno sia pronto; perché i treni, Sammy, sono come le armi: bisogna caricarli con molta attenzione prima che partano.”

Di fronte a questa battuta tra genitori e professionisti, il signor Weller Jr. sorrise con un sorriso filiale. Il suo rispettato genitore continuò poi con tono solenne.

“Me ne vado, Samivel, mio ragazzo. Non si sa mai quando ci rivedremo di nuovo. Tua suocera forse è stata troppo dura con me, o potrebbero essere accadute mille cose entro il momento in cui sentirai di nuovo notizie del famoso signor Veller. Il nome della nostra famiglia dipende molto da te, Samivel. Spero che tu faccia la cosa giusta. Per tutto ciò che conta, so di potermi fidare di te come se fossi io stesso. Quindi ho solo questo piccolo consiglio da darti: se mai raggiungi i cinquant’anni e pensi di sposarti, chiunque sia, chiudiati nella tua stanza, se ne hai una, e ucciditi subito. L’impiccagione è troppo volgare, quindi non hai scuse per farlo. Ucciditi, Samivel, te ne pentirai meno in seguito, ” Con queste parole commoventi, il signor Veller fissò a lungo suo figlio, poi si girò lentamente e scomparve dalla sua vista.

In the contemplative mood which these words had awakened, Mr. Samuel Weller walked forth from the Great White Horse when his father had left him; and bending his steps towards St. Clement’s Church, endeavoured to dissipate his melancholy, by strolling among its ancient precincts. He had loitered about, for some time, when he found himself in a retired spot—a kind of courtyard of venerable appearance—which he discovered had no other outlet than the turning by which he had entered. He was about retracing his steps, when he was suddenly transfixed to the spot by a sudden appearance; and the mode and manner of this appearance, we now proceed to relate.

Mr. Samuel Weller had been staring up at the old brick houses now and then, in his deep abstraction, bestowing a wink upon some healthy- looking servant girl as she drew up a blind, or threw open a bedroom window, when the green gate of a garden at the bottom of the yard opened, and a man having emerged therefrom, closed the green gate very carefully after him, and walked briskly towards the very spot where Mr. Weller was standing.

Now, taking this, as an isolated fact, unaccompanied by any attendant circumstances, there was nothing very extraordinary in it; because in many parts of the world men do come out of gardens, close green gates after them, and even walk briskly away, without attracting any particular share of public observation. It is clear, therefore, that there must have been something in the man, or in his manner, or both, to attract Mr. Weller’s particular notice. Whether there was, or not, we must leave the reader to determine, when we have faithfully recorded the behaviour of the individual in question.

When the man had shut the green gate after him, he walked, as we have said twice already, with a brisk pace up the courtyard; but he no sooner caught sight of Mr. Weller than he faltered, and stopped, as if uncertain, for the moment, what course to adopt. As the green gate was closed behind him, and there was no other outlet but the one in front, however, he was not long in perceiving that he must pass Mr. Samuel Weller to get away. He therefore resumed his brisk pace, and advanced, staring straight before him. The most extraordinary thing about the man was, that he was contorting his face into the most fearful and astonishing grimaces that ever were beheld. Nature’s handiwork never was disguised with such extraordinary artificial carving, as the man had overlaid his countenance with in one moment.

‘Well!’ said Mr. Weller to himself, as the man approached. ‘This is wery odd. I could ha’ swore it was him.’

Up came the man, and his face became more frightfully distorted than ever, as he drew nearer.

‘I could take my oath to that ‘ere black hair and mulberry suit,’ said Mr. Weller; ‘only I never see such a face as that afore.’

As Mr. Weller said this, the man’s features assumed an unearthly twinge, perfectly hideous. He was obliged to pass very near Sam, however, and the scrutinising glance of that gentleman enabled him to detect, under all these appalling twists of feature, something too like the small eyes of Mr. Job Trotter to be easily mistaken.

‘Hollo, you Sir!’ shouted Sam fiercely.

The stranger stopped.

‘Hollo!’ repeated Sam, still more gruffly.

The man with the horrible face looked, with the greatest surprise, up the court, and down the court, and in at the windows of the houses— everywhere but at Sam Weller—and took another step forward, when he was brought to again by another shout.

‘Hollo, you sir!’ said Sam, for the third time.

There was no pretending to mistake where the voice came from now, so the stranger, having no other resource, at last looked Sam Weller full in the face.

‘It won’t do, Job Trotter,’ said Sam. ‘Come! None o’ that ‘ere nonsense. You ain’t so wery ‘andsome that you can afford to throw avay many o’ your good looks. Bring them ‘ere eyes o’ yourn back into their proper places, or I’ll knock ‘em out of your head. D’ye hear?’

As Mr. Weller appeared fully disposed to act up to the spirit of this address, Mr. Trotter gradually allowed his face to resume its natural expression; and then giving a start of joy, exclaimed, ‘What do I see? Mr. Walker!’

‘Ah,’ replied Sam. ‘You’re wery glad to see me, ain’t you?’

‘Glad!’ exclaimed Job Trotter; ‘Oh, Mr. Walker, if you had but known how I have looked forward to this meeting! It is too much, Mr. Walker; I cannot bear it, indeed I cannot.’ And with these words, Mr. Trotter burst into a regular inundation of tears, and, flinging his arms around those of Mr. Weller, embraced him closely, in an ecstasy of joy.

‘Get off!’ cried Sam, indignant at this process, and vainly endeavouring to extricate himself from the grasp of his enthusiastic acquaintance. ‘Get off, I tell you. What are you crying over me for, you portable engine?’

‘Because I am so glad to see you,’ replied Job Trotter, gradually releasing Mr. Weller, as the first symptoms of his pugnacity disappeared. ‘Oh, Mr. Walker, this is too much.’

‘Too much!’ echoed Sam, ‘I think it is too much—rayther! Now, what have you got to say to me, eh?’

Mr. Trotter made no reply; for the little pink pocket-handkerchief was in full force.

‘What have you got to say to me, afore I knock your head off?’ repeated Mr. Weller, in a threatening manner.

‘Eh!’ said Mr. Trotter, with a look of virtuous surprise.

‘What have you got to say to me?’

‘I, Mr. Walker!’

‘Don’t call me Valker; my name’s Veller; you know that vell enough. What have you got to say to me?’

‘Bless you, Mr. Walker—Weller, I mean—a great many things, if you will come away somewhere, where we can talk comfortably. If you knew how I have looked for you, Mr. Weller—’

‘Wery hard, indeed, I s’pose?’ said Sam drily.

‘Very, very, Sir,’ replied Mr. Trotter, without moving a muscle of his face. ‘But shake hands, Mr. Weller.’

Sam eyed his companion for a few seconds, and then, as if actuated by a sudden impulse, complied with his request.

Nell’atmosfera contemplativa che queste parole avevano suscitato, il signor Samuel Weller uscì dal Great White Horse dopo che suo padre lo aveva lasciato; poi si diresse verso la chiesa di St. Clement’s, cercando di dissipare la sua melanconia passeggiando tra i suoi antichi dintorni. Dopo essersi soffermato lì per un po’, si trovò in un angolo appartato, una sorta di cortile dall’aspetto venerabile, il cui unico accesso era quello da cui era entrato. Mentre stava per tornare indietro, fu improvvisamente attratto da qualcosa che apparve davanti a lui; ora descriveremo in dettaglio il modo e il modo in cui ciò accadde.

Il signor Samuel Weller fissava di tanto in tanto quelle vecchie case di mattoni, immerso nei suoi pensieri; ogni volta che una serva dall’aspetto sano tirava su le tende o apriva la finestra di una camera da letto, lui le lanciava un’occhiata. Proprio in quel momento, il cancello verde di un giardino situato in fondo al cortile si aprì; un uomo ne uscì e lo chiuse con cura, poi si avviò rapidamente verso il punto in cui si trovava il signor Weller.

Ora, considerando questo fatto isolato, privo di qualsiasi circostanza concomitante, non c’era nulla di particolarmente straordinario in esso; perché in molte parti del mondo le persone escono dai giardini, attraversano cancelli verdi e se ne vanno velocemente, senza attirare alcuna attenzione da parte del pubblico. È quindi evidente che deve esserci stato qualcosa nell’uomo, nel suo comportamento, o in entrambi, per attirare l’attenzione particolare di Mr. Weller. Se ci fosse stato davvero qualcosa del genere, o meno, lasciamo che sia il lettore a decidere, dopo aver registrato fedelmente il comportamento di questa persona.

Quando l’uomo ebbe chiuso la porta verde dietro di sé, proseguì, come abbiamo già detto due volte, a passo veloce lungo il cortile; ma non appena scorse il signor Weller, esitò e si fermò, come se per un momento non sapesse quale direzione prendere. Poiché la porta verde era chiusa alle sue spalle e non c’era altra uscita se non quella di fronte, capì presto che doveva passare accanto al signor Samuel Weller per andarsene. Così riprese a camminare velocemente, fissando dritto davanti a sé. La cosa più straordinaria riguardo a quell’uomo era che stava contorcendo il proprio viso in espressioni di terrore e sorpresa mai viste prima. L’opera della >Natura non era mai stata alterata da un simile artificio umano: in un istante, quell’uomo aveva trasformato il proprio volto con gesti artificiali estremamente bizzarri.

“Beh!”, si disse il signor Weller mentre quell’uomo si avvicinava. “È davvero strano. Avrei potuto giurare che fosse lui.”

Quell’uomo apparve, e il suo viso divenne ancora più orribilmente distorto man mano che si avvicinava.

“Potrei giurarlo su quella chioma nera e quel abito di seta”, disse il signor Weller; “ma non ho mai visto prima un viso del genere”.

Mentre il signor Weller diceva queste cose, i tratti del volto di quell’uomo assunsero un’espressione orribile, davvero spaventosa. Tuttavia, fu costretto a passare molto vicino a Sam, e lo sguardo attento di quel gentiluomo gli permise di notare, sotto tutte quelle terribili deformazioni del viso, qualcosa che assomigliava troppo agli occhietti piccoli del signor Job Trotter per poter essere scambiato per altro.

“Ehi, signore!” gridò Sam con fermezza.

Lo sconosciuto si fermò.

“Ehi!” ripeté Sam, ancora più bruscamente.

L’uomo dal viso orribile guardò, con grande sorpresa, su e giù per la >cortile, e anche attraverso le finestre delle case, dappertutto tranne che vicino a Sam Weller. Poi fece un altro passo avanti, quando fu di nuovo fermato da un altro grido.

“Salve, signore!” disse Sam, per la terza volta.

Ora non c’era più modo di fingere di non sapere da dove provenisse quella voce; quindi lo sconosciuto, non avendo altra scelta, alla fine guardò dritto in faccia a Sam Weller.

“Non va affatto bene, Job Trotter,” disse Sam. “Ma che sciocchezze! Non sei mica così attraente da poterti permettere di sprecare tutta la tua bellezza. Riporta quegli occhi al loro posto, o te li romperò in testa. Capisci?”

Poiché il signor Weller sembrava davvero disposto ad attuare lo spirito di questo discorso, il signor Trotter gradualmente permise al proprio viso di riprendere l’espressione naturale; poi, esultando, esclamò: “Che cosa vedo? Il signor Walker!”

“Ah,” rispose Sam. “Siete davvero felici di vedermi, vero?”

“Che gioia!” esclamò Job Trotter; “Oh, signor Walker, se solo avesse saputo quanto desiderassi questo incontro! È troppo. Non ce la faccio davvero.” E con queste parole, il signor Trotter scoppiò in un pianto irrefrenabile; gettando le braccia intorno a quelle del signor Weller, lo abbracciò stretto, in un’estasi di gioia.

“Scendi!” gridò Sam, indignato da questa situazione, cercando invano di liberarsi dalla presa del suo entusiasta conoscente. “Scendi, ti dico! Perché piangi per me, tu che sei come un motore portatile?”

“Perché sono così felice di vedervi,” rispose Job Trotter, allentando gradualmente la presa su Mr. Weller, man mano che i primi segni della sua aggressività scomparivano. “Oh, signor Walker, questo è troppo.”

“Troppo!” esclamò Sam, “Penso che sia davvero troppo. Ora, cosa hai da dirmi, eh?”

Il signor Trotter non rispose; perché quel piccolo fazzoletto rosa stava facendo tutto il suo effetto.

“Cosa hai da dirmi, prima che ti stacchi la testa?” ripeté il signor Weller in tono minaccioso.

“Eh!”, disse il signor Trotter, con un’espressione di virtuoso stupore.

“Cosa hai da dirmi?”

“Io, il signor Walker!”

“Non chiamarmi Valker; il mio nome è Veller; lo sai bene. Cosa hai da dirmi?”

“Che Dio la benedica, signor Walker, voglio dire, signor Weller. Ci sono molte cose che vorrei dirle, se solo potessimo andare da qualche parte dove possiamo parlare in tranquillità. Se solo lei sapesse quanto l’abbia cercata, signor Weller, ”

“Davvero molto difficile, non è vero?”, disse Sam in tono secco.

“Molto, molto, signore,” rispose il signor Trotter, senza muovere nemmeno un muscolo del viso. “Ma stringiamoci la mano, signor Weller.”

Sam osservò il suo compagno per alcuni secondi, poi, come se fosse stato spinto da un impulso improvviso, acconsentì alla sua richiesta.

‘How,’ said Job Trotter, as they walked away, ‘how is your dear, good master? Oh, he is a worthy gentleman, Mr. Weller! I hope he didn’t catch cold, that dreadful night, Sir.’

There was a momentary look of deep slyness in Job Trotter’s eye, as he said this, which ran a thrill through Mr. Weller’s clenched fist, as he burned with a desire to make a demonstration on his ribs. Sam constrained himself, however, and replied that his master was extremely well.

‘Oh, I am so glad,’ replied Mr. Trotter; ‘is he here?’

‘Is yourn?’ asked Sam, by way of reply.

‘Oh, yes, he is here, and I grieve to say, Mr. Weller, he is going on worse than ever.’

‘Ah, ah!’ said Sam.

‘Oh, shocking—terrible!’

‘At a boarding-school?’ said Sam.

‘No, not at a boarding-school,’ replied Job Trotter, with the same sly look which Sam had noticed before; ‘not at a boarding-school.’

‘At the house with the green gate?’ said Sam, eyeing his companion closely.

‘No, no—oh, not there,’ replied Job, with a quickness very unusual to him, ‘not there.’

‘What was you a-doin’ there?’ asked Sam, with a sharp glance. ‘Got inside the gate by accident, perhaps?’

‘Why, Mr. Weller,’ replied Job, ‘I don’t mind telling you my little secrets, because, you know, we took such a fancy for each other when we first met. You recollect how pleasant we were that morning?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Sam, impatiently. ‘I remember. Well?’

‘Well,’ replied Job, speaking with great precision, and in the low tone of a man who communicates an important secret; ‘in that house with the green gate, Mr. Weller, they keep a good many servants.’

‘So I should think, from the look on it,’ interposed Sam.

‘Yes,’ continued Mr. Trotter, ‘and one of them is a cook, who has saved up a little money, Mr. Weller, and is desirous, if she can establish herself in life, to open a little shop in the chandlery way, you see.’

Yes.’

‘Yes, Mr. Weller. Well, Sir, I met her at a chapel that I go to; a very neat little chapel in this town, Mr. Weller, where they sing the number four collection of hymns, which I generally carry about with me, in a little book, which you may perhaps have seen in my hand—and I got a little intimate with her, Mr. Weller, and from that, an acquaintance sprung up between us, and I may venture to say, Mr. Weller, that I am to be the chandler.’

‘Ah, and a wery amiable chandler you’ll make,’ replied Sam, eyeing Job with a side look of intense dislike.

‘The great advantage of this, Mr. Weller,’ continued Job, his eyes filling with tears as he spoke, ‘will be, that I shall be able to leave my present disgraceful service with that bad man, and to devote myself to a better and more virtuous life; more like the way in which I was brought up, Mr. Weller.’

‘You must ha’ been wery nicely brought up,’ said Sam.

‘Oh, very, Mr. Weller, very,’ replied Job. At the recollection of the purity of his youthful days, Mr. Trotter pulled forth the pink handkerchief, and wept copiously.

‘You must ha’ been an uncommon nice boy, to go to school vith,’ said Sam.

‘I was, sir,’ replied Job, heaving a deep sigh; ‘I was the idol of the place.’

‘Ah,’ said Sam, ‘I don’t wonder at it. What a comfort you must ha’ been to your blessed mother.’

At these words, Mr. Job Trotter inserted an end of the pink handkerchief into the corner of each eye, one after the other, and began to weep copiously.

‘Wot’s the matter with the man,’ said Sam, indignantly. ‘Chelsea water- works is nothin’ to you. What are you melting vith now? The consciousness o’ willainy?’

‘I cannot keep my feelings down, Mr. Weller,’ said Job, after a short pause. ‘To think that my master should have suspected the conversation I had with yours, and so dragged me away in a post-chaise, and after persuading the sweet young lady to say she knew nothing of him, and bribing the school-mistress to do the same, deserted her for a better speculation! Oh! Mr. Weller, it makes me shudder.’

‘Oh, that was the vay, was it?’ said Mr. Weller.

‘To be sure it was,’ replied Job.

‘Vell,’ said Sam, as they had now arrived near the hotel, ‘I vant to have a little bit o’ talk with you, Job; so if you’re not partickler engaged, I should like to see you at the Great White Horse to-night, somewheres about eight o’clock.’

‘I shall be sure to come,’ said Job.

‘Yes, you’d better,’ replied Sam, with a very meaning look, ‘or else I shall perhaps be askin’ arter you, at the other side of the green gate, and then I might cut you out, you know.’

‘I shall be sure to be with you, sir,’ said Mr. Trotter; and wringing Sam’s hand with the utmost fervour, he walked away.

‘Take care, Job Trotter, take care,’ said Sam, looking after him, ‘or I shall be one too many for you this time. I shall, indeed.’ Having uttered this soliloquy, and looked after Job till he was to be seen no more, Mr. Weller made the best of his way to his master’s bedroom.

‘It’s all in training, Sir,’ said Sam.

‘What’s in training, Sam?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘I’ve found ‘em out, Sir,’ said Sam.

‘Found out who?’

‘That ‘ere queer customer, and the melan-cholly chap with the black hair.’

‘Impossible, Sam!’ said Mr. Pickwick, with the greatest energy. ‘Where are they, Sam: where are they?’

‘Hush, hush!’ replied Mr. Weller; and as he assisted Mr. Pickwick to dress, he detailed the plan of action on which he proposed to enter.

‘But when is this to be done, Sam?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘All in good time, Sir,’ replied Sam.

Whether it was done in good time, or not, will be seen hereafter.

“Come sta,” disse Job Trotter mentre si allontanavano, “il vostro caro e buon padrone? Oh, è davvero un gentiluomo meritevole, il signor Weller! Spero che non abbia preso freddo quella terribile notte, signore.”

Per un istante, negli occhi di Job Trotter apparve uno sguardo astuto e malizioso; queste parole fecero rabbrividire il pugno stretto del signor Weller, che provò un forte desiderio di “dargli una lezione”. Tuttavia, Sam si trattenne e rispose che il suo padrone stava estremamente >bene.

“Ah, sono così felice,” rispose il signor Trotter; “è qui?”

“È tuo?” chiese Sam in risposta.

“Ah sì, è qui, e devo dire con dolore che le condizioni di Mr. Weller stanno peggiorando ancora.”

“Ah, ah!” disse Sam.

“Oh, scioccante, terribile!”

“In un collegio?” disse Sam.

“No, non in un collegio,” rispose Job Trotter, con lo stesso sguardo astuto che Sam aveva già notato prima; “non in un collegio.”

“Quella casa con il cancello verde?” chiese Sam, osservando attentamente il suo compagno.

“No, no, oh, non lì,” rispose Giobbe con una rapidità molto insolita per lui, “non lì.”

“Cosa stavi facendo lì?” chiese Sam, lanciandogli uno sguardo tagliente. “Forse sei entrato nel cancello per sbaglio, ”

“Perché, signor Weller,” rispose Job, “non mi dispiace raccontarle i miei piccoli segreti, perché, sa, ci siamo piaciuti molto quando ci siamo conosciuti la prima volta. Si ricorda quanto fossimo stati a nostro agio quella mattina?”

“Ah sì,” disse Sam, impaziente. “Me ne ricordo. Beh?”

“Beh,” rispose Job con grande precisione, usando il tono sommesso di chi rivela un segreto importante; “in quella casa con la porta verde, signor Weller, hanno molti domestici.”

“Dovrei pensarci, a giudicare dall’aspetto,” intervenne Sam.

“Sì,” continuò il signor Trotter, “e una di loro è una cuoca che ha risparmiato un po’ di soldi, signor Weller. Vorrebbe, se potesse stabilirsi nella vita, aprire un piccolo negozio nel settore della merceria, capisce?”

“Sì, davvero.”

“Sì, signor Weller. Beh, signore, l’ho incontrata in una cappella a cui vado spesso; una piccola cappella molto pulita in questa città, signor Weller, dove cantano il quarto libro di inni, che di solito porto con me in un libretto, che forse avrete già visto nella mia mano. Sono diventato piuttosto intimo con lei, signor Weller, e da lì è nata tra noi una certa conoscenza. E posso osare dire, signor Weller, che ora sarò il candelaio.”

“Ah, diventerai davvero un commesso molto simpatico,” rispose Sam, guardando Job con uno sguardo pieno di profondo disprezzo.

“Il grande vantaggio di tutto ciò, signor Weller,” continuò Job, con gli occhi pieni di lacrime mentre parlava, “è che potrò lasciare questo servizio vergognoso e meschino al fianco di quell’uomo malvagio, e dedicarmi a una vita migliore e più virtuosa; una vita più in linea con i principi con cui sono stato educato, signor Weller.”

“Devi essere stato davvero ben educato,” disse Sam.

“Oh, sì, molto, signor Weller, molto,” rispose Job. Ripensando alla purezza dei suoi giorni giovanili, il signor Trotter tirò fuori il fazzoletto rosa e pianse amaramente.

“Devi essere stato un ragazzo davvero gentile, per andare a scuola in quel modo,” disse Sam.

“Lo ero, signore,” rispose Giobbe, emettendo un profondo sospiro; “ero l’idolo di quel luogo.”

“Ah,” disse Sam, “non mi meraviglio affatto. Devi essere stato un grande conforto per tua madre benedetta.”

A queste parole, il signor Job Trotter infilò un angolo del fazzoletto rosa nell’angolo di ciascun occhio, uno dopo l’altro, e iniziò a piangere copiosamente.

“Che cos’ha questo uomo,” disse Sam, indignato. “Le fabbriche di trattamento delle acque di Chelsea non significano nulla per te. Di cosa stai parlando ora? Del senso del male?”

“Non riesco a trattenere i miei sentimenti, signor Weller,” disse Job dopo una breve pausa. “Pensare che il mio padrone abbia sospettato della conversazione che ho avuto con il suo, e così mi abbia portato via in una carrozza postale; dopo aver convinto quella dolce giovane donna a dire di non sapere nulla di lui, e aver corrotto l’insegnante perché facesse lo stesso, l’ha poi abbandonata per un’altra opportunità più vantaggiosa! Oh, signor Weller, mi fa rabbrividire.”

“Ah, quindi è stato così, vero?” disse il signor Weller.

“Certo che lo era,” rispose Giobbe.

“Vell,” disse Sam, mentre ormai si avvicinavano all’hotel, “vorrei parlarti un attimo, Job; quindi, se non hai altri impegni, mi piacerebbe incontrarti alla Great White Horse stasera, verso le otto.”

“Certamente verrò,” disse Giobbe.

“Sì, è meglio che lo faccia,” rispose Sam, con uno sguardo molto significativo, “altrimenti forse dovrò chiedertelo dall’altra parte di quel cancello verde, e allora potrei anche escluderti dalla lista, capisci?”

“Farò sicuramente in modo di essere con voi, signore,” disse il signor Trotter; poi strinse la mano di Sam con grande entusiasmo e se ne andò.

“Stai attento, Job Trotter, stai attento,” disse Sam, prendendosi cura di lui, “altrimenti questa volta sarò anch’io uno in più per te. Lo farò davvero.” Dopo aver pronunciato queste parole e aver continuato a vegliare su Job finché non scomparve dalla vista, il signor Weller si diresse immediatamente verso la camera da letto del suo padrone.

“È tutto ancora nel periodo di formazione, signore,” disse Sam.

“Di cosa si tratta questo addestramento, Sam?”, chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Li ho trovati, signore,” disse Sam.

“Scoperto chi?”

“Quel cliente strano, e quel tizio cupo con i capelli neri.”

“Impossibile, Sam!” disse il signor Pickwick con grande energia. “Dove sono, Sam, dove sono?”

“Zitto, zitto!”, rispose il signor Weller; e mentre aiutava il signor Pickwick a vestirsi, gli spiegò in dettaglio il piano d’azione che intendeva attuare.

“Ma quando dovrà essere fatto questo, Sam?”, chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Tutto a suo tempo, signore,” rispose Sam.

Che sia stato fatto nel giusto tempo, o meno, lo scopriremo in seguito.

CHAPTER XXIV. WHEREIN MR. PETER MAGNUS GROWS JEALOUS, AND THE MIDDLE- AGED LADY APPREHENSIVE, WHICH BRINGS THE PICKWICKIANS WITHIN THE GRASP OF THE LAW

When Mr. Pickwick descended to the room in which he and Mr. Peter Magnus had spent the preceding evening, he found that gentleman with the major part of the contents of the two bags, the leathern hat-box, and the brown-paper parcel, displaying to all possible advantage on his person, while he himself was pacing up and down the room in a state of the utmost excitement and agitation.

‘Good-morning, Sir,’ said Mr. Peter Magnus. ‘What do you think of this, Sir?’

‘Very effective indeed,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, surveying the garments of Mr. Peter Magnus with a good-natured smile.

‘Yes, I think it’ll do,’ said Mr. Magnus. ‘Mr. Pickwick, Sir, I have sent up my card.’

‘Have you?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘And the waiter brought back word, that she would see me at eleven—at eleven, Sir; it only wants a quarter now.’

‘Very near the time,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes, it is rather near,’ replied Mr. Magnus, ‘rather too near to be pleasant—eh! Mr. Pickwick, sir?’

‘Confidence is a great thing in these cases,’ observed Mr. Pickwick.

‘I believe it is, Sir,’ said Mr. Peter Magnus. ‘I am very confident, Sir. Really, Mr. Pickwick, I do not see why a man should feel any fear in such a case as this, sir. What is it, Sir? There’s nothing to be ashamed of; it’s a matter of mutual accommodation, nothing more. Husband on one side, wife on the other. That’s my view of the matter, Mr. Pickwick.’

‘It is a very philosophical one,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘But breakfast is waiting, Mr. Magnus. Come.’

Down they sat to breakfast, but it was evident, notwithstanding the boasting of Mr. Peter Magnus, that he laboured under a very considerable degree of nervousness, of which loss of appetite, a propensity to upset the tea-things, a spectral attempt at drollery, and an irresistible inclination to look at the clock, every other second, were among the principal symptoms.

‘He-he-he,’ tittered Mr. Magnus, affecting cheerfulness, and gasping with agitation. ‘It only wants two minutes, Mr. Pickwick. Am I pale, Sir?’

‘Not very,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

There was a brief pause.

‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Pickwick; but have you ever done this sort of thing in your time?’ said Mr. Magnus.

‘You mean proposing?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes.’

‘Never,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with great energy, ‘never.’

‘You have no idea, then, how it’s best to begin?’ said Mr. Magnus.

‘Why,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I may have formed some ideas upon the subject, but, as I have never submitted them to the test of experience, I should be sorry if you were induced to regulate your proceedings by them.’

‘I should feel very much obliged to you, for any advice, Sir,’ said Mr. Magnus, taking another look at the clock, the hand of which was verging on the five minutes past.

‘Well, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with the profound solemnity with which that great man could, when he pleased, render his remarks so deeply impressive. ‘I should commence, sir, with a tribute to the lady’s beauty and excellent qualities; from them, Sir, I should diverge to my own unworthiness.’

‘Very good,’ said Mr. Magnus.

‘Unworthiness for _her _only, mind, sir,’ resumed Mr. Pickwick; ‘for to show that I was not wholly unworthy, sir, I should take a brief review of my past life, and present condition. I should argue, by analogy, that to anybody else, I must be a very desirable object. I should then expatiate on the warmth of my love, and the depth of my devotion. Perhaps I might then be tempted to seize her hand.’

‘Yes, I see,’ said Mr. Magnus; ‘that would be a very great point.’

‘I should then, Sir,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, growing warmer as the subject presented itself in more glowing colours before him—‘I should then, Sir, come to the plain and simple question, “Will you have me?” I think I am justified in assuming that upon this, she would turn away her head.’

‘You think that may be taken for granted?’ said Mr. Magnus; ‘because, if she did not do that at the right place, it would be embarrassing.’

‘I think she would,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Upon this, sir, I should squeeze her hand, and I think—I think, Mr. Magnus—that after I had done that, supposing there was no refusal, I should gently draw away the handkerchief, which my slight knowledge of human nature leads me to suppose the lady would be applying to her eyes at the moment, and steal a respectful kiss. I think I should kiss her, Mr. Magnus; and at this particular point, I am decidedly of opinion that if the lady were going to take me at all, she would murmur into my ears a bashful acceptance.’

Mr. Magnus started; gazed on Mr. Pickwick’s intelligent face, for a short time in silence; and then (the dial pointing to the ten minutes past) shook him warmly by the hand, and rushed desperately from the room.

Mr. Pickwick had taken a few strides to and fro; and the small hand of the clock following the latter part of his example, had arrived at the figure which indicates the half-hour, when the door suddenly opened. He turned round to meet Mr. Peter Magnus, and encountered, in his stead, the joyous face of Mr. Tupman, the serene countenance of Mr. Winkle, and the intellectual lineaments of Mr. Snodgrass.

As Mr. Pickwick greeted them, Mr. Peter Magnus tripped into the room.

‘My friends, the gentleman I was speaking of—Mr. Magnus,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Your servant, gentlemen,’ said Mr. Magnus, evidently in a high state of excitement; ‘Mr. Pickwick, allow me to speak to you one moment, sir.’

As he said this, Mr. Magnus harnessed his forefinger to Mr. Pickwick’s buttonhole, and, drawing him to a window recess, said—

‘Congratulate me, Mr. Pickwick; I followed your advice to the very letter.’

CAPITOLO XXIV. IN IL QUALE IL SIGNOR PETER MAGNUS DIVENTA INVEGGIOSO E LA DONNA DI MEZZ’ETÀ ANSIOSA, COSÌ CHE I PICKWICKIANI FINISCONO PER TROVARSI TRA LE MANI DELLA LEGGE

Quando il signor Pickwick scese nella stanza dove lui e il signor Peter Magnus avevano trascorso la sera precedente, trovò quel gentiluomo con la maggior parte del contenuto delle due borse, della scatola da cappelli di cuoio e del pacchetto avvolto in carta marrone, esposti in modo ben visibile sul suo corpo; intanto lui stesso camminava avanti e indietro nella stanza in uno stato di estrema eccitazione e agitazione.

“Buongiorno, signore,” disse il signor Peter Magnus. “Che ne pensa di questo, signore?”

“Davvero molto efficace,” rispose il signor Pickwick, osservando gli abiti del signor Peter Magnus con un sorriso cordiale.

“Sì, penso che vada bene,” disse il signor Magnus. “Signor Pickwick, ho già inviato la mia carta.”

“L’hai già fatto?” disse il signor Pickwick.

E il cameriere tornò a dire che lei mi avrebbe incontrato alle undici. Alle undici, signore; manca solo un quarto d’ora.

“Molto vicino all’orario previsto,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Sì, è abbastanza vicino,” rispose il signor Magnus, “anzi troppo vicino per essere piacevole, eh! Signor Pickwick, non le pare?”

“La fiducia è una cosa molto importante in questi casi,” osservò il signor Pickwick.

“Credo di sì, signore,” disse il signor Peter Magnus. “Sono molto sicuro, signore. Davvero, signor Pickwick, non vedo perché un uomo debba provare paura in una situazione del genere. Di cosa si tratta, signore? Non c’è nulla di cui vergognarsi; è semplicemente una questione di reciproca comprensione, nient’altro. Il marito da un lato, la moglie dall’altro. Questa è la mia opinione al riguardo, signor Pickwick.”

“È un argomento molto filosofico,” rispose il signor Pickwick. “Ma la colazione è pronta, signor Magnus. Venga.”

Si sedettero a colazione, ma era evidente, nonostante le affermazioni orgogliose del signor Peter Magnus, che soffriva di un notevole grado di nervosismo; tra i principali sintomi vi erano la perdita di appetito, la tendenza a rovinare tutto ciò che riguardava il tè, tentativi goffi e poco riusciti di scherzare, e un’incontrollabile voglia di guardare l’orologio ogni due secondi.

“Ah-ah-ah,” ridacchiò il signor Magnus, fingendo di essere allegro e ansimando per l’agitazione. “Ci vogliono solo due minuti, signor Pickwick. Sono pallido, signore?”

“Non molto,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

Ci fu una breve pausa.

“Mi scusi, signor Pickwick, ma ha mai fatto una cosa del genere in passato?” chiese il signor Magnus.

“Voi intendete chiedere la mano?”, disse il signor Pickwick.

“Sì, davvero.”

“Mai,” disse il signor Pickwick con grande energia, “mai.”

“Allora, non avete la minima idea di come sia meglio iniziare, vero?” disse il signor Magnus.

“Perché,” disse il signor Pickwick, “forse ho formulato alcune idee sull’argomento, ma poiché non le ho mai messe alla prova dell’esperienza, mi dispiacerebbe se voi decideste di regolarvi secondo di esse.”

“Dovrei sentirmi molto in debito con voi per qualsiasi consiglio possiate darmi, signore,” disse il signor Magnus, guardando di nuovo l’orologio, la cui lancetta era vicina alle cinque e cinque minuti.

“Beh, signore,” disse il signor Pickwick con quella profonda solennità con cui quell’uomo straordinario sapeva, quando lo desiderava, rendere le proprie parole estremamente impressionanti. “Innanzitutto, signore, vorrei rendere omaggio alla bellezza e alle eccellenti qualità di questa signora; da lì, signore, passerò a parlare della mia stessa inadeguatezza.”

“Molto bene,” disse il signor Magnus.

“Un’indignità riservata soltanto a lei, signore,” riprese il signor Pickwick; “per dimostrare che non sono del tutto indegno, signore, dovrei fare un breve riepilogo della mia vita passata e della mia situazione attuale. Dovrei argomentare, per analogia, che per chiunque altro io debba rappresentare un oggetto molto desiderabile. Poi esporrei con dettaglio la calore del mio amore e la profondità della mia devozione. Forse allora sarei tentato di prendere la sua mano.”

“Sì, capisco,” disse il signor Magnus; “quello sarebbe davvero un aspetto molto importante.”

“Allora, signore,” continuò il signor Pickwick, sempre più entusiasta man mano che l’argomento assumeva contorni sempre più positivi davanti ai suoi occhi, “allora dovrei affrontare la domanda semplice e diretta: ‘Volete sposarmi?’ Credo di avere tutte le ragioni per pensare che, a questa domanda, lei distoglierà lo sguardo.”

“Pensi che si possa dare per scontato?” disse il signor Magnus; “perché, se non lo avesse fatto nel posto giusto, sarebbe stato imbarazzante.”

“Penso che lo farebbe,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Allora, signore, le stringerei la mano. E penso. Penso, signor Magnus, che dopo averlo fatto, e supponendo non ci fosse rifiuto, toglierei delicatamente il fazzoletto che, data la mia scarsa conoscenza della natura umana, immagino che la signora stesse usando in quel momento per coprirsi gli occhi. E le darei un bacio rispettoso. Penso davvero che dovrei baciarla, signor Magnus. E su questo punto sono assolutamente convinto: se la signora volesse accettarmi, sussurrerebbe timidamente un “sì” all’orecchio.”

Il signor Magnus iniziò; fissò per un breve istante il volto intelligente del signor Pickwick, in silenzio; poi (con l’orologio che indicava dieci minuti passati), gli strinse calorosamente la mano e uscì di corsa dalla stanza.

Il signor Pickwick aveva fatto alcuni passi avanti e indietro; la piccola lancetta dell’orologio, seguendo il suo esempio, era arrivata alla cifra che indicava mezz’ora quando, improvvisamente, la porta si aprì. Si girò per incontrare il signor Peter Magnus, ma al suo posto vide il volto gioioso del signor Tupman, l’espressione serena del signor Winkle e i tratti intellettuali del signor Snodgrass.

Mentre il signor Pickwick li salutava, il signor Peter Magnus entrò nella stanza inciampando.

“Amici miei, il gentiluomo di cui parlavo, il signor Magnus,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Vostro umile servitore, signori,” disse il signor Magnus, chiaramente in uno stato di grande eccitazione; “Signor Pickwick, permettetemi di parlarvi un momento, per favore.”

Mentre diceva queste cose, il signor Magnus infilò il proprio dito indice nell’asola del bottone del signor Pickwick, poi lo portò in un angolo vicino alla finestra e disse.

“Congratulatemi, signor Pickwick; ho seguito il suo consiglio alla lettera.”

‘And it was all correct, was it?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘It was, Sir. Could not possibly have been better,’ replied Mr. Magnus. ‘Mr. Pickwick, she is mine.’

‘I congratulate you, with all my heart,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, warmly shaking his new friend by the hand.

‘You must see her. Sir,’ said Mr. Magnus; ‘this way, if you please. Excuse us for one instant, gentlemen.’ Hurrying on in this way, Mr. Peter Magnus drew Mr. Pickwick from the room. He paused at the next door in the passage, and tapped gently thereat.

‘Come in,’ said a female voice. And in they went.

‘Miss Witherfield,’ said Mr. Magnus, ‘allow me to introduce my very particular friend, Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Pickwick, I beg to make you known to Miss Witherfield.’

The lady was at the upper end of the room. As Mr. Pickwick bowed, he took his spectacles from his waistcoat pocket, and put them on; a process which he had no sooner gone through, than, uttering an exclamation of surprise, Mr. Pickwick retreated several paces, and the lady, with a half-suppressed scream, hid her face in her hands, and dropped into a chair; whereupon Mr. Peter Magnus was stricken motionless on the spot, and gazed from one to the other, with a countenance expressive of the extremities of horror and surprise.

This certainly was, to all appearance, very unaccountable behaviour; but the fact is, that Mr. Pickwick no sooner put on his spectacles, than he at once recognised in the future Mrs. Magnus the lady into whose room he had so unwarrantably intruded on the previous night; and the spectacles had no sooner crossed Mr. Pickwick’s nose, than the lady at once identified the countenance which she had seen surrounded by all the horrors of a nightcap. So the lady screamed, and Mr. Pickwick started.

‘Mr. Pickwick!’ exclaimed Mr. Magnus, lost in astonishment, ‘what is the meaning of this, Sir? What is the meaning of it, Sir?’ added Mr. Magnus, in a threatening, and a louder tone.

‘Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, somewhat indignant at the very sudden manner in which Mr. Peter Magnus had conjugated himself into the imperative mood, ‘I decline answering that question.’

‘You decline it, Sir?’ said Mr. Magnus.

‘I do, Sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick; ‘I object to say anything which may compromise that lady, or awaken unpleasant recollections in her breast, without her consent and permission.’

‘Miss Witherfield,’ said Mr. Peter Magnus, ‘do you know this person?’

‘Know him!’ repeated the middle-aged lady, hesitating.

‘Yes, know him, ma’am; I said know him,’ replied Mr. Magnus, with ferocity.

‘I have seen him,’ replied the middle-aged lady.

‘Where?’ inquired Mr. Magnus, ‘where?’

‘That,’ said the middle-aged lady, rising from her seat, and averting her head—‘that I would not reveal for worlds.’

‘I understand you, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘and respect your delicacy; it shall never be revealed by me depend upon it.’

‘Upon my word, ma’am,’ said Mr. Magnus, ‘considering the situation in which I am placed with regard to yourself, you carry this matter off with tolerable coolness—tolerable coolness, ma’am.’

‘Cruel Mr. Magnus!’ said the middle-aged lady; here she wept very copiously indeed.

‘Address your observations to me, sir,’ interposed Mr. Pickwick; ‘I alone am to blame, if anybody be.’

‘Oh! you alone are to blame, are you, sir?’ said Mr. Magnus; ‘I—I—see through this, sir. You repent of your determination now, do you?’

‘My determination!’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Your determination, Sir. Oh! don’t stare at me, Sir,’ said Mr. Magnus; ‘I recollect your words last night, Sir. You came down here, sir, to expose the treachery and falsehood of an individual on whose truth and honour you had placed implicit reliance—eh?’ Here Mr. Peter Magnus indulged in a prolonged sneer; and taking off his green spectacles— which he probably found superfluous in his fit of jealousy—rolled his little eyes about, in a manner frightful to behold.

‘Eh?’ said Mr. Magnus; and then he repeated the sneer with increased effect. ‘But you shall answer it, Sir.’

‘Answer what?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Never mind, sir,’ replied Mr. Magnus, striding up and down the room. ‘Never mind.’

There must be something very comprehensive in this phrase of ‘Never mind,’ for we do not recollect to have ever witnessed a quarrel in the street, at a theatre, public room, or elsewhere, in which it has not been the standard reply to all belligerent inquiries. ‘Do you call yourself a gentleman, sir?’—‘Never mind, sir.’

Did I offer to say anything to the young woman, sir?’—‘Never mind, sir.’

Do you want your head knocked up against that wall, sir?’—‘Never mind, sir.’ It is observable, too, that there would appear to be some hidden taunt in this universal ‘Never mind,’ which rouses more indignation in the bosom of the individual addressed, than the most lavish abuse could possibly awaken.

We do not mean to assert that the application of this brevity to himself, struck exactly that indignation to Mr. Pickwick’s soul, which it would infallibly have roused in a vulgar breast. We merely record the fact that Mr. Pickwick opened the room door, and abruptly called out, ‘Tupman, come here!’

Mr. Tupman immediately presented himself, with a look of very considerable surprise.

‘Tupman,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘a secret of some delicacy, in which that lady is concerned, is the cause of a difference which has just arisen between this gentleman and myself. When I assure him, in your presence, that it has no relation to himself, and is not in any way connected with his affairs, I need hardly beg you to take notice that if he continue to dispute it, he expresses a doubt of my veracity, which I shall consider extremely insulting.’ As Mr. Pickwick said this, he looked encyclopedias at Mr. Peter Magnus.

Mr. Pickwick’s upright and honourable bearing, coupled with that force and energy of speech which so eminently distinguished him, would have carried conviction to any reasonable mind; but, unfortunately, at that particular moment, the mind of Mr. Peter Magnus was in anything but reasonable order. Consequently, instead of receiving Mr. Pickwick’s explanation as he ought to have done, he forthwith proceeded to work himself into a red-hot, scorching, consuming passion, and to talk about what was due to his own feelings, and all that sort of thing; adding force to his declamation by striding to and fro, and pulling his hair— amusements which he would vary occasionally, by shaking his fist in Mr. Pickwick’s philanthropic countenance.

“E tutto era corretto, vero?” chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Sì, signore. Non avrebbe potuto essere meglio,” rispose il signor Magnus.
“Signor Pickwick, lei è mia.”

“Vi congratulo con tutto il cuore,” rispose il signor Pickwick stringendo calorosamente la mano al suo nuovo amico.

“Dovete assolutamente vederla, signore,” disse il signor Magnus; “da questa parte, per favore. Scusateci un attimo, signori.” Proseguendo in questo modo, il signor Peter Magnus portò il signor Pickwick fuori dalla stanza. Si fermò davanti alla porta accanto nel corridoio e bussò delicatamente.

“Entra,” disse una voce femminile. E loro entrarono.

“Signorina Witherfield,” disse il signor Magnus, “permettetemi di presentarvi il mio amico molto particolare, il signor Pickwick. Signor Pickwick, le presento la signorina Witherfield.”

La signora si trovava nella parte superiore della stanza. Mentre il signor Pickwick faceva un inchino, prese gli occhiali dalla tasca del gilet e se li mise; appena terminato questo gesto, emettendo un’esclamazione di sorpresa, il signor Pickwick indietreggiò di alcuni passi. La signora, con un grido soffocato, nascose il viso tra le mani e si lasciò cadere su una sedia; in quel momento, il signor Peter Magnus rimase immobile sul posto, fissando alternativamente la signora e il signor Pickwick con un’espressione che rifletteva estrema paura e sorpresa.

Certamente, a prima vista, si trattava di un comportamento molto incomprensibile; ma il fatto è che non appena il signor Pickwick indossò gli occhiali, riconobbe immediatamente nella futura signora Magnus la donna nella cui stanza era entrato in modo così ingiustificato la sera precedente; e non appena gli occhiali furono posizionati sul naso del signor Pickwick, la donna riconobbe subito quel volto che aveva visto circondato da tutti gli orrori di un bicchiere di grog alla sera. Così la donna gridò, e il signor Pickwick fece un balzo indietro.

“Signor Pickwick!”, esclamò il signor Magnus, sopraffatto dall’orrore, “che significato ha tutto questo, signore? Che significa, signore?”, aggiunse il signor Magnus, con un tono minaccioso e sempre più alto.

“Signore,” disse il signor Pickwick, piuttosto indignato dal modo così improvviso con cui il signor Peter Magnus aveva passato al tono imperativo, “rifiuto di rispondere a quella domanda.”

“Lo rifiutate, signore?” disse il signor Magnus.

“Sì, signore,” rispose il signor Pickwick; “mi rifiuto di dire qualsiasi cosa possa mettere a rischio quella signora o suscitare in lei ricordi sgradevoli, senza il suo consenso e la sua autorizzazione.”

“Signorina Witherfield,” disse il signor Peter Magnus, “conosce questa persona?”

“Conoscietelo!”, ripeté la donna di mezza età, esitando.

“Sì, lo conosco, signora; ho detto che lo conosco,” rispose il signor Magnus con ferocia.

“L’ho visto,” rispose la signora di mezza età.

“Dove?” chiese il signor Magnus, “dove?”

“Quello,” disse la signora di mezza età, alzandosi dal suo posto e distogliendo lo sguardo, “quello non lo avrei rivelato nemmeno per tutto l’oro del mondo.”

“La capisco, signora,” disse il signor Pickwick, “e rispetto la sua delicatezza; non verrà mai rivelato da me, stia certa.”

“Per la mia parola, signora,” disse il signor Magnus, “tenendo conto della situazione in cui mi trovo rispetto a voi, devo dire che gestite questa faccenda con una calma tollerabile. Una calma tollerabile, signora.”

“Crudele signor Magnus!” disse la donna di mezza età; qui pianse davvero molto.

“Sì, rivolgete le vostre osservazioni a me, signore,” intervenne il signor Pickwick; “se qualcuno è da biasimare, sono soltanto io.”

“Oh! Sei tu il responsabile di tutto questo, vero, signore?” disse il signor Magnus; “Io, io capisco tutto ora. Ora ti penti della tua decisione, non è così?”

“La mia determinazione!”, disse il signor Pickwick.

“La sua determinazione, signore. Oh, non mi guardi così, per favore,” disse il signor Magnus. “Ricordo le sue parole la scorsa notte: è venuto qui per smascherare la tradizione e la falsità di una persona su cui aveva riposto totale fiducia, nella sua verità e nella sua onore, vero?” A quel punto il signor Peter Magnus emise un lungo sogghigno; poi si tolse gli occhiali verdi – che probabilmente riteneva superflui in quel momento di gelosia – e girò gli occhi intorno in modo davvero spaventoso da vedere.

“Eh?”, disse il signor Magnus; poi ripeté quel sorriso beffardo con ancora maggiore effetto. “Ma dovrà rispondere, signore.”

“Rispondere a cosa?”, disse il signor Pickwick.

“Nessun problema, signore,” rispose il signor Magnus, camminando avanti e indietro nella stanza.
“Nessun problema.”

Deve esserci qualcosa di molto significativo in questa frase “Non importa”, perché non ricordiamo di aver mai assistito a una lite in strada, al teatro, in un locale pubblico o altrove, in cui essa non fosse la risposta standard a tutte le domande aggressive del tipo: “Si considera davvero un gentiluomo, signore?” – “Non importa, signore.”

“Ho proposto di dire qualcosa alla giovane donna, signore?” – “Lasciate perdere, signore.”

“Vuole che le sbattano la testa contro quel muro, signore?” – “Lasciamo perdere, signore.” È anche evidente che in questo universale “Lasciamo perdere” ci sia una sorta di insulto nascosto, che suscita nell’individuo a cui si rivolge un’indignazione molto maggiore di quanta potrebbe provocarla il più violento degli insulti.

Non intendiamo affermare che l’applicazione di questa brevità a lui stesso abbia suscitato esattamente quella stessa indignazione nell’anima del signor Pickwick, indignazione che inevitabilmente sarebbe sorta in un cuore volgare. Ci limitiamo semplicemente a registrare il fatto che il signor Pickwick aprì la porta della stanza e gridò improvvisamente: “Tupman, vieni qui!”

Il signor Tupman si presentò immediatamente, con un’espressione di notevole sorpresa.

“Tupman,” disse il signor Pickwick, “un segreto di qualche natura delicata, che riguarda quella signora, è la causa della divergenza appena sorta tra questo gentiluomo e me. Quando gli assicuro, in vostra presenza, che non ha nulla a che fare con lui e non è in alcun modo collegato alle sue faccende, non ho bisogno nemmeno di chiedervi di prestare attenzione: se continuerà a contestarlo, dimostrerà di dubitare della mia veridicità, il che considererei estremamente offensivo.” Mentre diceva queste parole, il signor Pickwick fissava il signor Peter Magnus con uno sguardo intenso.

Il comportamento retto e onorevole del signor Pickwick, unito a quella forza e energia nel parlare che lo distinguevano così tanto, avrebbe dovuto convincere qualsiasi mente razionale; purtroppo, in quel particolare momento, la mente del signor Peter Magnus non era affatto in condizioni razionali. Di conseguenza, invece di accettare le spiegazioni del signor Pickwick come avrebbe dovuto fare, egli iniziò immediatamente a provare un’ira intensa e incontrollabile, cominciando a parlare di ciò che riteneva fosse giusto per i propri sentimenti, e simili cose; per rafforzare le sue dichiarazioni, camminava avanti e indietro e si tirava i capelli, divertimenti che talvolta variava aggiungendo anche il gesto di scuotere il pugno davanti al volto filantropico del signor Pickwick.

Mr. Pickwick, in his turn, conscious of his own innocence and rectitude, and irritated by having unfortunately involved the middle-aged lady in such an unpleasant affair, was not so quietly disposed as was his wont. The consequence was, that words ran high, and voices higher; and at length Mr. Magnus told Mr. Pickwick he should hear from him; to which Mr. Pickwick replied, with laudable politeness, that the sooner he heard from him the better; whereupon the middle-aged lady rushed in terror from the room, out of which Mr. Tupman dragged Mr. Pickwick, leaving Mr. Peter Magnus to himself and meditation.

If the middle-aged lady had mingled much with the busy world, or had profited at all by the manners and customs of those who make the laws and set the fashions, she would have known that this sort of ferocity is the most harmless thing in nature; but as she had lived for the most part in the country, and never read the parliamentary debates, she was little versed in these particular refinements of civilised life. Accordingly, when she had gained her bedchamber, bolted herself in, and began to meditate on the scene she had just witnessed, the most terrific pictures of slaughter and destruction presented themselves to her imagination; among which, a full-length portrait of Mr. Peter Magnus borne home by four men, with the embellishment of a whole barrelful of bullets in his left side, was among the very least. The more the middle- aged lady meditated, the more terrified she became; and at length she determined to repair to the house of the principal magistrate of the town, and request him to secure the persons of Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman without delay.

To this decision the middle-aged lady was impelled by a variety of considerations, the chief of which was the incontestable proof it would afford of her devotion to Mr. Peter Magnus, and her anxiety for his safety. She was too well acquainted with his jealous temperament to venture the slightest allusion to the real cause of her agitation on beholding Mr. Pickwick; and she trusted to her own influence and power of persuasion with the little man, to quell his boisterous jealousy, supposing that Mr. Pickwick were removed, and no fresh quarrel could arise. Filled with these reflections, the middle-aged lady arrayed herself in her bonnet and shawl, and repaired to the mayor’s dwelling straightway.

Now George Nupkins, Esquire, the principal magistrate aforesaid, was as grand a personage as the fastest walker would find out, between sunrise and sunset, on the twenty-first of June, which being, according to the almanacs, the longest day in the whole year, would naturally afford him the longest period for his search. On this particular morning, Mr. Nupkins was in a state of the utmost excitement and irritation, for there had been a rebellion in the town; all the day-scholars at the largest day-school had conspired to break the windows of an obnoxious apple-seller, and had hooted the beadle and pelted the constabulary—an elderly gentleman in top-boots, who had been called out to repress the tumult, and who had been a peace-officer, man and boy, for half a century at least. And Mr. Nupkins was sitting in his easy-chair, frowning with majesty, and boiling with rage, when a lady was announced on pressing, private, and particular business. Mr. Nupkins looked calmly terrible, and commanded that the lady should be shown in; which command, like all the mandates of emperors, and magistrates, and other great potentates of the earth, was forthwith obeyed; and Miss Witherfield, interestingly agitated, was ushered in accordingly.

‘Muzzle!’ said the magistrate.

Muzzle was an undersized footman, with a long body and short legs.

‘Muzzle!’

Yes, your Worship.’

‘Place a chair, and leave the room.’

‘Yes, your Worship.’

‘Now, ma’am, will you state your business?’ said the magistrate.

‘It is of a very painful kind, Sir,’ said Miss Witherfield.

‘Very likely, ma’am,’ said the magistrate. ‘Compose your feelings, ma’am.’ Here Mr. Nupkins looked benignant. ‘And then tell me what legal business brings you here, ma’am.’ Here the magistrate triumphed over the man; and he looked stern again.

‘It is very distressing to me, Sir, to give this information,’ said Miss Witherfield, ‘but I fear a duel is going to be fought here.’

‘Here, ma’am?’ said the magistrate. ‘Where, ma’am?’

‘In Ipswich.’

In Ipswich, ma’am! A duel in Ipswich!’ said the magistrate, perfectly aghast at the notion. ‘Impossible, ma’am; nothing of the kind can be contemplated in this town, I am persuaded. Bless my soul, ma’am, are you aware of the activity of our local magistracy? Do you happen to have heard, ma’am, that I rushed into a prize-ring on the fourth of May last, attended by only sixty special constables; and, at the hazard of falling a sacrifice to the angry passions of an infuriated multitude, prohibited a pugilistic contest between the Middlesex Dumpling and the Suffolk Bantam? A duel in Ipswich, ma’am? I don’t think—I do not think,’ said the magistrate, reasoning with himself, ‘that any two men can have had the hardihood to plan such a breach of the peace, in this town.’

‘My information is, unfortunately, but too correct,’ said the middle- aged lady; ‘I was present at the quarrel.’

‘It’s a most extraordinary thing,’ said the astounded magistrate. ‘Muzzle!’

‘Yes, your Worship.’

‘Send Mr. Jinks here, directly! Instantly.’

‘Yes, your Worship.’

Muzzle retired; and a pale, sharp-nosed, half-fed, shabbily-clad clerk, of middle age, entered the room.

‘Mr. Jinks,’ said the magistrate. ‘Mr. Jinks.’

‘Sir,’ said Mr. Jinks.

‘This lady, Mr. Jinks, has come here, to give information of an intended duel in this town.’

Mr. Jinks, not knowing exactly what to do, smiled a dependent’s smile.

‘What are you laughing at, Mr. Jinks?’ said the magistrate.

Mr. Jinks looked serious instantly.

Il signor Pickwick, a sua volta, consapevole della propria innocenza e rettitudine, e irritato per aver involontariamente coinvolto la signora di mezza età in un affare così sgradevole, non era nel solito stato d’animo sereno. Di conseguenza, le parole si fecero sempre più aspre, e alla fine il signor Magnus disse al signor Pickwick che avrebbe sentito parlare di lui; a cui il signor Pickwick rispose, con lodevole cortesia, che più presto fosse successo, meglio sarebbe stato. In quel momento, la signora di mezza età fuggì dalla stanza in preda al terrore, mentre il signor Tupman trascinò via il signor Pickwick, lasciando il signor Peter Magnus da solo a riflettere.

Se quella signora di mezza età avesse frequentato di più il mondo frenetico, o se avesse tratto qualche beneficio dalle maniere e dai costumi di coloro che fanno le leggi e stabiliscono le mode, avrebbe saputo che questo tipo di ferocia è in realtà la cosa meno pericolosa che esista nella >natura; ma poiché aveva vissuto per lo più in campagna e non aveva mai letto i dibattiti parlamentari, conosceva molto poco di queste sottili sfumature della vita civile. Pertanto, quando entrò nella sua camera da letto, si chiuse a chiave dentro e iniziò a riflettere su quanto appena visto; nella sua immaginazione presero forma le immagini più terribili di massacri e distruzioni. Tra queste, il ritratto completo di Mr. Peter Magnus portato via da quattro uomini, con un intero barile di proiettili conficcati nel lato sinistro del suo corpo, era senz’altro uno dei meno spaventosi. Più rifletteva, più si spaventava; alla fine decise di recarsi presso la residenza del magistrato principale della città e chiedergli di intervenire immediatamente per proteggere Mr. Pickwick e Mr. Tupman.

A prendere questa decisione, la signora di mezza età fu spinta da diversi motivi; il principale di questi era la prova indiscutibile che tale azione avrebbe fornito della sua devozione verso il signor Peter Magnus, nonché della sua preoccupazione per la sua sicurezza. Conosceva troppo bene il suo temperamento geloso per osare anche solo accennare alla vera causa del proprio turbamento nel vedere il signor Pickwick; confidava quindi nella propria influenza e nel proprio potere di persuasione su quell’uomo, nella speranza che, una volta allontanato il signor Pickwick, non potessero più sorgere nuovi litigi. Con questi pensieri in mente, la signora si vestì e si recò immediatamente presso la residenza del sindaco.

Ora, George Nupkins, Esquire, il suddetto magistrato principale, era una figura di grande rilievo, almeno così avrebbe potuto ritenere chiunque lo incontrasse tra l’alba e il tramonto del ventunesimo giugno, giorno che, secondo gli almanacchi, è il più lungo dell’anno intero; quindi naturalmente gli offriva il periodo più lungo possibile per portare a termine le sue indagini. Quella mattina in particolare, il signor Nupkins era nel massimo stato di eccitazione e irritazione: nella città era scoppiata una rivolta. Tutti gli studenti della scuola più grande avevano cospirato per rompere le finestre di un odioso venditore di mele, insultando il bidello e aggredendo la polizia. Un anziano gentiluomo in stivali alti, chiamato a sedare il tumulto e che da almeno mezzo secolo svolgeva il ruolo di ufficiale di pace. Il signor Nupkins era seduto nella sua poltrona, con la fronte corrugata dalla rabbia. Quando fu annunciata l’arrivo di una signora per un affare urgente e privato, il signor Nupkins guardò con aria minacciosa e ordinò che fosse fatta entrare. Quell’ordine, come tutti gli ordini di imperatori, magistrati e altri potenti della terra, fu immediatamente eseguito. E così Miss Witherfield, visibilmente agitata, fu fatta accomodare.

“Tappategli la bocca!”, disse il magistrato.

Muzzle era un valletto di statura bassa, con un corpo lungo e gambe corte.

“Muzzle!”

“Sì, Vostra Maestà.”

#“Metti una sedia e vattene dalla stanza.”

“Sì, Vostra Maestà.”

“Ora, signora, potrebbe dirci di cosa si tratta?” chiese il magistrato.

“È di un tipo molto doloroso, signore,” disse la signorina Witherfield.

“Molto probabilmente, signora,” disse il magistrato. “Calmatevi, per favore.” A quel punto, il signor Nupkins assunse un’espressione benevola. “E poi ditemi quale questione legale vi ha portata qui, signora.” In quel momento, il magistrato ebbe la meglio sull’uomo; il suo volto tornò serio.

“È molto doloroso per me, signore, dover comunicare queste informazioni,” disse la signorina Witherfield, “ma temo che qui si stia per combattere un duello.”

“Eccola qui, signora”, disse il magistrato. “Dove, signora?”

“In Ipswich.”

“A Ipswich, signora! Un duello ad Ipswich!” esclamò il magistrato, profondamente sconvolto all’idea. “Impossibile, signora; nulla del genere può essere nemmeno preso in considerazione in questa città, ne sono convinto. Per la mia ‘anima, signora, si rende conto dell’attività della nostra magistratura locale? Ha mai sentito, per caso, che il 4 maggio scorso sono intervenuto in un incontro di pugilato a cui partecipavano soltanto sessanta agenti speciali; e, rischiando di diventare vittima delle furie di una folla inferocita, ho proibito quel combattimento tra il Middlesex Dumpling e il Suffolk Bantam? Un duello ad Ipswich. Non credo proprio che due uomini possano avere la sfrontatezza di pianificare un simile atto di violenza in questa città.”

“Purtroppo, le mie informazioni sono troppo accurate,” disse la signora di mezza età; “ero presente alla lite.”

“È una cosa davvero straordinaria,” disse il magistrato, sbalordito.
“Zitto!”

“Sì, Vostra Maestà.”

“Chiamate immediatamente il signor Jinks qui!”

“Sì, Vostra Maestà.”

Il cane fu messo in pensione; poi entrò nella stanza un impiegato di mezza età, pallido, dal naso affilato, malnutrito e vestito in modo trasandato.

“Signor Jinks,” disse il magistrato. “Signor Jinks.”

“Signore,” disse il signor Jinks.

“Questa signora, il signor Jinks, è venuta qui per fornire informazioni su un duello che si prevede avverrà in questa città.”

Il signor Jinks, non sapendo esattamente cosa fare, sorrise con quel sorriso tipico di chi si sente inadeguato.

“Di cosa state ridendo, signor Jinks?”, chiese il magistrato.

Il signor Jinks assunse immediatamente un’espressione seria.

‘Mr. Jinks,’ said the magistrate, ‘you’re a fool.’

Mr. Jinks looked humbly at the great man, and bit the top of his pen.

‘You may see something very comical in this information, Sir—but I can tell you this, Mr. Jinks, that you have very little to laugh at,’ said the magistrate.

The hungry-looking Jinks sighed, as if he were quite aware of the fact of his having very little indeed to be merry about; and, being ordered to take the lady’s information, shambled to a seat, and proceeded to write it down.

‘This man, Pickwick, is the principal, I understand?’ said the magistrate, when the statement was finished.

‘He is,’ said the middle-aged lady.

‘And the other rioter—what’s his name, Mr. Jinks?’

‘Tupman, Sir.’

Tupman is the second?’

‘Yes.’

‘The other principal, you say, has absconded, ma’am?’

‘Yes,’ replied Miss Witherfield, with a short cough.

‘Very well,’ said the magistrate. ‘These are two cut-throats from London, who have come down here to destroy his Majesty’s population, thinking that at this distance from the capital, the arm of the law is weak and paralysed. They shall be made an example of. Draw up the warrants, Mr. Jinks. Muzzle!’

‘Yes, your Worship.’

‘Is Grummer downstairs?’

‘Yes, your Worship.’

‘Send him up.’

The obsequious Muzzle retired, and presently returned, introducing the elderly gentleman in the top-boots, who was chiefly remarkable for a bottle-nose, a hoarse voice, a snuff-coloured surtout, and a wandering eye.

‘Grummer,’ said the magistrate.

‘Your Wash-up.’

‘Is the town quiet now?’

‘Pretty well, your Wash-up,’ replied Grummer. ‘Pop’lar feeling has in a measure subsided, consekens o’ the boys having dispersed to cricket.’

‘Nothing but vigorous measures will do in these times, Grummer,’ said the magistrate, in a determined manner. ‘If the authority of the king’s officers is set at naught, we must have the riot act read. If the civil power cannot protect these windows, Grummer, the military must protect the civil power, and the windows too. I believe that is a maxim of the constitution, Mr. Jinks?’

Certainly, sir,’ said Jinks.

‘Very good,’ said the magistrate, signing the warrants. ‘Grummer, you will bring these persons before me, this afternoon. You will find them at the Great White Horse. You recollect the case of the Middlesex Dumpling and the Suffolk Bantam, Grummer?’

Mr. Grummer intimated, by a retrospective shake of the head, that he should never forget it—as indeed it was not likely he would, so long as it continued to be cited daily.

‘This is even more unconstitutional,’ said the magistrate; ‘this is even a greater breach of the peace, and a grosser infringement of his Majesty’s prerogative. I believe duelling is one of his Majesty’s most undoubted prerogatives, Mr. Jinks?’

‘Expressly stipulated in Magna Charta, sir,’ said Mr. Jinks.

‘One of the brightest jewels in the British crown, wrung from his Majesty by the barons, I believe, Mr. Jinks?’ said the magistrate.

‘Just so, Sir,’ replied Mr. Jinks.

‘Very well,’ said the magistrate, drawing himself up proudly, ‘it shall not be violated in this portion of his dominions. Grummer, procure assistance, and execute these warrants with as little delay as possible. Muzzle!’

‘Yes, your Worship.’

‘Show the lady out.’

Miss Witherfield retired, deeply impressed with the magistrate’s learning and research; Mr. Nupkins retired to lunch; Mr. Jinks retired within himself—that being the only retirement he had, except the sofa- bedstead in the small parlour which was occupied by his landlady’s family in the daytime—and Mr. Grummer retired, to wipe out, by his mode of discharging his present commission, the insult which had been fastened upon himself, and the other representative of his Majesty—the beadle—in the course of the morning.

While these resolute and determined preparations for the conservation of the king’s peace were pending, Mr. Pickwick and his friends, wholly unconscious of the mighty events in progress, had sat quietly down to dinner; and very talkative and companionable they all were. Mr. Pickwick was in the very act of relating his adventure of the preceding night, to the great amusement of his followers, Mr. Tupman especially, when the door opened, and a somewhat forbidding countenance peeped into the room. The eyes in the forbidding countenance looked very earnestly at Mr. Pickwick, for several seconds, and were to all appearance satisfied with their investigation; for the body to which the forbidding countenance belonged, slowly brought itself into the apartment, and presented the form of an elderly individual in top-boots—not to keep the reader any longer in suspense, in short, the eyes were the wandering eyes of Mr. Grummer, and the body was the body of the same gentleman.

Mr. Grummer’s mode of proceeding was professional, but peculiar. His first act was to bolt the door on the inside; his second, to polish his head and countenance very carefully with a cotton handkerchief; his third, to place his hat, with the cotton handkerchief in it, on the nearest chair; and his fourth, to produce from the breast-pocket of his coat a short truncheon, surmounted by a brazen crown, with which he beckoned to Mr. Pickwick with a grave and ghost-like air.

Mr. Snodgrass was the first to break the astonished silence. He looked steadily at Mr. Grummer for a brief space, and then said emphatically, ‘This is a private room, Sir. A private room.’

Mr. Grummer shook his head, and replied, ‘No room’s private to his Majesty when the street door’s once passed. That’s law. Some people maintains that an Englishman’s house is his castle. That’s gammon.’

The Pickwickians gazed on each other with wondering eyes.

‘Which is Mr. Tupman?’ inquired Mr. Grummer. He had an intuitive perception of Mr. Pickwick; he knew him at once.

“Signor Jinks,” disse il magistrato, “siete un idiota.”

Il signor Jinks guardò umilmente quell’uomo importante e morse la punta della sua penna.

“Potreste trovare queste informazioni molto divertenti, signore, ma posso dirvi una cosa, signor Jinks: non c’è davvero nulla di cui ridere,” disse il magistrato.

Jinks, con quell’aspetto affamato, sospirò, come se fosse ben consapevole del fatto che non avesse davvero molto per cui essere felice; e, dopo essere stato incaricato di prendere le informazioni della signora, si sedette goffamente e iniziò a scriverle.

“Quest’uomo, Pickwick, è il principale responsabile, giusto?” disse il magistrato quando la dichiarazione fu terminata.

“Lo è,” disse la signora di mezza età.

“E l’altro manifestante, come si chiama, signor Jinks?”

“Tupman, signore.”

“Tupman è il secondo?”

“Sì, davvero.”

“L’altro preside, dite, si è dato alla fuga, signora?”

“Sì,” rispose la signorina Witherfield, dopo un breve colpo di tosse.

“Molto bene,” disse il magistrato. “Questi sono due assassini di Londra che sono venuti qui per distruggere la popolazione di Sua Maestà, pensando che a questa distanza dalla capitale l’efficacia della legge sia debole e inutile. Dovranno servire da esempio. Redigete i mandati, signor Jinks. Mettete loro le manette!”

“Sì, Vostra Maestà.”

“È Grummer al piano di sotto?”

“Sì, Vostra Maestà.”

“Mandatelo su.”

Il servile Muzzle si ritirò e poco dopo tornò, presentando il signore anziano con gli stivali alti; quest’ultimo era particolarmente noto per il suo naso a bottiglia, la voce rauca, un soprabito di colore marrone scuro e uno sguardo vacuo.

“Grummer,” disse il magistrato.

“La tua lavastoviglie.”

“È tranquilla la città ora?”

“Abbastanza bene, a dire il vero,” rispose Grummer. “La rabbia di Pop’lar si è un po’ placata, ora che i ragazzi sono andati a giocare a cricket.”

“Solo misure decise e energiche possono funzionare in questi tempi, Grummer,” disse il magistrato con fermezza. “Se l’autorità degli ufficiali del re viene ignorata, dovremo ricorrere alle leggi per reprimere i disordini. Se il potere civile non è in grado di proteggere queste finestre, Grummer, allora l’esercito dovrà proteggere sia il potere civile che le stesse finestre. Credo che questa sia una norma fondamentale della costituzione, vero, signor Jinks?”

“Certo, signore,” disse Jinks.

“Molto bene,” disse il magistrato, firmando gli ordini di arresto. “Grummer, porterai queste persone davanti a me questo pomeriggio. Le troverai presso il Grande Cavallo Bianco. Ricordi il caso del Middlesex Dumpling e del Suffolk Bantam, Grummer?”

Il signor Grummer, scuotendo la testa in modo significativo, fece intendere che non avrebbe mai dovuto dimenticarlo. E infatti era improbabile che lo facesse, finché quel fatto continuava ad essere menzionato ogni giorno.

“Questo è ancora più contrario alla Costituzione,” disse il magistrato; “si tratta di una violazione ancora più grave dell’ordine pubblico e di un’offesa ancora più palese alle prerogative Sua Maestà. Credo che il duello sia senz’altro una delle prerogative indiscutibili di Sua Maestà, vero, signor Jinks?”

“È esplicitamente previsto nella Magna Carta, signore,” disse il signor Jinks.

“Uno dei più brillanti gioielli della corona britannica, strappato a Sua Maestà dai baroni, giusto, signor Jinks?” disse il magistrato.

“Proprio così, signore,” rispose il signor Jinks.

“Molto bene,” disse il magistrato, ergendosi con orgoglio, “in questa parte dei suoi domini tale ordine non verrà violato. Grummer, procurati l’aiuto necessario e esegui questi mandati il prima possibile. Imbavagliatelo!”

“Sì, Vostra Maestà.”

“Conducete la signora fuori.”

La signorina Witherfield si ritirò, profondamente colpita dalla cultura e dalle ricerche del magistrato; il signor Nupkins si ritirò per pranzo; il signor Jinks, si ritirò dentro se stesso – poiché quella era l’unica “ritirata” che gli fosse concessa, a parte il divano-letto nella piccola sala, occupato durante il giorno dalla famiglia della sua padrona di casa – e il signor Grummer si ritirò per cancellare, con il modo in cui avrebbe svolto la propria attuale missione, l’insulto che gli era stato rivolto quella mattina, insieme a quello subito dall’altro rappresentante di Sua Maestà, il campanaro.

Mentre queste preparazioni risolute e decise per la salvaguardia della pace del re erano in corso, il signor Pickwick e i suoi amici, completamente ignari degli eventi imminenti, si erano seduti tranquillamente a cena; erano tutti molto loquaci e socievoli. Il signor Pickwick stava proprio raccontando la sua avventura della sera precedente, con grande divertimento dei suoi ascoltatori, soprattutto del signor Tupman, quando la porta si aprì e un volto piuttosto severo sbirciò nella stanza. Gli occhi di quel volto fissarono intensamente il signor Pickwick per alcuni secondi, e a quanto pare furono soddisfatti della loro ispezione; perché il corpo a cui appartenevano quegli occhi entrò lentamente nella stanza, assumendo l’aspetto di un anziano uomo con stivali alti. Per non tenere più il lettore in sospeso, si tratta ovviamente degli occhi erranti del signor Grummer, e del suo stesso corpo.

Il modo in cui il signor Grummer procedeva era professionale, ma piuttosto particolare. La sua prima mossa fu chiudere a chiave la porta dall’interno; la seconda, pulire con cura la propria testa e il viso con un fazzoletto di cotone; la terza, posizionare il proprio cappello, ancora contenente il fazzoletto, sulla sedia più vicina; e la quarta, estrarre dalla tasca del suo soprabito un corto bastone, sulla cui estremità era posta una corona di bronzo, con il quale fece segno al signor Pickwick con un’aria grave e sinistra, simile a quella di uno spettro.

Il signor Snodgrass fu il primo a rompere il silenzio sbalordito che regnava nella stanza. Guardò fissamente il signor Grummer per un momento, poi disse con fermezza: “Questa è una stanza privata, signore. Una stanza privata.”

Il signor Grummer scosse la testa e rispose: “Nessuna stanza è davvero privata per Sua Maestà, una volta superato l’ingresso principale. È la legge. Alcuni sostengono che la casa di un inglese sia il suo vero ‘castello’. Ma sono sciocchezze.”

I membri del gruppo dei Pickwickiani si guardarono l’un l’altro con occhi pieni di meraviglia.

“Chi è il signor Tupman?”, chiese il signor Grummer. Aveva un’intuizione immediata riguardo al signor Pickwick; lo riconobbe subito.

‘My name’s Tupman,’ said that gentleman.

‘My name’s Law,’ said Mr. Grummer.

‘What?’ said Mr. Tupman.

‘Law,’ replied Mr. Grummer—‘Law, civil power, and exekative; them’s my titles; here’s my authority. Blank Tupman, blank Pickwick—against the peace of our sufferin’ lord the king—stattit in the case made and purwided—and all regular. I apprehend you Pickwick! Tupman—the aforesaid.’

‘What do you mean by this insolence?’ said Mr. Tupman, starting up; ‘leave the room!’

‘Hollo,’ said Mr. Grummer, retreating very expeditiously to the door, and opening it an inch or two, ‘Dubbley.’

‘Well,’ said a deep voice from the passage.

‘Come for’ard, Dubbley.’

At the word of command, a dirty-faced man, something over six feet high, and stout in proportion, squeezed himself through the half-open door (making his face very red in the process), and entered the room.

‘Is the other specials outside, Dubbley?’ inquired Mr. Grummer.

Mr. Dubbley, who was a man of few words, nodded assent.

‘Order in the diwision under your charge, Dubbley,’ said Mr. Grummer.

Mr. Dubbley did as he was desired; and half a dozen men, each with a short truncheon and a brass crown, flocked into the room. Mr. Grummer pocketed his staff, and looked at Mr. Dubbley; Mr. Dubbley pocketed his staff and looked at the division; the division pocketed their staves and looked at Messrs. Tupman and Pickwick.

Mr. Pickwick and his followers rose as one man.

‘What is the meaning of this atrocious intrusion upon my privacy?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Who dares apprehend me?’ said Mr. Tupman.

‘What do you want here, scoundrels?’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

Mr. Winkle said nothing, but he fixed his eyes on Grummer, and bestowed a look upon him, which, if he had had any feeling, must have pierced his brain. As it was, however, it had no visible effect on him whatever.

When the executive perceived that Mr. Pickwick and his friends were disposed to resist the authority of the law, they very significantly turned up their coat sleeves, as if knocking them down in the first instance, and taking them up afterwards, were a mere professional act which had only to be thought of to be done, as a matter of course. This demonstration was not lost upon Mr. Pickwick. He conferred a few moments with Mr. Tupman apart, and then signified his readiness to proceed to the mayor’s residence, merely begging the parties then and there assembled, to take notice, that it was his firm intention to resent this monstrous invasion of his privileges as an Englishman, the instant he was at liberty; whereat the parties then and there assembled laughed very heartily, with the single exception of Mr. Grummer, who seemed to consider that any slight cast upon the divine right of magistrates was a species of blasphemy not to be tolerated.

But when Mr. Pickwick had signified his readiness to bow to the laws of his country, and just when the waiters, and hostlers, and chambermaids, and post-boys, who had anticipated a delightful commotion from his threatened obstinacy, began to turn away, disappointed and disgusted, a difficulty arose which had not been foreseen. With every sentiment of veneration for the constituted authorities, Mr. Pickwick resolutely protested against making his appearance in the public streets, surrounded and guarded by the officers of justice, like a common criminal. Mr. Grummer, in the then disturbed state of public feeling (for it was half-holiday, and the boys had not yet gone home), as resolutely protested against walking on the opposite side of the way, and taking Mr. Pickwick’s parole that he would go straight to the magistrate’s; and both Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman as strenuously objected to the expense of a post-coach, which was the only respectable conveyance that could be obtained. The dispute ran high, and the dilemma lasted long; and just as the executive were on the point of overcoming Mr. Pickwick’s objection to walking to the magistrate’s, by the trite expedient of carrying him thither, it was recollected that there stood in the inn yard, an old sedan-chair, which, having been originally built for a gouty gentleman with funded property, would hold Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman, at least as conveniently as a modern post-chaise. The chair was hired, and brought into the hall; Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman squeezed themselves inside, and pulled down the blinds; a couple of chairmen were speedily found; and the procession started in grand order. The specials surrounded the body of the vehicle; Mr. Grummer and Mr. Dubbley marched triumphantly in front; Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle walked arm-in-arm behind; and the unsoaped of Ipswich brought up the rear.

The shopkeepers of the town, although they had a very indistinct notion of the nature of the offence, could not but be much edified and gratified by this spectacle. Here was the strong arm of the law, coming down with twenty gold-beater force, upon two offenders from the metropolis itself; the mighty engine was directed by their own magistrate, and worked by their own officers; and both the criminals, by their united efforts, were securely shut up, in the narrow compass of one sedan-chair. Many were the expressions of approval and admiration which greeted Mr. Grummer, as he headed the cavalcade, staff in hand; loud and long were the shouts raised by the unsoaped; and amidst these united testimonials of public approbation, the procession moved slowly and majestically along.

Mr. Weller, habited in his morning jacket, with the black calico sleeves, was returning in a rather desponding state from an unsuccessful survey of the mysterious house with the green gate, when, raising his eyes, he beheld a crowd pouring down the street, surrounding an object which had very much the appearance of a sedan-chair. Willing to divert his thoughts from the failure of his enterprise, he stepped aside to see the crowd pass; and finding that they were cheering away, very much to their own satisfaction, forthwith began (by way of raising his spirits) to cheer too, with all his might and main.

“Mi chiamo Tupman,” disse quel gentiluomo.

“Mi chiamo Law,” disse il signor Grummer.

“Cosa?” disse il signor Tupman.

“Legge,” rispose il signor Grummer, “legge, potere civile ed esecutivo; questi sono i miei titoli; ecco la mia autorità. Blank Tupman, blank Pickwick, contro la pace del nostro sovrano, il re, tutto regolare e legittimo. Vi arresto, Pickwick! Tupman, come detto prima.”

“Che significa questa insolenza?”, esclamò il signor Tupman alzandosi in piedi; “uscite dalla stanza!”

“Salve,” disse il signor Grummer, ritirandosi rapidamente verso la porta e aprendola di uno o due pollici, “Dubbley.”

“Beh, ”, disse una voce profonda proveniente dal corridoio.

“Vieni qui, Dubbley.”

Alla parola d’ordine, un uomo dal viso sporco, alto poco più di sei piedi e di corporatura robusta, si infilò attraverso la porta semi-aperta (impallidendo nel farlo) ed entrò nella stanza.

“Gli altri prodotti speciali sono fuori, Dubbley?” chiese il signor Grummer.

Il signor Dubbley, che era un uomo di poche parole, annuì in segno di accordo.

“Mettete ordine nella sezione a voi affidata, Dubbley,” disse il signor Grummer.

Il signor Dubbley fece ciò che gli era stato chiesto; e sei uomini, ognuno munito di un breve bastone e di una corona di bronzo, si affollarono nella stanza. Il signor Grummer mise via il suo bastone e guardò il signor Dubbley; il signor Dubbley mise via il suo bastone e guardò la truppa; la truppa mise via i loro bastoni e guardò i signori Tupman e Pickwick.

Il signor Pickwick e i suoi seguaci si alzarono tutti insieme.

“Qual è il significato di questa orribile invasione della mia privacy?” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Chi osa arrestarmi?” disse il signor Tupman.

“Cosa volete qui, mascalzoni?” disse il signor Snodgrass.

Il signor Winkle non disse nulla, ma fissò Grummer con uno sguardo tale che, se avesse avuto dei sentimenti, sicuramente gli avrebbe perforato il cervello. Tuttavia, in realtà quell’sguardo non ebbe alcun effetto visibile su di lui.

Quando l’esecutivo si rese conto che il signor Pickwick e i suoi amici erano disposti a resistere all’autorità della legge, fecero apertamente mostra di volerla sfidare; come se abbattere tali autorità fosse semplicemente un atto professionale, da compiere senza esitazione. Questa dimostrazione non passò inosservata al signor Pickwick. Dopo aver parlato per qualche momento in privato con il signor Tupman, dichiarò di essere pronto ad andare presso la residenza del sindaco, chiedendo alle persone presenti di prendere atto che aveva l’intenzione ferma di reagire con forza a questa mostruosa violazione dei suoi diritti come cittadino inglese non appena ne avesse l’opportunità. Le persone presenti risero molto, ad eccezione del signor Grummer, il quale riteneva che qualsiasi offesa al “diritto divino” dei magistrati fosse una forma di blasfemia inaccettabile.

Ma quando il signor Pickwick dichiarò di essere disposto a rispettare le leggi del proprio paese, e proprio nel momento in cui i camerieri, gli stallieri, le cameriere e i postini, che si aspettavano una bella confusione a causa della sua presunta testardaggine, iniziarono ad allontanarsi delusi e disgustati, sorse un problema che non era stato previsto. Nonostante tutto il rispetto per le autorità costituite, il signor Pickwick si oppose fermamente all’idea di comparire per le strade pubbliche circondato e scortato dagli ufficiali di giustizia, come un comune criminale. Il signor Grummer, nel clima di turbolenza dell’opinione pubblica di quel momento (poiché era mezza vacanza e i ragazzi non erano ancora tornati a casa), si oppose altrettanto fermamente all’idea di camminare sul lato opposto della strada, affidandosi alle promesse del signor Pickwick che avrebbe diretto dritto dal magistrato; sia il signor Pickwick che il signor Tupman si opposero con forza all’idea di utilizzare una posta, l’unica forma di trasporto rispettabile disponibile in quel momento. La discussione si intensificò e la situazione rimase irrisolta per molto tempo; proprio quando gli ufficiali stavano per superare l’obiezione del signor Pickwick a camminare fino al magistrato, ricordarono che nel cortile dell’osteria c’era un vecchio palanchino, costruito originariamente per un gentiluomo affetto da gotta e con parecchi beni, che avrebbe potuto contenere il signor Pickwick e il signor Tupman almeno altrettanto comodamente di una moderna posta. Il palanchino fu noleggiato e portato nell’atrio; il signor Pickwick e il signor Tupman vi si infilarono dentro, abbassarono le tende, trovarono rapidamente due portatori e la processione partì in grande ordine. Gli uomini di Ipswich circondarono il palanchino; il signor Grummer e il signor Dubbley marciavano davanti con aria trionfale; il signor Snodgrass e il signor Winkle camminavano fianco a fianco dietro di esso; mentre gli altri uomini chiudevano la processione.

I commercianti della città, sebbene avessero una concezione molto vaga della >natura del reato, non potevano fare a meno di essere profondamente ispirati e compiaciuti da questa scena. Ecco l’efficace mano della legge che, con la forza di venti uomini armati, interveniva contro due colpevoli provenienti direttamente dalla capitale; quel potente meccanismo era guidato dal loro stesso magistrato e azionato dai loro stessi funzionari; e entrambi i criminali, grazie agli sforzi congiunti di tutti, venivano sicuramente rinchiusi all’interno di un’unica portantina. Molti furono gli espressi di approvazione e ammirazione che accolsero il signor Grummer mentre guidava la processione, con il suo bastone in mano; alti e prolungati furono gli applausi dei cittadini. E tra questi unanimi segni di consenso pubblico, la processione si mosse lentamente e maestosamente lungo la strada.

Il signor Weller, vestito con la sua giacca da mattina e le maniche di cotone nero, stava tornando a casa in uno stato piuttosto scoraggiato dopo un’insuccessiva ispezione della misteriosa casa con il cancello verde. Alzando lo sguardo, vide una folla che si dirigeva verso di lui, circondando qualcosa che assomigliava molto a una portantina. Desideroso di distogliere i propri pensieri dal fallimento della sua impresa, si fece da parte per lasciare passare la folla; notando che stavano acclamando con grande soddisfazione, iniziò subito anche lui ad applaudire con tutte le sue forze, nel tentativo di rallegrarsi a sua volta.

Mr. Grummer passed, and Mr. Dubbley passed, and the sedan passed, and the bodyguard of specials passed, and Sam was still responding to the enthusiastic cheers of the mob, and waving his hat about as if he were in the very last extreme of the wildest joy (though, of course, he had not the faintest idea of the matter in hand), when he was suddenly stopped by the unexpected appearance of Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass.

‘What’s the row, gen’l’m’n? ’cried Sam. ‘Who have they got in this here watch-box in mournin’?’

Both gentlemen replied together, but their words were lost in the tumult.

‘Who is it?’ cried Sam again.

Once more was a joint reply returned; and, though the words were inaudible, Sam saw by the motion of the two pairs of lips that they had uttered the magic word ‘Pickwick.’

This was enough. In another minute Mr. Weller had made his way through the crowd, stopped the chairmen, and confronted the portly Grummer.

‘Hollo, old gen’l’m’n!’ said Sam. ‘Who have you got in this here conweyance?’

‘Stand back,’ said Mr. Grummer, whose dignity, like the dignity of a great many other men, had been wondrously augmented by a little popularity.

‘Knock him down, if he don’t,’ said Mr. Dubbley.

‘I’m wery much obliged to you, old gen’l’m’n,’ replied Sam, ‘for consulting my conwenience, and I’m still more obliged to the other gen’l’m’n, who looks as if he’d just escaped from a giant’s carrywan, for his wery ‘andsome suggestion; but I should prefer your givin’ me a answer to my question, if it’s all the same to you.—How are you, Sir?’ This last observation was addressed with a patronising air to Mr. Pickwick, who was peeping through the front window.

Mr. Grummer, perfectly speechless with indignation, dragged the truncheon with the brass crown from its particular pocket, and flourished it before Sam’s eyes.

‘Ah,’ said Sam, ‘it’s wery pretty, ‘specially the crown, which is uncommon like the real one.’

‘Stand back!’ said the outraged Mr. Grummer. By way of adding force to the command, he thrust the brass emblem of royalty into Sam’s neckcloth with one hand, and seized Sam’s collar with the other—a compliment which Mr. Weller returned by knocking him down out of hand, having previously with the utmost consideration, knocked down a chairman for him to lie upon.

Whether Mr. Winkle was seized with a temporary attack of that species of insanity which originates in a sense of injury, or animated by this display of Mr. Weller’s valour, is uncertain; but certain it is, that he no sooner saw Mr. Grummer fall than he made a terrific onslaught on a small boy who stood next him; whereupon Mr. Snodgrass, in a truly Christian spirit, and in order that he might take no one unawares, announced in a very loud tone that he was going to begin, and proceeded to take off his coat with the utmost deliberation. He was immediately surrounded and secured; and it is but common justice both to him and Mr. Winkle to say, that they did not make the slightest attempt to rescue either themselves or Mr. Weller; who, after a most vigorous resistance, was overpowered by numbers and taken prisoner. The procession then reformed; the chairmen resumed their stations; and the march was re- commenced.

Mr. Pickwick’s indignation during the whole of this proceeding was beyond all bounds. He could just see Sam upsetting the specials, and flying about in every direction; and that was all he could see, for the sedan doors wouldn’t open, and the blinds wouldn’t pull up. At length, with the assistance of Mr. Tupman, he managed to push open the roof; and mounting on the seat, and steadying himself as well as he could, by placing his hand on that gentleman’s shoulder, Mr. Pickwick proceeded to address the multitude; to dwell upon the unjustifiable manner in which he had been treated; and to call upon them to take notice that his servant had been first assaulted. In this order they reached the magistrate’s house; the chairmen trotting, the prisoners following, Mr. Pickwick oratorising, and the crowd shouting.

Il signor Grummer se ne andò, il signor Dubbley se ne andò, anche la berlina passò via, così come il bodyguard dei “speciali”; Sam continuava a rispondere agli entusiasti applausi della folla, agitando il cappello come se fosse nel culmine di una gioia incontenibile (anche se, ovviamente, non aveva la minima idea di ciò che stesse succedendo), quando improvvisamente fu fermato dall’insospettata apparizione del signor Winkle e del signor Snodgrass.

“Che c’è che non va, generale?”, gridò Sam. “Chi è che sta piangendo dentro questa scatola per i morti?”

Entrambi i signori risposero contemporaneamente, ma le loro parole si persero nel tumulto.

“Chi è?” gridò di nuovo Sam.

Ancora una volta fu data una risposta congiunta; e sebbene le parole fossero inaudibili, Sam vide dal movimento delle due coppie di labbra che avevano pronunciato la parola magica ‘Pickwick’.

Questo fu sufficiente. In un minuto, il signor Weller si fece strada tra la folla, fermò i presidenti dei comitati e affrontò il corpulento Grummer.

“Ehi, vecchio amico!” disse Sam. “Chi c’è dentro questo carretto?”

“Allontanatevi,” disse il signor Grummer; la cui dignità, come quella di molti altri uomini, era stata straordinariamente aumentata da un po’ di popolarità.

“Smettetelo se non lo fa lui stesso,” disse il signor Dubbley.

“Sono davvero molto grato a voi, vecchio generale,” rispose Sam, “per aver tenuto conto delle mie esigenze; sono ancora più grato all’altro generale, che sembra essere appena scappato da un carro gigantesco, per la sua ottima suggerizione. Ma preferirei comunque che mi rispondeste direttamente alla mia domanda, se per voi non fa differenza. Come state, signore?” Quest’ultima osservazione fu pronunciata con tono condiscendente rivolto al signor Pickwick, che stava spiando attraverso la finestra anteriore.

Il signor Grummer, completamente senza parole per l’indignazione, tirò fuori il manganello con la corona di bronzo dal suo taschino speciale e lo agitò davanti agli occhi di Sam.

“Ah,” disse Sam, “è davvero molto bella, soprattutto la corona, che è unica, proprio come quella vera.”

“Indietro!” disse il furioso signor Grummer. Per dare più forza all’ordine, con una mano infilò lo stemma d’oro della monarchia nel fazzoletto di Sam, mentre con l’altra gli afferrò il colletto. Un “complimento” che il signor Weller ricambiò facendolo cadere a terra; in precedenza, aveva infatti preso grandissima cura di far cadere un presidente per permettergli di sdraiarsi sopra.

Non si sa se il signor Winkle sia stato colpito da un attacco temporaneo di quella sorta di follia che nasce dal senso di offesa, o se sia stato spinto dall’esempio di coraggio dimostrato dal signor Weller; ma è certo che non appena vide il signor Grummer cadere, si scagliò contro un bambino che stava accanto a lui. A questo punto, il signor Snodgrass, con vero spirito cristiano e per evitare di cogliere qualcuno di sorpresa, annunciò ad alta voce che stava per intervenire e iniziò quindi a togliersi il cappotto con estrema calma. Fu immediatamente circondato e immobilizzato; ed è più che giusto dire sia per lui che per il signor Winkle che non fecero alcun tentativo di salvare se stessi o il signor Weller, il quale, dopo una strenua resistenza, fu sopraffatto dal numero e catturato. La processione riprese quindi il suo corso; i presidenti tornarono alle loro posizioni e la marcia continuò.

L’indignazione di Mr. Pickwick durante tutto questo episodio era al di là di ogni limite. Riusciva a vedere solo Sam che creava scompiglio tra i presenti e correva in tutte le direzioni; ma non poteva fare altro, poiché le porte della berlina non si aprivano e le tende non si sollevavano. Alla fine, con l’aiuto di Mr. Tupman, riuscì ad aprire il tetto; salì sul sedile e, appoggiandosi al braccio di quel gentiluomo per mantenere l’equilibrio, iniziò a rivolgersi alla folla, sottolineando il modo ingiustificato in cui era stato trattato e chiedendo loro di notare che era stato il suo servitore ad essere aggredito per primo. In questo ordine raggiunsero la casa del magistrato: i presidenti della giuria correvano avanti, i prigionieri li seguivano, Mr. Pickwick continuava a parlare e la folla gridava.

CHAPTER XXV. SHOWING, AMONG A VARIETY OF PLEASANT MATTERS, HOW MAJESTIC AND IMPARTIAL MR. NUPKINS WAS; AND HOW MR. WELLER RETURNED MR. JOB TROTTER’S SHUTTLECOCK AS HEAVILY AS IT CAME—WITH ANOTHER MATTER, WHICH WILL BE FOUND IN ITS PLACE

Violent was Mr. Weller’s indignation as he was borne along; numerous were the allusions to the personal appearance and demeanour of Mr. Grummer and his companion; and valorous were the defiances to any six of the gentlemen present, in which he vented his dissatisfaction. Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle listened with gloomy respect to the torrent of eloquence which their leader poured forth from the sedan-chair, and the rapid course of which not all Mr. Tupman’s earnest entreaties to have the lid of the vehicle closed, were able to check for an instant. But Mr. Weller’s anger quickly gave way to curiosity when the procession turned down the identical courtyard in which he had met with the runaway Job Trotter; and curiosity was exchanged for a feeling of the most gleeful astonishment, when the all-important Mr. Grummer, commanding the sedan-bearers to halt, advanced with dignified and portentous steps to the very green gate from which Job Trotter had emerged, and gave a mighty pull at the bell-handle which hung at the side thereof. The ring was answered by a very smart and pretty-faced servant-girl, who, after holding up her hands in astonishment at the rebellious appearance of the prisoners, and the impassioned language of Mr. Pickwick, summoned Mr. Muzzle. Mr. Muzzle opened one half of the carriage gate, to admit the sedan, the captured ones, and the specials; and immediately slammed it in the faces of the mob, who, indignant at being excluded, and anxious to see what followed, relieved their feelings by kicking at the gate and ringing the bell, for an hour or two afterwards. In this amusement they all took part by turns, except three or four fortunate individuals, who, having discovered a grating in the gate, which commanded a view of nothing, stared through it with the indefatigable perseverance with which people will flatten their noses against the front windows of a chemist’s shop, when a drunken man, who has been run over by a dog-cart in the street, is undergoing a surgical inspection in the back-parlour.

At the foot of a flight of steps, leading to the house door, which was guarded on either side by an American aloe in a green tub, the sedan- chair stopped. Mr. Pickwick and his friends were conducted into the hall, whence, having been previously announced by Muzzle, and ordered in by Mr. Nupkins, they were ushered into the worshipful presence of that public-spirited officer.

The scene was an impressive one, well calculated to strike terror to the hearts of culprits, and to impress them with an adequate idea of the stern majesty of the law. In front of a big book-case, in a big chair, behind a big table, and before a big volume, sat Mr. Nupkins, looking a full size larger than any one of them, big as they were. The table was adorned with piles of papers; and above the farther end of it, appeared the head and shoulders of Mr. Jinks, who was busily engaged in looking as busy as possible. The party having all entered, Muzzle carefully closed the door, and placed himself behind his master’s chair to await his orders. Mr. Nupkins threw himself back with thrilling solemnity, and scrutinised the faces of his unwilling visitors.

‘Now, Grummer, who is that person?’ said Mr. Nupkins, pointing to Mr. Pickwick, who, as the spokesman of his friends, stood hat in hand, bowing with the utmost politeness and respect.

‘This here’s Pickvick, your Wash-up,’ said Grummer.

‘Come, none o’ that ‘ere, old Strike-a-light,’ interposed Mr. Weller, elbowing himself into the front rank. ‘Beg your pardon, sir, but this here officer o’ yourn in the gambooge tops, ‘ull never earn a decent livin’ as a master o’ the ceremonies any vere. This here, sir’ continued Mr. Weller, thrusting Grummer aside, and addressing the magistrate with pleasant familiarity, ‘this here is S. Pickvick, Esquire; this here’s Mr. Tupman; that ‘ere’s Mr. Snodgrass; and farder on, next him on the t’other side, Mr. Winkle—all wery nice gen’l’m’n, Sir, as you’ll be wery happy to have the acquaintance on; so the sooner you commits these here officers o’ yourn to the tread-mill for a month or two, the sooner we shall begin to be on a pleasant understanding. Business first, pleasure arterwards, as King Richard the Third said when he stabbed the t’other king in the Tower, afore he smothered the babbies.’

At the conclusion of this address, Mr. Weller brushed his hat with his right elbow, and nodded benignly to Jinks, who had heard him throughout with unspeakable awe.

‘Who is this man, Grummer?’ said the magistrate.

‘Wery desp’rate ch’racter, your Wash-up,’ replied Grummer. ‘He attempted to rescue the prisoners, and assaulted the officers; so we took him into custody, and brought him here.’

‘You did quite right,’ replied the magistrate. ‘He is evidently a desperate ruffian.’

‘He is my servant, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick angrily.

‘Oh! he is your servant, is he?’ said Mr. Nupkins. ‘A conspiracy to defeat the ends of justice, and murder its officers. Pickwick’s servant. Put that down, Mr. Jinks.’

Mr. Jinks did so.

‘What’s your name, fellow?’ thundered Mr. Nupkins.

‘Veller,’ replied Sam.

‘A very good name for the Newgate Calendar,’ said Mr. Nupkins.

This was a joke; so Jinks, Grummer, Dubbley, all the specials, and Muzzle, went into fits of laughter of five minutes’ duration.

‘Put down his name, Mr. Jinks,’ said the magistrate.

‘Two L’s, old feller,’ said Sam.

Here an unfortunate special laughed again, whereupon the magistrate threatened to commit him instantly. It is a dangerous thing to laugh at the wrong man, in these cases.

‘Where do you live?’ said the magistrate.

‘Vere ever I can,’ replied Sam.

‘Put down that, Mr. Jinks,’ said the magistrate, who was fast rising into a rage.

CAPITOLO XXV. In cui, tra varie cose piacevoli, si mostra quanto fosse nobile e imparziale il signor Nupkins; e come il signor Weller restituisse al signor Job Trotter il suo fucile a pompa, proprio come era stato restituito. Con un’altra storia, che verrà raccontata nel suo posto appropriato.

L’indignazione di Mr. Weller era tale che non riusciva a contenerla mentre veniva trascinato via; ci furono numerose allusioni all’aspetto e al comportamento personale di Mr. Grummer e del suo compagno, e si verificarono anche coraggiose sfide rivolte a sei dei gentiluomini presenti, attraverso le quali egli esprimeva tutto il proprio dissenso. Mr. Snodgrass e Mr. Winkle ascoltavano con un cupo rispetto quel torrente di eloquenza che il loro leader riversava dal palanchino, e la rapidità con cui veniva pronunciata non fu in grado di essere fermata nemmeno dalle fervide suppliche di Mr. Tupman affinché il coperchio del veicolo venisse chiuso. Tuttavia, l’ira di Mr. Weller si trasformò rapidamente in curiosità quando la processione svoltò nel cortile esatto in cui aveva incontrato il fuggitivo Job Trotter; e la curiosità lasciò il posto a una sensazione di gioia e sorpresa quando l’importante Mr. Grummer, ordinando ai portatori del palanchino di fermarsi, avanzò con passi dignitosi e solenni proprio verso il cancello verde da cui era uscito Job Trotter, e tirò con forza la maniglia della campanella appesa al suo fianco. Alla chiamata rispose una serva molto carina e attraente, la quale, dopo essersi meravigliata dell’aspetto “ribelle” dei prigionieri e del linguaggio appassionato di Mr. Pickwick, chiamò immediatamente Mr. Muzzle. Quest’ultimo aprì metà del cancello del veicolo per far entrare il palanchino, i prigionieri catturati e gli altri presenti; poi lo richiuse immediatamente in faccia alla folla, che, indignata per essere stata esclusa e desiderosa di sapere cosa sarebbe successo dopo, sfogò la sua frustrazione calciando il cancello e suonando di nuovo la campanella per un’ora o due. In questo “divertimento”, tutti parteciparono a turno, tranne tre o quattro individui fortunati che, avendo scoperto una grata nel cancello dalla quale non si vedeva nulla, continuarono a fissare attraverso di essa con la stessa instancabile perseveranza con cui le persone si appoggiano al vetro anteriore di un negozio di farmacia quando un uomo ubriaco investito da un carretto viene sottoposto a un esame medico nel retrobottega.

Ai piedi di una scalinata che conduceva alla porta della casa, sorvegliata su entrambi i lati da piante di aloe americana in vasi verdi, la carrozza si fermò. Il signor Pickwick e i suoi amici furono fatti entrare nell’atrio; dopo essere stati annunciati in precedenza da Muzzle e invitati ad entrare dal signor Nupkins, furono introdotti alla presenza di quell’ufficiale dallo spirito pubblico così encomiato.

La scena era davvero imponente; ben calcolata per incutere terrore nei cuori dei colpevoli e per far loro comprendere appieno la severità della legge. Davanti a un grande armadio bibliotecario, su una grande sedia, dietro un grande tavolo, e davanti a un grosso volume, sedeva il signor Nupkins, che sembrava molto più alto di tutti loro, nonostante fossero già di statura notevole. Il tavolo era coperto da mucchi di documenti; e all’estremità opposta del tavolo si intravedevano la testa e le spalle del signor Jinks, impegnato a fingere di essere molto occupato. Dopo che tutti erano entrati, Muzzle chiuse con cura la porta e si mise dietro la sedia del suo padrone in attesa degli ordini. Il signor Nupkins si appoggiò allo schienale della sedia con aria solenne e scrutò i volti dei suoi ospiti indesiderati.

“Ora, Grummer, chi è quella persona?” chiese il signor Nupkins, indicando il signor Pickwick, che, in qualità di portavoce dei suoi amici, stava lì con il cappello in mano, inchinandosi con la massima cortesia e rispetto.

“Questo è Pickvick, il vostro lavapiatti,” disse Grummer.

“Come, non c’è nessuno di loro, vecchio Strike-a-light?” intervenne il signor Weller, facendosi strada tra la folla. “Perdonatemi, signore, ma questo ufficiale qui, con quei vestiti ridicoli, non riuscirebbe mai a guadagnarsi da vivere onestamente come responsabile di queste cerimonie. Questo qui,” continuò il signor Weller, spingendo da parte Grummer e rivolgendosi al magistrato con tono cordiale, “questo è il signor Pickvick; questo è il signor Tupman; quello là è il signor Snodgrass; e ancora più avanti, dall’altra parte, c’è il signor Winkle. Tutti persone molto perbene, signore; sarà davvero un piacere conoscerli. Quindi, più presto manderete questi ufficiali a svolgere i loro doveri per un mese o due, prima potremo iniziare a collaborare serenamente. Prima gli affari, poi il divertimento. Come disse re Richard Terzo quando pugnalò l’altro re nella Torre, prima di soffocare i bambini.”

Al termine di questo discorso, il signor Weller si pulì il cappello con il gomito destro e annuì gentilmente a Jinks, che lo aveva ascoltato tutto con un timore reverenziale indescrivibile.

“Chi è quest’uomo, Grummer?” chiese il magistrato.

“Un carattere davvero disperato, quel tuo Wash-up,” rispose Grummer. “Ha cercato di salvare i prigionieri e ha aggredito gli ufficiali; quindi l’abbiamo preso in custodia e portato qui.”

“Hai fatto assolutamente bene“, rispose il magistrato. “È chiaramente un furfante disperato.“

“È il mio servitore, signore,” disse il signor Pickwick con rabbia.

“Oh! È il vostro servitore, vero?” disse il signor Nupkins. “Una cospirazione per sovvertire i fini della giustizia e assassinare i suoi funzionari. Il servitore di Pickwick. Mettetelo giù, signor Jinks.”

Lo fece il signor Jinks.

“Come ti chiami, amico?” tuonò il signor Nupkins.

“Veller,” rispose Sam.

“Un nome davvero adatto per il Newgate Calendar,” disse il signor Nupkins.

Era solo uno scherzo; così Jinks, Grummer, Dubbley e tutti gli altri speciali, insieme a Muzzle, scoppiarono in risate che durarono per cinque minuti interi.

“Scrivete il suo nome, signor Jinks,” disse il magistrato.

“Due ‘L’, amico mio,” disse Sam.

Ancora una volta, quel sfortunato individuo rise in modo inappropriato; di conseguenza, il magistrato minacciò di giustiziarlo all’istante. In questi casi, ridere della persona sbagliata può rivelarsi molto pericoloso.

“Dove vive?” chiese il magistrato.

“Farò del mio meglio,” rispose Sam.

“Metta giù quella cosa, signor Jinks,” disse il magistrato, che stava rapidamente perdendo la pazienza.

‘Score it under,’ said Sam.

‘He is a vagabond, Mr. Jinks,’ said the magistrate. ‘He is a vagabond on his own statement,—is he not, Mr. Jinks?’

‘Certainly, Sir.’

‘Then I’ll commit him—I’ll commit him as such,’ said Mr. Nupkins.

‘This is a wery impartial country for justice, ‘said Sam.’ There ain’t a magistrate goin’ as don’t commit himself twice as he commits other people.’

At this sally another special laughed, and then tried to look so supernaturally solemn, that the magistrate detected him immediately.

‘Grummer,’ said Mr. Nupkins, reddening with passion, ‘how dare you select such an inefficient and disreputable person for a special constable, as that man? How dare you do it, Sir?’

‘I am very sorry, your Wash-up,’ stammered Grummer.

‘Very sorry!’ said the furious magistrate. ‘You shall repent of this neglect of duty, Mr. Grummer; you shall be made an example of. Take that fellow’s staff away. He’s drunk. You’re drunk, fellow.’

‘I am not drunk, your Worship,’ said the man.

‘You _are _drunk,’ returned the magistrate. ‘How dare you say you are not drunk, Sir, when I say you are? Doesn’t he smell of spirits, Grummer?’

‘Horrid, your Wash-up,’ replied Grummer, who had a vague impression that there was a smell of rum somewhere.

‘I knew he did,’ said Mr. Nupkins. ‘I saw he was drunk when he first came into the room, by his excited eye. Did you observe his excited eye, Mr. Jinks?’

‘Certainly, Sir.’

‘I haven’t touched a drop of spirits this morning,’ said the man, who was as sober a fellow as need be.

‘How dare you tell me a falsehood?’ said Mr. Nupkins. ‘Isn’t he drunk at this moment, Mr. Jinks?’

‘Certainly, Sir,’ replied Jinks.

‘Mr. Jinks,’ said the magistrate, ‘I shall commit that man for contempt. Make out his committal, Mr. Jinks.’

And committed the special would have been, only Jinks, who was the magistrate’s adviser (having had a legal education of three years in a country attorney’s office), whispered the magistrate that he thought it wouldn’t do; so the magistrate made a speech, and said, that in consideration of the special’s family, he would merely reprimand and discharge him. Accordingly, the special was abused, vehemently, for a quarter of an hour, and sent about his business; and Grummer, Dubbley, Muzzle, and all the other specials, murmured their admiration of the magnanimity of Mr. Nupkins.

‘Now, Mr. Jinks,’ said the magistrate, ‘swear Grummer.’

Grummer was sworn directly; but as Grummer wandered, and Mr. Nupkins’s dinner was nearly ready, Mr. Nupkins cut the matter short, by putting leading questions to Grummer, which Grummer answered as nearly in the affirmative as he could. So the examination went off, all very smooth and comfortable, and two assaults were proved against Mr. Weller, and a threat against Mr. Winkle, and a push against Mr. Snodgrass. When all this was done to the magistrate’s satisfaction, the magistrate and Mr. Jinks consulted in whispers.

The consultation having lasted about ten minutes, Mr. Jinks retired to his end of the table; and the magistrate, with a preparatory cough, drew himself up in his chair, and was proceeding to commence his address, when Mr. Pickwick interposed.

‘I beg your pardon, sir, for interrupting you,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘but before you proceed to express, and act upon, any opinion you may have formed on the statements which have been made here, I must claim my right to be heard so far as I am personally concerned.’

‘Hold your tongue, Sir,’ said the magistrate peremptorily.

‘I must submit to you, Sir—’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Hold your tongue, sir,’ interposed the magistrate, ‘or I shall order an officer to remove you.’

‘You may order your officers to do whatever you please, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘and I have no doubt, from the specimen I have had of the subordination preserved amongst them, that whatever you order, they will execute, Sir; but I shall take the liberty, Sir, of claiming my right to be heard, until I am removed by force.’

‘Pickvick and principle!’ exclaimed Mr. Weller, in a very audible voice.

‘Sam, be quiet,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Dumb as a drum vith a hole in it, Sir,’ replied Sam.

Mr. Nupkins looked at Mr. Pickwick with a gaze of intense astonishment, at his displaying such unwonted temerity; and was apparently about to return a very angry reply, when Mr. Jinks pulled him by the sleeve, and whispered something in his ear. To this, the magistrate returned a half- audible answer, and then the whispering was renewed. Jinks was evidently remonstrating.

At length the magistrate, gulping down, with a very bad grace, his disinclination to hear anything more, turned to Mr. Pickwick, and said sharply, ‘What do you want to say?’

‘First,’ said Mr. Pickwick, sending a look through his spectacles, under which even Nupkins quailed, ‘first, I wish to know what I and my friend have been brought here for?’

‘Must I tell him?’ whispered the magistrate to Jinks.

‘I think you had better, sir,’ whispered Jinks to the magistrate.

‘An information has been sworn before me,’ said the magistrate, ‘that it is apprehended you are going to fight a duel, and that the other man, Tupman, is your aider and abettor in it. Therefore—eh, Mr. Jinks?’

‘Certainly, sir.’

‘Therefore, I call upon you both, to—I think that’s the course, Mr. Jinks?’

‘Certainly, Sir.’

‘To—to—what, Mr. Jinks?’ said the magistrate pettishly.

‘To find bail, sir.’

‘Yes. Therefore, I call upon you both—as I was about to say when I was interrupted by my clerk—to find bail.’

Good bail,’ whispered Mr. Jinks.

‘I shall require good bail,’ said the magistrate.

‘Town’s-people,’ whispered Jinks.

‘They must be townspeople,’ said the magistrate.

‘Fifty pounds each,’ whispered Jinks, ‘and householders, of course.’

‘I shall require two sureties of fifty pounds each,’ said the magistrate aloud, with great dignity, ‘and they must be householders, of course.’

‘But bless my heart, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, who, together with Mr. Tupman, was all amazement and indignation; ‘we are perfect strangers in this town. I have as little knowledge of any householders here, as I have intention of fighting a duel with anybody.’

“Segnalo qui sotto,” disse Sam.

“È un vagabondo, signor Jinks,” disse il magistrato. “Secondo le sue stesse parole, è un vagabondo. Non è vero, signor Jinks?”

“Certamente, signore.”

“Allora lo condannerò. Lo condannerò proprio per questo”, disse il signor Nupkins.

“Questo è davvero un paese imparziale quando si tratta di giustizia,” disse Sam. “Non c’è un magistrato che non si comprometta il doppio rispetto a quando fa commettere degli errori ad altri.”

Durante questa bravata, un altro individuo speciale rise, poi cercò di assumere un’aria estremamente solenne, ma il magistrato se ne accorse immediatamente.

“Grummer,” disse il signor Nupkins, arrossendo di passione, “come osi scegliere una persona così inadeguata e disonesta per un incarico speciale come quello di agente di polizia? Come osi farlo, signore?”

“Mi dispiace molto, il tuo piatto da lavare, ”, balbettò Grummer.

“Mi dispiace molto!” disse il magistrato furioso. “Pagherete caro per questa negligenza nei vostri doveri, signor Grummer; diventerete un esempio per tutti. Portate via quel bastone. È ubriaco. E anche voi siete ubriaco.”

“Non sono ubriaco, Vostra Eccellenza,” disse l’uomo.

“Sei ubriaco,” rispose il magistrato. “Come osi dire di non essere ubriaco, signore, quando io affermo il contrario? Non sente forse l’odore degli alcolici, Grummer?”

“Terribile, il tuo lavandino, ”, rispose Grummer, che aveva l’impressione vaga che ci fosse l’odore del rum da qualche parte.

“Lo sapevo che l’aveva fatto,” disse il signor Nupkins. “Ho visto che era ubriaco non appena è entrato nella stanza, dai suoi occhi eccitati. Avete notato anche voi quegli occhi eccitati, signor Jinks?”

“Certamente, signore.”

“Stamattina non ho bevuto nemmeno una goccia di alcol,” disse l’uomo, che era davvero un individuo sobrio, senza alcun bisogno di bere.

“Come osi dirmi una menzogna?” disse il signor Nupkins. “Non è forse ubriaco in questo momento, il signor Jinks?”

“Certamente, signore,” rispose Jinks.

“Signor Jinks,” disse il magistrato, “deporrò quell’uomo per oltraggio alla corte. Redigga l’atto di detenzione, signor Jinks.”

E l’unico che avrebbe potuto prendere una decisione speciale era Jinks, che era il consigliere del magistrato (avendo ricevuto un’educazione legale di tre anni in uno studio legale locale). Jinks sussurrò al magistrato che secondo lui non sarebbe stato giusto agire diversamente; così il magistrato tenne un discorso e dichiarò che, considerando la situazione familiare del ragazzo, si sarebbe limitato a rimproverarlo e a licenziarlo. Di conseguenza, il ragazzo fu duramente rimproverato per un quarto d’ora e poi mandato via a svolgere i suoi compiti; Grummer, Dubbley, Muzzle e tutti gli altri ragazzi mormorarono ammirazione per la magnanimità del signor Nupkins.

“Ora, signor Jinks”, disse il magistrato, “giuri sul nome di Grummer”.

Grummer fu interrogato direttamente; ma mentre Grummer continuava a rispondere alle domande di Mr. Nupkins, il quale stava per servire la cena, quest’ultimo interruppe l’interrogatorio ponendo domande incisive a cui Grummer rispondeva il più possibile in modo affermativo. L’intero processo procedette senza intoppi; furono così dimostrati due attacchi contro Mr. Weller, una minaccia contro Mr. Winkle e un spintone contro Mr. Snodgrass. Una volta che tutto ciò fu soddisfacente per il magistrato, questi e Mr. Jinks si consultarono sottovoce.

La consultazione era durata circa dieci minuti; quindi il signor Jinks si ritirò sul lato del tavolo riservatogli. Il magistrato, dopo un colpo di tosse preliminare, si sistemò sulla sedia e stava per iniziare il suo discorso, quando intervenne il signor Pickwick.

“Perdonatemi, signore, per avervi interrotto,” disse il signor Pickwick; “ma prima che voi esprimiate e attuaste qualsiasi opinione possiate aver formato in base alle dichiarazioni fatte qui, devo rivendicare il mio diritto di essere ascoltato riguardo a quanto mi riguarda personalmente.”

“Taci, signore,” disse il magistrato in tono perentorio.

“Devo sottomettermi a voi, signore, ” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Tenga a bada la lingua, signore,” intervenne il magistrato, “altrimenti ordinerò a un ufficiale di farla allontanare.”

“Può ordinare ai suoi ufficiali di fare ciò che desidera, signore,” disse il signor Pickwick; “e non ho alcun >dubbio, considerando l’esempio di sottomissione che ho visto tra loro, che faranno esattamente ciò che lei ordinerà; tuttavia, mi permetto di rivendicare il mio diritto di essere ascoltato, finché non verrò allontanato con la forza.”

“Pickvick e principi morali!”, esclamò il signor Weller ad alta voce.

“Sam, stai zitto,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Sordo come un tamburo con un buco nel mezzo, signore,” rispose Sam.

Il signor Nupkins guardò il signor Pickwick con uno sguardo di intensa meraviglia, vedendolo dimostrare una tale temerarietà insolita; sembrava proprio sul punto di rispondere in modo molto arrabbiato, quando il signor Jinks lo tirò per la manica e gli sussurrò qualcosa all’orecchio. Al che il magistrato rispose con una voce appena percettibile, e poi i sussurri continuarono. Era evidente che Jinks stesse rimproverando il signor Nupkins.

Finalmente, il magistrato, ingoiando a fatica e con molto scarso garbo la sua avversione ad ascoltare altro, si rivolse al signor Pickwick e disse bruscamente: “Cosa vuole dire?”

“Prima di tutto,” disse il signor Pickwick, guardando attraverso i suoi occhiali, sotto i quali persino Nupkins tremava, “prima di tutto, vorrei sapere per quale motivo io e mio amico siamo stati portati qui.”

“Devo dirglielo?” sussurrò il magistrato a Jinks.

“Penso che sia meglio così, signore,” sussurrò Jinks al magistrato.

“Una informazione è stata resa sotto giuramento davanti a me,” disse il magistrato, “e si ritiene che voi intenzioniate combattere un duello, e che l’altro uomo, Tupman, sia vostro complice in questo. Pertanto, eh, signor Jinks?”

“Certamente, signore.”

“Pertanto, vi chiamo entrambi a. Credo che sia la strada da seguire, signor Jinks.”

“Certamente, signore.”

“Cosa, cosa dite, signor Jinks?” disse il magistrato in tono petulante.

“Per trovare i fondi per la cauzione, signore.”

“Sì. Pertanto, vi chiedo entrambi – come stavo per dire quando sono stato interrotto dal mio segretario – di trovare un garante per la cauzione.”

“Una buona cauzione,” sussurrò il signor Jinks.

“Avrò bisogno di un buon cauzione,” disse il magistrato.

“Gente della città,” sussurrò Jinks.

“Debbono essere abitanti della città,” disse il magistrato.

“Cinquanta sterline a testa,” sussurrò Jinks, “e naturalmente anche per le famiglie.”

“Avrò bisogno di due garanti, ciascuno per cinquanta sterline,” disse il magistrato ad alta voce, con grande dignità, “e naturalmente devono essere persone residenti nella zona.”

“Ma per l’amor del cielo, signore,” disse il signor Pickwick, che insieme al signor Tupman era pieno di stupore e indignazione; “siamo perfetti estranei in questa città. Non conosco affatto nessuna delle persone che vi abitano, proprio come non ho alcuna intenzione di duellare con chicchessia.”

‘I dare say,’ replied the magistrate, ‘I dare say—don’t you, Mr. Jinks?’

‘Certainly, Sir.’

‘Have you anything more to say?’ inquired the magistrate.

Mr. Pickwick had a great deal more to say, which he would no doubt have said, very little to his own advantage, or the magistrate’s satisfaction, if he had not, the moment he ceased speaking, been pulled by the sleeve by Mr. Weller, with whom he was immediately engaged in so earnest a conversation, that he suffered the magistrate’s inquiry to pass wholly unnoticed. Mr. Nupkins was not the man to ask a question of the kind twice over; and so, with another preparatory cough, he proceeded, amidst the reverential and admiring silence of the constables, to pronounce his decision.

He should fine Weller two pounds for the first assault, and three pounds for the second. He should fine Winkle two pounds, and Snodgrass one pound, besides requiring them to enter into their own recognisances to keep the peace towards all his Majesty’s subjects, and especially towards his liege servant, Daniel Grummer. Pickwick and Tupman he had already held to bail.

Immediately on the magistrate ceasing to speak, Mr. Pickwick, with a smile mantling on his again good-humoured countenance, stepped forward, and said—

‘I beg the magistrate’s pardon, but may I request a few minutes’ private conversation with him, on a matter of deep importance to himself?’

‘What?’ said the magistrate. Mr. Pickwick repeated his request.

‘This is a most extraordinary request,’ said the magistrate. ‘A private interview?’

‘A private interview,’ replied Mr. Pickwick firmly; ‘only, as a part of the information which I wish to communicate is derived from my servant, I should wish him to be present.’

The magistrate looked at Mr. Jinks; Mr. Jinks looked at the magistrate; the officers looked at each other in amazement. Mr. Nupkins turned suddenly pale. Could the man Weller, in a moment of remorse, have divulged some secret conspiracy for his assassination? It was a dreadful thought. He was a public man; and he turned paler, as he thought of Julius Caesar and Mr. Perceval.

The magistrate looked at Mr. Pickwick again, and beckoned Mr. Jinks.

‘What do you think of this request, Mr. Jinks?’ murmured Mr. Nupkins.

Mr. Jinks, who didn’t exactly know what to think of it, and was afraid he might offend, smiled feebly, after a dubious fashion, and, screwing up the corners of his mouth, shook his head slowly from side to side.

‘Mr. Jinks,’ said the magistrate gravely, ‘you are an ass.’

At this little expression of opinion, Mr. Jinks smiled again—rather more feebly than before—and edged himself, by degrees, back into his own corner.

Mr. Nupkins debated the matter within himself for a few seconds, and then, rising from his chair, and requesting Mr. Pickwick and Sam to follow him, led the way into a small room which opened into the justice- parlour. Desiring Mr. Pickwick to walk to the upper end of the little apartment, and holding his hand upon the half-closed door, that he might be able to effect an immediate escape, in case there was the least tendency to a display of hostilities, Mr. Nupkins expressed his readiness to hear the communication, whatever it might be.

‘I will come to the point at once, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘it affects yourself and your credit materially. I have every reason to believe, Sir, that you are harbouring in your house a gross impostor!’

‘Two,’ interrupted Sam. ‘Mulberry agin all natur, for tears and willainny!’

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘if I am to render myself intelligible to this gentleman, I must beg you to control your feelings.’

‘Wery sorry, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘but when I think o’ that ‘ere Job, I can’t help opening the walve a inch or two.’

‘In one word, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘is my servant right in suspecting that a certain Captain Fitz-Marshall is in the habit of visiting here? Because,’ added Mr. Pickwick, as he saw that Mr. Nupkins was about to offer a very indignant interruption, ‘because if he be, I know that person to be a—’

‘Hush, hush,’ said Mr. Nupkins, closing the door. ‘Know him to be what, Sir?’

‘An unprincipled adventurer—a dishonourable character—a man who preys upon society, and makes easily-deceived people his dupes, Sir; his absurd, his foolish, his wretched dupes, Sir,’ said the excited Mr. Pickwick.

‘Dear me,’ said Mr. Nupkins, turning very red, and altering his whole manner directly. ‘Dear me, Mr.—’

‘Pickvick,’ said Sam.

‘Pickwick,’ said the magistrate, ‘dear me, Mr. Pickwick—pray take a seat—you cannot mean this? Captain Fitz-Marshall!’

‘Don’t call him a cap’en,’ said Sam, ‘nor Fitz-Marshall neither; he ain’t neither one nor t’other. He’s a strolling actor, he is, and his name’s Jingle; and if ever there was a wolf in a mulberry suit, that ‘ere Job Trotter’s him.’

‘It is very true, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, replying to the magistrate’s look of amazement; ‘my only business in this town, is to expose the person of whom we now speak.’

Mr. Pickwick proceeded to pour into the horror-stricken ear of Mr. Nupkins, an abridged account of all Mr. Jingle’s atrocities. He related how he had first met him; how he had eloped with Miss Wardle; how he had cheerfully resigned the lady for a pecuniary consideration; how he had entrapped himself into a lady’s boarding-school at midnight; and how he (Mr. Pickwick) now felt it his duty to expose his assumption of his present name and rank.

As the narrative proceeded, all the warm blood in the body of Mr. Nupkins tingled up into the very tips of his ears. He had picked up the captain at a neighbouring race-course. Charmed with his long list of aristocratic acquaintance, his extensive travel, and his fashionable demeanour, Mrs. Nupkins and Miss Nupkins had exhibited Captain Fitz- Marshall, and quoted Captain Fitz-Marshall, and hurled Captain Fitz- Marshall at the devoted heads of their select circle of acquaintance, until their bosom friends, Mrs. Porkenham and the Misses Porkenhams, and Mr. Sidney Porkenham, were ready to burst with jealousy and despair. And now, to hear, after all, that he was a needy adventurer, a strolling player, and if not a swindler, something so very like it, that it was hard to tell the difference! Heavens! what would the Porkenhams say! What would be the triumph of Mr. Sidney Porkenham when he found that his addresses had been slighted for such a rival! How should he, Nupkins, meet the eye of old Porkenham at the next quarter-sessions! And what a handle would it be for the opposition magisterial party if the story got abroad!

“Oso dire,” rispose il magistrato, “oso dire, non è vero, signor Jinks?”

“Certamente, signore.”

“Avete altro da dire?” chiese il magistrato.

Il signor Pickwick aveva molto altro da dire, e senza dubbio lo avrebbe fatto, anche se probabilmente a scapito suo o della soddisfazione del magistrato. Ma non appena smise di parlare, il signor Weller gli tirò la manica, e subito iniziarono una conversazione così seria che l’interrogatorio del magistrato passò completamente inosservato. Il signor Nupkins, però, non era il tipo da ripetere una domanda due volte; quindi, dopo un altro colpo di tosse preliminare, proseguì nel pronunciare la sua decisione, tra il rispetto e l’ammirazione dei poliziotti presenti.

Dovrebbe multare Weller due sterline per la prima aggressione e tre sterline per la seconda. Dovrebbe multare Winkle due sterline e Snodgrass una sterlina, inoltre richiedendo loro di firmare impegni scritti per garantire il rispetto della pace verso tutti i sudditi del Suo Maestà, e in particolare verso il suo fedele servitore, Daniel Grummer. Pickwick e Tupman erano già stati rilasciati in libertà su cauzione.

Non appena il magistrato smise di parlare, il signor Pickwick, con un sorriso che riempiva di nuovo il suo volto bonario, fece un passo avanti e disse:

“Chiedo scusa al magistrato, ma potrei avere il permesso di conversare privatamente con lui per qualche minuto su una questione di grande importanza per lui?”

“Cosa?” disse il magistrato. Il signor Pickwick ripeté la sua richiesta.

“Questa è una richiesta davvero straordinaria”, disse il magistrato. “Un colloquio privato?”

“Un colloquio privato,” rispose fermamente il signor Pickwick; “tuttavia, poiché parte delle informazioni che desidero condividere proviene dal mio servitore, vorrei che fosse presente anche lui.”

Il magistrato guardò il signor Jinks; il signor Jinks guardò il magistrato; gli ufficiali si guardarono l’un l’altro, stupiti. Il signor Nupkins divenne improvvisamente pallido. Forse quell’uomo, Weller, in un momento di rimorso, aveva rivelato qualche segreto complotto contro di lui? Era un pensiero terribile. Lui era una persona pubblica; e diventò ancora più pallido, pensando a Giulio Cesare e al signor Perceval.

Il magistrato guardò di nuovo il signor Pickwick e chiamò il signor Jinks.

“Che ne pensa di questa richiesta, signor Jinks?” mormorò il signor Nupkins.

Il signor Jinks, che non sapeva esattamente cosa pensare e temeva di poter offendere qualcuno, sorrise debolmente in modo poco convincente, stringendo gli angoli della bocca e scuotendo lentamente la testa da una parte all’altra.

“Signor Jinks,” disse il magistrato con serietà, “lei è un idiota.”

Di fronte a questa piccola espressione di opinione, il signor Jinks sorrise di nuovo – in modo un po’ più debole rispetto a prima – e si allontanò gradualmente, tornando nel suo angolo.

Il signor Nupkins rifletté sulla questione per qualche secondo; poi, alzandosi dalla sedia e invitando il signor Pickwick e Sam a seguirlo, li condusse in una piccola stanza che si affacciava sul tribunale. Chiese al signor Pickwick di avvicinarsi all’estremità della stanza e, tenendogli la mano sulla porta semi-chiusa per permettergli di fuggire immediatamente in caso di eventuali ostilità, dichiarò di essere pronto ad ascoltare qualsiasi comunicazione volessero fargli.

“Arriverò subito al punto, signore,” disse il signor Pickwick; “si tratta di una questione che riguarda direttamente voi e la vostra reputazione. Ho tutte le ragioni per credere, signore, che nella vostra >casa si nasconda un falso identitario!”

“Due,” intervenne Sam. “Il gelso, ancora una volta nella sua forma naturale, per le lacrime e la malvagità!”

“Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick, “se voglio che questo gentiluomo mi capisca, devo chiedervi di controllare i vostri sentimenti.”

“Mi dispiace molto, signore,” rispose il signor Weller; “ma quando penso a quel povero Job, non riesco a fare a meno di aprir bocca un po’.”

“In una parola, signore,” disse il signor Pickwick, “il mio servitore ha ragione nel sospettare che un certo capitano Fitz-Marshall abbia l’abitudine di venire qui? Perché,” aggiunse il signor Pickwick, vedendo che il signor Nupkins stava per interromperlo con aria molto indignata, “perché se è così, so che quella persona è un, ”

“Zitto, zitto,” disse il signor Nupkins, chiudendo la porta. “Lo conoscete bene, signore?”

“Un avventuriero senza principi, un individuo disonorevole, un uomo che approfitta della società e rende le persone facilmente ingannabili sue vittime, sue vittime assurde, stupide e misere, signore,” disse l’emozionato signor Pickwick.

“Mio Dio,” disse il signor Nupkins, arrossendo molto e cambiando completamente comportamento. “Mio Dio, signor, ”

“Pickvick,” disse Sam.

“‘Pickwick,’ disse il magistrato, ‘dio mio, signor Pickwick, si sieda, per favore. Non può davvero dire queste cose, vero? Capitano Fitz-Marshall!’”

“Non chiamatelo ‘capo’,” disse Sam, “né Fitz-Marshall; non è né l’uno né l’altro. È un attore girovagante, il suo nome è Jingle; e se mai c’è stato un lupo con abiti di gelso, quello è proprio Job Trotter.”

“È assolutamente vero, signore,” disse il signor Pickwick rispondendo allo sguardo di meraviglia del magistrato; “l’unico mio scopo in questa città è smascherare la persona di cui stiamo parlando.”

Il signor Pickwick iniziò a raccontare all’ascoltatore terrorizzato, il signor Nupkins, un resoconto abbreviato di tutte le atrocità commesse dal signor Jingle. Spiegò come lo avesse conosciuto per la prima volta; come fosse fuggito con la signorina Wardle; come avesse poi abbandonato felicemente quella donna in cambio di denaro; come si fosse intrufolato a mezzanotte in un collegio femminile; e come ora ritenesse suo dovere rivelare l’inganno che aveva utilizzato per assumere il proprio nome e la propria posizione attuali.

Man mano che la narrazione proseguiva, tutto il caldo sangue presente nel corpo del signor Nupkins si diffondeva fino alle punte delle sue orecchie. Aveva conosciuto il capitano in una pista di corse vicina. Incantate dalla sua lunga lista di conoscenze aristocratiche, dai suoi numerosi viaggi e dal suo comportamento alla moda, la signora Nupkins e la signorina Nupkins presentavano sempre il capitano Fitz-Marshall, citavano le sue parole e ne parlavano con entusiasmo davanti ai loro amici selezionati, fino a quando i signori Porkenham non furono sul punto di esplodere per gelosia e disperazione. E ora, scoprire che in realtà era un avventuriero senza mezzi, un giocatore squattrinato, o addirittura uno truffatore, rendeva difficile distinguere la verità! Oh cielo, cosa avrebbero detto i Porkenham? Quanto sarebbe stato grande il trionfo del signor Sidney Porkenham se avesse scoperto che le sue attenzioni erano state ignorate a favore di un simile rivale. E come avrebbe potuto lui, Nupkins, affrontare lo sguardo dell’anziano Porkenham alle prossime riunioni? Inoltre, se la notizia fosse trapelata, che arma formidabile sarebbe diventata per l’opposizione!

‘But after all,’ said Mr. Nupkins, brightening for a moment, after a long pause; ‘after all, this is a mere statement. Captain Fitz-Marshall is a man of very engaging manners, and, I dare say, has many enemies. What proof have you of the truth of these representations?’

‘Confront me with him,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘that is all I ask, and all I require. Confront him with me and my friends here; you will want no further proof.’

‘Why,’ said Mr. Nupkins, ‘that might be very easily done, for he will be here to-night, and then there would be no occasion to make the matter public, just—just—for the young man’s own sake, you know. I—I—should like to consult Mrs. Nupkins on the propriety of the step, in the first instance, though. At all events, Mr. Pickwick, we must despatch this legal business before we can do anything else. Pray step back into the next room.’

Into the next room they went.

‘Grummer,’ said the magistrate, in an awful voice.

‘Your Wash-up,’ replied Grummer, with the smile of a favourite.

‘Come, come, Sir,’ said the magistrate sternly, ‘don’t let me see any of this levity here. It is very unbecoming, and I can assure you that you have very little to smile at. Was the account you gave me just now strictly true? Now be careful, sir!’

Your Wash-up,’ stammered Grummer, ‘I-’

‘Oh, you are confused, are you?’ said the magistrate. ‘Mr. Jinks, you observe this confusion?’

‘Certainly, Sir,’ replied Jinks.

‘Now,’ said the magistrate, ‘repeat your statement, Grummer, and again I warn you to be careful. Mr. Jinks, take his words down.’

The unfortunate Grummer proceeded to re-state his complaint, but, what between Mr. Jinks’s taking down his words, and the magistrate’s taking them up, his natural tendency to rambling, and his extreme confusion, he managed to get involved, in something under three minutes, in such a mass of entanglement and contradiction, that Mr. Nupkins at once declared he didn’t believe him. So the fines were remitted, and Mr. Jinks found a couple of bail in no time. And all these solemn proceedings having been satisfactorily concluded, Mr. Grummer was ignominiously ordered out—an awful instance of the instability of human greatness, and the uncertain tenure of great men’s favour.

Mrs. Nupkins was a majestic female in a pink gauze turban and a light brown wig. Miss Nupkins possessed all her mamma’s haughtiness without the turban, and all her ill-nature without the wig; and whenever the exercise of these two amiable qualities involved mother and daughter in some unpleasant dilemma, as they not infrequently did, they both concurred in laying the blame on the shoulders of Mr. Nupkins. Accordingly, when Mr. Nupkins sought Mrs. Nupkins, and detailed the communication which had been made by Mr. Pickwick, Mrs. Nupkins suddenly recollected that she had always expected something of the kind; that she had always said it would be so; that her advice was never taken; that she really did not know what Mr. Nupkins supposed she was; and so forth.

‘The idea!’ said Miss Nupkins, forcing a tear of very scanty proportions into the corner of each eye; ‘the idea of my being made such a fool of!’

‘Ah! you may thank your papa, my dear,’ said Mrs. Nupkins; ‘how I have implored and begged that man to inquire into the captain’s family connections; how I have urged and entreated him to take some decisive step! I am quite certain nobody would believe it—quite.’

‘But, my dear,’ said Mr. Nupkins.

‘Don’t talk to me, you aggravating thing, don’t!’ said Mrs. Nupkins.

‘My love,’ said Mr. Nupkins, ‘you professed yourself very fond of Captain Fitz-Marshall. You have constantly asked him here, my dear, and you have lost no opportunity of introducing him elsewhere.’

‘Didn’t I say so, Henrietta?’ cried Mrs. Nupkins, appealing to her daughter with the air of a much-injured female. ‘Didn’t I say that your papa would turn round and lay all this at my door? Didn’t I say so?’ Here Mrs. Nupkins sobbed.

‘Oh, pa!’ remonstrated Miss Nupkins. And here she sobbed too.

‘Isn’t it too much, when he has brought all this disgrace and ridicule upon us, to taunt me with being the cause of it?’ exclaimed Mrs. Nupkins.

‘How can we ever show ourselves in society!’ said Miss Nupkins.

‘How can we face the Porkenhams?’ cried Mrs. Nupkins.

‘Or the Griggs!’ cried Miss Nupkins.

‘Or the Slummintowkens!’ cried Mrs. Nupkins. ‘But what does your papa care! What is it to him!’ At this dreadful reflection, Mrs. Nupkins wept mental anguish, and Miss Nupkins followed on the same side.

Mrs. Nupkins’s tears continued to gush forth, with great velocity, until she had gained a little time to think the matter over; when she decided, in her own mind, that the best thing to do would be to ask Mr. Pickwick and his friends to remain until the captain’s arrival, and then to give Mr. Pickwick the opportunity he sought. If it appeared that he had spoken truly, the captain could be turned out of the house without noising the matter abroad, and they could easily account to the Porkenhams for his disappearance, by saying that he had been appointed, through the Court influence of his family, to the governor-generalship of Sierra Leone, of Saugur Point, or any other of those salubrious climates which enchant Europeans so much, that when they once get there, they can hardly ever prevail upon themselves to come back again.

When Mrs. Nupkins dried up her tears, Miss Nupkins dried up hers, and Mr. Nupkins was very glad to settle the matter as Mrs. Nupkins had proposed. So Mr. Pickwick and his friends, having washed off all marks of their late encounter, were introduced to the ladies, and soon afterwards to their dinner; and Mr. Weller, whom the magistrate, with his peculiar sagacity, had discovered in half an hour to be one of the finest fellows alive, was consigned to the care and guardianship of Mr. Muzzle, who was specially enjoined to take him below, and make much of him.

“Ma dopotutto,” disse il signor Nupkins, illuminandosi per un momento dopo una lunga pausa; “dopotutto, questa è solo un’affermazione. Il capitano Fitz-Marshall è un uomo dal comportamento molto affascinante, e oserei dire che abbia molti nemici. Quali prove avete della veridicità di queste affermazioni?”

“Mettetemi di fronte a lui,” disse il signor Pickwick, “è tutto ciò che chiedo e tutto ciò che desidero. Mettetemi di fronte a lui insieme ai miei amici qui presenti; non avrete bisogno di altre prove.”

“Perché,” disse il signor Nupkins, “si potrebbe fare molto facilmente; lui sarà qui stasera, e così non ci sarebbe bisogno di rendere la cosa pubblica. Solo, per il bene stesso del giovane, capite. Vorrei prima consultare la signora Nupkins riguardo alla convenienza di questa mossa. Comunque sia, signor Pickwick, dobbiamo sistemare questa questione legale prima di poter fare qualsiasi altra cosa. Per favore, tornate nella stanza accanto.”

Entrarono nella stanza accanto.

“Grummer,” disse il magistrato con una voce terribile.

“La tua lavastoviglie,” rispose Grummer, con il sorriso di chi è molto apprezzato.

“Come, come, signore,” disse il magistrato con severità, “non voglio vedere alcuna leggerezza da parte sua. È assolutamente inappropriato, e posso assicurarle che non c’è nulla di cui ridere. La descrizione che mi ha fatto poco fa era davvero accurata? Ora stia attento, signore!”

“La tua roba da lavare, ”, balbettò Grummer, “io, ”

“Ah, siete confusi, vero?”, disse il magistrato. “Signor Jinks, notate questa confusione?”

“Certamente, signore,” rispose Jinks.

“Ora,” disse il magistrato, “ripeta la tua dichiarazione, Grummer. E ancora una volta ti avverto di essere cauto. Signor Jinks, prendi appunti delle sue parole.”

Il sfortunato Grummer proseguì nel ripetere la sua lamentela, ma a causa del fatto che il signor Jinks trascrisse quanto aveva detto e poi il magistrato lo prese in considerazione, unita alla sua naturale tendenza a divagare e al suo estremo stato di confusione, riuscì in meno di tre minuti a coinvolgersi in una serie di contraddizioni e complicazioni tale che il signor Nupkins dichiarò immediatamente di non credergli. Di conseguenza le multe furono annullate e il signor Jinks trovò rapidamente dei garanti per la cauzione. Una volta concluse tutte queste formalità, al signor Grummer fu ordinato di andarsene in modo umiliante: un esempio terribile dell’instabilità della “grandezza” umana e della precarietà del favore delle persone importanti.

La signora Nupkins era una donna maestosa, con un turbante di garza rosa e una parrucca marrone chiaro. La signorina Nupkins possedeva tutta l’arroganza di sua madre, senza il turbante, e tutta la sua cattiva >natura, senza la parrucca; e ogni volta che l’espressione di queste due “qualità” portava madre e figlia in qualche situazione sgradevole – cosa che accadeva spesso – entrambe concordavano nel dare la colpa al signor Nupkins. Pertanto, quando il signor Nupkins andò da sua moglie per raccontarle quanto gli aveva detto il signor Pickwick, la signora Nupkins si ricordò all’improvviso di aver sempre previsto qualcosa del genere; di aver sempre detto che sarebbe successo così; di non essere mai stata ascoltata nei suoi consigli; e di non sapere davvero cosa il signor Nupkins pensasse di lei, e via dicendo.

“Che idea!” disse la signorina Nupkins, facendo scivolare una lacrima molto piccola nell’angolo di ogni occhio; “l’idea che io possa essere considerata una tale stupida, ”

“Ah! Puoi ringraziare tuo padre, carino mio,” disse la signora Nupkins; “quanto ho supplicato e pregato quell’uomo di indagare sulle parentele del capitano; quanto l’ho esortato ad intraprendere qualche azione decisiva! Sono sicura che nessuno ci crederebbe, davvero.”

“Ma, mia cara,” disse il signor Nupkins.

“Non parlarmi, tu che mi infastidisci così tanto, per favore!” disse la signora Nupkins.

“Mia cara,” disse il signor Nupkins, “hai sempre detto di amare molto il capitano Fitz-Marshall. L’hai invitato spesso qui, e non hai mai perso l’occasione per presentarlo altrove.”

“Non ve l’avevo detto, Henrietta?” esclamò la signora Nupkins, rivolgendosi a sua figlia con l’aria di una donna profondamente offesa. “Non vi avevo detto che vostro padre avrebbe dato la colpa a me? Non ve l’avevo detto?” A quel punto la signora Nupkins iniziò a singhiozzare.

“Oh, papà!”, protestò la signorina Nupkins. E anche lei iniziò a singhiozzare.

“Non è forse troppo, dopo che ci ha causato tutta questa vergogna e derisione, che ora mi prenda in giro dicendo che sono la causa di tutto questo?” esclamò la signora Nupkins.

“Come possiamo mai presentarci in società!” disse la signorina Nupkins.

“Come possiamo affrontare i Porkenhams?” gridò la signora Nupkins.

“Oppure i Griggs!”, gridò la signorina Nupkins.

“O i Slummintowkens!” gridò la signora Nupkins. “Ma a tuo padre cosa importa? Cosa significa tutto questo per lui?” Di fronte a questa terribile realtà, la signora Nupkins pianse di angoscia interiore, e anche la signorina Nupkins condivise la sua stessa reazione.

Le lacrime della signora Nupkins continuarono a scorrere copiosamente, finché non ebbe il tempo di riflettere sulla situazione; allora decise, nel suo intimo, che la cosa migliore da fare fosse chiedere al signor Pickwick e ai suoi amici di rimanere fino all’arrivo del capitano, per poi dare al signor Pickwick l’opportunità che cercava. Se si fosse dimostrato che aveva detto la verità, il capitano avrebbe potuto essere fatto uscire dalla casa senza che la cosa venisse risaputa all’esterno, e loro avrebbero potuto facilmente spiegare alla famiglia Porkenham la sua scomparsa, dicendo che era stato nominato, grazie all’influenza della sua famiglia presso il tribunale, governatore generale di Sierra Leone, di Saugur Point o di qualche altro di quei luoghi salubri che affascinano tanto gli europei, al punto che, una volta arrivati lì, faticano a convincersi di tornare indietro.

Quando la signora Nupkins si asciugò le lacrime, anche la signorina Nupkins fece lo stesso; il signor Nupkins fu molto felice di risolvere la questione nel modo proposto dalla moglie. Così il signor Pickwick e i suoi amici, dopo essersi lavati via ogni traccia dell’incontro precedente, furono presentati alle signore e poco dopo invitati a cena. Il signor Weller, che il magistrato, con la sua particolare saggezza, aveva scoperto in mezz’ora essere una delle persone più perbene che esistessero, fu affidato alle cure del signor Muzzle, al quale fu specificamente chiesto di prendersi cura di lui e di trattarlo con grande attenzione.

‘How de do, sir?’ said Mr. Muzzle, as he conducted Mr. Weller down the kitchen stairs.

‘Why, no considerable change has taken place in the state of my system, since I see you cocked up behind your governor’s chair in the parlour, a little vile ago,’ replied Sam.

‘You will excuse my not taking more notice of you then,’ said Mr. Muzzle. ‘You see, master hadn’t introduced us, then. Lord, how fond he is of you, Mr. Weller, to be sure!’

‘Ah!’ said Sam, ‘what a pleasant chap he is!’

‘Ain’t he?’ replied Mr. Muzzle.

‘So much humour,’ said Sam.

‘And such a man to speak,’ said Mr. Muzzle. ‘How his ideas flow, don’t they?’

‘Wonderful,’ replied Sam; ‘they comes a-pouring out, knocking each other’s heads so fast, that they seems to stun one another; you hardly know what he’s arter, do you?’

That’s the great merit of his style of speaking,’ rejoined Mr. Muzzle. ‘Take care of the last step, Mr. Weller. Would you like to wash your hands, sir, before we join the ladies? Here’s a sink, with the water laid on, Sir, and a clean jack towel behind the door.’

‘Ah! perhaps I may as well have a rinse,’ replied Mr. Weller, applying plenty of yellow soap to the towel, and rubbing away till his face shone again. ‘How many ladies are there?’

‘Only two in our kitchen,’ said Mr. Muzzle; ‘cook and ‘ouse-maid. We keep a boy to do the dirty work, and a gal besides, but they dine in the wash’us.’

‘Oh, they dines in the wash’us, do they?’ said Mr. Weller.

‘Yes,’ replied Mr. Muzzle, ‘we tried ‘em at our table when they first come, but we couldn’t keep ‘em. The gal’s manners is dreadful vulgar; and the boy breathes so very hard while he’s eating, that we found it impossible to sit at table with him.’

‘Young grampus!’ said Mr. Weller.

‘Oh, dreadful,’ rejoined Mr. Muzzle; ‘but that is the worst of country service, Mr. Weller; the juniors is always so very savage. This way, sir, if you please, this way.’

Preceding Mr. Weller, with the utmost politeness, Mr. Muzzle conducted him into the kitchen.

‘Mary,’ said Mr. Muzzle to the pretty servant-girl, ‘this is Mr. Weller; a gentleman as master has sent down, to be made as comfortable as possible.’

‘And your master’s a knowin’ hand, and has just sent me to the right place,’ said Mr. Weller, with a glance of admiration at Mary. ‘If I wos master o’ this here house, I should alvays find the materials for comfort vere Mary wos.’

Lor, Mr. Weller!’ said Mary blushing.

‘Well, I never!’ ejaculated the cook.

‘Bless me, cook, I forgot you,’ said Mr. Muzzle. ‘Mr. Weller, let me introduce you.’

‘How are you, ma’am?’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Wery glad to see you, indeed, and hope our acquaintance may be a long ‘un, as the gen’l’m’n said to the fi’ pun’ note.’

When this ceremony of introduction had been gone through, the cook and Mary retired into the back kitchen to titter, for ten minutes; then returning, all giggles and blushes, they sat down to dinner.

Mr. Weller’s easy manners and conversational powers had such irresistible influence with his new friends, that before the dinner was half over, they were on a footing of perfect intimacy, and in possession of a full account of the delinquency of Job Trotter.

‘I never could a-bear that Job,’ said Mary.

‘No more you never ought to, my dear,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘Why not?’ inquired Mary.

‘’Cos ugliness and svindlin’ never ought to be formiliar with elegance and wirtew,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Ought they, Mr. Muzzle?’

‘Not by no means,’ replied that gentleman.

Here Mary laughed, and said the cook had made her; and the cook laughed, and said she hadn’t.

‘I ha’n’t got a glass,’ said Mary.

‘Drink with me, my dear,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Put your lips to this here tumbler, and then I can kiss you by deputy.’

‘For shame, Mr. Weller!’ said Mary.

‘What’s a shame, my dear?’

‘Talkin’ in that way.’

‘Nonsense; it ain’t no harm. It’s natur; ain’t it, cook?’

‘Don’t ask me, imperence,’ replied the cook, in a high state of delight; and hereupon the cook and Mary laughed again, till what between the beer, and the cold meat, and the laughter combined, the latter young lady was brought to the verge of choking—an alarming crisis from which she was only recovered by sundry pats on the back, and other necessary attentions, most delicately administered by Mr. Samuel Weller.

In the midst of all this jollity and conviviality, a loud ring was heard at the garden gate, to which the young gentleman who took his meals in the wash-house, immediately responded. Mr. Weller was in the height of his attentions to the pretty house-maid; Mr. Muzzle was busy doing the honours of the table; and the cook had just paused to laugh, in the very act of raising a huge morsel to her lips; when the kitchen door opened, and in walked Mr. Job Trotter.

We have said in walked Mr. Job Trotter, but the statement is not distinguished by our usual scrupulous adherence to fact. The door opened and Mr. Trotter appeared. He would have walked in, and was in the very act of doing so, indeed, when catching sight of Mr. Weller, he involuntarily shrank back a pace or two, and stood gazing on the unexpected scene before him, perfectly motionless with amazement and terror.

‘Here he is!’ said Sam, rising with great glee. ‘Why we were that wery moment a-speaking o’ you. How are you? Where have you been? Come in.’

Laying his hand on the mulberry collar of the unresisting Job, Mr. Weller dragged him into the kitchen; and, locking the door, handed the key to Mr. Muzzle, who very coolly buttoned it up in a side pocket.

‘Well, here’s a game!’ cried Sam. ‘Only think o’ my master havin’ the pleasure o’ meeting yourn upstairs, and me havin’ the joy o’ meetin’ you down here. How are you gettin’ on, and how is the chandlery bis’ness likely to do? Well, I am so glad to see you. How happy you look. It’s quite a treat to see you; ain’t it, Mr. Muzzle?’

‘Quite,’ said Mr. Muzzle.

‘So cheerful he is!’ said Sam.

‘In such good spirits!’ said Muzzle.

“Come state, signore?” disse il signor Muzzle mentre accompagnava il signor Weller giù per le scale della cucina.

“Perché, non è avvenuto alcun cambiamento significativo nello stato del mio organismo, visto che poco fa ti ho visto seduto dietro la sedia del governatore in salotto, ” rispose Sam.

“Perdonate se non vi ho prestato più attenzione in quel momento,” disse il signor Muzzle. “Vedete, il padrone non ci aveva ancora presentati. Signore, quanto debba volervi bene, il signor Weller!”

“Ah!”, disse Sam, “che bravo ragazzo è!”

“Non è vero?” rispose il signor Muzzle.

“Tanto umorismo, ”, disse Sam.

“E che uomo, davvero, ”, disse il signor Muzzle. “Come scorrono facilmente le sue idee, non è vero?”

“Meraviglioso,” rispose Sam; “si riversano fuori uno dopo l’altro, colpendosi la testa così velocemente che sembra che si stordiscano a vicenda; quasi non si riesce a capire cosa vogliono fare, vero?”

“Questo è il grande merito del suo stile di parlare,” ribatté il signor Muzzle.
“Prenda cura dell’ultimo passaggio, signor Weller. Vuole lavarsi le mani prima di raggiungere le signore? Ecco un lavandino con l’acqua già pronta, e un asciugamano pulito dietro la porta.”

“Ah! Forse potrei anche lavarmi la faccia,” rispose il signor Weller, spalmando abbondante sapone giallo sul telo da bagno e strofinandosi fino a quando il suo viso non tornò a brillare. “Quante signore ci sono?”

“Solo due persone nella nostra cucina,” disse il signor Muzzle; “la cuoca e la cameriera. Teniamo un ragazzo per i lavori pesanti, e anche una ragazza, ma loro mangiano nel lavandino.”

“Ah, mangiano nel lavandino, vero?” disse il signor Weller.

“Sì,” rispose il signor Muzzle, “li abbiamo provati al nostro tavolo quando sono arrivati per la prima volta, ma non siamo riusciti a tenerli. I modi di quella ragazza sono terribilmente volgari; e il ragazzo respira così forte mentre mangia che ci è risultato impossibile sederci a tavola con lui.”

“Giovane grampo!” disse il signor Weller.

“Ah, terribile,” ribatté il signor Muzzle; “ma questo è proprio il peggio del servizio in campagna, signor Weller. I giovani sono sempre così selvaggi. Da questa parte, per favore, da questa parte.”

Prima di Mr. Weller, con la massima cortesia, Mr. Muzzle lo accompagnò in cucina.

“Mary,” disse il signor Muzzle alla bella servetta, “questo è il signor Weller; un gentiluomo che il suo padrone ha mandato qui affinché possa trovarsi il più comodamente possibile.”

“E il vostro padrone è davvero un uomo esperto; mi ha appena mandato nel posto giusto,” disse il signor Weller, lanciando uno sguardo ammirativo a Mary. “Se fossi io il padrone di questa casa, troverei sempre tutto ciò che serve per garantire comodità, proprio come fa Mary.”

“Lor, signor Weller!”, disse Mary arrossendo.

“Beh, mai!” esclamò il cuoco.

“Perdona, cuoca. Me n’ero dimenticato,” disse il signor Muzzle. “Signor Weller, lasciate che vi presenti.”

“Come sta, signora?” disse il signor Weller. “Sono davvero molto felice di vederla, e spero che la nostra conoscenza possa durare a lungo, come dicono i gentiluomini, ”

Dopo che questa cerimonia di presentazione fu terminata, la cuoca e Mary si ritirarono nella cucina posteriore per ridacchiare per dieci minuti; poi, tornando con le guance arrossate e continuando a ridere, si sedettero a tavola per cena.

I modi affabili e le capacità di conversazione del signor Weller ebbero un’influenza così irresistibile sui suoi nuovi amici, che prima ancora che la cena fosse a metà terminata, erano già in rapporti di perfetta intimità e conoscevano ormai tutti i dettagli riguardanti le malefatte di Job Trotter.

“Non sono mai riuscita a sopportare quel Job,” disse Mary.

“Non dovresti farlo più, mia cara,” rispose il signor Weller.

“Perché no?”, chiese Mary.

“La bruttezza e l’inganno non dovrebbero mai mescolarsi con l’eleganza e la virtù,” rispose il signor Weller. “Dovrebbero, signor Muzzle?”

“Assolutamente no,” rispose quel gentiluomo.

Qui Mary rise in risata e disse che era stata la cuoca a farla; e la cuoca rise a sua volta, dicendo di non averlo fatto.

“Non ho un bicchiere,” disse Mary.

“Bevi con me, cara,” disse il signor Weller. “Metti le tue labbra su questo bicchiere, e poi potrò baciarti in tua vece.”

“Per l’amor del cielo, signor Weller!”, disse Mary.

“Che peccato, carina mia, ”

“Parlando in quel modo, ”

“Sciocchezze. Non fa alcun male. È la natura, vero, cuoca?”

“Non chiedermelo, impertinenza,” rispose il cuoco, in preda a grande gioia; e allora il cuoco e Mary risero di nuovo, fino a quando, a causa della birra, della carne fredda e delle risate, la giovane signorina fu sul punto di soffocare. Una situazione pericolosa dalla quale si riprese solo grazie a diversi colpetti sulla schiena e ad altre attenzioni necessarie, prestate con grande delicatezza da Mr. Samuel Weller.

In mezzo a tutta questa allegria e convivialità, si udì un forte suono alla porta del giardino; il giovane signore che pranzava nella lavanderia rispose immediatamente. Il signor Weller era completamente assorto nell’attenzione verso la bella cameriera di casa; il signor Muzzle era impegnato a servire a tavola; e la cuoca aveva appena smesso di ridere, proprio mentre stava per portare un enorme boccone alle labbra, quando la porta della cucina si aprì ed entrò il signor Job Trotter.

Abbiamo detto che il signor Job Trotter è entrato, ma questa affermazione non si distingue per la nostra solita attenzione scrupolosa ai fatti. La porta si aprì e il signor Trotter apparve. Stava per entrare, anzi era proprio nel momento di farlo, quando, vedendo il signor Weller, indietreggiò involontariamente di un paio di passi e rimase immobile, fissando con stupore e terrore la scena inaspettata che gli si presentava davanti.

“Eccolo qui!” disse Sam, alzandosi con grande gioia. “Poco fa stavamo proprio parlando di te. Come stai? Dove sei stato? Entra.”

Mettendo la mano sul colletto di gelso dell’inerme Job, il signor Weller lo trascinò in cucina; poi, chiudendo la porta a chiave, la consegnò al signor Muzzle, che la infilò con grande calma nella tasca laterale.

“Beh, ecco un gioco!”, esclamò Sam. “Pensate solo: il mio padrone ha la fortuna di incontrarvi di sopra, mentre io ho la gioia di vedervi qui sotto. Come state andando? E come va l’affare della candeleria? Beh, sono davvero felice di rivedervi. Sembrate così contento. È un vero piacere vedervi, non è vero, signor Muzzle?”

“Proprio così,” disse il signor Muzzle.

“È davvero così allegro!” disse Sam.

“Di così buon umore!” disse Muzzle.

‘And so glad to see us—that makes it so much more comfortable,’ said Sam. ‘Sit down; sit down.’

Mr. Trotter suffered himself to be forced into a chair by the fireside. He cast his small eyes, first on Mr. Weller, and then on Mr. Muzzle, but said nothing.

‘Well, now,’ said Sam, ‘afore these here ladies, I should jest like to ask you, as a sort of curiosity, whether you don’t consider yourself as nice and well-behaved a young gen’l’m’n, as ever used a pink check pocket-handkerchief, and the number four collection?’

‘And as was ever a-going to be married to a cook,’ said that lady indignantly. ‘The willin!’

‘And leave off his evil ways, and set up in the chandlery line arterwards,’ said the housemaid.

‘Now, I’ll tell you what it is, young man,’ said Mr. Muzzle solemnly, enraged at the last two allusions, ‘this here lady (pointing to the cook) keeps company with me; and when you presume, Sir, to talk of keeping chandlers’ shops with her, you injure me in one of the most delicatest points in which one man can injure another. Do you understand that, Sir?’

Here Mr. Muzzle, who had a great notion of his eloquence, in which he imitated his master, paused for a reply.

But Mr. Trotter made no reply. So Mr. Muzzle proceeded in a solemn manner—

‘It’s very probable, sir, that you won’t be wanted upstairs for several minutes, Sir, because my master is at this moment particularly engaged in settling the hash of _your _master, Sir; and therefore you’ll have leisure, Sir, for a little private talk with me, Sir. Do you understand that, Sir?’

Mr. Muzzle again paused for a reply; and again Mr. Trotter disappointed him.

‘Well, then,’ said Mr. Muzzle, ‘I’m very sorry to have to explain myself before ladies, but the urgency of the case will be my excuse. The back kitchen’s empty, Sir. If you will step in there, Sir, Mr. Weller will see fair, and we can have mutual satisfaction till the bell rings. Follow me, Sir!’

As Mr. Muzzle uttered these words, he took a step or two towards the door; and, by way of saving time, began to pull off his coat as he walked along.

Now, the cook no sooner heard the concluding words of this desperate challenge, and saw Mr. Muzzle about to put it into execution, than she uttered a loud and piercing shriek; and rushing on Mr. Job Trotter, who rose from his chair on the instant, tore and buffeted his large flat face, with an energy peculiar to excited females, and twining her hands in his long black hair, tore therefrom about enough to make five or six dozen of the very largest-sized mourning-rings. Having accomplished this feat with all the ardour which her devoted love for Mr. Muzzle inspired, she staggered back; and being a lady of very excitable and delicate feelings, she instantly fell under the dresser, and fainted away.

At this moment, the bell rang.

‘That’s for you, Job Trotter,’ said Sam; and before Mr. Trotter could offer remonstrance or reply—even before he had time to stanch the wounds inflicted by the insensible lady—Sam seized one arm and Mr. Muzzle the other, and one pulling before, and the other pushing behind, they conveyed him upstairs, and into the parlour.

It was an impressive tableau. Alfred Jingle, Esquire, alias Captain Fitz-Marshall, was standing near the door with his hat in his hand, and a smile on his face, wholly unmoved by his very unpleasant situation. Confronting him, stood Mr. Pickwick, who had evidently been inculcating some high moral lesson; for his left hand was beneath his coat tail, and his right extended in air, as was his wont when delivering himself of an impressive address. At a little distance, stood Mr. Tupman with indignant countenance, carefully held back by his two younger friends; at the farther end of the room were Mr. Nupkins, Mrs. Nupkins, and Miss Nupkins, gloomily grand and savagely vexed.

‘What prevents me,’ said Mr. Nupkins, with magisterial dignity, as Job was brought in—‘what prevents me from detaining these men as rogues and impostors? It is a foolish mercy. What prevents me?’

‘Pride, old fellow, pride,’ replied Jingle, quite at his ease. ‘Wouldn’t do—no go—caught a captain, eh?—ha! ha! very good—husband for daughter—biter bit—make it public—not for worlds—look stupid—very!’

‘Wretch,’ said Mr. Nupkins, ‘we scorn your base insinuations.’

‘I always hated him,’ added Henrietta.

‘Oh, of course,’ said Jingle. ‘Tall young man—old lover—Sidney Porkenham—rich—fine fellow—not so rich as captain, though, eh?—turn him away—off with him—anything for captain—nothing like captain anywhere—all the girls—raving mad—eh, Job, eh?’

Here Mr. Jingle laughed very heartily; and Job, rubbing his hands with delight, uttered the first sound he had given vent to since he entered the house—a low, noiseless chuckle, which seemed to intimate that he enjoyed his laugh too much, to let any of it escape in sound.

‘Mr. Nupkins,’ said the elder lady,’ this is not a fit conversation for the servants to overhear. Let these wretches be removed.’

‘Certainly, my dear,’ Said Mr. Nupkins. ‘Muzzle!’

‘Your Worship.’

‘Open the front door.’

‘Yes, your Worship.’

‘Leave the house!’ said Mr. Nupkins, waving his hand emphatically.

Jingle smiled, and moved towards the door.

‘Stay!’ said Mr. Pickwick. Jingle stopped.

‘I might,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘have taken a much greater revenge for the treatment I have experienced at your hands, and that of your hypocritical friend there.’

Job Trotter bowed with great politeness, and laid his hand upon his heart.

‘I say,’ said Mr. Pickwick, growing gradually angry, ‘that I might have taken a greater revenge, but I content myself with exposing you, which I consider a duty I owe to society. This is a leniency, Sir, which I hope you will remember.’

When Mr. Pickwick arrived at this point, Job Trotter, with facetious gravity, applied his hand to his ear, as if desirous not to lose a syllable he uttered.

‘And I have only to add, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, now thoroughly angry, ‘that I consider you a rascal, and a—a—ruffian—and—and worse than any man I ever saw, or heard of, except that pious and sanctified vagabond in the mulberry livery.’

‘Ha! ha!’ said Jingle, ‘good fellow, Pickwick—fine heart—stout old boy—but must _not _be passionate—bad thing, very—bye, bye—see you again some day—keep up your spirits—now, Job—trot!’

With these words, Mr. Jingle stuck on his hat in his old fashion, and strode out of the room. Job Trotter paused, looked round, smiled and then with a bow of mock solemnity to Mr. Pickwick, and a wink to Mr. Weller, the audacious slyness of which baffles all description, followed the footsteps of his hopeful master.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as Mr. Weller was following.

‘Sir.’

Stay here.’

Mr. Weller seemed uncertain.

‘Stay here,’ repeated Mr. Pickwick.

‘Mayn’t I polish that ‘ere Job off, in the front garden?’ said Mr. Weller.

‘Certainly not,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Mayn’t I kick him out o’ the gate, Sir?’ said Mr. Weller.

‘Not on any account,’ replied his master.

For the first time since his engagement, Mr. Weller looked, for a moment, discontented and unhappy. But his countenance immediately cleared up; for the wily Mr. Muzzle, by concealing himself behind the street door, and rushing violently out, at the right instant, contrived with great dexterity to overturn both Mr. Jingle and his attendant, down the flight of steps, into the American aloe tubs that stood beneath.

‘Having discharged my duty, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick to Mr. Nupkins, ‘I will, with my friends, bid you farewell. While we thank you for such hospitality as we have received, permit me to assure you, in our joint names, that we should not have accepted it, or have consented to extricate ourselves in this way, from our previous dilemma, had we not been impelled by a strong sense of duty. We return to London to-morrow. Your secret is safe with us.’

Having thus entered his protest against their treatment of the morning, Mr. Pickwick bowed low to the ladies, and notwithstanding the solicitations of the family, left the room with his friends.

‘Get your hat, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘It’s below stairs, Sir,’ said Sam, and he ran down after it.

Now, there was nobody in the kitchen, but the pretty housemaid; and as Sam’s hat was mislaid, he had to look for it, and the pretty housemaid lighted him. They had to look all over the place for the hat. The pretty housemaid, in her anxiety to find it, went down on her knees, and turned over all the things that were heaped together in a little corner by the door. It was an awkward corner. You couldn’t get at it without shutting the door first.

‘Here it is,’ said the pretty housemaid. ‘This is it, ain’t it?’

‘Let me look,’ said Sam.

The pretty housemaid had stood the candle on the floor; and, as it gave a very dim light, Sam was obliged to go down on _his _knees before he could see whether it really was his own hat or not. It was a remarkably small corner, and so—it was nobody’s fault but the man’s who built the house—Sam and the pretty housemaid were necessarily very close together.

‘Yes, this is it,’ said Sam. ‘Good-bye!’

‘Good-bye!’ said the pretty housemaid.

‘Good-bye!’ said Sam; and as he said it, he dropped the hat that had cost so much trouble in looking for.

‘How awkward you are,’ said the pretty housemaid. ‘You’ll lose it again, if you don’t take care.’

So just to prevent his losing it again, she put it on for him.

Whether it was that the pretty housemaid’s face looked prettier still, when it was raised towards Sam’s, or whether it was the accidental consequence of their being so near to each other, is matter of uncertainty to this day; but Sam kissed her.

‘You don’t mean to say you did that on purpose,’ said the pretty housemaid, blushing.

‘No, I didn’t then,’ said Sam; ‘but I will now.’

So he kissed her again.

‘Sam!’ said Mr. Pickwick, calling over the banisters.

‘Coming, Sir,’ replied Sam, running upstairs.

‘How long you have been!’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘There was something behind the door, Sir, which perwented our getting it open, for ever so long, Sir,’ replied Sam.

And this was the first passage of Mr. Weller’s first love.

“E non ho altro da aggiungere, signore,” disse il signor Pickwick, ormai completamente arrabbiato, “se non che vi considero un furfante, un brigante, e persino peggio di qualsiasi uomo abbia mai visto o sentito parlare, tranne quel pio e santificato vagabondo con l’abito di seta.”

‘Ha! ha!’ disse Jingle, ‘bravo ragazzo, Pickwick, cuore nobile, vecchio coraggioso, ma non deve essere troppo appassionato, è una cattiva cosa, davvero, addio, addio, ci rivedremo un giorno, tieni su il morale. Ora, via!’

Con queste parole, il signor Jingle si infilò il cappello nel suo vecchio stile e uscì a grandi passi dalla stanza. Job Trotter esitò un attimo, guardò intorno, sorrise e poi, con un inchino di finta solennità verso il signor Pickwick e uno sguardo d’intesa al signor Weller – una audacia e una astuzia davvero indescrivibili – seguì le orme del suo speranzoso padrone.

“Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick mentre il signor Weller lo seguiva.

“Signore.”

Resta qui.

Il signor Weller sembrava incerto.

“Resta qui,” ripeté il signor Pickwick.

“Non posso forse lucidare quel pezzo di ferro nel giardino davanti a casa?”, disse il signor Weller.

“Certamente no,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

“Non posso forse cacciarlo via dal cancello, signore?” disse il signor Weller.

“Assolutamente no,” rispose il suo padrone.

Per la prima volta da quando era fidanzato, il signor Weller sembrò, per un momento, insoddisfatto e infelice. Ma il suo volto si rasserenò immediatamente; perché il astuto signor Muzzle, nascondendosi dietro la porta di casa e uscendo improvvisamente nel momento giusto, riuscì con grande abilità a far cadere sia il signor Jingle che il suo attendente giù per le scale, dentro i vasi contenenti l’aloe americano che si trovavano sotto.

“Avendo adempiuto al mio dovere, signore,” disse il signor Pickwick al signor Nupkins, “mi congederò insieme ai miei amici. Sebbene vi ringraziiamo per l’ospitalità ricevuta, permettetemi di assicurarvi, a nome nostro tutti, che non avremmo accettato tale ospitalità, né avremmo acconsentito a liberarci in questo modo dal dilemma in cui ci trovavamo, se non fosse stato spinto da un forte senso del dovere. Torneremo a Londra domani. Il vostro segreto è al sicuro con noi.”

Dopo aver espresso così la sua protesta contro il modo in cui erano stati trattati quella mattina, il signor Pickwick fece un profondo inchino alle signore e, nonostante le insistenze della famiglia, lasciò la stanza con i suoi amici.

“Prendi il tuo cappello, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“È sotto le scale, signore,” disse Sam, e corse giù a prenderlo.

In quel momento, non c’era nessuno in cucina, tranne la bella cameriera; e poiché il cappello di Sam era sparito, dovette cercarlo, e la bella cameriera lo aiutò nella ricerca. Dovettero cercare dappertutto. Nella sua ansia di trovarlo, la bella cameriera si inginocchiò e rovistò tra tutte le cose ammucchiate in un angolino vicino alla porta. Era un angolo scomodo: non si poteva raggiungerlo senza prima chiudere la porta.

“Eccolo qui,” disse la bella cameriera. “È proprio questo, vero?”

“Lasciami guardare,” disse Sam.

La bella cameriera aveva posato la candela per terra; e poiché emetteva una luce molto debole, Sam dovette mettersi in ginocchio prima di riuscire a vedere se si trattasse davvero del suo cappello o meno. Era un angolo estremamente piccolo. Quindi, non era colpa di nessuno, tranne che dell’uomo che aveva costruito la casa. Sam e la bella cameriera erano inevitabilmente molto vicini l’uno all’altro.

“Sì, è proprio questo,” disse Sam. “Addio!”

“Addio!”, disse la bella cameriera.

“Addio!”, disse Sam; e mentre lo diceva, lasciò cadere il cappello che gli aveva causato tanti problemi a cercare.

“Che goffo che sei,” disse la bella cameriera. “Lo perderai di nuovo, se non fai attenzione.”

Lo fece indossare solo per evitare che lo perdesse di nuovo.

Che fosse perché il viso della bella cameriera sembrava ancora più bello quando si alzava verso quello di Sam, o che fosse una conseguenza casuale del fatto che erano così vicini l’uno all’altro, rimane oggi un mistero; ma Sam la baciò.

“Non vuoi dire che l’hai fatto apposta, ”, disse la bella cameriera, arrossendo.

“No, allora non l’ho fatto,” disse Sam; “ma ora lo farò.”

Allora la baciò di nuovo.

“Sam!” disse il signor Pickwick, chiamando attraverso la ringhiera.

“Arrivo subito, signore,” rispose Sam, correndo su per le scale.

“Da quanto tempo sei qui!” disse il signor Pickwick.

“C’era qualcosa dietro la porta, signore; quel qualcosa ci impedì per molto tempo di aprirla, signore,” rispose Sam.

E questo fu il primo incontro legato al primo amore del signor Weller.

CHAPTER XXVI. WHICH CONTAINS A BRIEF ACCOUNT OF THE PROGRESS OF THE ACTION OF BARDELL AGAINST PICKWICK

Having accomplished the main end and object of his journey, by the exposure of Jingle, Mr. Pickwick resolved on immediately returning to London, with the view of becoming acquainted with the proceedings which had been taken against him, in the meantime, by Messrs. Dodson and Fogg. Acting upon this resolution with all the energy and decision of his character, he mounted to the back seat of the first coach which left Ipswich on the morning after the memorable occurrences detailed at length in the two preceding chapters; and accompanied by his three friends, and Mr. Samuel Weller, arrived in the metropolis, in perfect health and safety, the same evening.

Here the friends, for a short time, separated. Messrs. Tupman, Winkle, and Snodgrass repaired to their several homes to make such preparations as might be requisite for their forthcoming visit to Dingley Dell; and Mr. Pickwick and Sam took up their present abode in very good, old- fashioned, and comfortable quarters, to wit, the George and Vulture Tavern and Hotel, George Yard, Lombard Street.

Mr. Pickwick had dined, finished his second pint of particular port, pulled his silk handkerchief over his head, put his feet on the fender, and thrown himself back in an easy-chair, when the entrance of Mr. Weller with his carpet-bag, aroused him from his tranquil meditation.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Sir,’ said Mr. Weller.

‘I have just been thinking, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘that having left a good many things at Mrs. Bardell’s, in Goswell Street, I ought to arrange for taking them away, before I leave town again.’

‘Wery good, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘I could send them to Mr. Tupman’s, for the present, Sam,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, ‘but before we take them away, it is necessary that they should be looked up, and put together. I wish you would step up to Goswell Street, Sam, and arrange about it.’

‘At once, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Weller.

‘At once,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘And stay, Sam,’ added Mr. Pickwick, pulling out his purse, ‘there is some rent to pay. The quarter is not due till Christmas, but you may pay it, and have done with it. A month’s notice terminates my tenancy. Here it is, written out. Give it, and tell Mrs. Bardell she may put a bill up, as soon as she likes.’

‘Wery good, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘anythin’ more, sir?’

‘Nothing more, Sam.’

Mr. Weller stepped slowly to the door, as if he expected something more; slowly opened it, slowly stepped out, and had slowly closed it within a couple of inches, when Mr. Pickwick called out—

‘Sam.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Mr. Weller, stepping quickly back, and closing the door behind him.

‘I have no objection, Sam, to your endeavouring to ascertain how Mrs. Bardell herself seems disposed towards me, and whether it is really probable that this vile and groundless action is to be carried to extremity. I say I do not object to you doing this, if you wish it, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

Sam gave a short nod of intelligence, and left the room. Mr. Pickwick drew the silk handkerchief once more over his head, And composed himself for a nap. Mr. Weller promptly walked forth, to execute his commission.

It was nearly nine o’clock when he reached Goswell Street. A couple of candles were burning in the little front parlour, and a couple of caps were reflected on the window-blind. Mrs. Bardell had got company.

Mr. Weller knocked at the door, and after a pretty long interval— occupied by the party without, in whistling a tune, and by the party within, in persuading a refractory flat candle to allow itself to be lighted—a pair of small boots pattered over the floor-cloth, and Master Bardell presented himself.

‘Well, young townskip,’ said Sam, ‘how’s mother?’

‘She’s pretty well,’ replied Master Bardell, ‘so am I.’

‘Well, that’s a mercy,’ said Sam; ‘tell her I want to speak to her, will you, my hinfant fernomenon?’

Master Bardell, thus adjured, placed the refractory flat candle on the bottom stair, and vanished into the front parlour with his message.

The two caps, reflected on the window-blind, were the respective head- dresses of a couple of Mrs. Bardell’s most particular acquaintance, who had just stepped in, to have a quiet cup of tea, and a little warm supper of a couple of sets of pettitoes and some toasted cheese. The cheese was simmering and browning away, most delightfully, in a little Dutch oven before the fire; the pettitoes were getting on deliciously in a little tin saucepan on the hob; and Mrs. Bardell and her two friends were getting on very well, also, in a little quiet conversation about and concerning all their particular friends and acquaintance; when Master Bardell came back from answering the door, and delivered the message intrusted to him by Mr. Samuel Weller.

‘Mr. Pickwick’s servant!’ said Mrs. Bardell, turning pale.

‘Bless my soul!’ said Mrs. Cluppins.

‘Well, I raly would not ha’ believed it, unless I had ha’ happened to ha’ been here!’ said Mrs. Sanders.

Mrs. Cluppins was a little, brisk, busy-looking woman; Mrs. Sanders was a big, fat, heavy-faced personage; and the two were the company.

Mrs. Bardell felt it proper to be agitated; and as none of the three exactly knew whether under existing circumstances, any communication, otherwise than through Dodson & Fogg, ought to be held with Mr. Pickwick’s servant, they were all rather taken by surprise. In this state of indecision, obviously the first thing to be done, was to thump the boy for finding Mr. Weller at the door. So his mother thumped him, and he cried melodiously.

‘Hold your noise—do—you naughty creetur!’ said Mrs. Bardell.

‘Yes; don’t worrit your poor mother,’ said Mrs. Sanders.

‘She’s quite enough to worrit her, as it is, without you, Tommy,’ said Mrs. Cluppins, with sympathising resignation.

CAPITOLO XXVI. CHE FORNISCE UN RAPIDO RACCONTO DELLE AVANZATE NELL’AZIONE DI BARDELL CONTRO PICKWICK

Avendo raggiunto lo scopo principale del suo Viaggio, ovvero smascherare Jingle, il signor Pickwick decise di tornare immediatamente a Londra per informarsi sui procedimenti legali avviati contro di lui dai signori Dodson e Fogg. Attuando questa decisione con tutta l’energia e la determinazione tipiche del suo carattere, salì sul primo treno che lasciò Ipswich il giorno seguente gli eventi memorabili descritti nei due capitoli precedenti; accompagnato dai suoi tre amici e dal signor Samuel Weller, arrivò nella metropoli la stessa sera, in perfetta salute e sicurezza.

Qui, per un breve periodo, gli amici si separarono. I signori Tupman, Winkle e Snodgrass tornarono alle loro rispettive case per fare tutti i preparativi necessari per la loro imminente visita a Dingley Dell; mentre il signor Pickwick e Sam si stabilirono in un luogo molto confortevole, caratterizzato da uno stile vecchio e tradizionale: il George and Vulture Tavern and Hotel, situato in George Yard, Lombard Street.

Il signor Pickwick aveva finito di cenare, aveva bevuto la sua seconda pinta di porto speciale, si era avvolto il fazzoletto di seta intorno alla testa, aveva appoggiato i piedi sul parapetto della sedia e si era rilassato nella poltrona quando l’arrivo del signor Weller con il suo borsone lo distolse dalle sue tranquille riflessioni.

“Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Signore,” disse il signor Weller.

“Stavo proprio pensando, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick, “che avendo lasciato molte cose a casa della signora Bardell, in Goswell Street, dovrei organizzare il modo per riprenderle prima di lasciare la città.”

“Molto bene, signore,” rispose il signor Weller.

“Potrei mandarli temporaneamente da Mr. Tupman, Sam,” continuò il signor Pickwick, “ma prima di portarli via, è necessario che vengano controllati e sistemati. Vorrei che tu andassi in Goswell Street e ti occupassi della questione.”

“Subito, signore?”, chiese il signor Weller.

“Subito,” rispose il signor Pickwick. “E resta qui, Sam,” aggiunse, tirando fuori la sua borsa, “c’è ancora un po’ di affitto da pagare. Il pagamento del trimestre non è previsto fino a Natale, ma puoi farlo subito e liberartene così. Un mese di preavviso è sufficiente per terminare il mio contratto di locazione. Ecco qui, scritto chiaramente. Dàglielo e digli alla signora Bardell che può emettere la fattura quando vuole.”

“Molto bene, signore,” rispose il signor Weller; “c’è altro, signore?”

“Nient’altro, Sam.”

Il signor Weller si avvicinò lentamente alla porta, come se si aspettasse qualcos’altro; la aprì lentamente, uscì lentamente e stava per chiuderla di nuovo quando il signor Pickwick chiamò.

“Sam.”

“Sì, signore,” disse il signor Weller, facendo rapidamente un passo indietro e chiudendo la porta dietro di sé.

“Non ho alcuna obiezione, Sam, al fatto che tu tenti di scoprire quale sia l’opinione della signora Bardell su di me, e se sia davvero probabile che questa azione vile e senza fondamento venga portata alle estreme. Dico davvero che non mi oppongo, se lo desideri, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick.

Sam fece un breve cenno di intesa e lasciò la stanza. Il signor Pickwick si coprì nuovamente il capo con il fazzoletto di seta e si preparò a fare un pisolino. Il signor Weller, invece, uscì immediatamente per adempiere al suo incarico.

Erano quasi le nove quando arrivò in Goswell Street. Un paio di candele ardevano nel piccolo salotto d’ingresso, e i loro riflessi si vedevano sulle tende della finestra. La signora Bardell aveva visite.

Il signor Weller bussò alla porta, e dopo un bel po’ di tempo, mentre fuori la gente si dedicava a suonare canzoni e dentro cercava di accendere una candela ostinatamente resistente alla fiamma, dei piccoli stivali risuonarono sul tappeto, e finalmente il signor Bardell comparve.

“Beh, giovane capo della città,” disse Sam, “come sta tua madre?”

“È piuttosto attraente,” rispose il Maestro Bardell, “e lo sono anch’io.”

“Beh, questa è davvero una magnanimità”, disse Sam; “diglielo che voglio parlarle, per favore, mio strano e incomprensibile fenomeno, ”

Il maestro Bardell, così invocato, posizionò la candela resistente al calore sul gradino in fondo alle scale e scomparve nel salotto anteriore con il suo messaggio.

Le due coppie di cappelli, riflesse nelle tende della finestra, appartenevano rispettivamente a due delle conoscenti più particolari della signora Bardell; queste ultime erano appena entrate per bere in tranquillità una tazza di tè e gustare una piccola cena composta da alcune camicette da notte e un po’ di formaggio tostato. Il formaggio stava cuocendo a fuoco lento, dorandosi deliziosamente in una pentola olandese davanti al camino; le camicette da notte si stavano cucinando in una pentolina di latta sul fornello; e la signora Bardell insieme alle sue due amiche si stavano divertendo molto, conversando tranquillamente su tutti i loro conoscenti. Quando il signor Bardell tornò dopo aver risposto alla porta, riferì il messaggio che il signor Samuel Weller gli aveva affidato.

“Il servitore del signor Pickwick!” disse la signora Bardell, impallidendo.

“Che la mia ‘anima sia benedetta!”, disse la signora Cluppins.

“Beh, onestamente non l’avrei mai creduto, se non fossi stata qui anch’io!” disse la signora Sanders.

La signora Cluppins era una donna piccola, vivace e sempre impegnata; la signora Sanders, invece, era una persona grande, grassa e dal viso rotondo; queste due formavano la compagnia di cui si parlava.

La signora Bardell riteneva giusto essere agitata; e poiché nessuno dei tre sapeva con certezza se, nelle circostanze attuali, fosse opportuno intrattenere qualsiasi comunicazione con il servitore del signor Pickwick diversamente che attraverso Dodson & Fogg, rimasero tutti piuttosto sorpresi. In questa situazione di incertezza, la prima cosa da fare era ovviamente rimproverare il ragazzo per aver fatto trovare il signor Weller alla porta. Così sua madre lo rimproverò, e lui pianse mestamente.

“Zitta tu, smettila, birichino!” disse la signora Bardell.

“Sì; non preoccupare tua povera madre,” disse la signora Sanders.

“Lei ha già abbastanza problemi senza di te, Tommy,” disse la signora Cluppins con un tono di comprensiva rassegnazione.

‘Ah! worse luck, poor lamb!’ said Mrs. Sanders.

At all which moral reflections, Master Bardell howled the louder.

‘Now, what shall I do?’ said Mrs. Bardell to Mrs. Cluppins.

‘I think you ought to see him,’ replied Mrs. Cluppins. ‘But on no account without a witness.’

‘I think two witnesses would be more lawful,’ said Mrs. Sanders, who, like the other friend, was bursting with curiosity.

‘Perhaps he’d better come in here,’ said Mrs. Bardell.

‘To be sure,’ replied Mrs. Cluppins, eagerly catching at the idea; ‘walk in, young man; and shut the street door first, please.’

Mr. Weller immediately took the hint; and presenting himself in the parlour, explained his business to Mrs. Bardell thus—

‘Wery sorry to ‘casion any personal inconwenience, ma’am, as the housebreaker said to the old lady when he put her on the fire; but as me and my governor ‘s only jest come to town, and is jest going away agin, it can’t be helped, you see.’

‘Of course, the young man can’t help the faults of his master,’ said Mrs. Cluppins, much struck by Mr. Weller’s appearance and conversation.

‘Certainly not,’ chimed in Mrs. Sanders, who, from certain wistful glances at the little tin saucepan, seemed to be engaged in a mental calculation of the probable extent of the pettitoes, in the event of Sam’s being asked to stop to supper.

‘So all I’ve come about, is jest this here,’ said Sam, disregarding the interruption; ‘first, to give my governor’s notice—there it is. Secondly, to pay the rent—here it is. Thirdly, to say as all his things is to be put together, and give to anybody as we sends for ‘em. Fourthly, that you may let the place as soon as you like—and that’s all.’

‘Whatever has happened,’ said Mrs. Bardell, ‘I always have said, and always will say, that in every respect but one, Mr. Pickwick has always behaved himself like a perfect gentleman. His money always as good as the bank—always.’

As Mrs. Bardell said this, she applied her handkerchief to her eyes, and went out of the room to get the receipt.

Sam well knew that he had only to remain quiet, and the women were sure to talk; so he looked alternately at the tin saucepan, the toasted cheese, the wall, and the ceiling, in profound silence.

‘Poor dear!’ said Mrs. Cluppins.

‘Ah, poor thing!’ replied Mrs. Sanders.

Sam said nothing. He saw they were coming to the subject.

‘I raly cannot contain myself,’ said Mrs. Cluppins, ‘when I think of such perjury. I don’t wish to say anything to make you uncomfortable, young man, but your master’s an old brute, and I wish I had him here to tell him so.’

I wish you had,’ said Sam.

‘To see how dreadful she takes on, going moping about, and taking no pleasure in nothing, except when her friends comes in, out of charity, to sit with her, and make her comfortable,’ resumed Mrs. Cluppins, glancing at the tin saucepan and the Dutch oven, ‘it’s shocking!’

‘Barbareous,’ said Mrs. Sanders.

‘And your master, young man! A gentleman with money, as could never feel the expense of a wife, no more than nothing,’ continued Mrs. Cluppins, with great volubility; ‘why there ain’t the faintest shade of an excuse for his behaviour! Why don’t he marry her?’

‘Ah,’ said Sam, ‘to be sure; that’s the question.’

‘Question, indeed,’ retorted Mrs. Cluppins, ‘she’d question him, if she’d my spirit. Hows’ever, there is law for us women, mis’rable creeturs as they’d make us, if they could; and that your master will find out, young man, to his cost, afore he’s six months older.’

At this consolatory reflection, Mrs. Cluppins bridled up, and smiled at Mrs. Sanders, who smiled back again.

‘The action’s going on, and no mistake,’ thought Sam, as Mrs. Bardell re-entered with the receipt.

‘Here’s the receipt, Mr. Weller,’ said Mrs. Bardell, ‘and here’s the change, and I hope you’ll take a little drop of something to keep the cold out, if it’s only for old acquaintance’ sake, Mr. Weller.’

Sam saw the advantage he should gain, and at once acquiesced; whereupon Mrs. Bardell produced, from a small closet, a black bottle and a wine- glass; and so great was her abstraction, in her deep mental affliction, that, after filling Mr. Weller’s glass, she brought out three more wine- glasses, and filled them too.

‘Lauk, Mrs. Bardell,’ said Mrs. Cluppins, ‘see what you’ve been and done!’

‘Well, that is a good one!’ ejaculated Mrs. Sanders.

‘Ah, my poor head!’ said Mrs. Bardell, with a faint smile.

Sam understood all this, of course, so he said at once, that he never could drink before supper, unless a lady drank with him. A great deal of laughter ensued, and Mrs. Sanders volunteered to humour him, so she took a slight sip out of her glass. Then Sam said it must go all round, so they all took a slight sip. Then little Mrs. Cluppins proposed as a toast, ‘Success to Bardell agin Pickwick’; and then the ladies emptied their glasses in honour of the sentiment, and got very talkative directly.

‘I suppose you’ve heard what’s going forward, Mr. Weller?’ said Mrs. Bardell.

‘I’ve heerd somethin’ on it,’ replied Sam.

‘It’s a terrible thing to be dragged before the public, in that way, Mr. Weller,’ said Mrs. Bardell; ‘but I see now, that it’s the only thing I ought to do, and my lawyers, Mr. Dodson and Fogg, tell me that, with the evidence as we shall call, we must succeed. I don’t know what I should do, Mr. Weller, if I didn’t.’

The mere idea of Mrs. Bardell’s failing in her action, affected Mrs. Sanders so deeply, that she was under the necessity of refilling and re- emptying her glass immediately; feeling, as she said afterwards, that if she hadn’t had the presence of mind to do so, she must have dropped.

‘Ven is it expected to come on?’ inquired Sam.

‘Either in February or March,’ replied Mrs. Bardell.

‘What a number of witnesses there’ll be, won’t there?’ said Mrs. Cluppins.

‘Ah! won’t there!’ replied Mrs. Sanders.

‘And won’t Mr. Dodson and Fogg be wild if the plaintiff shouldn’t get it?’ added Mrs. Cluppins, ‘when they do it all on speculation!’

‘Ah! won’t they!’ said Mrs. Sanders.

‘But the plaintiff must get it,’ resumed Mrs. Cluppins.

‘I hope so,’ said Mrs. Bardell.

‘Oh, there can’t be any doubt about it,’ rejoined Mrs. Sanders.

‘Vell,’ said Sam, rising and setting down his glass, ‘all I can say is, that I vish you _may _get it.’

‘Thank’ee, Mr. Weller,’ said Mrs. Bardell fervently.

‘And of them Dodson and Foggs, as does these sort o’ things on spec,’ continued Mr. Weller, ‘as vell as for the other kind and gen’rous people o’ the same purfession, as sets people by the ears, free gratis for nothin’, and sets their clerks to work to find out little disputes among their neighbours and acquaintances as vants settlin’ by means of lawsuits—all I can say o’ them is, that I vish they had the reward I’d give ‘em.’

‘Ah, I wish they had the reward that every kind and generous heart would be inclined to bestow upon them!’ said the gratified Mrs. Bardell.

‘Amen to that,’ replied Sam, ‘and a fat and happy liven’ they’d get out of it! Wish you good-night, ladies.’

To the great relief of Mrs. Sanders, Sam was allowed to depart without any reference, on the part of the hostess, to the pettitoes and toasted cheese; to which the ladies, with such juvenile assistance as Master Bardell could afford, soon afterwards rendered the amplest justice— indeed they wholly vanished before their strenuous exertions.

Mr. Weller wended his way back to the George and Vulture, and faithfully recounted to his master, such indications of the sharp practice of Dodson & Fogg, as he had contrived to pick up in his visit to Mrs. Bardell’s. An interview with Mr. Perker, next day, more than confirmed Mr. Weller’s statement; and Mr. Pickwick was fain to prepare for his Christmas visit to Dingley Dell, with the pleasant anticipation that some two or three months afterwards, an action brought against him for damages sustained by reason of a breach of promise of marriage, would be publicly tried in the Court of Common Pleas; the plaintiff having all the advantages derivable, not only from the force of circumstances, but from the sharp practice of Dodson & Fogg to boot.

“Ah! Che sfortuna, povero _agnello!” disse la signora Sanders.

Di fronte a tutte queste riflessioni morali, Maestro Bardell urlava ancora più forte.

“Ora, cosa dovrei fare?” disse la signora Bardell alla signora Cluppins.

“Penso che dovresti vederlo,” rispose la signora Cluppins. “Ma assolutamente non senza un testimone.”

“Penso che due testimoni sarebbero più appropriati,” disse la signora Sanders, che, come l’altra amica, era piena di curiosità.

“Forse sarebbe meglio che entrasse qui,” disse la signora Bardell.

“Certo,” rispose la signora Cluppins, afferrando con entusiasmo quell’idea; “entri pure, giovane uomo, e per favore chiudi prima la porta d’ingresso.”

Il signor Weller capì immediatamente il messaggio e, presentandosi nel salotto, spiegò la sua situazione alla signora Bardell in questo modo.

“Mi dispiace molto di aver causato qualche inconveniente personale, signora, proprio come disse il ladro alla vecchia donna quando la mise sul fuoco; ma poiché io e il mio governatore siamo appena arrivati in città e stiamo per ripartire subito, non c’è niente che possiamo fare, capisce?”

“Certo, il giovane non può essere ritenuto responsabile dei difetti del suo padrone,” disse la signora Cluppins, molto colpita dall’aspetto e dal modo di parlare del signor Weller.

“Certamente no,” intervenne la signora Sanders; dai suoi sguardi malinconici verso quella piccola pentola di latta, sembrava che stesse facendo mentalmente i calcoli su quanto potessero essere grandi le cosce della bambina, nel caso in cui a Sam venisse chiesto di fermarsi a cena.

“Tutto ciò per cui sono venuto qui è proprio questo,” disse Sam, ignorando l’interruzione; “primo, consegnare la notifica al mio governatore. Ecco qua. Secondo, pagare l’affitto. Ecco qua. Terzo, dire che tutte le sue cose devono essere raccolte e date a chiunque noi decidiamo di inviare. Quarto, che possiate liberarvi di questo posto non appena lo desiderate. Ed è tutto.”

“Qualunque cosa sia successa,” disse la signora Bardell, “ho sempre detto, e continuerò a dire, che in ogni senso tranne uno, il signor Pickwick si è sempre comportato da vero gentiluomo. I suoi soldi sono sempre stati affidabili come quelli della banca, sempre.”

Mentre la signora Bardell diceva queste cose, si premette il fazzoletto sugli occhi e uscì dalla stanza per prendere il ricevuto.

Sam sapeva bene che doveva semplicemente rimanere in silenzio: le donne avrebbero sicuramente iniziato a parlare. Così guardava alternativamente la pentola di latta, il formaggio tostato, il muro e il soffitto, in profondo silenzio.

“Povero caro!” disse la signora Cluppins.

“Ah, poverina!” rispose la signora Sanders.

Sam non disse nulla. Capì che stavano per affrontare l’argomento.

“Non riesco proprio a controllarmi,” disse la signora Cluppins, “quando penso a un simile spergiuro. Non voglio dire nulla che possa metterti a disagio, giovane uomo, ma tuo padrone è davvero un vecchio bruto. Vorrei tanto che fosse qui per dirglielo di persona.”

“Vorrei che tu l’avessi,” disse Sam.

“Vedere quanto diventi terribile quando si mette a rimuginare e non trova piacere in nulla, tranne quando le sue amiche vengono a farle compagnia, per pietà. È davvero scioccante!” continuò la signora Cluppins, guardando la pentola di latta e la casseruola.

“Barbaro”, disse la signora Sanders.

“E il tuo padrone, giovane uomo. Un gentiluomo con soldi, che di certo non avrebbe mai sentito la necessità di spendere per una moglie, proprio nessuna,” continuò la signora Cluppins con grande fervore; “non c’è assolutamente alcuna scusa per il suo comportamento. Perché non la sposa?”

“Ah,” disse Sam, “certamente; è proprio questa la domanda.”

“Domande, davvero,” ribatté la signora Cluppins, “gli avrebbe fatto domande, se solo avesse il mio spirito. Comunque, per noi donne esistono delle leggi, povere creature come ci vogliono rendere. E tuo padrone lo scoprirà, giovane uomo, a sue spese, prima ancora di compiere sei mesi in più.”

Mentre faceva questa riflessione consolatoria, la signora Cluppins sorrise alla signora Sanders, che ricambiò il sorriso.

“L’azione sta davvero avvenendo, senza dubbio,” pensò Sam, mentre la signora Bardell rientrava con il ricevuto.

“Ecco il conto, signor Weller,” disse la signora Bardell, “e ecco anche il resto; spero che vorrà bere qualcosa per scaldarsi, se non altro per vecchia amicizia, signor Weller.”

Sam vide l’vantaggio che avrebbe potuto trarne e immediatamente acconsentì; allora la signora Bardell tirò fuori da un piccolo armadio una bottiglia nera e un bicchiere da vino; era talmente assorta nei suoi pensieri, nel suo profondo dolore interiore, che, dopo aver riempito il bicchiere di Mr. Weller, ne prese altri tre e li riempì anch’essi.

“Lauk, signora Bardell,” disse la signora Cluppins, “guardate un po’ cosa avete combinato!”

“Beh, questa è davvero buona!”, esclamò la signora Sanders.

“Ah, povera mia testa, ”, disse la signora Bardell con un debole sorriso.

Sam capì tutto questo, naturalmente, quindi disse subito che non avrebbe mai potuto bere prima di cena, a meno che una signora non lo facesse insieme a lui. Seguì molto risate, e la signora Sanders si offrì volontaria per «prendersi gioco» di lui, così bevve un piccolo sorso dal suo bicchiere. Poi Sam disse che doveva essere un’usanza condivisa da tutti, quindi bevvero tutti un piccolo sorso. A quel punto la piccola signora Cluppins propose come brindisi: “Successo a Bardell ancora una volta, per il bene di Pickwick”; e allora le signore svuotarono i loro bicchieri in onore di questo sentimento, e iniziarono subito a chiacchierare animatamente.

“Immagino che abbia sentito cosa sta per accadere, signor Weller”, disse la signora Bardell.

“Ho sentito qualcosa al riguardo,” rispose Sam.

“È terribile essere trascinata davanti al pubblico in quel modo, signor Weller,” disse la signora Bardell; “ma ora capisco che è l’unica cosa da fare. E i miei avvocati, il signor Dodson e il signor Fogg, dicono che, con le prove che abbiamo a disposizione, dovremmo riuscire. Non so davvero cosa farei, signor Weller, se non lo facessi, ”

Solo il pensiero che la signora Bardell potesse fallire nel suo intento colpì profondamente la signora Sanders, al punto che fu costretta a riempire e svuotare immediatamente il proprio bicchiere; in seguito disse che, se non avesse avuto la presenza di spirito necessaria per farlo, sicuramente sarebbe svenuta.

“Quando si prevede che arrivi?” chiese Sam.

“O a febbraio o a marzo,” rispose la signora Bardell.

“Quanti testimoni ci saranno, vero?”, disse la signora Cluppins.

“Ah! Non succederà mica!” rispose la signora Sanders.

“E non impazziranno forse il signor Dodson e Fogg se il querelante non dovesse ottenerlo?”, aggiunse la signora Cluppins, “visto che lo fanno tutto per speculazione!”

“Ah! Non lo faranno mica!” disse la signora Sanders.

“Ma il querelante deve ottenerlo,” riprese la signora Cluppins.

“Spero proprio di sì,” disse la signora Bardell.

“Oh, non può esserci alcun >dubbio al riguardo,” ribatté la signora Sanders.

“Beh,” disse Sam, alzandosi e posando il suo bicchiere, “tutto quello che posso dire è che spero davvero che tu riesca ad ottenerlo.”

“Grazie mille, signor Weller,” disse con fervore la signora Bardell.

“E tra questi ci sono Dodson e Foggs, che si occupano di questo genere di cose su commissione,” continuò il signor Weller, “così come altri individui dello stesso mestiere, quelli che mettono le persone nei guai gratuitamente, senza alcun compenso, e incaricano i loro impiegati di cercare piccole dispute tra vicini e conoscenti, solo per poter poi risolverle attraverso cause legali. Tutto quello che posso dire su di loro è che vorrei davvero che ricevessero la ricompensa che io stesso gli darei.”

“Ah, vorrei che ricevessero quella ricompensa che ogni cuore gentile e generoso sarebbe disposto a dar loro!” disse la soddisfatta signora Bardell.

“ Amen,” rispose Sam, “e che possano trarne grande gioia e felicità! Buona notte a tutte voi, signore.”

A grande sollievo della signora Sanders, a Sam fu permesso di andarsene senza che l’ospite menzionasse minimamente le mutandine e il formaggio tostato; poco dopo, con l’aiuto delle signore e del giovane Bardell, tutto quel cibo scomparve completamente, grazie ai loro sforzi.

Il signor Weller tornò al George and Vulture e raccontò fedelmente al suo padrone tutte le informazioni riguardanti le astute strategie legali di Dodson & Fogg che era riuscito a raccogliere durante la sua visita dalla signora Bardell. Un colloquio con il signor Perker, il giorno seguente, confermò ulteriormente le dichiarazioni del signor Weller; e il signor Pickwick poté quindi prepararsi con gioia alla sua visita natalizia a Dingley Dell, nella speranza che, tra due o tre mesi, un processo intentato contro di lui per danni causati da una promessa non mantenuta riguardo al matrimonio venisse celebrato pubblicamente presso la Corte della Corona; il querelante avrebbe avuto a disposizione tutti i vantaggi derivanti sia dalle circostanze favorevoli che dall’astuzia legale di Dodson & Fogg.

CHAPTER XXVII. SAMUEL WELLER MAKES A PILGRIMAGE TO DORKING, AND BEHOLDS HIS MOTHER-IN-LAW

There still remaining an interval of two days before the time agreed upon for the departure of the Pickwickians to Dingley Dell, Mr. Weller sat himself down in a back room at the George and Vulture, after eating an early dinner, to muse on the best way of disposing of his time. It was a remarkably fine day; and he had not turned the matter over in his mind ten minutes, when he was suddenly stricken filial and affectionate; and it occurred to him so strongly that he ought to go down and see his father, and pay his duty to his mother-in-law, that he was lost in astonishment at his own remissness in never thinking of this moral obligation before. Anxious to atone for his past neglect without another hour’s delay, he straightway walked upstairs to Mr. Pickwick, and requested leave of absence for this laudable purpose.

‘Certainly, Sam, certainly,’ said Mr. Pickwick, his eyes glistening with delight at this manifestation of filial feeling on the part of his attendant; ‘certainly, Sam.’

Mr. Weller made a grateful bow.

‘I am very glad to see that you have so high a sense of your duties as a son, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘I always had, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘That’s a very gratifying reflection, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick approvingly.

‘Wery, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘if ever I wanted anythin’ o’ my father, I always asked for it in a wery ‘spectful and obligin’ manner. If he didn’t give it me, I took it, for fear I should be led to do anythin’ wrong, through not havin’ it. I saved him a world o’ trouble this vay, Sir.’

‘That’s not precisely what I meant, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, shaking his head, with a slight smile.

‘All good feelin’, sir—the wery best intentions, as the gen’l’m’n said ven he run away from his wife ‘cos she seemed unhappy with him,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘You may go, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Thank’ee, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller; and having made his best bow, and put on his best clothes, Sam planted himself on the top of the Arundel coach, and journeyed on to Dorking.

The Marquis of Granby, in Mrs. Weller’s time, was quite a model of a roadside public-house of the better class—just large enough to be convenient, and small enough to be snug. On the opposite side of the road was a large sign-board on a high post, representing the head and shoulders of a gentleman with an apoplectic countenance, in a red coat with deep blue facings, and a touch of the same blue over his three- cornered hat, for a sky. Over that again were a pair of flags; beneath the last button of his coat were a couple of cannon; and the whole formed an expressive and undoubted likeness of the Marquis of Granby of glorious memory. The bar window displayed a choice collection of geranium plants, and a well-dusted row of spirit phials. The open shutters bore a variety of golden inscriptions, eulogistic of good beds and neat wines; and the choice group of countrymen and hostlers lounging about the stable door and horse-trough, afforded presumptive proof of the excellent quality of the ale and spirits which were sold within. Sam Weller paused, when he dismounted from the coach, to note all these little indications of a thriving business, with the eye of an experienced traveller; and having done so, stepped in at once, highly satisfied with everything he had observed.

‘Now, then!’ said a shrill female voice the instant Sam thrust his head in at the door, ‘what do you want, young man?’

Sam looked round in the direction whence the voice proceeded. It came from a rather stout lady of comfortable appearance, who was seated beside the fireplace in the bar, blowing the fire to make the kettle boil for tea. She was not alone; for on the other side of the fireplace, sitting bolt upright in a high-backed chair, was a man in threadbare black clothes, with a back almost as long and stiff as that of the chair itself, who caught Sam’s most particular and especial attention at once.

He was a prim-faced, red-nosed man, with a long, thin countenance, and a semi-rattlesnake sort of eye—rather sharp, but decidedly bad. He wore very short trousers, and black cotton stockings, which, like the rest of his apparel, were particularly rusty. His looks were starched, but his white neckerchief was not, and its long limp ends straggled over his closely-buttoned waistcoat in a very uncouth and unpicturesque fashion. A pair of old, worn, beaver gloves, a broad-brimmed hat, and a faded green umbrella, with plenty of whalebone sticking through the bottom, as if to counterbalance the want of a handle at the top, lay on a chair beside him; and, being disposed in a very tidy and careful manner, seemed to imply that the red-nosed man, whoever he was, had no intention of going away in a hurry.

To do the red-nosed man justice, he would have been very far from wise if he had entertained any such intention; for, to judge from all appearances, he must have been possessed of a most desirable circle of acquaintance, if he could have reasonably expected to be more comfortable anywhere else. The fire was blazing brightly under the influence of the bellows, and the kettle was singing gaily under the influence of both. A small tray of tea-things was arranged on the table; a plate of hot buttered toast was gently simmering before the fire; and the red-nosed man himself was busily engaged in converting a large slice of bread into the same agreeable edible, through the instrumentality of a long brass toasting-fork. Beside him stood a glass of reeking hot pine-apple rum-and-water, with a slice of lemon in it; and every time the red-nosed man stopped to bring the round of toast to his eye, with the view of ascertaining how it got on, he imbibed a drop or two of the hot pine-apple rum-and-water, and smiled upon the rather stout lady, as she blew the fire.

Capitolo XXVII. Samuel Weller si reca in pellegrinaggio a Dorking e incontra sua suocera

Restavano ancora due giorni prima dell’ora concordata per la partenza dei Pickwickiani verso Dingley Dell; dopo aver consumato una cena anticipata, il signor Weller si sedette in una stanza sul retro del ristorante “George and Vulture” per riflettere sul modo migliore di impiegare il proprio tempo. Era una giornata davvero splendida; e non aveva ancora passato dieci minuti a pensarci, quando improvvisamente si sentì invaso da sentimenti filiali e affettuosi. Gli sembrò così importante andare a trovare suo padre e rendere omaggio a sua suocera, che rimase stupito di non essersi mai ricordato di questo dovere morale in precedenza. Desideroso di compensare il proprio ritardo senza perdere un altro minuto, salì immediatamente da Mr. Pickwick e chiese il permesso di assentarsi per questo nobile scopo.

“Certamente, Sam, certamente,” disse il signor Pickwick, i suoi occhi brillanti di gioia per questa dimostrazione di affetto filiale da parte del suo servitore; “certamente, Sam.”

Il signor Weller fece un inchino pieno di gratitudine.

“Sono molto felice di vedere che tu abbia un così forte senso dei tuoi doveri come figlio, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“L’ho sempre avuta, signore,” rispose il signor Weller.

“È un giudizio davvero lusinghiero, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick in tono approvativo.

“Certo, signore,” rispose il signor Weller; “se mai ho voluto qualcosa da mio padre, l’ho sempre chiesto in modo molto umile e deferente. Se non me lo dava, lo prendevo lo stesso, per paura che, senza averlo, potessi commettere qualche errore. In questo modo, signore, gli ho risparmiato un sacco di problemi.”

“Non è esattamente quello che intendevo dire, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick scuotendo la testa con un leggero sorriso.

“Tutte le migliori intenzioni, come ha detto il generale,” rispose il signor Weller, “ma lui se n’è andato via dalla moglie perché lei sembrava infelice con lui.”

“Puoi andare, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Grazie mille, signore,” rispose il signor Weller; dopo aver fatto il suo miglior inchino e indossato i suoi abiti migliori, Sam si sistemò in cima al calesse di Arundel e proseguì il viaggio verso Dorking.

Il Marchese di Granby, ai tempi della signora Weller, rappresentava davvero un esempio perfetto di quella sorta di locande pubbliche di qualità superiore situate lungo le strade: abbastanza grandi da essere comode e allo stesso tempo abbastanza piccole da risultare accoglienti. Dall’altra parte della strada, su un alto palo, era appeso un grande cartello che raffigurava la testa e le spalle di un gentiluomo dall’espressione furiosa; indossava un mantello rosso con bordi blu scuro, e anche il cappello a tre angoli presentava tocchi dello stesso colore, a simboleggiare il cielo. Sopra il cartello sventolavano due bandiere; sotto l’ultimo bottone del suo mantello erano raffigurati alcuni cannoni; insomma, tutto questo complesso di elementi ricordava in modo vivido e inequivocabile il Marchese di Granby, della gloriosa memoria storica. La vetrina esibiva una selezione di piante di geranio e una fila di bottiglie di liquori ben pulite. Le persiane aperte recavano varie iscrizioni in oro che lodavano la qualità dei letti e dei vini offerti; inoltre, il gruppo di persone che si aggirava intorno alla porta della stalla e ai secchi per i cavalli costituiva una prova evidente dell’eccellente qualità delle bevande vendute al suo interno. Sam Weller, scendendo dal calesse, osservò con attenzione tutti questi segni di un’attività commerciale prospera, con lo sguardo di un viaggiatore esperto; una volta fatto ciò, entrò immediatamente, estremamente soddisfatto di tutto ciò che aveva visto.

“Ebbene!” disse una voce femminile stridula non appena Sam infilò la testa dentro la porta. “Cosa vuoi, giovane?”

Sam guardò intorno nella direzione da cui proveniva la voce. Era quella di una donna piuttosto robusta, dall’aspetto confortevole, seduta accanto al camino nel bar; soffiava sul fuoco per far bollire la pentola del tè. Non era sola; dall’altra parte del camino, infatti, seduto dritto in una sedia a schienale alto, c’era un uomo vestito di abiti neri logori; la sua schiena era quasi altrettanto lunga e rigida quanto lo stesso schienale della sedia, e attirò immediatamente l’attenzione particolare di Sam.

Era un uomo dal viso serio, naso rosso, con un volto lungo e magro, e occhi simili a quelli di una vipera a sonagli: abbastanza acuti, ma decisamente sgradevoli da vedere. Indossava pantaloni molto corti e calze di cotone nero, che, come il resto dei suoi vestiti, erano particolarmente arrugginiti. Il suo aspetto era curato nei dettagli, ma il suo fazzoletto bianco no: le sue estremità lunghe e flaccide penzolavano in modo molto informale sopra il gilet ben abbottonato. Accanto a lui, su una sedia, c’erano un paio di vecchi guanti di castoro logori, un cappello a tesa larga e un ombrello verde sbiadito, dal quale spuntavano molte ossa di balena, come se fossero lì per compensare l’assenza di manico. Tutto era disposto in modo molto ordinato e curato, il che sembrava indicare che quell’uomo dal naso rosso, chiunque fosse, non aveva alcuna intenzione di andarsene in fretta.

Per essere giusti con quell’uomo dal naso rosso, sarebbe stato tutt’altro che saggio se avesse avuto un simile intento; infatti, a giudicare da tutto ciò che si vedeva, doveva disporre di un cerchio di conoscenze davvero molto interessante, se poteva ragionevolmente sperare di trovarsi più a suo agio altrove. Il fuoco ardeva intensamente sotto l’effetto del mantice, e la pentola bolliva allegramente; sul tavolo era preparata una piccola tavola da tè, mentre un piatto di toast caldo e spalmato di burro sobbolliva davanti al fuoco. L’uomo dal naso rosso stesso era impegnato a trasformare una grande fetta di pane in qualcosa di altrettanto delizioso da mangiare, utilizzando un lungo forchettone di ottone. Accanto a lui c’era un bicchiere di rum al ananas bollente mescolato con acqua, con dentro anche un pezzo di limone; ogni volta che si fermava per controllare come stesse andando la cottura del toast, beveva un sorso di quel rum e sorrideva alla signora piuttosto robusta che soffiava sul fuoco.

Sam was so lost in the contemplation of this comfortable scene, that he suffered the first inquiry of the rather stout lady to pass unheeded. It was not until it had been twice repeated, each time in a shriller tone, that he became conscious of the impropriety of his behaviour.

‘Governor in?’ inquired Sam, in reply to the question.

‘No, he isn’t,’ replied Mrs. Weller; for the rather stout lady was no other than the quondam relict and sole executrix of the dead-and-gone Mr. Clarke; ‘no, he isn’t, and I don’t expect him, either.’

‘I suppose he’s drivin’ up to-day?’ said Sam.

‘He may be, or he may not,’ replied Mrs. Weller, buttering the round of toast which the red-nosed man had just finished. ‘I don’t know, and, what’s more, I don’t care.—Ask a blessin’, Mr. Stiggins.’

The red-nosed man did as he was desired, and instantly commenced on the toast with fierce voracity.

The appearance of the red-nosed man had induced Sam, at first sight, to more than half suspect that he was the deputy-shepherd of whom his estimable parent had spoken. The moment he saw him eat, all doubt on the subject was removed, and he perceived at once that if he purposed to take up his temporary quarters where he was, he must make his footing good without delay. He therefore commenced proceedings by putting his arm over the half-door of the bar, coolly unbolting it, and leisurely walking in.

‘Mother-in-law,’ said Sam, ‘how are you?’

‘Why, I do believe he is a Weller!’ said Mrs. W., raising her eyes to Sam’s face, with no very gratified expression of countenance.

‘I rayther think he is,’ said the imperturbable Sam; ‘and I hope this here reverend gen’l’m’n ‘ll excuse me saying that I wish I was _the _Weller as owns you, mother-in-law.’

This was a double-barrelled compliment. It implied that Mrs. Weller was a most agreeable female, and also that Mr. Stiggins had a clerical appearance. It made a visible impression at once; and Sam followed up his advantage by kissing his mother-in-law.

‘Get along with you!’ said Mrs. Weller, pushing him away.

‘For shame, young man!’ said the gentleman with the red nose.

‘No offence, sir, no offence,’ replied Sam; ‘you’re wery right, though; it ain’t the right sort o’ thing, ven mothers-in-law is young and good- looking, is it, Sir?’

‘It’s all vanity,’ said Mr. Stiggins.

‘Ah, so it is,’ said Mrs. Weller, setting her cap to rights.

Sam thought it was, too, but he held his peace.

The deputy-shepherd seemed by no means best pleased with Sam’s arrival; and when the first effervescence of the compliment had subsided, even Mrs. Weller looked as if she could have spared him without the smallest inconvenience. However, there he was; and as he couldn’t be decently turned out, they all three sat down to tea.

‘And how’s father?’ said Sam.

At this inquiry, Mrs. Weller raised her hands, and turned up her eyes, as if the subject were too painful to be alluded to.

Mr. Stiggins groaned.

‘What’s the matter with that ‘ere gen’l’m’n?’ inquired Sam.

‘He’s shocked at the way your father goes on in,’ replied Mrs. Weller.

‘Oh, he is, is he?’ said Sam.

‘And with too good reason,’ added Mrs. Weller gravely.

Mr. Stiggins took up a fresh piece of toast, and groaned heavily.

‘He is a dreadful reprobate,’ said Mrs. Weller.

‘A man of wrath!’ exclaimed Mr. Stiggins. He took a large semi-circular bite out of the toast, and groaned again.

Sam felt very strongly disposed to give the reverend Mr. Stiggins something to groan for, but he repressed his inclination, and merely asked, ‘What’s the old ‘un up to now?’

‘Up to, indeed!’ said Mrs. Weller, ‘Oh, he has a hard heart. Night after night does this excellent man—don’t frown, Mr. Stiggins; I _will _say you _are _an excellent man—come and sit here, for hours together, and it has not the least effect upon him.’

Well, that is odd,’ said Sam; ‘it ‘ud have a wery considerable effect upon me, if I wos in his place; I know that.’

‘The fact is, my young friend,’ said Mr. Stiggins solemnly, ‘he has an obderrate bosom. Oh, my young friend, who else could have resisted the pleading of sixteen of our fairest sisters, and withstood their exhortations to subscribe to our noble society for providing the infant negroes in the West Indies with flannel waistcoats and moral pocket- handkerchiefs?’

‘What’s a moral pocket-ankercher?’ said Sam; ‘I never see one o’ them articles o’ furniter.’

‘Those which combine amusement With instruction, my young friend,’ replied Mr. Stiggins, ‘blending select tales with wood-cuts.’

‘Oh, I know,’ said Sam; ‘them as hangs up in the linen-drapers’ shops, with beggars’ petitions and all that ‘ere upon ‘em?’

Mr. Stiggins began a third round of toast, and nodded assent.

‘And he wouldn’t be persuaded by the ladies, wouldn’t he?’ said Sam.

‘Sat and smoked his pipe, and said the infant negroes were—what did he say the infant negroes were?’ said Mrs. Weller.

‘Little humbugs,’ replied Mr. Stiggins, deeply affected.

‘Said the infant negroes were little humbugs,’ repeated Mrs. Weller. And they both groaned at the atrocious conduct of the elder Mr. Weller.

A great many more iniquities of a similar nature might have been disclosed, only the toast being all eaten, the tea having got very weak, and Sam holding out no indications of meaning to go, Mr. Stiggins suddenly recollected that he had a most pressing appointment with the shepherd, and took himself off accordingly.

The tea-things had been scarcely put away, and the hearth swept up, when the London coach deposited Mr. Weller, senior, at the door; his legs deposited him in the bar; and his eyes showed him his son.

‘What, Sammy!’ exclaimed the father.

‘What, old Nobs!’ ejaculated the son. And they shook hands heartily.

‘Wery glad to see you, Sammy,’ said the elder Mr. Weller, ‘though how you’ve managed to get over your mother-in-law, is a mystery to me. I only vish you’d write me out the receipt, that’s all.’

Sam era così immerso nella contemplazione di quella scena confortevole che non si accorse nemmeno della prima domanda posta da quella signora piuttosto robusta. Solo quando la domanda fu ripetuta per la seconda volta, ogni volta con un tono più acuto, si rese conto dell’inappropriato comportamento del proprio.

“Il governatore è dentro?” chiese Sam in risposta alla domanda.

“No, non lo è,” rispose la signora Weller; perché quella donna piuttosto robusta non era altri che l’ex vedova e unica esecutrice del defunto signor Clarke; “no, non lo è, e non mi aspetto nemmeno che lo sia.”

“Suppongo che arrivi oggi, no?” disse Sam.

“Può essere, oppure no,” rispose la signora Weller, spalmando burro sul tostato che l’uomo dal naso rosso aveva appena finito di mangiare. “Non lo so, e, per essere onesta, non mi interessa nemmeno. Preghi, signor Stiggins.”

L’uomo dal naso rosso fece ciò che gli era stato chiesto e immediatamente iniziò a mangiare il pane tostato con grande voracità.

L’aspetto di quell’uomo dal naso rosso fece sì che Sam, alla prima vista, sospettasse quasi con certezza che fosse il vice-pastore di cui aveva parlato suo stimato genitore. Non appena lo vide mangiare, ogni >dubbio al riguardo svanì immediatamente; capì quindi che, se voleva stabilirsi lì temporaneamente, doveva affrettarsi a prendere le misure necessarie per farlo con successo. Così iniziò ad agire: appoggiò il braccio sulla porta semi-aperta del bar, la aprì lentamente e entrò con calma.

“Moglie di mio fratello,” disse Sam, “come stai?”

“Ma sì, credo proprio che sia un Weller!”, disse la signora W., alzando lo sguardo sul viso di Sam, con un’espressione non molto compiaciuta.

“Gli altri pensano che lo sia,” disse l’inalterabile Sam; “e io >spero che questo rispettabile generale mi perdoni se dico che vorrei essere io il Weller che possiede voi, suocera.”

Si trattava di un complimento formulato con due frasi consecutive: implicava che la signora Weller fosse una donna molto piacevole, e al contempo che il signor Stiggins avesse un aspetto da impiegato. L’effetto fu immediato; Sam approfittò della situazione per baciare sua suocera.

“Vattene via!” disse la signora Weller, spingendolo via.

“Per l’amor del cielo, giovane!” disse il gentiluomo con il naso rosso.

“Nessuna offesa, signore, nessuna offesa,” rispose Sam; “ha perfettamente ragione, però. Non è certo la cosa giusta, quando le suocere sono giovani e attraenti, vero, signore?”

“È tutto solo vanità,” disse il signor Stiggins.

“Ah, capisco,” disse la signora Weller, sistemando il proprio cappello.

Anche Sam lo pensava, ma tenne la bocca chiusa.

Il vice-pastore non sembrava affatto contento dell’arrivo di Sam; e quando l’eccitazione iniziale dovuta ai complimenti si era placata, anche la signora Weller dava l’impressione che avrebbe potuto fare a meno di lui senza alcun problema. Tuttavia, lui c’era già; e poiché non era possibile mandarlo via in modo decente, tutti e tre si sedettero a prendere il tè.

“E come sta papà?” chiese Sam.

Durante questa indagine, la signora Weller alzò le mani e sollevò lo sguardo, come se l’argomento fosse troppo doloroso per essere menzionato.

Il signor Stiggins gemette.

“Che cos’è quel ‘ere gen’l’m’n?’”, chiese Sam.

“È scioccato dal modo in cui tuo padre si comporta,” rispose la signora Weller.

“Ah, sì, è proprio lui,” disse Sam.

“E con ottimi motivi,” aggiunse seriamente la signora Weller.

Il signor Stiggins prese un nuovo pezzo di pane tostato e emise un profondo gemito.

“È un terribile peccatore,” disse la signora Weller.

“Un uomo pieno di rabbia!”, esclamò il signor Stiggins. Prese un grande boccone semicircolare di pane tostato e gemette di nuovo.

Sam aveva una forte voglia di far soffrire il reverendo signor Stiggins, ma represse quel desiderio e si limitò a chiedere: “Cosa sta combinando quell’uomo adesso?”

“Proprio così!” disse la signora Weller. “Oh, ha un cuore duro. Notte dopo notte, quest’uomo eccellente – non fate quella faccia, signor Stiggins; dico davvero che siete un uomo eccellente – viene qui a sedersi per ore intere, e questo non ha il minimo effetto su di lui.”

“Beh,” disse Sam, “è davvero strano. A me avrebbe un effetto molto considerevole, se fossi al suo posto; lo so per certo.”

“La verità è,” disse seriamente il signor Stiggins, “che ha un cuore troppo compassionevole. Oh, mio giovane amico, chi altro avrebbe potuto resistere alle suppliche di sedici delle nostre più belle sorelle, e alle loro esortazioni a iscriversi alla nostra nobile associazione, finalizzata a fornire ai bambini negri delle Indie Occidentali camicie di flanella e fazzoletti da tasca morali?”

“Che cos’è un ‘ancora morale per tasche’?”, disse Sam; “Non ho mai visto nessuno di quegli oggetti da arredamento.”

“Quelli che combinano divertimento con insegnamento, mio giovane amico,” rispose il signor Stiggins, “quelli che mescolano storie selezionate con illustrazioni xilografiche.”

“Oh, lo so,” disse Sam; “quelle che si trovano nelle botteghe dove si vendono tende di lino, con le petizioni dei mendicanti e tutto quel genere di cose attaccate sopra, ”

Il signor Stiggins iniziò un terzo giro di brindisi, annuendo in segno di accordo.

“E le signore non sarebbero riuscite a convincerlo, vero?” disse Sam.

“Si sedette e fumò la sua pipa, poi disse che i bambini neri erano, cosa disse esattamente?” chiese la signora Weller.

“Piccoli bugiardi,” rispose il signor Stiggins, profondamente commosso.

“Dissero che quei piccoli negretti erano dei birichini,” ripeté la signora Weller. E entrambi gemettero di fronte al comportamento atroce del signor Weller più anziano.

Avrebbero potuto essere scoperte molte altre ingiustizie di simile natura, ma poiché il pane tostato era stato completamente consumato e il tè si era molto indebolito, e Sam non dava alcun segno di voler andarsene, il signor Stiggins si ricordò improvvisamente di avere un appuntamento molto importante con il pastore e se ne andò immediatamente.

Appena le cose per il tè furono riposte e il focolare pulito, il calesse di Londra depositò il signor Weller senior alla porta; poi le sue gambe lo portarono al bar; e i suoi occhi lo fecero vedere suo figlio.

“Che cosa? Sammy!”, esclamò il padre.

“Che cosa, vecchio Nobs!” esclamò il figlio. E si strinsero la mano con calore.

“Mi fa molto piacere rivederti, Sammy,” disse il signor Weller più anziano, “anche se non capisco proprio come tu sia riuscito a gestire tua suocera. Vorrei solo che mi scrivessi la ricevuta, nient’altro.”

‘Hush!’ said Sam, ‘she’s at home, old feller.’

She ain’t vithin hearin’,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘she always goes and blows up, downstairs, for a couple of hours arter tea; so we’ll just give ourselves a damp, Sammy.’

Saying this, Mr. Weller mixed two glasses of spirits-and-water, and produced a couple of pipes. The father and son sitting down opposite each other; Sam on one side of the fire, in the high-backed chair, and Mr. Weller, senior, on the other, in an easy ditto, they proceeded to enjoy themselves with all due gravity.

‘Anybody been here, Sammy?’ asked Mr. Weller, senior, dryly, after a long silence.

Sam nodded an expressive assent.

‘Red-nosed chap?’ inquired Mr. Weller.

Sam nodded again.

‘Amiable man that ‘ere, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, smoking violently.

‘Seems so,’ observed Sam.

‘Good hand at accounts,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Is he?’ said Sam.

‘Borrows eighteenpence on Monday, and comes on Tuesday for a shillin’ to make it up half-a-crown; calls again on Vensday for another half-crown to make it five shillin’s; and goes on, doubling, till he gets it up to a five pund note in no time, like them sums in the ‘rithmetic book ‘bout the nails in the horse’s shoes, Sammy.’

Sam intimated by a nod that he recollected the problem alluded to by his parent.

‘So you vouldn’t subscribe to the flannel veskits?’ said Sam, after another interval of smoking.

‘Cert’nly not,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘what’s the good o’ flannel veskits to the young niggers abroad? But I’ll tell you what it is, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, lowering his voice, and bending across the fireplace; ‘I’d come down wery handsome towards strait veskits for some people at home.’

As Mr. Weller said this, he slowly recovered his former position, and winked at his first-born, in a profound manner.

‘It cert’nly seems a queer start to send out pocket-’ankerchers to people as don’t know the use on ‘em,’ observed Sam.

‘They’re alvays a-doin’ some gammon of that sort, Sammy,’ replied his father. ‘T’other Sunday I wos walkin’ up the road, wen who should I see, a-standin’ at a chapel door, with a blue soup-plate in her hand, but your mother-in-law! I werily believe there was change for a couple o’ suv’rins in it, then, Sammy, all in ha’pence; and as the people come out, they rattled the pennies in it, till you’d ha’ thought that no mortal plate as ever was baked, could ha’ stood the wear and tear. What d’ye think it was all for?’

‘For another tea-drinkin’, perhaps,’ said Sam.

‘Not a bit on it,’ replied the father; ‘for the shepherd’s water-rate, Sammy.’

‘The shepherd’s water-rate!’ said Sam.

‘Ay,’ replied Mr. Weller, ‘there was three quarters owin’, and the shepherd hadn’t paid a farden, not he—perhaps it might be on account that the water warn’t o’ much use to him, for it’s wery little o’ that tap he drinks, Sammy, wery; he knows a trick worth a good half-dozen of that, he does. Hows’ever, it warn’t paid, and so they cuts the water off. Down goes the shepherd to chapel, gives out as he’s a persecuted saint, and says he hopes the heart of the turncock as cut the water off, ‘ll be softened, and turned in the right vay, but he rayther thinks he’s booked for somethin’ uncomfortable. Upon this, the women calls a meetin’, sings a hymn, wotes your mother-in-law into the chair, wolunteers a collection next Sunday, and hands it all over to the shepherd. And if he ain’t got enough out on ‘em, Sammy, to make him free of the water company for life,’ said Mr. Weller, in conclusion, ‘I’m one Dutchman, and you’re another, and that’s all about it.’

Mr. Weller smoked for some minutes in silence, and then resumed—

‘The worst o’ these here shepherds is, my boy, that they reg’larly turns the heads of all the young ladies, about here. Lord bless their little hearts, they thinks it’s all right, and don’t know no better; but they’re the wictims o’ gammon, Samivel, they’re the wictims o’ gammon.’

‘I s’pose they are,’ said Sam.

‘Nothin’ else,’ said Mr. Weller, shaking his head gravely; ‘and wot aggrawates me, Samivel, is to see ‘em a-wastin’ all their time and labour in making clothes for copper-coloured people as don’t want ‘em, and taking no notice of flesh-coloured Christians as do. If I’d my vay, Samivel, I’d just stick some o’ these here lazy shepherds behind a heavy wheelbarrow, and run ‘em up and down a fourteen-inch-wide plank all day. That ‘ud shake the nonsense out of ‘em, if anythin’ vould.’

Mr. Weller, having delivered this gentle recipe with strong emphasis, eked out by a variety of nods and contortions of the eye, emptied his glass at a draught, and knocked the ashes out of his pipe, with native dignity.

He was engaged in this operation, when a shrill voice was heard in the passage.

‘Here’s your dear relation, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller; and Mrs. W. hurried into the room.

‘Oh, you’ve come back, have you!’ said Mrs. Weller.

‘Yes, my dear,’ replied Mr. Weller, filling a fresh pipe.

‘Has Mr. Stiggins been back?’ said Mrs. Weller.

‘No, my dear, he hasn’t,’ replied Mr. Weller, lighting the pipe by the ingenious process of holding to the bowl thereof, between the tongs, a red-hot coal from the adjacent fire; and what’s more, my dear, I shall manage to surwive it, if he don’t come back at all.’

‘Ugh, you wretch!’ said Mrs. Weller.

‘Thank’ee, my love,’ said Mr. Weller.

‘Come, come, father,’ said Sam, ‘none o’ these little lovin’s afore strangers. Here’s the reverend gen’l’m’n a-comin’ in now.’

At this announcement, Mrs. Weller hastily wiped off the tears which she had just begun to force on; and Mr. W. drew his chair sullenly into the chimney-corner.

Mr. Stiggins was easily prevailed on to take another glass of the hot pine-apple rum-and-water, and a second, and a third, and then to refresh himself with a slight supper, previous to beginning again. He sat on the same side as Mr. Weller, senior; and every time he could contrive to do so, unseen by his wife, that gentleman indicated to his son the hidden emotions of his bosom, by shaking his fist over the deputy-shepherd’s head; a process which afforded his son the most unmingled delight and satisfaction, the more especially as Mr. Stiggins went on, quietly drinking the hot pine-apple rum-and-water, wholly unconscious of what was going forward.

“Zitta!” disse Sam, “è a >casa, amico mio.”

“Non sta sentendo affatto,” rispose il signor Weller; “di solito va giù al piano di sotto e si mette a fumare per un paio d’ore dopo il tè; quindi ci limiteremo ad annusare un po’ di fumo, Sam.”

Dicendo questo, il signor Weller preparò due bicchieri di liquore mescolato con acqua, e procurò anche due pipe. Il padre e il figlio si sedettero uno di fronte all’altro: Sam sul lato del >focolare, nella sedia a schienale alto, e il signor Weller, il maggiore, dall’altra parte, in una posizione comoda. Poi iniziarono a godersi la serata con tutta la dovuta gravità.

“Qualcuno è stato qui, Sammy?” chiese il signor Weller, il padre, in tono secco, dopo un lungo silenzio.

Sam annuì in segno di approvazione.

“Quel tizio dal naso rosso?”, chiese il signor Weller.

Sam annuì di nuovo.

“Un uomo così amabile, ”, disse il signor Weller, fumando con violenza.

“Sembra proprio così,” osservò Sam.

“Buona dimestichezza con i conti,” disse il signor Weller. “Davvero?” chiese Sam.

“Prende in prestito diciotto pence di lunedì, e poi viene martedì per chiedere un altro scellino in modo da raggiungere mezzo corone; mercoledì chiede ancora mezzo corone per arrivare a cinque scellini; e continua così, raddoppiando continuamente la somma, fino a ottenere una banconota da cinque sterline in pochissimo tempo. Proprio come quelle somme nei libri di aritmetica che parlano dei chiodi nelle scarpe del cavallo, Sammy.”

Sam, con un semplice cenno del capo, fece capire di ricordare il problema di cui aveva parlato suo padre.

“Quindi non vorresti abbonarti a quei vestiti di flanella, vero?” disse Sam, dopo un altro momento di fumo.

“Certamente no,” rispose il signor Weller; “a che servono i vestiti di flanella ai giovani neri all’estero? Ma ti dirò una cosa, Sammy,” disse il signor Weller, abbassando la voce e chinandosi verso il camino; “per alcune persone a >casa, sarei disposto ad accettare anche vestiti molto semplici.”

Mentre il signor Weller diceva queste cose, lentamente riprese la sua posizione originale e fece l’occhiolino al suo figlio maggiore, in modo molto significativo.

“Sembra davvero un inizio strano inviare degli ‘ancoraggi da tasca’ a persone che non sanno nemmeno come usarli,” osservò Sam.

“Sempre a fare queste cose strane, Sammy,” rispose suo padre. “L’altro domenica, mentre camminavo su quella strada, chi vedo davanti alla porta di una cappella, con un piatto blu per le offerte in mano? Era tua suocera! Credo proprio che ci fossero dentro delle monete da pochi penny; e quando la gente usciva, quelle monete tintinnavano dentro il piatto. Sembrava davvero che nessun piatto al mondo potesse resistere a tanta usura. Che ne pensi, per cosa faceva tutto questo?”

“For un altro tè, forse,” disse Sam.

“Nemmeno un po’,” rispose il padre; “per quanto riguarda il consumo d’acqua del pastore, Sammy, ”

“Il tasso di consumo d’acqua del pastore!” disse Sam.

“Ah,” rispose il signor Weller, “c’erano tre quarti di debito, e quel pastore non aveva pagato nemmeno un penny. Forse perché quell’acqua non gli era di grande utilità; beve davvero molto poco da quella fontanella. Sa certe cose che valgono ben più di quella roba. Comunque, il debito non è stato saldato, quindi gli hanno tagliato l’acqua. Il pastore va in chiesa, si comporta come se fosse un santo perseguitato, e dice di sperare che il cuore di chi ha deciso di tagliargli l’acqua si addolcisca e cambi idea. Ma io credo proprio che gli aspetti qualcosa di spiacevole. A questo punto, le donne convocano una riunione, cantano un inno, fanno sedere tua suocera sulla sedia d’onore, propongono una raccolta per il prossimo domenica, e consegnano tutto al pastore. E se non guadagna abbastanza da liberarsi per sempre di quella ‘compagnia dell’acqua’, Sammy, ” concluse il signor Weller, “allora io sono un olandese, e tu un altro. E basta così.”

Il signor Weller fumò per alcuni minuti in silenzio, poi riprese a parlare.

“Il peggio di questi pastori, ragazzo mio, è che regolarmente fanno perdere la testa a tutte le giovani donne di queste parti. Che il Signore benedica i loro piccoli cuori. Loro pensano che sia tutto normale e non sanno niente di meglio; ma in realtà sono vittime di truffe, Samivel. Vittime di truffe.”

“Si presume che lo siano,” disse Sam.

“Nient’altro,” disse il signor Weller scuotendo gravemente la testa; “e ciò che mi infastidisce di più, Samivel, è vedere come sprecino tutto il loro tempo e si danno da fare a confezionare abiti per persone dal colore del rame, che non li vogliono nemmeno, senza prestare la minima attenzione ai cristiani di pelle umana. Se fossi io a decidere, Samivel, metterei questi pigri pastori dietro un carrello pesante e li farei correre su e giù lungo una tavola larga quattordici pollici per tutto il giorno. Quello li scuoterebbe da quel comportamento assurdo, se mai ci fosse qualcosa che possa farlo.”

Il signor Weller, dopo aver pronunciato questa “delicata ricetta” con particolare enfasi, accompagnandola con vari cenni del capo e movimenti degli occhi, svuotò il suo bicchiere in un sorso solo e spazzolò via la cenere dalla sua pipa con vera dignità.

Era impegnato in questa operazione quando, nel corridoio, si udì una voce stridula.

“Ecco tuo caro cugino, Sammy,” disse il signor Weller; la signora W. entrò di corsa nella stanza.

“Ah, sei tornato, finalmente!” disse la signora Weller.

“Sì, mia cara,” rispose il signor Weller, riempiendo una pipa nuova.

“Il signor Stiggins è tornato?” chiese la signora Weller.

“No, mia cara, non è ancora tornato,” rispose il signor Weller, accendendo la pipa con l’ingegnoso metodo di tenere il fornello tra le pinze, utilizzando un carbone ardente preso dal vicino focolare; e inoltre, mia cara, riuscirò a cavarmela anche se lui non dovesse tornare affatto.”

“Ah, che miserabile!” disse la signora Weller.

“Grazie, mio amore”, disse il signor Weller.

“Ma che dici, padre,” disse Sam, “mai queste piccole dimostrazioni d’affetto davanti agli estranei. Ecco il rispettabile generale che sta arrivando proprio ora.”

All’udire questa notizia, la signora Weller si affrettò a asciugare le lacrime che aveva appena iniziato a versare; il signor W., invece, si ritirò in silenzio nella parte più remota della stanza.

Il signor Stiggins fu facilmente convinto a bere un altro bicchiere di quel caldo rum al ananas e acqua; ne bevve poi un secondo, un terzo, e infine si concesse anche una leggera cena prima di riprendere. Sedeva dallo stesso lato del signor Weller senior; ogni volta che riusciva a farlo, senza essere visto dalla moglie, quel gentiluomo indicava al figlio i sentimenti nascosti nel proprio cuore scuotendo il pugno sopra la testa del vice-pastore. Un gesto che procurava al figlio grande gioia e soddisfazione, soprattutto perché il signor Stiggins continuava a bere tranquillamente quel rum al ananas e acqua, completamente ignaro di ciò che stava accadendo intorno a lui.

The major part of the conversation was confined to Mrs. Weller and the reverend Mr. Stiggins; and the topics principally descanted on, were the virtues of the shepherd, the worthiness of his flock, and the high crimes and misdemeanours of everybody beside—dissertations which the elder Mr. Weller occasionally interrupted by half-suppressed references to a gentleman of the name of Walker, and other running commentaries of the same kind.

At length Mr. Stiggins, with several most indubitable symptoms of having quite as much pine-apple rum-and-water about him as he could comfortably accommodate, took his hat, and his leave; and Sam was, immediately afterwards, shown to bed by his father. The respectable old gentleman wrung his hand fervently, and seemed disposed to address some observation to his son; but on Mrs. Weller advancing towards him, he appeared to relinquish that intention, and abruptly bade him good-night.

Sam was up betimes next day, and having partaken of a hasty breakfast, prepared to return to London. He had scarcely set foot without the house, when his father stood before him.

‘Goin’, Sammy?’ inquired Mr. Weller.

‘Off at once,’ replied Sam.

‘I vish you could muffle that ‘ere Stiggins, and take him vith you,’ said Mr. Weller.

‘I am ashamed on you!’ said Sam reproachfully; ‘what do you let him show his red nose in the Markis o’ Granby at all, for?’

Mr. Weller the elder fixed on his son an earnest look, and replied, ‘’Cause I’m a married man, Samivel, ‘cause I’m a married man. Ven you’re a married man, Samivel, you’ll understand a good many things as you don’t understand now; but vether it’s worth while goin’ through so much, to learn so little, as the charity-boy said ven he got to the end of the alphabet, is a matter o’ taste. I rayther think it isn’t.’

Well,’ said Sam, ‘good-bye.’

‘Tar, tar, Sammy,’ replied his father.

‘I’ve only got to say this here,’ said Sam, stopping short, ‘that if I was the properiator o’ the Markis o’ Granby, and that ‘ere Stiggins came and made toast in my bar, I’d—’

‘What?’ interposed Mr. Weller, with great anxiety. ‘What?’

‘Pison his rum-and-water,’ said Sam.

‘No!’ said Mr. Weller, shaking his son eagerly by the hand, ‘would you raly, Sammy-would you, though?’

‘I would,’ said Sam. ‘I wouldn’t be too hard upon him at first. I’d drop him in the water-butt, and put the lid on; and if I found he was insensible to kindness, I’d try the other persvasion.’

The elder Mr. Weller bestowed a look of deep, unspeakable admiration on his son, and, having once more grasped his hand, walked slowly away, revolving in his mind the numerous reflections to which his advice had given rise.

Sam looked after him, until he turned a corner of the road; and then set forward on his walk to London. He meditated at first, on the probable consequences of his own advice, and the likelihood of his father’s adopting it. He dismissed the subject from his mind, however, with the consolatory reflection that time alone would show; and this is the reflection we would impress upon the reader.

La maggior parte della conversazione si svolse tra la signora Weller e il reverendo signor Stiggins; gli argomenti principali trattati furono le virtù del pastore, il valore del suo gregge, nonché i gravi crimini e misfatti di tutti gli altri – discorsi che il più anziano signor Weller interrompeva occasionalmente con allusioni soffocate a un gentiluomo di nome Walker, oltre ad altri commenti dello stesso tenore.

Alla fine, il signor Stiggins, mostrando diversi segni inequivocabili di aver assunto una quantità considerevole di rum al ananas e acqua, tale da poterne sopportare gli effetti senza problemi, prese il cappello e se ne andò; subito dopo, Sam fu portato a letto dal padre. Il rispettabile vecchio signore strinse con fervore la mano di suo figlio e sembrava intenzionato a dirgli qualcosa, ma quando la signora Weller si avvicinò, cambiò idea e gli augurò bruscamente la buona notte.

Il giorno dopo Sam si alzò presto, fece colazione in fretta e si preparò a tornare a Londra. Appena aveva messo piede fuori di casa, suo padre gli apparve davanti.

“Vai via, Sammy?”, chiese il signor Weller.

“Subito,” rispose Sam.

“Vorrei tanto che poteste portare via quel maledetto Stiggins con voi,” disse il signor Weller.

“Mi vergogno per te!” disse Sam in tono di rimprovero; “perché mai gli permetti di mostrare il suo naso rosso alla presenza del Marchese di Granby?”

Il signor Weller il vecchio fissò suo figlio con uno sguardo serio e rispose:
“Perché sono un uomo sposato, Samivel. Perché sono un uomo sposato. Se anche tu fossi un uomo sposato, capiresti molte cose di cui ora non ti rendi conto; ma se valga la pena passare attraverso tante difficoltà per imparare così poco, come ha detto quel ragazzo della carità quando è arrivato alla fine dell’alfabeto, beh, questa è una questione di gusto. Io personalmente penso che non ne valga la pena.”

“Beh,” disse Sam, “addio.”

“Tar, tar, Sammy,” rispose suo padre.

“Devo dire solo questo qui,” interruppe Sam, “che se fossi il proprietario del Marchese di Granby, e se Stiggins venisse nel mio bar a fare il brindisi, allora io, ”

“Cosa?”, intervenne il signor Weller con grande ansia. “Cosa?”

“Mescolagli il rum con un po’ d’acqua,” disse Sam.

“No!” disse il signor Weller, scuotendo con forza la mano di suo figlio, “per favore, Sammy, per favore, lo faresti?”

“Lo farei,” disse Sam. “All’inizio non sarei troppo duro con lui. Lo metterei nella acqua e chiuderei il coperchio; e se scoprisse di essere insensibile alla gentilezza, proverei un altro approccio.”

Il più anziano signor Weller rivolse al proprio figlio uno sguardo pieno di profonda e indescrivibile ammirazione; dopo avergli stretto nuovamente la mano, si allontanò lentamente, riflettendo sulle numerose considerazioni che il suo consiglio aveva suscitato in lui.

Sam si prese cura di lui, fino a quando non raggiunse un angolo della strada; poi proseguì il suo cammino verso Londra. All’inizio rifletté sulle possibili conseguenze dei propri consigli e sulla probabilità che suo padre li seguisse. Tuttavia, scacciò questi pensieri dalla mente, convinto che solo il tempo avrebbe dato una risposta; ed è proprio questo il ragionamento che vorremmo far riflettere anche sul lettore.

CHAPTER XXVIII. A GOOD-HUMOURED CHRISTMAS CHAPTER, CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF A WEDDING, AND SOME OTHER SPORTS BESIDE: WHICH ALTHOUGH IN THEIR WAY, EVEN AS GOOD CUSTOMS AS MARRIAGE ITSELF, ARE NOT QUITE SO RELIGIOUSLY KEPT UP, IN THESE DEGENERATE TIMES

As brisk as bees, if not altogether as light as fairies, did the four Pickwickians assemble on the morning of the twenty-second day of December, in the year of grace in which these, their faithfully-recorded adventures, were undertaken and accomplished. Christmas was close at hand, in all his bluff and hearty honesty; it was the season of hospitality, merriment, and open-heartedness; the old year was preparing, like an ancient philosopher, to call his friends around him, and amidst the sound of feasting and revelry to pass gently and calmly away. Gay and merry was the time; and right gay and merry were at least four of the numerous hearts that were gladdened by its coming.

And numerous indeed are the hearts to which Christmas brings a brief season of happiness and enjoyment. How many families, whose members have been dispersed and scattered far and wide, in the restless struggles of life, are then reunited, and meet once again in that happy state of companionship and mutual goodwill, which is a source of such pure and unalloyed delight; and one so incompatible with the cares and sorrows of the world, that the religious belief of the most civilised nations, and the rude traditions of the roughest savages, alike number it among the first joys of a future condition of existence, provided for the blessed and happy! How many old recollections, and how many dormant sympathies, does Christmas time awaken!

We write these words now, many miles distant from the spot at which, year after year, we met on that day, a merry and joyous circle. Many of the hearts that throbbed so gaily then, have ceased to beat; many of the looks that shone so brightly then, have ceased to glow; the hands we grasped, have grown cold; the eyes we sought, have hid their lustre in the grave; and yet the old house, the room, the merry voices and smiling faces, the jest, the laugh, the most minute and trivial circumstances connected with those happy meetings, crowd upon our mind at each recurrence of the season, as if the last assemblage had been but yesterday! Happy, happy Christmas, that can win us back to the delusions of our childish days; that can recall to the old man the pleasures of his youth; that can transport the sailor and the traveller, thousands of miles away, back to his own fireside and his quiet home!

But we are so taken up and occupied with the good qualities of this saint Christmas, that we are keeping Mr. Pickwick and his friends waiting in the cold on the outside of the Muggleton coach, which they have just attained, well wrapped up in great-coats, shawls, and comforters. The portmanteaus and carpet-bags have been stowed away, and Mr. Weller and the guard are endeavouring to insinuate into the fore- boot a huge cod-fish several sizes too large for it—which is snugly packed up, in a long brown basket, with a layer of straw over the top, and which has been left to the last, in order that he may repose in safety on the half-dozen barrels of real native oysters, all the property of Mr. Pickwick, which have been arranged in regular order at the bottom of the receptacle. The interest displayed in Mr. Pickwick’s countenance is most intense, as Mr. Weller and the guard try to squeeze the cod-fish into the boot, first head first, and then tail first, and then top upward, and then bottom upward, and then side-ways, and then long-ways, all of which artifices the implacable cod-fish sturdily resists, until the guard accidentally hits him in the very middle of the basket, whereupon he suddenly disappears into the boot, and with him, the head and shoulders of the guard himself, who, not calculating upon so sudden a cessation of the passive resistance of the cod-fish, experiences a very unexpected shock, to the unsmotherable delight of all the porters and bystanders. Upon this, Mr. Pickwick smiles with great good-humour, and drawing a shilling from his waistcoat pocket, begs the guard, as he picks himself out of the boot, to drink his health in a glass of hot brandy-and-water; at which the guard smiles too, and Messrs. Snodgrass, Winkle, and Tupman, all smile in company. The guard and Mr. Weller disappear for five minutes, most probably to get the hot brandy-and-water, for they smell very strongly of it, when they return, the coachman mounts to the box, Mr. Weller jumps up behind, the Pickwickians pull their coats round their legs and their shawls over their noses, the helpers pull the horse-cloths off, the coachman shouts out a cheery ‘All right,’ and away they go.

They have rumbled through the streets, and jolted over the stones, and at length reach the wide and open country. The wheels skim over the hard and frosty ground; and the horses, bursting into a canter at a smart crack of the whip, step along the road as if the load behind them— coach, passengers, cod-fish, oyster-barrels, and all—were but a feather at their heels. They have descended a gentle slope, and enter upon a level, as compact and dry as a solid block of marble, two miles long. Another crack of the whip, and on they speed, at a smart gallop, the horses tossing their heads and rattling the harness, as if in exhilaration at the rapidity of the motion; while the coachman, holding whip and reins in one hand, takes off his hat with the other, and resting it on his knees, pulls out his handkerchief, and wipes his forehead, partly because he has a habit of doing it, and partly because it’s as well to show the passengers how cool he is, and what an easy thing it is to drive four-in-hand, when you have had as much practice as he has. Having done this very leisurely (otherwise the effect would be materially impaired), he replaces his handkerchief, pulls on his hat, adjusts his gloves, squares his elbows, cracks the whip again, and on they speed, more merrily than before.

CAPITOLO XXVIII. UN CAPITOLO DI NATALE ALL’ATMOSSA PIACEVOLE, CHE RACCONTA DI UN MATRIMONIO E ALTRI PASSatempi: ANCHE SE, A MANIERA LORO, ANCHE SE COSÌ COME BUONE USANZE QUANTO IL MATRIMONIO STESSO, NON VENGONO DEL TUTTO SEGUITI CON UNA GRANDE DEVOZIONE IN QUESTI TEMPI DECADENTI

Veloci come le api, se non addirittura leggere quanto le fate, i quattro componenti del gruppo di Pickwick si riunirono la mattina del ventiduesimo giorno di dicembre, nell’anno in cui queste loro avventure furono intraprese e portate a termine. Il Natale era ormai alle porte, con tutta la sua semplicità e cordialità; era la stagione dell’ospitalità, della gioia e della generosità; l’anno vecchio, come un antico filosofo, si preparava ad invitare i suoi amici intorno a sé, per lasciarsi andare dolcemente e serenamente tra suoni di festa e baldoria. Quella era una epoca allegra e gioiosa; e almeno quattro dei numerosi cuori che ne erano felici lo erano davvero molto.

E davvero sono molti i cuori a cui il Natale porta una breve stagione di felicità e gioia. Quante famiglie, i cui membri sono stati dispersi in luoghi lontani a causa delle difficoltà della vita, si riuniscono nuovamente, ritrovandosi in quel felice stato di compagnia e reciproca benevolenza, fonte di una gioia pura e sincera, così completamente diversa dalle preoccupazioni e dai dolori del mondo. Quante vecchie memorie, quante emozioni sopite vengono risvegliate nel periodo natalizio!

Scriviamo queste parole ora, a molte miglia di distanza dal luogo in cui, anno dopo anno, ci riunivamo in quei giorni felici e gioiosi. Molti dei cuori che allora battevano così allegramente hanno smesso di battere; molti degli sguardi che allora brillavano così intensamente hanno perso il loro splendore; le mani che stringevamo un tempo sono diventate fredde; gli occhi che cercavamo hanno nascosto il loro luccichio nella >tomba; eppure quella vecchia >casa, quella stanza, quelle voci gioiose e quei volti sorridenti, le battute, le risate, i più piccoli e banali dettagli legati a quegli incontri felici, ritornano nella nostra mente ogni volta che arriva quella stagione, come se l’ultima riunione fosse avvenuta soltanto ieri! Che Natale felice, quello che può ricondurci alle illusioni dei nostri giorni infantili; che può far rivivere nell’anziano i piaceri della sua giovinezza; che può portare il marinaio e il viaggiatore, lontani migliaia di chilometri da casa, indietro al calore del proprio focolare e alla tranquillità della propria >casa!

Ma siamo così assorbiti e impegnati nelle qualità positive di questa festa natalizia, che lasciamo il signor Pickwick e i suoi amici ad aspettare al freddo fuori dal vagone di Muggleton, nel quale sono appena saliti, ben avvolti in cappotti pesanti, sciarpe e coperte. I bauli e le valigie sono stati sistemati con cura all’interno del vagone; il signor Weller e il conducente cercano invano di far entrare nel baule un enorme pesce merluzzo, decisamente troppo grande per lo spazio a disposizione. Il pesce è ben impacchettato in un lungo cesto marrone, con uno strato di paglia sopra; è stato messo per ultimo, affinché possa riposare al sicuro tra i sei barili di ostriche autentiche, tutti proprietà del signor Pickwick, disposti ordinatamente sul fondo del vagone. L’interesse dimostrato dal viso del signor Pickwick è estremamente intenso. Mentre il signor Weller e il conducente provano a infilare il pesce nel baule, in tutti i modi possibili, il merluzzo resiste ostinatamente. Fino a quando il conducente non lo colpisce accidentalmente proprio al centro del cesto; all’istante, il pesce scompare dentro il baule, insieme alla testa e alle spalle del conducente stesso, che, non essendo preparato a una tale reazione improvvisa del pesce, subisce uno shock inaspettato. Per grande divertimento di tutti i portatori e gli spettatori presenti. A questo punto, il signor Pickwick sorride con grande buon umore, tira fuori una sterlina dalla tasca del suo gilet e chiede al conducente di brindare alla sua salute con un bicchiere di brandy caldo. Anche il conducente sorride; i signori Snodgrass, Winkle e Tupman sorridono tutti insieme. Il conducente e il signor Weller scompaiono per cinque minuti, probabilmente per andare a prendere il brandy caldo. Quando tornano, il cocchiere sale sul posto di guida, il signor Weller si sistema dietro di lui; i compagni di viaggio si avvolgono meglio nei loro cappotti e nelle sciarpe; i portatori rimuovono le coperte dai cavalli. Il cocchiere grida “Pronti!” e via partono.

Hanno percorso le strade, sobbalzando sui ciottoli, e infine sono arrivati in una vasta e aperta campagna. Le ruote scivolano sul terreno duro e gelato; i cavalli, spinti da un secco schiocco di frusta, avanzano a trotto veloce lungo la strada, come se il carico che portano dietro di loro – la carrozza, i passeggeri, i barili di merluzzo e ostriche, tutto quanto – non fosse altro che una piuma alle loro calcagna. Hanno disceso una leggera pendenza ed sono entrati in un’area pianeggiante, compatta e asciutta come un blocco di marmo, lunga due miglia. Un altro schiocco di frusta, e via si precipitano a galoppo; i cavalli scuotono la testa e fanno tintinnare le bardature, come se fossero eccitati dalla velocità della corsa; mentre il cocchiere, tenendo in una mano frusta e redini, con l’altra si toglie il cappello, lo appoggia sulle ginocchia, tira fuori un fazzoletto e si asciuga la fronte: in parte perché è abituato a farlo, e in parte perché così può mostrare ai passeggeri quanto sia fresco, e quanto sia facile guidare quattro cavalli insieme, quando si ha tanta esperienza come lui. Dopo aver fatto tutto questo con estrema calma (altrimenti l’effetto sarebbe notevolmente ridotto), rimette il fazzoletto nel taschino, si rimette il cappello, si sistema i guanti, allinea gli gomiti e schioca di nuovo la frusta, e via si precipitano ancora più velocemente di prima.

A few small houses, scattered on either side of the road, betoken the entrance to some town or village. The lively notes of the guard’s key- bugle vibrate in the clear cold air, and wake up the old gentleman inside, who, carefully letting down the window-sash half-way, and standing sentry over the air, takes a short peep out, and then carefully pulling it up again, informs the other inside that they’re going to change directly; on which the other inside wakes himself up, and determines to postpone his next nap until after the stoppage. Again the bugle sounds lustily forth, and rouses the cottager’s wife and children, who peep out at the house door, and watch the coach till it turns the corner, when they once more crouch round the blazing fire, and throw on another log of wood against father comes home; while father himself, a full mile off, has just exchanged a friendly nod with the coachman, and turned round to take a good long stare at the vehicle as it whirls away.

And now the bugle plays a lively air as the coach rattles through the ill-paved streets of a country town; and the coachman, undoing the buckle which keeps his ribands together, prepares to throw them off the moment he stops. Mr. Pickwick emerges from his coat collar, and looks about him with great curiosity; perceiving which, the coachman informs Mr. Pickwick of the name of the town, and tells him it was market-day yesterday, both of which pieces of information Mr. Pickwick retails to his fellow-passengers; whereupon they emerge from their coat collars too, and look about them also. Mr. Winkle, who sits at the extreme edge, with one leg dangling in the air, is nearly precipitated into the street, as the coach twists round the sharp corner by the cheesemonger’s shop, and turns into the market-place; and before Mr. Snodgrass, who sits next to him, has recovered from his alarm, they pull up at the inn yard where the fresh horses, with cloths on, are already waiting. The coachman throws down the reins and gets down himself, and the other outside passengers drop down also; except those who have no great confidence in their ability to get up again; and they remain where they are, and stamp their feet against the coach to warm them—looking, with longing eyes and red noses, at the bright fire in the inn bar, and the sprigs of holly with red berries which ornament the window.

But the guard has delivered at the corn-dealer’s shop, the brown paper packet he took out of the little pouch which hangs over his shoulder by a leathern strap; and has seen the horses carefully put to; and has thrown on the pavement the saddle which was brought from London on the coach roof; and has assisted in the conference between the coachman and the hostler about the gray mare that hurt her off fore-leg last Tuesday; and he and Mr. Weller are all right behind, and the coachman is all right in front, and the old gentleman inside, who has kept the window down full two inches all this time, has pulled it up again, and the cloths are off, and they are all ready for starting, except the ‘two stout gentlemen,’ whom the coachman inquires after with some impatience. Hereupon the coachman, and the guard, and Sam Weller, and Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass, and all the hostlers, and every one of the idlers, who are more in number than all the others put together, shout for the missing gentlemen as loud as they can bawl. A distant response is heard from the yard, and Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman come running down it, quite out of breath, for they have been having a glass of ale a-piece, and Mr. Pickwick’s fingers are so cold that he has been full five minutes before he could find the sixpence to pay for it. The coachman shouts an admonitory ‘Now then, gen’l’m’n,’ the guard re-echoes it; the old gentleman inside thinks it a very extraordinary thing that people _will _get down when they know there isn’t time for it; Mr. Pickwick struggles up on one side, Mr. Tupman on the other; Mr. Winkle cries ‘All right’; and off they start. Shawls are pulled up, coat collars are readjusted, the pavement ceases, the houses disappear; and they are once again dashing along the open road, with the fresh clear air blowing in their faces, and gladdening their very hearts within them.

Such was the progress of Mr. Pickwick and his friends by the Muggleton Telegraph, on their way to Dingley Dell; and at three o’clock that afternoon they all stood high and dry, safe and sound, hale and hearty, upon the steps of the Blue Lion, having taken on the road quite enough of ale and brandy, to enable them to bid defiance to the frost that was binding up the earth in its iron fetters, and weaving its beautiful network upon the trees and hedges. Mr. Pickwick was busily engaged in counting the barrels of oysters and superintending the disinterment of the cod-fish, when he felt himself gently pulled by the skirts of the coat. Looking round, he discovered that the individual who resorted to this mode of catching his attention was no other than Mr. Wardle’s favourite page, better known to the readers of this unvarnished history, by the distinguishing appellation of the fat boy.

‘Aha!’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Aha!’ said the fat boy.

As he said it, he glanced from the cod-fish to the oyster-barrels, and chuckled joyously. He was fatter than ever.

‘Well, you look rosy enough, my young friend,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘I’ve been asleep, right in front of the taproom fire,’ replied the fat boy, who had heated himself to the colour of a new chimney-pot, in the course of an hour’s nap. ‘Master sent me over with the chay-cart, to carry your luggage up to the house. He’d ha’ sent some saddle-horses, but he thought you’d rather walk, being a cold day.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Mr. Pickwick hastily, for he remembered how they had travelled over nearly the same ground on a previous occasion. ‘Yes, we would rather walk. Here, Sam!’

Alcune piccole case, sparse su entrambi i lati della strada, segnalano l’ingresso di una città o di un villaggio. Le note vivaci della tromba del guardiano risuonano nell’aria fresca e limpida, svegliando il vecchio signore all’interno; quest’ultimo abbassa con cura la finestra per metà e, sporgendosi cautamente, informa gli altri che si fermeranno immediatamente. Gli altri si svegliano a loro volta e decidono di rimandare il prossimo pisolino fino alla fine della sosta. Di nuovo suona la tromba, svegliando anche la moglie e i figli del contadino, che sporgono la testa dalla porta di casa e osservano la carrozza finché non scompare all’angolo; poi si rannicchiano intorno al fuoco acceso e aggiungono un altro ceppo di legna, mentre il padre torna a casa. A un miglio di distanza, ha appena scambiato un saluto cordiale con il cocchiere e si è girato per guardare ancora una volta la carrozza allontanarsi.

E ora la tromba suona una melodia vivace mentre il calesse sfreccia per le strade sterrate di una piccola città di campagna; il cocchiere, slacciando la cintura che tiene unite le sue fasce, si prepara a gettarle giù non appena fermerà il calesse. Il signor Pickwick spunta dal colletto del suo cappotto e guarda intorno con grande curiosità; notandolo, il cocchiere gli dice il nome della città e gli racconta che ieri era giorno di mercato; entrambe queste informazioni vengono poi condivise dal signor Pickwick con gli altri passeggeri, i quali a loro volta escono dai propri colletti dei cappotti e guardano intorno anch’essi. Il signor Winkle, che siede all’estremità del calesse con una gamba penzolante nell’aria, rischia quasi di cadere in strada quando il veicolo svolta bruscamente all’angolo vicino al negozio del formaggio e entra nel mercato; prima ancora che il signor Snodgrass, seduto accanto a lui, si riprenda dallo spavento, il calesse si ferma nel cortile dell’osteria, dove i cavalli freschi, già coperti con panni caldi, stanno aspettando. Il cocchiere getta le redini e scende a terra, così come gli altri passeggeri esterni, tranne quelli che non sono molto sicuri di riuscire a rimontare sul calesse; questi rimangono dove sono, battendo i piedi per scaldarsi, mentre con occhi pieni di desiderio e nasi rossi guardano il caldo fuoco nel bar dell’osteria e i rametti di vischio adornati di bacche rosse che ornano la finestra.

Ma il guardiano ha consegnato al negoziante di grano il pacchetto di carta marrone che aveva tirato fuori dalla piccola borsa appesa alla spalla con una cinghia di cuoio; ha visto che i cavalli venivano preparati con cura; ha gettato sul marciapiede la sella portata da Londra sul tetto della carrozza; e ha assistito alla conversazione tra il cocchiere e l’ostiere riguardo alla giumenta grigia che si era ferita alla zampa anteriore martedì scorso. Lui e il signor Weller erano proprio dietro, il cocchiere davanti, e il vecchio gentiluomo all’interno, che aveva tenuto la finestra abbassata di due pollici per tutto quel tempo, l’aveva rialzata; i teloni erano stati tolti, e tutti erano pronti a partire, tranne quei “due gentiluomini robusti” di cui il cocchiere chiedeva notizie con impazienza. Allora il cocchiere, il guardiano, Sam Weller, il signor Winkle, il signor Snodgrass e tutti gli ostieri, insieme a tutti quegli oziosi che erano in numero maggiore di tutti gli altri messi insieme, gridarono il nome dei gentiluomini scomparsi con tutte le loro forze. Si udì una risposta lontana dal cortile; il signor Pickwick e il signor Tupman arrivarono di corsa, completamente senza fiato, perché avevano bevuto un bicchiere di birra ciascuno. E le dita del signor Pickwick erano così fredde che ci vollero ben cinque minuti prima che riuscisse a trovare i sei penny per pagarla. Il cocchiere gridò: “Allora, signori, ”, il guardiano ripeté l’ordine; il vecchio gentiluomo all’interno pensò che fosse davvero strano che le persone decidessero di scendere dalla carrozza quando sapevano di non avere tempo a disposizione. Il signor Pickwick si arrampicò su un lato della carrozza, il signor Tupman sull’altro; il signor Winkle gridò “Pronti!”, e partirono. Si tirarono su i scialli, si sistemarono i colletti dei cappotti, il marciapiede scomparve, le case svanirono. E di nuovo si misero in viaggio lungo la strada aperta, con l’aria fresca e pulita che soffiava loro in faccia, rallegrando i loro cuori.

Ecco il progresso fatto da Mr. Pickwick e i suoi amici lungo la strada del Muggleton Telegraph, sulla loro via verso Dingley Dell; alle tre di quella pomeriggio, tutti si trovavano al sicuro, asciutti e in buona salute, sui gradini del Blue Lion, dopo aver assunto una quantità sufficiente di birra e brandy per poter sfidare il freddo che avvolgeva la terra con i suoi “ferri ceppi”, intrecciando la sua bella rete sugli alberi e sui cespugli. Mr. Pickwick era impegnato a contare i barili di ostriche e a supervisionare il processo di “dissepolimento” dei pesci merluzzo, quando sentì qualcuno tirargli dolcemente la gonna del cappotto. Guardandosi intorno, scoprì che l’autore di questo gesto non era altri che il paggio preferito di Mr. Wardle, meglio conosciuto dai lettori di questa “storia senza fronzoli” con il nome di “il ragazzo grassoccio”.

“Ahah!”, disse il signor Pickwick.

“Ahah!” disse il ragazzo grasso.

Mentre lo diceva, lanciò uno sguardo dal pesce gatto ai barili di ostriche e scoppiò a ridere felicemente. Era più grasso che mai.

“Beh, sembri abbastanza sano e rosso in viso, mio giovane amico,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Ho dormito proprio davanti al camino della taverna,” rispose il ragazzo grasso, che nel corso di un’ora di sonnellino si era scaldato fino a diventare rosso come una nuova ciminiera. “Il padrone mi ha mandato qui con il carretto del tè, per portare i tuoi bagagli su in casa. Avrebbe potuto mandare dei cavalli da sella, ma ha pensato che preferissi camminare, visto che è una giornata fredda.”

“Sì, sì,” disse prontamente il signor Pickwick, perché si ricordava di come avessero viaggiato quasi lungo lo stesso percorso in un’occasione precedente. “Sì, preferiamo camminare. Ehi, Sam!”

‘Sir,’ said Mr. Weller.

‘Help Mr. Wardle’s servant to put the packages into the cart, and then ride on with him. We will walk forward at once.’

Having given this direction, and settled with the coachman, Mr. Pickwick and his three friends struck into the footpath across the fields, and walked briskly away, leaving Mr. Weller and the fat boy confronted together for the first time. Sam looked at the fat boy with great astonishment, but without saying a word; and began to stow the luggage rapidly away in the cart, while the fat boy stood quietly by, and seemed to think it a very interesting sort of thing to see Mr. Weller working by himself.

‘There,’ said Sam, throwing in the last carpet-bag, ‘there they are!’

‘Yes,’ said the fat boy, in a very satisfied tone, ‘there they are.’

‘Vell, young twenty stun,’ said Sam, ‘you’re a nice specimen of a prize boy, you are!’

Thank’ee,’ said the fat boy.

‘You ain’t got nothin’ on your mind as makes you fret yourself, have you?’ inquired Sam.

‘Not as I knows on,’ replied the fat boy.

‘I should rayther ha’ thought, to look at you, that you was a-labourin’ under an unrequited attachment to some young ‘ooman,’ said Sam.

The fat boy shook his head.

‘Vell,’ said Sam, ‘I am glad to hear it. Do you ever drink anythin’?’

‘I likes eating better,’ replied the boy.

‘Ah,’ said Sam, ‘I should ha’ s’posed that; but what I mean is, should you like a drop of anythin’ as’d warm you? but I s’pose you never was cold, with all them elastic fixtures, was you?’

‘Sometimes,’ replied the boy; ‘and I likes a drop of something, when it’s good.’

‘Oh, you do, do you?’ said Sam, ‘come this way, then!’

The Blue Lion tap was soon gained, and the fat boy swallowed a glass of liquor without so much as winking—a feat which considerably advanced him in Mr. Weller’s good opinion. Mr. Weller having transacted a similar piece of business on his own account, they got into the cart.

‘Can you drive?’ said the fat boy.

‘I should rayther think so,’ replied Sam.

‘There, then,’ said the fat boy, putting the reins in his hand, and pointing up a lane, ‘it’s as straight as you can go; you can’t miss it.’

With these words, the fat boy laid himself affectionately down by the side of the cod-fish, and, placing an oyster-barrel under his head for a pillow, fell asleep instantaneously.

‘Well,’ said Sam, ‘of all the cool boys ever I set my eyes on, this here young gen’l’m’n is the coolest. Come, wake up, young dropsy!’

But as young dropsy evinced no symptoms of returning animation, Sam Weller sat himself down in front of the cart, and starting the old horse with a jerk of the rein, jogged steadily on, towards the Manor Farm.

Meanwhile, Mr. Pickwick and his friends having walked their blood into active circulation, proceeded cheerfully on. The paths were hard; the grass was crisp and frosty; the air had a fine, dry, bracing coldness; and the rapid approach of the gray twilight (slate-coloured is a better term in frosty weather) made them look forward with pleasant anticipation to the comforts which awaited them at their hospitable entertainer’s. It was the sort of afternoon that might induce a couple of elderly gentlemen, in a lonely field, to take off their greatcoats and play at leap-frog in pure lightness of heart and gaiety; and we firmly believe that had Mr. Tupman at that moment proffered ‘a back,’ Mr. Pickwick would have accepted his offer with the utmost avidity.

However, Mr. Tupman did not volunteer any such accommodation, and the friends walked on, conversing merrily. As they turned into a lane they had to cross, the sound of many voices burst upon their ears; and before they had even had time to form a guess to whom they belonged, they walked into the very centre of the party who were expecting their arrival—a fact which was first notified to the Pickwickians, by the loud ‘Hurrah,’ which burst from old Wardle’s lips, when they appeared in sight.

First, there was Wardle himself, looking, if that were possible, more jolly than ever; then there were Bella and her faithful Trundle; and, lastly, there were Emily and some eight or ten young ladies, who had all come down to the wedding, which was to take place next day, and who were in as happy and important a state as young ladies usually are, on such momentous occasions; and they were, one and all, startling the fields and lanes, far and wide, with their frolic and laughter.

The ceremony of introduction, under such circumstances, was very soon performed, or we should rather say that the introduction was soon over, without any ceremony at all. In two minutes thereafter, Mr. Pickwick was joking with the young ladies who wouldn’t come over the stile while he looked—or who, having pretty feet and unexceptionable ankles, preferred standing on the top rail for five minutes or so, declaring that they were too frightened to move—with as much ease and absence of reserve or constraint, as if he had known them for life. It is worthy of remark, too, that Mr. Snodgrass offered Emily far more assistance than the absolute terrors of the stile (although it was full three feet high, and had only a couple of stepping-stones) would seem to require; while one black-eyed young lady in a very nice little pair of boots with fur round the top, was observed to scream very loudly, when Mr. Winkle offered to help her over.

All this was very snug and pleasant. And when the difficulties of the stile were at last surmounted, and they once more entered on the open field, old Wardle informed Mr. Pickwick how they had all been down in a body to inspect the furniture and fittings-up of the house, which the young couple were to tenant, after the Christmas holidays; at which communication Bella and Trundle both coloured up, as red as the fat boy after the taproom fire; and the young lady with the black eyes and the fur round the boots, whispered something in Emily’s ear, and then glanced archly at Mr. Snodgrass; to which Emily responded that she was a foolish girl, but turned very red, notwithstanding; and Mr. Snodgrass, who was as modest as all great geniuses usually are, felt the crimson rising to the crown of his head, and devoutly wished, in the inmost recesses of his own heart, that the young lady aforesaid, with her black eyes, and her archness, and her boots with the fur round the top, were all comfortably deposited in the adjacent county.

“Signore,” disse il signor Weller.

“Aiutate il servitore del signor Wardle a mettere i pacchi nel carretto, poi andate con lui. Noi ci muoveremo subito a piedi.”

Dopo aver dato queste indicazioni e accordarsi con il cocchiere, il signor Pickwick e i suoi tre amici si incamminarono lungo il sentiero che attraversava i campi, allontanandosi rapidamente, lasciando il signor Weller e il ragazzo grasso di fronte a loro per la prima volta. Sam guardò il ragazzo grasso con grande stupore, ma senza dire una parola; intanto iniziò a sistemare rapidamente i bagagli nel carro, mentre il ragazzo grasso stava fermo in silenzio, sembrando trovare molto interessante osservare il signor Weller al lavoro da solo.

“Ecco,” disse Sam, gettando dentro l’ultimo borsone, “eccoli tutti!”

“Sì,” disse il ragazzo grasso, con un tono molto soddisfatto, “eccole lì.”

“Beh, giovane ventenne,” disse Sam, “sei davvero un bel esempio di ragazzo modello, lo ammetto!”

“Grazie,” disse il ragazzo grasso.

“Non hai nulla che ti preoccupi davvero, vero?” chiese Sam.

“Non per quanto ne so io,” rispose il ragazzo grasso.

“Avrei dovuto pensare che fossi impegnato in una relazione non ricambiata con qualche giovane donna,” disse Sam.

Il ragazzo grasso scosse la testa.

“Bene,” disse Sam, “sono contento di saperlo. Bevi mai qualcosa?”

“Mi piace mangiare meglio,” rispose il ragazzo.

“Ah,” disse Sam, “Avrei dovuto pensarci; ma quello che voglio dire è, ti andrebbe un po’ di qualcosa che ti riscaldi? Ma immagino che tu non abbia mai avuto freddo, con tutti quegli strumenti elastici che hai, vero?”

“A volte sì,” rispose il ragazzo; “e mi piace un goccio di qualcosa, quando è buono.”

“Ah, davvero? Allora vieni da questa parte!” disse Sam.

Il rubinetto del leone blu fu presto ottenuto, e il ragazzo grassoccio bevve un bicchiere di alcol senza nemmeno battere ciglio, un’impresa che lo fece guadagnare molto nella stima di Mr. Weller. Dopo che anche Mr. Weller aveva svolto una transazione simile per conto proprio, salirono insieme sul carro.

“Sei in grado di guidare?”, chiese il ragazzo grasso.

“Dovrei pensarla proprio così,” rispose Sam.

“Ecco qua,” disse il ragazzo grasso, porgendogli le redini e indicando una stradina, “è dritta proprio davanti a te; non puoi sbagliare.”

Con queste parole, il ragazzo grassoccio si sdraiò con affetto accanto al pesce merluzzo e, mettendosi sotto la testa un barile di ostriche come cuscino, si addormentò all’istante.

“Beh,” disse Sam, “di tutti i ragazzi fantastici che abbia mai incontrato, questo giovane qui è davvero il più straordinario. Su, svegliati, ragazzo!”

Ma poiché la giovane vittima dell’idropisia non mostrava alcun segno di ripresa, Sam Weller si sedette davanti al carretto e, dando un colpo alle redini al vecchio cavallo, partì lentamente verso la fattoria.

Nel frattempo, il signor Pickwick e i suoi amici, dopo aver messo in movimento la circolazione del proprio sangue, proseguirono felicemente il loro cammino. I sentieri erano duri; l’erba era fresca e coperta di brina; l’aria aveva una piacevole freschezza secca e tonificante; e l’avvicinarsi rapido del crepuscolo (il termine “colore di ardesia” è più appropriato in tempo di gelo) li rendeva ansiosi di godere dei comfort che li aspettavano presso il loro ospite generoso. Era quel tipo di pomeriggio che avrebbe potuto spingere due anziani signori, in un campo desolato, a togliersi i cappotti e a giocare a saltelloni, animati da pura leggerezza d’animo e gioia; ed eravamo certi che, se in quel momento il signor Tupman avesse offerto loro il proprio “dosso”, il signor Pickwick l’avrebbe accettato con grande entusiasmo.

Tuttavia, il signor Tupman non offrì alcuna possibilità del genere, e i due amici continuarono il loro cammino, chiacchierando allegramente. Quando svoltarono in una stradina che dovevano attraversare, il suono di molte voci risuonò alle loro orecchie; e prima ancora che avessero il tempo di indovinare a chi appartenessero, si trovarono proprio nel mezzo del gruppo di persone che aspettavano il loro arrivo. Questo fatto fu notato per primo dai membri del gruppo di Pickwick, quando l’anziano Wardle esclamò ad alta voce “Urrà!” non appena li vide apparire.

Prima di tutto, c’era Wardle stesso, che sembrava, se ciò fosse stato possibile, ancora più allegro del solito; poi c’erano Bella e il suo fedele Trundle; infine, c’erano Emily e circa otto o dieci giovani signore che erano tutte venute alla festa di nozze, prevista per il giorno seguente, e che apparivano proprio come dovrebbero apparire le giovani signore in occasioni così importanti: felici e radiose. Tutte insieme, con le loro risate e i loro scherzi, riempivano i campi e i sentieri di gioia.

La cerimonia di presentazione, in tali circostanze, fu svolta molto rapidamente; o meglio, si potrebbe dire che la presentazione terminò subito, senza alcuna formalità. Due minuti dopo, il signor Pickwick scherzava già con le giovani signore che rifiutavano di attraversare quel parapetto: alcune, infatti, pur avendo piedi graziosi e caviglie impeccabili, preferivano rimanere in piedi sulla ringhiera per cinque minuti buoni, dichiarando di essere troppo spaventate per muoversi, con estrema disinvoltura e senza alcuna riserva o imbarazzo, come se le conoscesse da tutta la vita. È anche degno di nota che il signor Snodgrass offrì a Emily molto più aiuto di quanto sembrassero richiedere le terribili difficoltà legate a quel parapetto (che aveva un’altezza di ben tre piedi e conteneva soltanto un paio di gradini); inoltre, si notò che una giovane signorina con degli stivalini molto belli e bordati di pelliccia urlò ad alta voce quando il signor Winkle le offrì aiuto per attraversare.

Tutto ciò era molto confortevole e piacevole. E quando finalmente superarono le difficoltà legate a quel metodo di lavoro e tornarono nuovamente “nel campo aperto”, il vecchio Wardle raccontò al signor Pickwick come avessero tutti insieme ispezionato i mobili e gli arredi della casa che la giovane coppia avrebbe affittato dopo le vacanze di Natale; a queste parole, sia Bella che Trundle arrossirono intensamente, proprio come il ragazzo grassoccio davanti al camino del pub; la giovane signorina con gli occhi neri e i tacchi foderati di pelliccia sussurrò qualcosa all’orecchio di Emily, poi le lanciò uno sguardo malizioso; Emily rispose che era una ragazza sciocca, ma arrossì comunque molto; il signor Snodgrass, che era altrettanto modesto come tutti i grandi geni, sentì il rossore salire fino alla sommità della testa e desiderò con tutto il cuore che quella giovane signorina, con i suoi occhi neri, il suo sguardo malizioso e i tacchi foderati di pelliccia, finisse al più presto in un’altra contea.

But if they were social and happy outside the house, what was the warmth and cordiality of their reception when they reached the farm! The very servants grinned with pleasure at sight of Mr. Pickwick; and Emma bestowed a half-demure, half-impudent, and all-pretty look of recognition, on Mr. Tupman, which was enough to make the statue of Bonaparte in the passage, unfold his arms, and clasp her within them.

The old lady was seated with customary state in the front parlour, but she was rather cross, and, by consequence, most particularly deaf. She never went out herself, and like a great many other old ladies of the same stamp, she was apt to consider it an act of domestic treason, if anybody else took the liberty of doing what she couldn’t. So, bless her old soul, she sat as upright as she could, in her great chair, and looked as fierce as might be—and that was benevolent after all.

‘Mother,’ said Wardle, ‘Mr. Pickwick. You recollect him?’

‘Never mind,’ replied the old lady, with great dignity. ‘Don’t trouble Mr. Pickwick about an old creetur like me. Nobody cares about me now, and it’s very nat’ral they shouldn’t.’ Here the old lady tossed her head, and smoothed down her lavender-coloured silk dress with trembling hands.

‘Come, come, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I can’t let you cut an old friend in this way. I have come down expressly to have a long talk, and another rubber with you; and we’ll show these boys and girls how to dance a minuet, before they’re eight-and-forty hours older.’

The old lady was rapidly giving way, but she did not like to do it all at once; so she only said, ‘Ah! I can’t hear him!’

‘Nonsense, mother,’ said Wardle. ‘Come, come, don’t be cross, there’s a good soul. Recollect Bella; come, you must keep her spirits up, poor girl.’

The good old lady heard this, for her lip quivered as her son said it. But age has its little infirmities of temper, and she was not quite brought round yet. So, she smoothed down the lavender-coloured dress again, and turning to Mr. Pickwick said, ‘Ah, Mr. Pickwick, young people was very different, when I was a girl.’

‘No doubt of that, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘and that’s the reason why I would make much of the few that have any traces of the old stock’—and saying this, Mr. Pickwick gently pulled Bella towards him, and bestowing a kiss upon her forehead, bade her sit down on the little stool at her grandmother’s feet. Whether the expression of her countenance, as it was raised towards the old lady’s face, called up a thought of old times, or whether the old lady was touched by Mr. Pickwick’s affectionate good- nature, or whatever was the cause, she was fairly melted; so she threw herself on her granddaughter’s neck, and all the little ill-humour evaporated in a gush of silent tears.

A happy party they were, that night. Sedate and solemn were the score of rubbers in which Mr. Pickwick and the old lady played together; uproarious was the mirth of the round table. Long after the ladies had retired, did the hot elder wine, well qualified with brandy and spice, go round, and round, and round again; and sound was the sleep and pleasant were the dreams that followed. It is a remarkable fact that those of Mr. Snodgrass bore constant reference to Emily Wardle; and that the principal figure in Mr. Winkle’s visions was a young lady with black eyes, and arch smile, and a pair of remarkably nice boots with fur round the tops.

Mr. Pickwick was awakened early in the morning, by a hum of voices and a pattering of feet, sufficient to rouse even the fat boy from his heavy slumbers. He sat up in bed and listened. The female servants and female visitors were running constantly to and fro; and there were such multitudinous demands for hot water, such repeated outcries for needles and thread, and so many half-suppressed entreaties of ‘Oh, do come and tie me, there’s a dear!’ that Mr. Pickwick in his innocence began to imagine that something dreadful must have occurred—when he grew more awake, and remembered the wedding. The occasion being an important one, he dressed himself with peculiar care, and descended to the breakfast- room.

There were all the female servants in a bran new uniform of pink muslin gowns with white bows in their caps, running about the house in a state of excitement and agitation which it would be impossible to describe. The old lady was dressed out in a brocaded gown, which had not seen the light for twenty years, saving and excepting such truant rays as had stolen through the chinks in the box in which it had been laid by, during the whole time. Mr. Trundle was in high feather and spirits, but a little nervous withal. The hearty old landlord was trying to look very cheerful and unconcerned, but failing signally in the attempt. All the girls were in tears and white muslin, except a select two or three, who were being honoured with a private view of the bride and bridesmaids, upstairs. All the Pickwickians were in most blooming array; and there was a terrific roaring on the grass in front of the house, occasioned by all the men, boys, and hobbledehoys attached to the farm, each of whom had got a white bow in his button-hole, and all of whom were cheering with might and main; being incited thereto, and stimulated therein by the precept and example of Mr. Samuel Weller, who had managed to become mighty popular already, and was as much at home as if he had been born on the land.

A wedding is a licensed subject to joke upon, but there really is no great joke in the matter after all;—we speak merely of the ceremony, and beg it to be distinctly understood that we indulge in no hidden sarcasm upon a married life. Mixed up with the pleasure and joy of the occasion, are the many regrets at quitting home, the tears of parting between parent and child, the consciousness of leaving the dearest and kindest friends of the happiest portion of human life, to encounter its cares and troubles with others still untried and little known—natural feelings which we would not render this chapter mournful by describing, and which we should be still more unwilling to be supposed to ridicule.

Ma se erano socievoli e felici al di fuori della casa, quale calore e cordialità dimostravano nel riceverli quando arrivavano alla fattoria! Anche i servitori sorridevano felicemente non appena vedevano il signor Pickwick; e Emma rivolgeva al signor Tupman uno sguardo a metà timido, a metà impudente, ma comunque delizioso, che avrebbe fatto persino la statua di Bonaparte nel corridoio aprire le braccia per abbracciarla.

La vecchia signora era seduta nel salotto anteriore con la solita dignità, ma era piuttosto irascibile e, di conseguenza, particolarmente sorda. Non usciva mai di casa da sola, e come molte altre anziane della stessa indole, considerava un atto di “tradimento domestico” se qualcun altro osava fare ciò che lei non riusciva a fare. Così, benedetta la sua vecchia ‘anima, sedeva dritta come poteva nella sua grande sedia e aveva un aspetto molto severo, ma in fondo, questo era anche segno di bontà.

“Madre,” disse Wardle, “il signor Pickwick. Lo ricordate?”

“Non importa,” rispose la vecchia signora con grande dignità. “Non disturbate il signor Pickwick per una vecchia come me. Ora a nessuno importa di me, e è del tutto naturale che non sia così.” Qui la vecchia signora scosse la testa e sistemò con mani tremanti il suo abito di seta color lavanda.

“Ma no, ma’am,” disse il signor Pickwick, “non posso permettervi di trattare un vecchio amico in questo modo. Sono sceso apposta per parlare a lungo con voi e ripassare insieme qualche lezione; vedremo come questi ragazzi possano imparare a )danzare il minuetto, prima ancora che trascorrano ottantaquattro ore.”

La vecchia signora stava rapidamente cedendo, ma non voleva farlo tutto d’un tratto; quindi disse solo: “Ah! Non lo sento più!”

“Sciocchezze, madre,” disse Wardle. “Su, non essere arrabbiata, c’è davvero una brava persona. Ricorda Bella: devi tenerle su il morale, povera ragazza.”

La buona vecchia signora sentì queste parole; le sue labbra tremarono mentre suo figlio le pronunciava. Ma l’età comporta alcune piccole debolezze del carattere, e lei non si era ancora completamente ripresa. Così sistemò di nuovo il vestito di colore lavanda e, rivolgendosi a Mr. Pickwick, disse: “Ah, signor Pickwick, i giovani di una volta erano molto diversi, quando ero ragazza.”

“Nessun >dubbio al riguardo, signora,” disse il signor Pickwick, “ed è proprio per questo che apprezzo molto coloro che conservano ancora tracce di quel vecchio carattere, ” Mentre parlava, il signor Pickwick attirò dolcemente Bella verso di sé, le baciò la fronte e le chiese di sedersi sul piccolo sgabello ai piedi di sua nonna. Che fosse l’espressione del suo volto, mentre si alzava verso il viso della vecchia signora, a suscitare ricordi di tempi passati; che fosse la gentilezza e la bontà del signor Pickwick ad commuoverla; o qualunque altro motivo fosse, lei si sciolse in lacrime. Si gettò quindi tra le braccia di sua nipote, e tutta quella piccola malinconia svanì in un pianto silenzioso.

Che bella festa fu quella notte. Calma e solenne fu l’atmosfera durante le partite a carte che il signor Pickwick e la vecchia signora giocarono insieme; invece, intorno al tavolo rotondo regnava una grande allegria. Molto tempo dopo che le signore si erano ritirate, il vino rosso forte, arricchito con brandy e spezie, continuò ad essere servito. Il sonno fu profondo e i sogni piacevoli. È un fatto notevole che i sogni del signor Snodgrass riguardassero costantemente Emily Wardle; inoltre, la figura principale nei sogni del signor Winkle era una giovane donna con occhi neri, un sorriso affascinante, e un paio di stivali davvero bellissimi, con pelliccia intorno alla suola.

Il signor Pickwick fu svegliato presto al mattino dal rumore di voci e dal fruscio di passi; un rumore sufficiente a risvegliare anche il ragazzo grassoccio dai suoi sonni profondi. Si sedette sul letto e ascoltò: le domestiche e le visite donne correvano avanti e indietro senza sosta; c’erano richieste continue di acqua calda, grida ripetute per aghi e filo, e tante suppliche soffocate del tipo “Oh, vi prego, venite ad aiutarmi!”. Nel suo innocenza, il signor Pickwick iniziò a pensare che fosse accaduto qualcosa di terribile. Ma poi si ricordò del matrimonio. Essendo un’occasione importante, si vestì con particolare cura e scese nella sala da pranzo.

Tutte le domestiche indossavano uniformi nuove di mussolina rosa, con nastri bianchi sui cappelli; correvano per tutta la >casa in uno stato di eccitazione e agitazione difficile da descrivere. La vecchia signora era vestita con un abito broccato che non veniva indossato da vent’anni, fatta eccezione per quei rari raggi di luce che erano riusciti a filtrare attraverso le fessure della scatola in cui era stato riposto per tutto quel tempo. Il signor Trundle era molto eccitato e un po’ nervoso; il cordiale vecchio proprietario cercava di apparire molto allegro e tranquillo, ma falliva miseramente nel suo tentativo. Tutte le ragazze erano in lacrime e indossavano abiti di mussolina bianca, tranne alcune selezionate che avevano l’onore di vedere la sposa e le damigelle d’onore in privato, al piano di sopra. Tutti i membri del gruppo dei Pickwickiani erano vestiti con grande eleganza; davanti alla >casa c’era un gran clamore: tutti gli uomini, ragazzi e giovani della fattoria indossavano nastri bianchi sui bottoni e gridavano a squarciagola, incoraggiati e stimolati dal comportamento del signor Samuel Weller, che ormai era diventato molto popolare in quella zona e si sentiva proprio a casa sua, come se fosse nato lì.

Il matrimonio è un argomento che può essere oggetto di scherzi, ma in realtà non esistono davvero battute particolarmente divertenti al riguardo; parliamo soltanto della cerimonia e chiediamo che venga chiaramente compreso che non intendiamo affatto ironizzare in modo nascosto sulla vita coniugale. Tra il piacere e la gioia dell’occasione, ci sono anche molti rimpianti per lasciare la casa, le lacrime della separazione tra genitori e figli, la consapevolezza di abbandonare i più cari e gentili amici degli anni più felici della vita umana, per affrontarne le preoccupazioni e i problemi insieme ad altre persone ancora sconosciute. Sentimenti naturali che non vorremmo certo rendere tristi descrivendoli in questo capitolo, e di cui saremmo ancora meno disposti a far credere che li prendiamo in giro.

Let us briefly say, then, that the ceremony was performed by the old clergyman, in the parish church of Dingley Dell, and that Mr. Pickwick’s name is attached to the register, still preserved in the vestry thereof; that the young lady with the black eyes signed her name in a very unsteady and tremulous manner; that Emily’s signature, as the other bridesmaid, is nearly illegible; that it all went off in very admirable style; that the young ladies generally thought it far less shocking than they had expected; and that although the owner of the black eyes and the arch smile informed Mr. Wardle that she was sure she could never submit to anything so dreadful, we have the very best reasons for thinking she was mistaken. To all this, we may add, that Mr. Pickwick was the first who saluted the bride, and that in so doing he threw over her neck a rich gold watch and chain, which no mortal eyes but the jeweller’s had ever beheld before. Then, the old church bell rang as gaily as it could, and they all returned to breakfast.

‘Vere does the mince-pies go, young opium-eater?’ said Mr. Weller to the fat boy, as he assisted in laying out such articles of consumption as had not been duly arranged on the previous night.

The fat boy pointed to the destination of the pies.

‘Wery good,’ said Sam, ‘stick a bit o’ Christmas in ‘em. T’other dish opposite. There; now we look compact and comfortable, as the father said ven he cut his little boy’s head off, to cure him o’ squintin’.’

As Mr. Weller made the comparison, he fell back a step or two, to give full effect to it, and surveyed the preparations with the utmost satisfaction.

‘Wardle,’ said Mr. Pickwick, almost as soon as they were all seated, ‘a glass of wine in honour of this happy occasion!’

‘I shall be delighted, my boy,’ said Wardle. ‘Joe—damn that boy, he’s gone to sleep.’

No, I ain’t, sir,’ replied the fat boy, starting up from a remote corner, where, like the patron saint of fat boys—the immortal Horner— he had been devouring a Christmas pie, though not with the coolness and deliberation which characterised that young gentleman’s proceedings.

‘Fill Mr. Pickwick’s glass.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The fat boy filled Mr. Pickwick’s glass, and then retired behind his master’s chair, from whence he watched the play of the knives and forks, and the progress of the choice morsels from the dishes to the mouths of the company, with a kind of dark and gloomy joy that was most impressive.

‘God bless you, old fellow!’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Same to you, my boy,’ replied Wardle; and they pledged each other, heartily.

‘Mrs. Wardle,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘we old folks must have a glass of wine together, in honour of this joyful event.’

The old lady was in a state of great grandeur just then, for she was sitting at the top of the table in the brocaded gown, with her newly- married granddaughter on one side, and Mr. Pickwick on the other, to do the carving. Mr. Pickwick had not spoken in a very loud tone, but she understood him at once, and drank off a full glass of wine to his long life and happiness; after which the worthy old soul launched forth into a minute and particular account of her own wedding, with a dissertation on the fashion of wearing high-heeled shoes, and some particulars concerning the life and adventures of the beautiful Lady Tollimglower, deceased; at all of which the old lady herself laughed very heartily indeed, and so did the young ladies too, for they were wondering among themselves what on earth grandma was talking about. When they laughed, the old lady laughed ten times more heartily, and said that these always had been considered capital stories, which caused them all to laugh again, and put the old lady into the very best of humours. Then the cake was cut, and passed through the ring; the young ladies saved pieces to put under their pillows to dream of their future husbands on; and a great deal of blushing and merriment was thereby occasioned.

‘Mr. Miller,’ said Mr. Pickwick to his old acquaintance, the hard-headed gentleman, ‘a glass of wine?’

‘With great satisfaction, Mr. Pickwick,’ replied the hard-headed gentleman solemnly.

‘You’ll take me in?’ said the benevolent old clergyman.

‘And me,’ interposed his wife.

‘And me, and me,’ said a couple of poor relations at the bottom of the table, who had eaten and drunk very heartily, and laughed at everything.

Mr. Pickwick expressed his heartfelt delight at every additional suggestion; and his eyes beamed with hilarity and cheerfulness.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Mr. Pickwick, suddenly rising.

‘Hear, hear! Hear, hear! Hear, hear!’ cried Mr. Weller, in the excitement of his feelings.

‘Call in all the servants,’ cried old Wardle, interposing to prevent the public rebuke which Mr. Weller would otherwise most indubitably have received from his master. ‘Give them a glass of wine each to drink the toast in. Now, Pickwick.’

Amidst the silence of the company, the whispering of the women-servants, and the awkward embarrassment of the men, Mr. Pickwick proceeded—

‘Ladies and gentlemen—no, I won’t say ladies and gentlemen, I’ll call you my friends, my dear friends, if the ladies will allow me to take so great a liberty—’

Here Mr. Pickwick was interrupted by immense applause from the ladies, echoed by the gentlemen, during which the owner of the eyes was distinctly heard to state that she could kiss that dear Mr. Pickwick. Whereupon Mr. Winkle gallantly inquired if it couldn’t be done by deputy: to which the young lady with the black eyes replied ‘Go away,’ and accompanied the request with a look which said as plainly as a look could do, ‘if you can.’

‘My dear friends,’ resumed Mr. Pickwick, ‘I am going to propose the health of the bride and bridegroom—God bless ‘em (cheers and tears). My young friend, Trundle, I believe to be a very excellent and manly fellow; and his wife I know to be a very amiable and lovely girl, well qualified to transfer to another sphere of action the happiness which for twenty years she has diffused around her, in her father’s house. (Here, the fat boy burst forth into stentorian blubberings, and was led forth by the coat collar, by Mr. Weller.) I wish,’ added Mr. Pickwick— ‘I wish I was young enough to be her sister’s husband (cheers), but, failing that, I am happy to be old enough to be her father; for, being so, I shall not be suspected of any latent designs when I say, that I admire, esteem, and love them both (cheers and sobs). The bride’s father, our good friend there, is a noble person, and I am proud to know him (great uproar). He is a kind, excellent, independent-spirited, fine- hearted, hospitable, liberal man (enthusiastic shouts from the poor relations, at all the adjectives; and especially at the two last). That his daughter may enjoy all the happiness, even he can desire; and that he may derive from the contemplation of her felicity all the gratification of heart and peace of mind which he so well deserves, is, I am persuaded, our united wish. So, let us drink their healths, and wish them prolonged life, and every blessing!’

Diciamo quindi brevemente che la cerimonia fu celebrata dal vecchio prete nella chiesa parrocchiale di Dingley Dell, e che il nome del signor Pickwick è registrato nell’album ancora conservato nell’ufficio della chiesa; che la giovane donna dai capelli neri firmò il registro in modo molto incerto e tremolante; che la firma di Emily, come quella delle altre damigelle d’onore, è quasi illeggibile; che tutto si svolse in modo davvero ammirevole; che le giovani donne pensarono nel complesso che fosse molto meno scioccante di quanto si aspettassero; e che, sebbene la donna dai capelli neri avesse detto al signor Wardle di essere certa di non poter mai sopportare una cosa così terribile, abbiamo tutte le ragioni per ritenere che si sbagliasse. A tutto ciò possiamo aggiungere che il signor Pickwick fu il primo ad inchinarsi davanti alla sposa e, nel farlo, le gettò al collo un ricco orologio d’oro con catena, che nessun occhio umano, tranne quello dell’orefice, aveva mai visto prima. Poi la vecchia campana della chiesa suonò allegramente, e tutti tornarono a colazione.

“Dove vanno messe le torte di carne tritata, giovane consumatore di oppio?” disse il signor Weller al ragazzo grasso, mentre lo aiutava a sistemare quegli alimenti che non erano stati opportunamente disposti la sera precedente.

Il ragazzo grasso indicò la destinazione delle torte.

“Molto buono,” disse Sam, “aggiungi un po’ di atmosfera natalizia. Quel piatto là, dall’altra parte. Ecco: ora sembriamo davvero accoglienti e ordinati, proprio come ha detto il padre quando tagliò la testa a suo figlioletto per curargli lo strabismo.”

Mentre il signor Weller faceva questa comparazione, indietreggiò di uno o due passi per darle tutto il suo effetto e osservò le preparazioni con la massima soddisfazione.

“Wardle,” disse il signor Pickwick non appena tutti si furono seduti, “un bicchiere di vino in onore di questa felice occasione!”

“Ne sarò molto felice, mio ragazzo,” disse Wardle. “Joe, maledetto ragazzo, si è già addormentato.”

“No, signore,” rispose il ragazzo grasso, alzandosi da un angolo remoto, dove, come il santo patrono dei ragazzi grassi – l’immortale Horner – stava divorando una torta di Natale, sebbene non con la calma e la deliberazione che caratterizzavano i modi di quel giovane signore.

“Riempite il bicchiere del signor Pickwick.”

“Sì, signore.”

Il ragazzo grasso riempì il bicchiere di Mr. Pickwick, poi si ritirò dietro la sedia del suo padrone, da dove osservava con attenzione l’uso dei coltelli e delle forchette, nonché il passaggio dei bocconcini prelibati dai piatti alle bocche dei commensali, provando una sorta di gioia cupa e malinconica che era davvero impressionante.

“Dio ti benedica, vecchio mio!”, disse il signor Pickwick.

“Lo stesso vale per te, mio ragazzo,” rispose Wardle; e si promisero l’un l’altro con sincerità.

“Signora Wardle,” disse il signor Pickwick, “noi anziani dovremmo bere un bicchiere di vino insieme, in onore di questo evento gioioso.”

In quel momento, la vecchia signora era nel massimo della sua felicità: sedeva in cima al tavolo, avvolta nella sua veste broccata, con la nipote appena sposata da un lato e il signor Pickwick dall’altro, che si occupava di tagliare la torta. Il signor Pickwick non aveva parlato a voce molto alta, ma lei lo aveva capito immediatamente; così bevve un bicchiere intero di vino per augurargli lunga vita e felicità. Dopo questo, la nobile vecchia signora iniziò a raccontare con dettaglio il proprio matrimonio, discutendo anche della moda di indossare scarpe con i tacchi alti e fornendo alcuni particolari sulla vita e sulle avventure della bellissima Lady Tollimglower, defunta. Tutti risero molto alle sue parole, soprattutto le giovani signore, che si chiedevano cosa stesse raccontando la nonna. Quando ridevano, lei rideva ancora di più, affermando che quelle storie fossero sempre state considerate particolarmente interessanti. Il tutto fece sì che tutti ridessero ancora, mettendo la vecchia signora di ottimo umore. Poi fu tagliata la torta e passata in giro; le giovani signore presero dei pezzi da mettere sotto i cuscini per sognare i loro futuri mariti. E così, si verificò molta timidezza e allegria.

“Signor Miller,” disse il signor Pickwick al suo vecchio conoscente, quel gentiluomo deciso e pragmatico, “un bicchiere di vino?”

“Con grande soddisfazione, signor Pickwick”, rispose seriamente il gentiluomo pragmatico.

“Mi accoglierete con voi?” disse il gentile vecchio prete.

“E io,” intervenne sua moglie.

“E io, e io,” dissero un paio di parenti poveri seduti in fondo al tavolo, che avevano mangiato e bevuto con grande appetito e ridevano di tutto.

Il signor Pickwick esprimeva la sua sincera gioia per ogni suggerimento aggiuntivo che riceveva; i suoi occhi brillavano di allegria e felicità.

“Signore e signori,” disse improvvisamente il signor Pickwick, alzandosi in piedi.

“Ascoltate, ascoltate! Ascoltate, ascoltate!” gridava il signor Weller, nel tumulto dei suoi sentimenti.

“Chiamate tutti i servitori,” gridò il vecchio Wardle, intervenendo per evitare che il signor Weller ricevesse una severa rimprovera dal suo padrone. “Dategli un bicchiere di vino ciascuno per brindare insieme. Ora, Pickwick, ”

Nel silenzio della compagnia, tra i sussurri delle donne di servizio e l’imbarazzo dei gentiluomini, il signor Pickwick proseguì.

“Signore e signori, no, non dirò ‘signore e signori’, vi chiamerò miei amici, cari amici, se le signore mi permetteranno di prendermi tale libertà, ”

In quel momento, il signor Pickwick fu interrotto da un enorme applauso da parte delle signore, ripreso anche dai gentiluomini; durante questo intervallo si udì chiaramente la giovane donna con gli occhi neri dichiarare che avrebbe voluto baciare quel caro signor Pickwick. Allora il signor Winkle chiese galantemente se non fosse possibile farlo tramite un “delegato”; alla quale domanda la giovane rispose “Vattene”, accompagnando le parole con uno sguardo che, chiaramente, significava: “Se ci riesci, ”.

“Miei cari amici,” proseguì il signor Pickwick, “intendo proporre un brindisi alla salute della sposa e dello sposo. Che Dio li benedica (acclamazioni e lacrime). Il mio giovane amico Trundle, credo sia una persona davvero eccellente e virile; sua moglie, invece, è una ragazza molto affabile e incantevole, perfettamente qualificata per trasferire nell’altra vita la felicità che, per vent’anni, ha diffuso nella casa di suo padre. (A questo punto, il ragazzo grassoccio scoppiò in lacrime convulse e fu portato via dal signor Weller per il colletto del cappotto.) Vorrei,” aggiunse il signor Pickwick, “vorrei essere abbastanza giovane da poter diventare il marito di sua sorella. Ma poiché ciò non è possibile, sono felice di essere abbastanza vecchio da poter essere suo padre; così, nessuno potrà sospettare che abbia qualche secondo fine quando dico di ammirarli, stimarli e amarli entrambi. Che il padre della sposa, il nostro caro amico qui presente, sia una persona nobile. Ne sono orgoglioso (grande entusiasmo). È un uomo gentile, eccellente, dal carattere indipendente, dal cuore generoso e ospitale. Un uomo liberale (grida di approvazione da parte dei parenti poveri, soprattutto davanti agli ultimi due aggettivi). Che sua figlia possa godere di tutta la felicità che lui stesso può desiderare. E che possa trarre dalla vista della sua felicità tutto il conforto e la serenità di cui tanto merita. Questo, ne sono convinto, è il nostro desiderio comune. Dunque, brindiamo alla loro salute. E auguriamoli una lunga vita e tutte le benedizioni!”

Mr. Pickwick concluded amidst a whirlwind of applause; and once more were the lungs of the supernumeraries, under Mr. Weller’s command, brought into active and efficient operation. Mr. Wardle proposed Mr. Pickwick; Mr. Pickwick proposed the old lady. Mr. Snodgrass proposed Mr. Wardle; Mr. Wardle proposed Mr. Snodgrass. One of the poor relations proposed Mr. Tupman, and the other poor relation proposed Mr. Winkle; all was happiness and festivity, until the mysterious disappearance of both the poor relations beneath the table, warned the party that it was time to adjourn.

At dinner they met again, after a five-and-twenty mile walk, undertaken by the males at Wardle’s recommendation, to get rid of the effects of the wine at breakfast. The poor relations had kept in bed all day, with the view of attaining the same happy consummation, but, as they had been unsuccessful, they stopped there. Mr. Weller kept the domestics in a state of perpetual hilarity; and the fat boy divided his time into small alternate allotments of eating and sleeping.

The dinner was as hearty an affair as the breakfast, and was quite as noisy, without the tears. Then came the dessert and some more toasts. Then came the tea and coffee; and then, the ball.

The best sitting-room at Manor Farm was a good, long, dark-panelled room with a high chimney-piece, and a capacious chimney, up which you could have driven one of the new patent cabs, wheels and all. At the upper end of the room, seated in a shady bower of holly and evergreens were the two best fiddlers, and the only harp, in all Muggleton. In all sorts of recesses, and on all kinds of brackets, stood massive old silver candlesticks with four branches each. The carpet was up, the candles burned bright, the fire blazed and crackled on the hearth, and merry voices and light-hearted laughter rang through the room. If any of the old English yeomen had turned into fairies when they died, it was just the place in which they would have held their revels.

If anything could have added to the interest of this agreeable scene, it would have been the remarkable fact of Mr. Pickwick’s appearing without his gaiters, for the first time within the memory of his oldest friends.

‘You mean to dance?’ said Wardle.

‘Of course I do,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘Don’t you see I am dressed for the purpose?’ Mr. Pickwick called attention to his speckled silk stockings, and smartly tied pumps.

‘_You _in silk stockings!’ exclaimed Mr. Tupman jocosely.

‘And why not, sir—why not?’ said Mr. Pickwick, turning warmly upon him.

‘Oh, of course there is no reason why you shouldn’t wear them,’ responded Mr. Tupman.

‘I imagine not, sir—I imagine not,’ said Mr. Pickwick, in a very peremptory tone.

Mr. Tupman had contemplated a laugh, but he found it was a serious matter; so he looked grave, and said they were a pretty pattern.

‘I hope they are,’ said Mr. Pickwick, fixing his eyes upon his friend. ‘You see nothing extraordinary in the stockings, as stockings, I trust, Sir?’

‘Certainly not. Oh, certainly not,’ replied Mr. Tupman. He walked away; and Mr. Pickwick’s countenance resumed its customary benign expression.

‘We are all ready, I believe,’ said Mr. Pickwick, who was stationed with the old lady at the top of the dance, and had already made four false starts, in his excessive anxiety to commence.

‘Then begin at once,’ said Wardle. ‘Now!’

Up struck the two fiddles and the one harp, and off went Mr. Pickwick into hands across, when there was a general clapping of hands, and a cry of ‘Stop, stop!’

‘What’s the matter?’ said Mr. Pickwick, who was only brought to, by the fiddles and harp desisting, and could have been stopped by no other earthly power, if the house had been on fire.

‘Where’s Arabella Allen?’ cried a dozen voices.

‘And Winkle?’ added Mr. Tupman.

‘Here we are!’ exclaimed that gentleman, emerging with his pretty companion from the corner; as he did so, it would have been hard to tell which was the redder in the face, he or the young lady with the black eyes.

‘What an extraordinary thing it is, Winkle,’ said Mr. Pickwick, rather pettishly, ‘that you couldn’t have taken your place before.’

‘Not at all extraordinary,’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘Well,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with a very expressive smile, as his eyes rested on Arabella, ‘well, I don’t know that it _was _extraordinary, either, after all.’

However, there was no time to think more about the matter, for the fiddles and harp began in real earnest. Away went Mr. Pickwick—hands across—down the middle to the very end of the room, and half-way up the chimney, back again to the door—poussette everywhere—loud stamp on the ground—ready for the next couple—off again—all the figure over once more—another stamp to beat out the time—next couple, and the next, and the next again—never was such going; at last, after they had reached the bottom of the dance, and full fourteen couple after the old lady had retired in an exhausted state, and the clergyman’s wife had been substituted in her stead, did that gentleman, when there was no demand whatever on his exertions, keep perpetually dancing in his place, to keep time to the music, smiling on his partner all the while with a blandness of demeanour which baffles all description.

Long before Mr. Pickwick was weary of dancing, the newly-married couple had retired from the scene. There was a glorious supper downstairs, notwithstanding, and a good long sitting after it; and when Mr. Pickwick awoke, late the next morning, he had a confused recollection of having, severally and confidentially, invited somewhere about five-and-forty people to dine with him at the George and Vulture, the very first time they came to London; which Mr. Pickwick rightly considered a pretty certain indication of his having taken something besides exercise, on the previous night.

Il signor Pickwick concluse il suo discorso tra un vortice di applausi; e ancora una volta i “polmoni” dei presenti, sotto il comando del signor Weller, entrarono in funzione attiva ed efficiente. Il signor Wardle propose il signor Pickwick; il signor Pickwick propose la vecchia signora. Il signor Snodgrass propose il signor Wardle; il signor Wardle propose il signor Snodgrass. Uno dei due parenti poveri propose il signor Tupman, l’altro propose il signor Winkle; tutto era gioia e festa, fino a quando la misteriosa scomparsa di entrambi i parenti poveri sotto il tavolo avvertì tutti che era arrivato il momento di concludere.

A cena si incontrarono di nuovo, dopo una camminata di venticinque miglia effettuata dai maschi su raccomandazione di Wardle, al fine di eliminare gli effetti del vino consumato a colazione. I poveri fratelli erano rimasti a letto tutto il giorno con lo stesso scopo, ma non ci erano riusciti; quindi si fermarono lì. Il signor Weller manteneva i domestici in uno stato di continua ilarità; il ragazzo grasso divideva il proprio tempo in brevi periodi alternati di mangiare e dormire.

La cena fu altrettanto sostanziosa della colazione, e altrettanto rumorosa, senza però le lacrime. Poi arrivò il dolce e altri brindisi. Infine, il tè e il caffè; e dopo, la festa in maschera.

La migliore sala da pranzo della Manor Farm era una stanza lunga e buia, con pannelli scuri, un camino alto e un’ampia canna fumaria attraverso la quale si sarebbe potuto far passare persino uno di quei nuovi taxi a patente, con ruote comprese. All’estremità superiore della stanza, seduti in un angolo ombreggiato da agrifogli e piante sempreverdi, c’erano i due migliori violinisti di tutto Muggleton, nonché l’unica arpa disponibile nella zona. In ogni angolo e su ogni supporto erano posizionati enormi candelabri d’argento antico, ognuno con quattro bracci. Il tappeto era stato steso, le candele brillavano intensamente, il fuoco ardeva vivacemente nel camino, e voci gioiose e risate spensierate risuonavano per tutta la stanza. Se alcuni di quei vecchi contadini inglesi si fossero trasformati in fate dopo la morte, sicuramente sarebbe stato proprio in quel luogo che avrebbero tenuto le loro feste.

Se qualcosa avesse potuto aumentare il fascino di questa piacevole scena, sarebbe stato il fatto straordinario che il signor Pickwick si fosse presentato senza i suoi stivali da montagna, per la prima volta nella memoria dei suoi vecchi amici.

“Vuoi dire che vuoi danzare?”, disse Wardle.

“Certo che sì,” rispose il signor Pickwick. “Non vedete forse che sono vestito apposta per l’occasione?” Il signor Pickwick fece notare le sue calze di seta a pois e i suoi stivali ben lucidati.

“Tu con le calze di seta!”, esclamò scherzosamente il signor Tupman.

“E perché no, signore, perché no?” disse il signor Pickwick, rivolgendosi a lui con calore.

“Oh, certo, non c’è alcun motivo per cui tu non dovresti indossarle,” rispose il signor Tupman.

“Immagino di no, signore. Immagino di no,” disse il signor Pickwick con un tono molto deciso.

Il signor Tupman aveva pensato di ridere, ma si rese conto che si trattava di una questione seria; quindi assunse un’espressione seria e disse che erano davvero un bel esempio.

“Spero che lo siano,” disse il signor Pickwick, fissando gli occhi sul suo amico.
“Non vedete nulla di straordinario in quelle calze, come semplici calze, vero, signore?”

“Certamente no. Oh, certamente no,” rispose il signor Tupman. Si allontanò; e l’espressione del viso del signor Pickwick tornò alla sua solita gentilezza.

“Credo che siamo tutti pronti,” disse il signor Pickwick, che si trovava insieme alla vecchia signora in cima alla pista da ballo e aveva già fatto quattro false partenze, a causa della sua eccessiva ansia di iniziare.

“Allora inizia subito,” disse Wardle. “Ora!”

Up suonò le due violine e l’arpa, e subito il signor Pickwick si mise in movimento tra la folla; allora scoppiò un applauso generale e si udì gridare “Fermatevi, fermatevi!”.

“Che c’è?” disse il signor Pickwick, che era stato attirato lì soltanto dal cessare del suono dei violini e dell’arpa; nessun’altra forza terrena avrebbe potuto fermarlo, nemmeno se la casa fosse stata in fiamme.

“Dove è Arabella Allen?” gridarono una dozzina di voci.

“E Winkle?” aggiunse il signor Tupman.

“Eccoci qui!” esclamò quel gentiluomo, uscendo insieme alla sua bella compagna dall’angolo; in quel momento, sarebbe stato difficile dire chi dei due avesse il viso più rosso: lui o la giovane signorina dagli occhi neri.

“Che cosa straordinaria, Winkle,” disse il signor Pickwick in tono piuttosto petulante, “il fatto che tu non sia riuscito a prendere il tuo posto in tempo.”

“Assolutamente nulla di straordinario,” disse il signor Winkle.

“Beh,” disse il signor Pickwick con un sorriso molto espressivo, mentre i suoi occhi si posavano su Arabella, “beh, in fondo non so nemmeno se fosse davvero qualcosa di straordinario.”

Tuttavia, non c’era tempo per pensare ulteriormente alla questione, perché le fisarmoniche e l’arpa iniziarono davvero a suonare. Il signor Pickwick si mise in movimento: andò avanti e indietro nel mezzo della stanza, fino alla fine; salì per metà camino, poi tornò verso la porta. Si muoveva ovunque con grande energia, battendo forte sul pavimento al ritmo della musica. Dopo aver eseguito quattordici coppie di movimenti, quando la vecchia signora si ritirò esausta e la moglie del clérigo prese il suo posto, quel gentiluomo continuò a ballare senza sosta, mantenendo il ritmo con precisione e sorridendo sempre alla sua partner con un’aria così dolce e serena da essere indescrivibile.

Molto prima che il signor Pickwick si stancasse di ballare, la coppia appena sposata si era ritirata dalla scena. Ciononostante, al piano di sotto c’era una splendida cena e, dopo di essa, un lungo momento di convivialità; quando il signor Pickwick si svegliò, la mattina seguente, ricordava confusamente di aver invitato, in modo riservato, circa cinquanta persone a pranzare da lui al ristorante “George and Vulture”, la prima volta che queste persone erano venute a Londra; il signor Pickwick considerò questo fatto una chiara indicazione del fatto che, la sera precedente, avesse fatto qualcosa di diverso dall’esercizio fisico.

‘And so your family has games in the kitchen to-night, my dear, has they?’ inquired Sam of Emma.

‘Yes, Mr. Weller,’ replied Emma; ‘we always have on Christmas Eve. Master wouldn’t neglect to keep it up on any account.’

‘Your master’s a wery pretty notion of keeping anythin’ up, my dear,’ said Mr. Weller; ‘I never see such a sensible sort of man as he is, or such a reg’lar gen’l’m’n.’

Oh, that he is!’ said the fat boy, joining in the conversation; ‘don’t he breed nice pork!’ The fat youth gave a semi-cannibalic leer at Mr. Weller, as he thought of the roast legs and gravy.

‘Oh, you’ve woke up, at last, have you?’ said Sam.

The fat boy nodded.

‘I’ll tell you what it is, young boa-constructer,’ said Mr. Weller impressively; ‘if you don’t sleep a little less, and exercise a little more, wen you comes to be a man you’ll lay yourself open to the same sort of personal inconwenience as was inflicted on the old gen’l’m’n as wore the pigtail.’

‘What did they do to him?’ inquired the fat boy, in a faltering voice.

‘I’m a-going to tell you,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘he was one o’ the largest patterns as was ever turned out—reg’lar fat man, as hadn’t caught a glimpse of his own shoes for five-and-forty year.’

‘Lor!’ exclaimed Emma.

‘No, that he hadn’t, my dear,’ said Mr. Weller; ‘and if you’d put an exact model of his own legs on the dinin’-table afore him, he wouldn’t ha’ known ‘em. Well, he always walks to his office with a wery handsome gold watch-chain hanging out, about a foot and a quarter, and a gold watch in his fob pocket as was worth—I’m afraid to say how much, but as much as a watch can be—a large, heavy, round manufacter, as stout for a watch, as he was for a man, and with a big face in proportion. “You’d better not carry that ‘ere watch,” says the old gen’l’m’n’s friends, “you’ll be robbed on it,” says they. “Shall I?” says he. “Yes, you will,” says they. “Well,” says he, “I should like to see the thief as could get this here watch out, for I’m blessed if I ever can, it’s such a tight fit,” says he, “and wenever I vants to know what’s o’clock, I’m obliged to stare into the bakers’ shops,” he says. Well, then he laughs as hearty as if he was a-goin’ to pieces, and out he walks agin with his powdered head and pigtail, and rolls down the Strand with the chain hangin’ out furder than ever, and the great round watch almost bustin’ through his gray kersey smalls. There warn’t a pickpocket in all London as didn’t take a pull at that chain, but the chain ‘ud never break, and the watch ‘ud never come out, so they soon got tired of dragging such a heavy old gen’l’m’n along the pavement, and he’d go home and laugh till the pigtail wibrated like the penderlum of a Dutch clock. At last, one day the old gen’l’m’n was a-rollin’ along, and he sees a pickpocket as he know’d by sight, a-coming up, arm in arm with a little boy with a wery large head. “Here’s a game,” says the old gen’l’m’n to himself, “they’re a-goin’ to have another try, but it won’t do!” So he begins a- chucklin’ wery hearty, wen, all of a sudden, the little boy leaves hold of the pickpocket’s arm, and rushes head foremost straight into the old gen’l’m’n’s stomach, and for a moment doubles him right up with the pain. “Murder!” says the old gen’l’m’n. “All right, Sir,” says the pickpocket, a-wisperin’ in his ear. And wen he come straight agin, the watch and chain was gone, and what’s worse than that, the old gen’l’m’n’s digestion was all wrong ever afterwards, to the wery last day of his life; so just you look about you, young feller, and take care you don’t get too fat.’

As Mr. Weller concluded this moral tale, with which the fat boy appeared much affected, they all three repaired to the large kitchen, in which the family were by this time assembled, according to annual custom on Christmas Eve, observed by old Wardle’s forefathers from time immemorial.

From the centre of the ceiling of this kitchen, old Wardle had just suspended, with his own hands, a huge branch of mistletoe, and this same branch of mistletoe instantaneously gave rise to a scene of general and most delightful struggling and confusion; in the midst of which, Mr. Pickwick, with a gallantry that would have done honour to a descendant of Lady Tollimglower herself, took the old lady by the hand, led her beneath the mystic branch, and saluted her in all courtesy and decorum. The old lady submitted to this piece of practical politeness with all the dignity which befitted so important and serious a solemnity, but the younger ladies, not being so thoroughly imbued with a superstitious veneration for the custom, or imagining that the value of a salute is very much enhanced if it cost a little trouble to obtain it, screamed and struggled, and ran into corners, and threatened and remonstrated, and did everything but leave the room, until some of the less adventurous gentlemen were on the point of desisting, when they all at once found it useless to resist any longer, and submitted to be kissed with a good grace. Mr. Winkle kissed the young lady with the black eyes, and Mr. Snodgrass kissed Emily; and Mr. Weller, not being particular about the form of being under the mistletoe, kissed Emma and the other female servants, just as he caught them. As to the poor relations, they kissed everybody, not even excepting the plainer portions of the young lady visitors, who, in their excessive confusion, ran right under the mistletoe, as soon as it was hung up, without knowing it! Wardle stood with his back to the fire, surveying the whole scene, with the utmost satisfaction; and the fat boy took the opportunity of appropriating to his own use, and summarily devouring, a particularly fine mince-pie, that had been carefully put by, for somebody else.

Now, the screaming had subsided, and faces were in a glow, and curls in a tangle, and Mr. Pickwick, after kissing the old lady as before mentioned, was standing under the mistletoe, looking with a very pleased countenance on all that was passing around him, when the young lady with the black eyes, after a little whispering with the other young ladies, made a sudden dart forward, and, putting her arm round Mr. Pickwick’s neck, saluted him affectionately on the left cheek; and before Mr. Pickwick distinctly knew what was the matter, he was surrounded by the whole body, and kissed by every one of them.

“Quindi la tua famiglia organizza delle ‘feste’ in cucina di notte, cara, vero?” chiese Sam a Emma.

“Sì, signor Weller,” rispose Emma; “lo facciamo sempre la vigilia di Natale. Il padrone non avrebbe mai trascurato di continuare questa tradizione.”

“Il tuo padrone ha davvero un’ottima idea nel mantenere tutto in ordine, cara mia,” disse il signor Weller; “non ho mai visto un uomo così sensato o una persona così ordinata come lui.”

“Oh, davvero!” disse il ragazzo grasso, unendosi alla conversazione; “non produce forse delizioso maiale?” Il giovane grasso rivolse a Mr. Weller uno sguardo quasi cannibalesco, pensando alle cosce arrosto e al sugo.

“Ah, finalmente ti sei svegliato, vero?” disse Sam.

Il ragazzo grasso annuì.

“Ti dirò di cosa si tratta, giovane costruttore di boas,” disse il signor Weller in tono impressionante; “se non dormirai un po’ meno e non fai un po’ più esercizio, quando diventerai uomo ti troverai ad affrontare gli stessi problemi personali che soffrirono quegli antichi generali che portavano la coda di maiale.”

“Cosa gli hanno fatto?” chiese il ragazzo grasso, con voce tremante.

“Vi dirò una cosa,” rispose il signor Weller; “era uno di quegli uomini davvero grassi che si vedono raramente, un vero e proprio uomo grasso, che non aveva visto nemmeno le proprie scarpe da cinquant’anni.”

“Loro!” esclamò Emma.

“No, non l’aveva affatto,” disse il signor Weller; “e se davate davanti a lui sul tavolo da pranzo un modello esatto delle sue stesse gambe, non le riconoscerebbe nemmeno. Beh, lui va sempre in ufficio con una bellissima catena d’oro per orologio che pende fuori per circa un piede e mezzo, e un orologio d’oro nella tasca del suo gilet. Un orologio così grande, pesante e rotondo. Così robusto, sia come orologio che come uomo. E con un viso grosso, proporzionato al resto del corpo. ‘Meglio non portare quell’orologio,’ gli dicono gli amici dell’ex generale, ‘ti deruberanno.’ ‘Davvero?’ dice lui. ‘Sì, sicuramente,’ rispondono loro. ‘Beh, ’ dice lui, ‘mi piacerebbe vedere chi riuscisse a rubarmi quell’orologio. Non credo che ci riesca mai; è così ben fissato al mio corpo.’ E ogni volta che vuole sapere l’ora, deve guardare dentro le panetterie, ” Allora ride forte, come se stesse per esplodere, e continua a camminare lungo lo Strand, con quella catena d’oro che pende ancora di più fuori rispetto al solito, e quell’enorme orologio che quasi spacca i suoi pantaloni di lana grigia. Non c’era nessun borseggiatore a Londra che non provasse ad afferrare quella catena. Ma la catena non si rompeva mai, e l’orologio non usciva mai. Così, dopo un po’, i borseggiatori si stancarono di trascinare per strada quel vecchio generale così pesante. Lui tornava a casa e rideva fino a quando la sua coda di cavallo non tremolava come il pendolo di un orologio olandese. Alla fine, un giorno, mentre camminava lungo lo Strand, vide un borseggiatore che gli si avvicinava, armato del braccio di un bambino con una testa molto grande, “Ecco un’altra occasione per provare, ” pensò il vecchio generale. Ma all’improvviso il bambino lasciò andare il braccio del borseggiatore e si precipitò dritto nello stomaco del vecchio generale. Per un momento, quest’ultimo rimase piegato in due dal dolore, “Assassino!” gridò. “Va bene, signore, ” sussurrò il borseggiatore all’orecchio suo. Quando tornò in sé, l’orologio e la catena erano spariti. E peggio ancora: da quel momento in poi, il vecchio generale ebbe seri problemi digestivi per tutta la vita. Quindi, ragazzo mio, fai attenzione a non ingrassare troppo, ”

Mentre il signor Weller concludeva questa storia morale, che parve commuovere molto il ragazzo grasso, i tre si recarono nella grande cucina, dove la famiglia si era già riunita, secondo l’usanza annuale della vigilia di Natale, risalente ai tempi antichi dei padri di Old Wardle.

Dall’alto soffitto di questa cucina, il vecchio Wardle aveva appena appeso con le sue stesse mani un enorme ramo di vischio; quel ramo, all’istante, scatenò una scena di confusione e lotta generale. In mezzo a tutto ciò, il signor Pickwick, con una galanteria che avrebbe fatto onore anche a un discendente della stessa Lady Tollimglower, prese la mano della vecchia signora, la guidò sotto il ramo di vischio e le rivolse un saluto pieno di cortesia e decoro. La vecchia signora accettò questa dimostrazione di buone maniere con tutta la dignità che si addiceva a una cerimonia così importante e solenne; le giovani donne, invece, non essendo così profondamente influenzate da questo costume superstizioso, o pensando che il valore di un saluto aumentasse notevolmente se richiedeva un po’ di sforzo per ottenerlo, gridavano, lottavano, si rifugiavano in angoli, minacciavano e protestavano, facendo di tutto tranne che lasciare la stanza. Solo quando alcuni dei gentiluomini meno avventurosi stavano per arrendersi, tutti capirono che era inutile resistere ulteriormente e si lasciarono baciare con grande buona grazia. Il signor Winkle baciò la giovane donna dai capelli neri, il signor Snodgrass baciò Emily; il signor Weller, non badando troppo alla forma del rituale, baciò anche Emma e le altre domestiche, appena riuscì a raggiungerle. Quanto ai poveri parenti, baciarono tutti, senza escludere nemmeno le parti più “comuni” delle giovani ospiti, che, nella loro totale confusione, corsero proprio sotto il ramo di vischio non appena fu appeso, senza nemmeno rendersene conto! Wardle stava in piedi con la schiena rivolta al focolare, osservando tutta la scena con grande soddisfazione; il ragazzo grasso approfittò dell’occasione per prendersi e mangiare in un boccone una deliziosa torta di carne, che era stata accuratamente preparata per qualcun altro.

Ora, i gridi si erano placati; i volti brillavano di gioia e i capelli erano arruffati in disordine. Dopo aver baciato la vecchia signora, come già accennato, il signor Pickwick stava sotto il vischio, osservando con aria molto soddisfatta tutto ciò che gli accadeva intorno. All’improvviso, la giovane donna dai capelli neri, dopo aver sussurrato qualcosa alle altre ragazze, si avvicinò rapidamente a lui, gli mise un braccio intorno al collo e lo baciò affettuosamente sulla guancia sinistra. Prima ancora che il signor Pickwick potesse capire cosa stesse succedendo, fu circondato da tutto il gruppo di ragazze, che lo baciarono una dopo l’altra.

It was a pleasant thing to see Mr. Pickwick in the centre of the group, now pulled this way, and then that, and first kissed on the chin, and then on the nose, and then on the spectacles, and to hear the peals of laughter which were raised on every side; but it was a still more pleasant thing to see Mr. Pickwick, blinded shortly afterwards with a silk handkerchief, falling up against the wall, and scrambling into corners, and going through all the mysteries of blind-man’s buff, with the utmost relish for the game, until at last he caught one of the poor relations, and then had to evade the blind-man himself, which he did with a nimbleness and agility that elicited the admiration and applause of all beholders. The poor relations caught the people who they thought would like it, and, when the game flagged, got caught themselves. When they all tired of blind-man’s buff, there was a great game at snap- dragon, and when fingers enough were burned with that, and all the raisins were gone, they sat down by the huge fire of blazing logs to a substantial supper, and a mighty bowl of wassail, something smaller than an ordinary wash-house copper, in which the hot apples were hissing and bubbling with a rich look, and a jolly sound, that were perfectly irresistible.

‘This,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking round him, ‘this is, indeed, comfort.’ ‘Our invariable custom,’ replied Mr. Wardle. ‘Everybody sits down with us on Christmas Eve, as you see them now—servants and all; and here we wait, until the clock strikes twelve, to usher Christmas in, and beguile the time with forfeits and old stories. Trundle, my boy, rake up the fire.’

Up flew the bright sparks in myriads as the logs were stirred. The deep red blaze sent forth a rich glow, that penetrated into the farthest corner of the room, and cast its cheerful tint on every face.

‘Come,’ said Wardle, ‘a song—a Christmas song! I’ll give you one, in default of a better.’

‘Bravo!’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Fill up,’ cried Wardle. ‘It will be two hours, good, before you see the bottom of the bowl through the deep rich colour of the wassail; fill up all round, and now for the song.’

Thus saying, the merry old gentleman, in a good, round, sturdy voice, commenced without more ado—

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

‘I care not for Spring; on his fickle wing Let the blossoms and buds be borne; He woos them amain with his treacherous rain, And he scatters them ere the morn. An inconstant elf, he knows not himself, Nor his own changing mind an hour, He’ll smile in your face, and, with wry grimace, He’ll wither your youngest flower.

‘Let the Summer sun to his bright home run, He shall never be sought by me; When he’s dimmed by a cloud I can laugh aloud And care not how sulky he be! For his darling child is the madness wild That sports in fierce fever’s train; And when love is too strong, it don’t last long, As many have found to their pain.

‘A mild harvest night, by the tranquil light Of the modest and gentle moon, Has a far sweeter sheen for me, I ween, Than the broad and unblushing noon. But every leaf awakens my grief, As it lieth beneath the tree; So let Autumn air be never so fair, It by no means agrees with me.

‘But my song I troll out, for _Christmas _Stout, The hearty, the true, and the bold; A bumper I drain, and with might and main Give three cheers for this Christmas old! We’ll usher him in with a merry din That shall gladden his joyous heart, And we’ll keep him up, while there’s bite or sup, And in fellowship good, we’ll part. ‘In his fine honest pride, he scorns to hide One jot of his hard-weather scars; They’re no disgrace, for there’s much the same trace On the cheeks of our bravest tars. Then again I sing till the roof doth ring And it echoes from wall to wall—To the stout old wight, fair welcome to-night, As the King of the Seasons all!’

This song was tumultuously applauded—for friends and dependents make a capital audience—and the poor relations, especially, were in perfect ecstasies of rapture. Again was the fire replenished, and again went the wassail round.

‘How it snows!’ said one of the men, in a low tone.

‘Snows, does it?’ said Wardle.

‘Rough, cold night, Sir,’ replied the man; ‘and there’s a wind got up, that drifts it across the fields, in a thick white cloud.’

‘What does Jem say?’ inquired the old lady. ‘There ain’t anything the matter, is there?’

‘No, no, mother,’ replied Wardle; ‘he says there’s a snowdrift, and a wind that’s piercing cold. I should know that, by the way it rumbles in the chimney.’

‘Ah!’ said the old lady, ‘there was just such a wind, and just such a fall of snow, a good many years back, I recollect—just five years before your poor father died. It was a Christmas Eve, too; and I remember that on that very night he told us the story about the goblins that carried away old Gabriel Grub.’

‘The story about what?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Oh, nothing, nothing,’ replied Wardle. ‘About an old sexton, that the good people down here suppose to have been carried away by goblins.’

‘Suppose!’ ejaculated the old lady. ‘Is there anybody hardy enough to disbelieve it? Suppose! Haven’t you heard ever since you were a child, that he _was _carried away by the goblins, and don’t you know he was?’

‘Very well, mother, he was, if you like,’ said Wardle laughing. ‘He was carried away by goblins, Pickwick; and there’s an end of the matter.’

‘No, no,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘not an end of it, I assure you; for I must hear how, and why, and all about it.’

Wardle smiled, as every head was bent forward to hear, and filling out the wassail with no stinted hand, nodded a health to Mr. Pickwick, and began as follows—

But bless our editorial heart, what a long chapter we have been betrayed into! We had quite forgotten all such petty restrictions as chapters, we solemnly declare. So here goes, to give the goblin a fair start in a new one. A clear stage and no favour for the goblins, ladies and gentlemen, if you please.

Era piacevole vedere il signor Pickwick al centro del gruppo: ora tirato da una parte, ora dall’altra; prima baciato sul mento, poi sul naso, infine sugli occhiali. E ancora più piacevole era ascoltare le risate che echeggiavano ovunque. Ma fu ancora più divertente quando il signor Pickwick venne improvvisamente accecato con un fazzoletto di seta, iniziò a inciampare contro i muri, a rincorrersi nelle stanze e a partecipare con grande entusiasmo a quel gioco. Fino a quando non catturò uno dei “poveri parenti” coinvolti nel gioco. E allora dovette a sua volta cercare di sfuggire, facendo mostra di agilità e destrezza che suscitarono l’ammirazione e gli applausi di tutti i presenti. I “poveri parenti”, a loro volta, cercavano di catturare le persone che pensavano fossero disposte a partecipare al gioco. E quando anche loro si stancarono, iniziarono un altro gioco molto divertente. Alla fine, tutti si sedettero intorno al grande focolare fatto di tronchi ardenti per una cena sostanziosa e per bere del punch caldo. Un’intera ciotola piena di mele bollite, che sobbollivano con un suono delizioso. Qualcosa di davvero irresistibile.

“Questo,” disse il signor Pickwick, guardandosi intorno, “questo è davvero conforto.” “È la nostra abitudine immutabile,” rispose il signor Wardle. “Tutti vengono a sedersi con noi la vigilia di Natale, come vedete ora: servitori compresi; e qui aspettiamo che l’orologio batta le dodici per dare il benvenuto a Natale e trascorrere il tempo giocando e raccontando vecchie storie. Trundle, ragazzo mio, raccogli i ceppi dal focolare.”

Le scintille luminose volavano ovunque mentre i tronchi venivano mescolati. Il fuoco rosso intenso emanava una luce intensa che penetrava nell’angolo più remoto della stanza, illuminando con un tono allegro tutti i volti presenti.

“Come,” disse Wardle, “una canzone, una canzone di Natale! Vi ne canto una, se non ne trovate una migliore.”

“Bravo!”, disse il signor Pickwick.

“Riempite,” gridò Wardle. “Ci vorranno almeno due ore prima di riuscire a vedere il fondo della coppa attraverso il colore intenso e scuro del vino; riempitela completamente, e ora, la canzone!”

Detto questo, il vecchio signore allegro, con una voce chiara, rotonda e robusta, iniziò senza ulteriori indugi.

Una canzone natalizia

“Non mi interessa la Primavera; che i fiori e i boccioli siano portati dal suo volo incostante. Li seduce con la sua pioggia traditrice, per poi disperderli prima dell’alba. Un folletto inaffidabile. Non conosce nemmeno se stesso, né il proprio cuore che cambia in un istante. Sorride in tuo volto, ma poi, con una smorfia crudele, fa appassire il tuo fiore più giovane.”

“Lasciate che il sole d’estate illumini la sua casa luminosa. Non lo cercherò mai più; quando sarà offuscato da una nuvola, potrò ridere ad alta voce, senza curarmi di quanto possa essere cupo. Perché la sua adorata bambina è quella follia selvaggia che si manifesta nel corso di febbri violente. E quando l’amore diventa troppo forte, non dura a lungo. Come molti hanno scoperto con grande dolore.”

“Un raccolto modesto, sotto la luce tranquilla della semplice e gentile luna, ha per me un fascino molto più dolce di quello del caldo e splendente pomeriggio. Ma ogni foglia che si risveglia sotto l’albero riporta con sé il mio dolore. Quindi, anche se l’Autunno potesse essere ancora più bello, non mi sarebbe mai gradito.”

“Ma la mia canzone la canto per il Christmas Stout, per quelli coraggiosi e veri; la bevo fino in fondo e, con forza e entusiasmo, brindo tre volte a questo vecchio Natale! Lo accoglieremo con un clamore gioioso che renderà felice il suo cuore; lo tratterremo bene, finché ci sarà cibo o bevanda, e poi, in buona compagnia, ci separeremo. Con la sua nobile onestà, egli disprezza l’idea di nascondere anche solo un segno delle prove difficili che ha affrontato; quelle cicatrici non sono una vergogna, perché molte persone coraggiose hanno lo stesso destino. Allora continuo a cantare, fino a quando il soffitto non risuona e l’eco si diffonde da un muro all’altro. Benvenuto, vecchio amico, nella notte di Natale. Il re di tutte le stagioni!”

Questa -canzone fu accolta da un applauso entusiasta: gli amici e i familiari, infatti, costituiscono un pubblico ideale; in particolare, le povere relazioni interpersonali sembravano essere nel pieno dell’estasi. Di nuovo la >fiamma fu ravvivata, e di nuovo il vino venne distribuito tra tutti.

“Che nevica, ”, disse uno degli uomini, a bassa voce.

“Nevica, vero?” disse Wardle.

“Notte fredda e brutale, signore,” rispose l’uomo; “e c’è un >vento che la spinge attraverso i campi, sotto forma di una densa nuvola bianca.”

“Cosa dice Jem?”, chiese la vecchia signora. “Non c’è nulla di grave, vero?”

“No, no, mamma,” rispose Wardle; “dice che c’è una pila di neve e un >vento gelido da morire. Lo so bene, dal modo in cui rimbomba nel camino.”

“Ah!” disse la vecchia signora, “Circa molti anni fa, esattamente cinque anni prima che tuo povero padre morisse. Fu anche una vigilia di Natale. Ricordo che proprio quella notte ci raccontò la storia dei goblin che portarono via il vecchio Gabriel Grub.”

“La storia di cosa?”, chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Ah, niente, niente,” rispose Wardle. “Si tratta di un vecchio sagrestano che la gente del posto crede sia stato portato via dai goblin.”

“Supponiamo!” esclamò la vecchia signora. “Esiste qualcuno abbastanza coraggioso da non crederci? Supponiamo! Non avete mai sentito, fin da quando eravate bambini, che fu portato via dai goblin. E non lo sapete forse?”

“Molto bene, madre, davvero,” disse Wardle ridendo. “Pickwick è stato portato via dai goblin. E basta così.”

“No, no,” disse il signor Pickwick, “non è affatto la fine della storia; devo assolutamente sapere come, perché e tutto ciò che c’è dietro.”

Wardle sorrise; tutti avevano chinato la testa per ascoltare attentamente. Versando generosamente il vino durante la celebrazione, fece un brindisi al signor Pickwick e iniziò così.

Ma benedetto il nostro spirito editoriale. In quale lungo capitolo siamo stati trascinati! Avevamo completamente dimenticato tutte queste piccole restrizioni legate ai “capitoli”, lo dichiariamo solennemente. Quindi, eccoci qui: per dare al goblin una possibilità equa in un nuovo inizio. Una situazione limpida, senza favoritismi nei confronti dei goblin. Signore e signori, vi preghiamo.

CHAPTER XXIX. THE STORY OF THE GOBLINS WHO STOLE A SEXTON

‘In an old abbey town, down in this part of the country, a long, long while ago—so long, that the story must be a true one, because our great-grandfathers implicitly believed it—there officiated as sexton and grave-digger in the churchyard, one Gabriel Grub. It by no means follows that because a man is a sexton, and constantly surrounded by the emblems of mortality, therefore he should be a morose and melancholy man; your undertakers are the merriest fellows in the world; and I once had the honour of being on intimate terms with a mute, who in private life, and off duty, was as comical and jocose a little fellow as ever chirped out a devil-may-care song, without a hitch in his memory, or drained off a good stiff glass without stopping for breath. But notwithstanding these precedents to the contrary, Gabriel Grub was an ill-conditioned, cross-grained, surly fellow—a morose and lonely man, who consorted with nobody but himself, and an old wicker bottle which fitted into his large deep waistcoat pocket—and who eyed each merry face, as it passed him by, with such a deep scowl of malice and ill- humour, as it was difficult to meet without feeling something the worse for.

‘A little before twilight, one Christmas Eve, Gabriel shouldered his spade, lighted his lantern, and betook himself towards the old churchyard; for he had got a grave to finish by next morning, and, feeling very low, he thought it might raise his spirits, perhaps, if he went on with his work at once. As he went his way, up the ancient street, he saw the cheerful light of the blazing fires gleam through the old casements, and heard the loud laugh and the cheerful shouts of those who were assembled around them; he marked the bustling preparations for next day’s cheer, and smelled the numerous savoury odours consequent thereupon, as they steamed up from the kitchen windows in clouds. All this was gall and wormwood to the heart of Gabriel Grub; and when groups of children bounded out of the houses, tripped across the road, and were met, before they could knock at the opposite door, by half a dozen curly-headed little rascals who crowded round them as they flocked upstairs to spend the evening in their Christmas games, Gabriel smiled grimly, and clutched the handle of his spade with a firmer grasp, as he thought of measles, scarlet fever, thrush, whooping-cough, and a good many other sources of consolation besides.

‘In this happy frame of mind, Gabriel strode along, returning a short, sullen growl to the good-humoured greetings of such of his neighbours as now and then passed him, until he turned into the dark lane which led to the churchyard. Now, Gabriel had been looking forward to reaching the dark lane, because it was, generally speaking, a nice, gloomy, mournful place, into which the townspeople did not much care to go, except in broad daylight, and when the sun was shining; consequently, he was not a little indignant to hear a young urchin roaring out some jolly song about a merry Christmas, in this very sanctuary which had been called Coffin Lane ever since the days of the old abbey, and the time of the shaven-headed monks. As Gabriel walked on, and the voice drew nearer, he found it proceeded from a small boy, who was hurrying along, to join one of the little parties in the old street, and who, partly to keep himself company, and partly to prepare himself for the occasion, was shouting out the song at the highest pitch of his lungs. So Gabriel waited until the boy came up, and then dodged him into a corner, and rapped him over the head with his lantern five or six times, just to teach him to modulate his voice. And as the boy hurried away with his hand to his head, singing quite a different sort of tune, Gabriel Grub chuckled very heartily to himself, and entered the churchyard, locking the gate behind him.

‘He took off his coat, set down his lantern, and getting into the unfinished grave, worked at it for an hour or so with right good-will. But the earth was hardened with the frost, and it was no very easy matter to break it up, and shovel it out; and although there was a moon, it was a very young one, and shed little light upon the grave, which was in the shadow of the church. At any other time, these obstacles would have made Gabriel Grub very moody and miserable, but he was so well pleased with having stopped the small boy’s singing, that he took little heed of the scanty progress he had made, and looked down into the grave, when he had finished work for the night, with grim satisfaction, murmuring as he gathered up his things—

Brave lodgings for one, brave lodgings for one, A few feet of cold earth, when life is done; A stone at the head, a stone at the feet, A rich, juicy meal for the worms to eat; Rank grass overhead, and damp clay around, Brave lodgings for one, these, in holy ground!

‘“Ho! ho!” laughed Gabriel Grub, as he sat himself down on a flat tombstone which was a favourite resting-place of his, and drew forth his wicker bottle. “A coffin at Christmas! A Christmas box! Ho! ho! ho!”

‘“Ho! ho! ho!” repeated a voice which sounded close behind him.

‘Gabriel paused, in some alarm, in the act of raising the wicker bottle to his lips, and looked round. The bottom of the oldest grave about him was not more still and quiet than the churchyard in the pale moonlight. The cold hoar frost glistened on the tombstones, and sparkled like rows of gems, among the stone carvings of the old church. The snow lay hard and crisp upon the ground; and spread over the thickly-strewn mounds of earth, so white and smooth a cover that it seemed as if corpses lay there, hidden only by their winding sheets. Not the faintest rustle broke the profound tranquillity of the solemn scene. Sound itself appeared to be frozen up, all was so cold and still.

capitolo XXIX. LA STORIA DEI GOBBLIN CHE HANNO ROVATO UN SESTONE

In una vecchia città abbaziale, in questa parte del paese, molto tempo fa – così tanto che la storia deve essere vera, perché i nostri bisnonni ci credevano ciecamente – c’era un certo Gabriel Grub che svolgeva il ruolo di sacrestano e scavatore di tombe nel cimitero della chiesa. Ma questo non significa affatto che, solo perché una persona lavora in un ambiente legato alla morte, debba necessariamente essere una persona triste e malinconica; anzi, i nostri impresari funebri sono spesso le persone più allegre del mondo. Io stesso ho avuto l’onore di conoscere un uomo muto che, nella vita privata, quando non era al lavoro, era davvero un tipo divertente e scherzoso: cantava canzoni senza mai sbagliare una nota, beveva vino senza mai fermarsi per respirare. Eppure, nonostante questi esempi contrari, Gabriel Grub era un uomo di cattivo umore, irascibile e solitario; non frequentava nessuno se non se stesso, e passava il tempo con una vecchia bottiglia di vimini che teneva nella tasca del suo grande gilet. Ogni volta che vedeva un volto sorridente, lo guardava con un’espressione piena di malizia e cattivo umore. Era davvero difficile non sentirsi a disagio in sua presenza.

Poco prima del crepuscolo, una vigilia di Natale, Gabriel prese in spalla la sua zappa, accese la lanterna e si diresse verso il vecchio cimitero; aveva un tumulo da completare entro la mattina seguente, e, sentendosi molto depresso, pensò che forse lavorare subito gli avrebbe sollevato lo spirito. Mentre camminava lungo quella antica strada, vide il chiarore allegro dei fuochi ardenti filtrare attraverso le vecchie finestre e udì le risate e i canti di coloro che si erano radunati intorno a loro; notò anche l’attività frenetica preparatoria per la festa del giorno dopo, e annusò i numerosi odori deliziosi che provenivano dalle cucine. Tutto ciò, invece, era fonte di amarezza per il cuore di Gabriel Grub; quando gruppi di bambini uscivano di casa, inciampavano per la strada e venivano subito accostati da una mezza dozzina di monelli dai capelli ricci che li circondavano mentre correvano su per le scale per trascorrere la serata giocando ai loro giochi natalizi, Gabriel sorrideva con aria cupa e stringeva ancora più forte il manico della sua zappa, pensando a morbillo, scarlattina, tifo, tosse convulsa, e a molte altre “fonti di conforto”.

Con questo umore felice, Gabriel camminava avanti, rispondendo con un breve e cupo ringhio ai saluti cordiali dei suoi vicini che di tanto in tanto lo incrociavano, fino a quando non entrò nel sentiero buio che conduceva al cimitero. In realtà, Gabriel aspettava con impazienza di raggiungere quel luogo: era generalmente un posto tranquillo, cupo e malinconico, dove la gente del paese preferiva non andare se non a giorno pieno, quando il sole splendeva. Pertanto, fu piuttosto sorpreso quando sentì un giovane monello cantare allegramente una canzone di Natale proprio in quel luogo, che da tempi antichi era conosciuto come “Vicolo del Sepolcro”, ai tempi dell’antico monastero e dei monaci dalla testa rasata. Mentre Gabriel proseguiva il suo cammino, la voce del ragazzo si avvicinava sempre di più; proveniva da un bambino che correva per unirsi a uno dei gruppi presenti nella vecchia strada, e che, sia per tenersi compagnia sia per prepararsi all’occasione, cantava a squarciagola. Gabriel aspettò che il ragazzo gli arrivasse vicino, poi lo evitò in un angolo e lo colpì cinque o sei volte sulla testa con la sua lanterna, solo per insegnargli a moderare il volume della voce. Il bambino se ne andò di corsa, tenendosi la testa, cantando ora una canzone completamente diversa; Gabriel Grub, intanto, rise tra sé e sé e entrò nel cimitero, chiudendo la porta alle sue spalle.

Si tolse il cappotto, posò la lanterna e si infilò nella tomba incompleta; lavorò lì per un’ora circa con grande impegno. Ma la terra era indurita dal gelo, quindi non era affatto facile smuoverla e spalarla via; inoltre, sebbene ci fosse una luna, era ancora molto giovane e illuminava poco quella tomba, situata nell’ ombra della chiesa. In qualsiasi altro momento, questi ostacoli avrebbero reso Gabriel Grub molto malinconico e scontento. Ma poiché era così soddisfatto di aver fatto smettere il bambino di cantare, non prestò molta attenzione ai scarsi progressi che aveva fatto. Alla fine del lavoro, quella notte, guardò dentro la tomba con un’espressione cupa e soddisfatta, mormorando mentre raccoglieva le sue cose.

Nobili dimore per uno, pochi piedi di fredda terra, quando la vita finisce; una pietra sulla testa, una pietra ai piedi, un pasto ricco e succoso per i vermi. Erba alta sopra la testa, fango umido intorno. Nobili dimore per uno, questi, in terra sacra!

“‘Ahahah!’ rise Gabriel Grub, sedendosi su una lapide piatta che era il suo posto preferito per riposare, e tirò fuori la sua bottiglia di vimini. ‘Un feretro a Natale! Una scatola di Natale! Ahahah!’”

“‘Ho! ho! ho!’ ripeteva una voce che sembrava provenire proprio dietro di lui.”

Gabriel si fermò, un po’ allarmato, mentre sollevava la bottiglia di vimini alle labbra, e guardò intorno. Il fondo della più antica tomba che lo circondava non era affatto più silenzioso e tranquillo del cimitero sotto la pallida luce della luna. La fredda brina scintillava sulle lapidi, come file di gemme tra le sculture in pietra dell’antica chiesa. La neve copriva il terreno con uno strato duro e croccante; si estendeva anche sui cumuli di terra, formando un tappeto bianco e liscio che sembrava nascondesse dei cadaveri, avvolti solo nelle loro lenzuola. Non si udiva il minimo fruscio che potesse rompere quella profonda tranquillità. Sembrava che anche i suoni fossero congelati. Tutto era così freddo e immobile.

‘“It was the echoes,” said Gabriel Grub, raising the bottle to his lips again.

‘“It was not,” said a deep voice.

‘Gabriel started up, and stood rooted to the spot with astonishment and terror; for his eyes rested on a form that made his blood run cold.

‘Seated on an upright tombstone, close to him, was a strange, unearthly figure, whom Gabriel felt at once, was no being of this world. His long, fantastic legs which might have reached the ground, were cocked up, and crossed after a quaint, fantastic fashion; his sinewy arms were bare; and his hands rested on his knees. On his short, round body, he wore a close covering, ornamented with small slashes; a short cloak dangled at his back; the collar was cut into curious peaks, which served the goblin in lieu of ruff or neckerchief; and his shoes curled up at his toes into long points. On his head, he wore a broad-brimmed sugar-loaf hat, garnished with a single feather. The hat was covered with the white frost; and the goblin looked as if he had sat on the same tombstone very comfortably, for two or three hundred years. He was sitting perfectly still; his tongue was put out, as if in derision; and he was grinning at Gabriel Grub with such a grin as only a goblin could call up.

‘“It was _not _the echoes,” said the goblin.

‘Gabriel Grub was paralysed, and could make no reply.

‘“What do you do here on Christmas Eve?” said the goblin sternly.

‘“I came to dig a grave, Sir,” stammered Gabriel Grub.

‘“What man wanders among graves and churchyards on such a night as this?” cried the goblin.

‘“Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub!” screamed a wild chorus of voices that seemed to fill the churchyard. Gabriel looked fearfully round—nothing was to be seen.

‘“What have you got in that bottle?” said the goblin.

‘“Hollands, sir,” replied the sexton, trembling more than ever; for he had bought it of the smugglers, and he thought that perhaps his questioner might be in the excise department of the goblins.

‘“Who drinks Hollands alone, and in a churchyard, on such a night as this?” said the goblin.

‘“Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub!” exclaimed the wild voices again.

‘The goblin leered maliciously at the terrified sexton, and then raising his voice, exclaimed—

‘“And who, then, is our fair and lawful prize?”

‘To this inquiry the invisible chorus replied, in a strain that sounded like the voices of many choristers singing to the mighty swell of the old church organ—a strain that seemed borne to the sexton’s ears upon a wild wind, and to die away as it passed onward; but the burden of the reply was still the same, “Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub!”

‘The goblin grinned a broader grin than before, as he said, “Well, Gabriel, what do you say to this?”

‘The sexton gasped for breath.

‘“What do you think of this, Gabriel?” said the goblin, kicking up his feet in the air on either side of the tombstone, and looking at the turned-up points with as much complacency as if he had been contemplating the most fashionable pair of Wellingtons in all Bond Street.

‘“It’s—it’s—very curious, Sir,” replied the sexton, half dead with fright; “very curious, and very pretty, but I think I’ll go back and finish my work, Sir, if you please.”

‘“Work!” said the goblin, “what work?”

‘“The grave, Sir; making the grave,” stammered the sexton.

‘“Oh, the grave, eh?” said the goblin; “who makes graves at a time when all other men are merry, and takes a pleasure in it?”

‘Again the mysterious voices replied, “Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub!”

‘“I am afraid my friends want you, Gabriel,” said the goblin, thrusting his tongue farther into his cheek than ever—and a most astonishing tongue it was—“I’m afraid my friends want you, Gabriel,” said the goblin.

‘“Under favour, Sir,” replied the horror-stricken sexton, “I don’t think they can, Sir; they don’t know me, Sir; I don’t think the gentlemen have ever seen me, Sir.”

‘“Oh, yes, they have,” replied the goblin; “we know the man with the sulky face and grim scowl, that came down the street to-night, throwing his evil looks at the children, and grasping his burying-spade the tighter. We know the man who struck the boy in the envious malice of his heart, because the boy could be merry, and he could not. We know him, we know him.”

‘Here, the goblin gave a loud, shrill laugh, which the echoes returned twentyfold; and throwing his legs up in the air, stood upon his head, or rather upon the very point of his sugar-loaf hat, on the narrow edge of the tombstone, whence he threw a Somerset with extraordinary agility, right to the sexton’s feet, at which he planted himself in the attitude in which tailors generally sit upon the shop-board.

‘“I—I—am afraid I must leave you, Sir,” said the sexton, making an effort to move.

‘“Leave us!” said the goblin, “Gabriel Grub going to leave us. Ho! ho! ho!”

‘As the goblin laughed, the sexton observed, for one instant, a brilliant illumination within the windows of the church, as if the whole building were lighted up; it disappeared, the organ pealed forth a lively air, and whole troops of goblins, the very counterpart of the first one, poured into the churchyard, and began playing at leap-frog with the tombstones, never stopping for an instant to take breath, but “overing” the highest among them, one after the other, with the most marvellous dexterity. The first goblin was a most astonishing leaper, and none of the others could come near him; even in the extremity of his terror the sexton could not help observing, that while his friends were content to leap over the common-sized gravestones, the first one took the family vaults, iron railings and all, with as much ease as if they had been so many street-posts.

‘At last the game reached to a most exciting pitch; the organ played quicker and quicker, and the goblins leaped faster and faster, coiling themselves up, rolling head over heels upon the ground, and bounding over the tombstones like footballs. The sexton’s brain whirled round with the rapidity of the motion he beheld, and his legs reeled beneath him, as the spirits flew before his eyes; when the goblin king, suddenly darting towards him, laid his hand upon his collar, and sank with him through the earth.

“Erano gli echi,” disse Gabriel Grub, sollevando di nuovo la bottiglia alle labbra.

“Non era così,” disse una voce profonda.

“Gabriel si alzò in piedi, immobile per lo stupore e il terrore; i suoi occhi si posarono su una figura che gli fece gelare il >sangue nelle vene.”

Seduto su una lapide eretta, vicino a lui, c’era una figura strana, soprannaturale; Gabriel capì immediatamente che non apparteneva a questo mondo. Le sue lunghe gambe fantastiche, che avrebbero potuto raggiungere il suolo, erano piegate in modo bizzarro e incrociate l’una sull’altra; le sue braccia muscolose erano scoperte, e le mani poggiavano sulle ginocchia. Sul suo corpo corto e rotondo indossava un mantello stretto, decorato con piccoli tagli; sulla schiena pendeva un cappotto corto; il colletto era formato da strani bordi che fungevano da sciarpa o foulard; i suoi scarponi si arricciavano alle punte in lunghi acule. In testa portava un cappello a tesa larga, ornato con una sola piuma; il cappello era coperto di brina bianca. Quel goblin sembrava essersi seduto su quella stessa lapide per due o trecento anni. Stava immobile; aveva la lingua fuori, come se lo facesse apposta per deridere qualcuno. E sorrideva a Gabriel Grub con un sorriso che solo un goblin poteva esibire.

“Non erano gli echi,” disse il goblin.

Gabriel Grub era paralizzato e non riusciva a rispondere.

“Cosa fai qui alla vigilia di Natale?”, chiese il folletto con tono severo.

“Sono venuto per scavare una >tomba, signore,” balbettò Gabriel Grub.

“Che uomo vaga tra tombe e cimiteri in una notte del genere?”, gridò il folletto.

“Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub!” gridò un folle coro di voci che sembravano riempire l’area intorno alla chiesa. Gabriel guardò intorno con paura, ma non vide nulla.

“Cosa c’è in quella bottiglia?” chiese il goblin.

“‘Hollands, signore,’ rispose il sagrestano, tremando più che mai; perché l’aveva comprata dai contrabbandieri e temeva che chi gli stava facendo domande potesse appartenere al dipartimento delle tasse dei goblin.”

“Chi beve il vino olandese da solo, e per di più in un cimitero, in una notte come questa?” disse il folletto.

“Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub!” esclamarono di nuovo quelle voci selvagge.

Il goblin fissò con uno sguardo malvagio il terrorizzato chierico, poi alzando la voce esclamò:

“E allora, chi è la nostra bella e legittima preda?”

A questa domanda, l’invisibile coro rispose con un canto che sembrava il suono di molte voci che cantavano all’unisono con il potente suono dell’organo della vecchia chiesa; un canto che pareva essere portato alle orecchie del sagrestano da un selvaggio >vento, per poi svanire man mano che si allontanava. Ma il messaggio della risposta rimaneva lo stesso: “Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub!”

“Il goblin sorrise ancora di più e disse: ‘Beh, Gabriel, cosa ne pensi?’”

“Il sagrestano ansimava per riprendere fiato.”

“Che ne pensi di questo, Gabriel?” disse il goblin, scalciando in aria con entrambe le gambe ai lati della lapide e osservando quelle estremità sollevate con tale compiacimento, come se stesse ammirando la coppia di stivali Wellington più alla moda di tutta Bond Street.

“È, è molto curioso, signore,” rispose il sagrestano, tremando di paura; “molto curioso e anche molto bello, ma penso che tornerò a finire il mio lavoro, se per favore lo permette, signore.”

“Lavora!”, disse il goblin, “ma quale lavoro?”

“La tomba, signore, stiamo preparando la tomba,” balbettò il becchino.

“Oh, il tombaio, eh?”, disse il goblin; “chi costruisce tombe in un momento in cui tutti gli altri sono felici, e ne trae piacere?”

Di nuovo quelle voci misteriose risposero: “Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub!”

“Temo che i miei amici ti vogliano, Gabriel,” disse il goblin, infilando la lingua ancora di più nella guancia del tutto insolitamente, “Temo davvero che i miei amici ti vogliano, Gabriel,” ripeté.

“Con il vostro permesso, signore,” rispose il sagrestano, terrorizzato, “non credo che possano farlo, signore; non mi conoscono, signore; penso che quei gentiluomini non mi abbiano mai visto, signore.”

“Oh, sì, ce l’hanno,” rispose il goblin; “conosciamo quell’uomo con il viso cupo e l’espressione minacciosa che è sceso per la strada di notte, lanciando occhiatai malvagi ai bambini e stringendo ancora di più la sua pala da seppellimento. Conosciamo quell’uomo che ha colpito il ragazzo per invidia, perché quel ragazzo poteva essere felice, mentre lui no. Lo conosciamo, lo conosciamo bene.”

“Ecco,” disse il goblin, emettendo una risata alta e stridula che gli echi ripeterono venti volte; poi alzò le gambe in aria, si mise in piedi sulla testa, o meglio, sul punto più alto del suo cappello a forma di panetto di zucchero, sull’angolo stretto della lapide. Da lì lanciò con straordinaria agilità un “Somerset” dritto ai piedi del becchino, che si trovava proprio in quella posizione in cui i sarti di solito si siedono sul banco da lavoro.”

“‘Mi, mi dispiace, ma devo lasciarvi, signore,’ disse il sacrestano, cercando di alzarsi in piedi.”

“Lasciateci in pace!” disse il goblin. “Gabriel Grub se ne andrà. Ahahah!”

Mentre il goblin rideva, il sagrestano notò, per un istante, una luce intensa brillare all’interno delle finestre della chiesa, come se l’intero edificio fosse stato illuminato; poi quella luce scomparve. L’organo iniziò a suonare una melodia vivace e intere schiere di goblin, identici al primo, irruppero nel cimitero e iniziarono a giocare a salti sulle lapidi, senza mai fermarsi un attimo per riprendere fiato. Uno dopo l’altro, superavano con la massima agilità anche le lapidi più alte. Il primo goblin era davvero un saltatore straordinario: nessuno degli altri riusciva a eguagliarlo. Anche nel mezzo del suo terrore, il sagrestano non poté fare a meno di osservare che, mentre gli altri si accontentavano di saltare sulle lapidi normali, quel goblin superava senza problemi anche le cripte familiari, con le loro ringhiere di ferro, come se fossero state semplici stele stradali.

Finalmente, la partita raggiunse un punto estremamente emozionante: l’organo suonava sempre più velocemente, e i goblin saltavano sempre più in alto, avvolgendosi su se stessi, rotolando a terra e balzando sopra le lapidi come palloni da football. La testa del sagrestano vorticava per la rapidità di ciò che vedeva; le gambe gli cedevano sotto il peso del corpo, mentre quegli spiriti volavano davanti ai suoi occhi. Quando il re dei goblin, all’improvviso, si lanciò verso di lui, posò una mano sul suo colletto e insieme scomparvero sotto terra.

‘When Gabriel Grub had had time to fetch his breath, which the rapidity of his descent had for the moment taken away, he found himself in what appeared to be a large cavern, surrounded on all sides by crowds of goblins, ugly and grim; in the centre of the room, on an elevated seat, was stationed his friend of the churchyard; and close behind him stood Gabriel Grub himself, without power of motion.

‘“Cold to-night,” said the king of the goblins, “very cold. A glass of something warm here!”

‘At this command, half a dozen officious goblins, with a perpetual smile upon their faces, whom Gabriel Grub imagined to be courtiers, on that account, hastily disappeared, and presently returned with a goblet of liquid fire, which they presented to the king.

‘“Ah!” cried the goblin, whose cheeks and throat were transparent, as he tossed down the flame, “this warms one, indeed! Bring a bumper of the same, for Mr. Grub.”

‘It was in vain for the unfortunate sexton to protest that he was not in the habit of taking anything warm at night; one of the goblins held him while another poured the blazing liquid down his throat; the whole assembly screeched with laughter, as he coughed and choked, and wiped away the tears which gushed plentifully from his eyes, after swallowing the burning draught.

‘“And now,” said the king, fantastically poking the taper corner of his sugar-loaf hat into the sexton’s eye, and thereby occasioning him the most exquisite pain; “and now, show the man of misery and gloom, a few of the pictures from our own great storehouse!”

‘As the goblin said this, a thick cloud which obscured the remoter end of the cavern rolled gradually away, and disclosed, apparently at a great distance, a small and scantily furnished, but neat and clean apartment. A crowd of little children were gathered round a bright fire, clinging to their mother’s gown, and gambolling around her chair. The mother occasionally rose, and drew aside the window-curtain, as if to look for some expected object; a frugal meal was ready spread upon the table; and an elbow chair was placed near the fire. A knock was heard at the door; the mother opened it, and the children crowded round her, and clapped their hands for joy, as their father entered. He was wet and weary, and shook the snow from his garments, as the children crowded round him, and seizing his cloak, hat, stick, and gloves, with busy zeal, ran with them from the room. Then, as he sat down to his meal before the fire, the children climbed about his knee, and the mother sat by his side, and all seemed happiness and comfort.

‘But a change came upon the view, almost imperceptibly. The scene was altered to a small bedroom, where the fairest and youngest child lay dying; the roses had fled from his cheek, and the light from his eye; and even as the sexton looked upon him with an interest he had never felt or known before, he died. His young brothers and sisters crowded round his little bed, and seized his tiny hand, so cold and heavy; but they shrank back from its touch, and looked with awe on his infant face; for calm and tranquil as it was, and sleeping in rest and peace as the beautiful child seemed to be, they saw that he was dead, and they knew that he was an angel looking down upon, and blessing them, from a bright and happy Heaven.

‘Again the light cloud passed across the picture, and again the subject changed. The father and mother were old and helpless now, and the number of those about them was diminished more than half; but content and cheerfulness sat on every face, and beamed in every eye, as they crowded round the fireside, and told and listened to old stories of earlier and bygone days. Slowly and peacefully, the father sank into the grave, and, soon after, the sharer of all his cares and troubles followed him to a place of rest. The few who yet survived them, kneeled by their tomb, and watered the green turf which covered it with their tears; then rose, and turned away, sadly and mournfully, but not with bitter cries, or despairing lamentations, for they knew that they should one day meet again; and once more they mixed with the busy world, and their content and cheerfulness were restored. The cloud settled upon the picture, and concealed it from the sexton’s view.

‘“What do you think of that?” said the goblin, turning his large face towards Gabriel Grub.

‘Gabriel murmured out something about its being very pretty, and looked somewhat ashamed, as the goblin bent his fiery eyes upon him.

‘“You a miserable man!” said the goblin, in a tone of excessive contempt. “You!” He appeared disposed to add more, but indignation choked his utterance, so he lifted up one of his very pliable legs, and, flourishing it above his head a little, to insure his aim, administered a good sound kick to Gabriel Grub; immediately after which, all the goblins in waiting crowded round the wretched sexton, and kicked him without mercy, according to the established and invariable custom of courtiers upon earth, who kick whom royalty kicks, and hug whom royalty hugs.

‘“Show him some more!” said the king of the goblins.

‘At these words, the cloud was dispelled, and a rich and beautiful landscape was disclosed to view—there is just such another, to this day, within half a mile of the old abbey town. The sun shone from out the clear blue sky, the water sparkled beneath his rays, and the trees looked greener, and the flowers more gay, beneath its cheering influence. The water rippled on with a pleasant sound, the trees rustled in the light wind that murmured among their leaves, the birds sang upon the boughs, and the lark carolled on high her welcome to the morning. Yes, it was morning; the bright, balmy morning of summer; the minutest leaf, the smallest blade of grass, was instinct with life. The ant crept forth to her daily toil, the butterfly fluttered and basked in the warm rays of the sun; myriads of insects spread their transparent wings, and revelled in their brief but happy existence. Man walked forth, elated with the scene; and all was brightness and splendour.

Quando Gabriel Grub ebbe il tempo di riprendere fiato – che la rapidità della sua discesa gli aveva temporaneamente impedito – si trovò in quella che sembrava essere una grande caverna, circondata su tutti i lati da folle di goblin, brutti e minacciosi; al centro della caverna, su un sedile elevato, c’era il suo amico del cimitero; e proprio dietro di lui stava Gabriel Grub stesso, incapace di muoversi.

“Freddo fino alle ossa di notte,” disse il re dei goblin, “molto freddo. Una tazza di qualcosa di caldo qui!”

Alla ricezione di questo ordine, mezza dozzina di goblin servili, con un sorriso perpetuo sul viso – che Gabriel Grub immaginò fossero cortigiani – scomparvero rapidamente per poi tornare poco dopo con un calice contenente un liquido infuocato, che presentarono al re.

“Ah!“ esclamò il goblin, le cui guance e la gola erano trasparenti, mentre gettava via la fiamma, “Questo riscalda davvero! Portate un’altra brocca dello stesso per il signor Grub.”

Fu inutile che il sfortunato becchino protestasse dicendo di non essere abituato a bere nulla di caldo di notte; uno dei goblin lo tenne fermo mentre un altro gli versava quel liquido bollente nella gola; l’intera assemblea scoppiò in risate mentre lui tossiva e soffocava, asciugandosi le lacrime che gli scorrevano copiose dagli occhi dopo aver ingoiato quella bevanda ardente.

“E ora,” disse il re, infilzando con gesto teatrale l’angolo appuntito del suo cappello a forma di pane di zucchero nell’occhio del sagrestano, causandogli un dolore estremamente intenso; “e ora, mostrate a quest’uomo di miseria e tristezza alcune delle immagini presenti nel nostro grande archivio!”

Mentre il goblin diceva queste cose, una densa nuvola che oscurava l’estremità più lontana della caverna si allontanò gradualmente, rivelando, a grande distanza, un piccolo ambiente scarsamente arredato ma pulito e ordinato. Un gruppo di bambini era radunato intorno a un bel fuoco, aggrappati alla gonna della loro madre e giocando intorno alla sua sedia. Di tanto in tanto la madre si alzava e tirava da parte le tende della finestra, come se cercasse qualcosa che aspettava con ansia; un pasto semplice era già pronto sul tavolo, e vicino al fuoco c’era una sedia a braccioli. Si sentì bussare alla porta; la madre aprì e i bambini le si affollarono intorno, battendo le mani per la gioia quando entrò il loro padre. Era bagnato e stanco; scosse la neve dai suoi vestiti mentre i bambini gli afferravano cappotto, cappello, bastone e guanti e correvano via con essi dalla stanza. Poi, mentre si sedeva a mangiare davanti al fuoco, i bambini gli salirono sulle ginocchia e la madre si sedette accanto a lui; sembrava che tutto fosse felicità e conforto.

Ma il paesaggio cambiò, quasi impercettibilmente. La scena si trasformò in una piccola camera da letto, dove il più bello e il più giovane >bambino giaceva morente; le rose erano scomparse dalle sue guance, e la luce dai suoi occhi. Mentre il prete lo guardava con un interesse che non aveva mai provato prima, lui morì. I suoi fratelli e sorelle si affollarono intorno al suo lettino, afferrarono la sua manina, così fredda e pesante. Ma indietreggiarono al suo tocco, guardando con timore il suo viso infantile. Perché, nonostante sembrasse calmo e sereno, addormentato in pace come quel bellissimo >bambino, loro sapevano che era morto. E sapevano anche che era un angelo che li guardava dall’alto, benedicendoli, in un cielo luminoso e felice.

Di nuovo la nuvola luminosa attraversò la scena, e di nuovo l’aspetto della situazione cambiò. Il padre e la madre erano ormai anziani e indifesi; il numero delle persone che li circondavano era diminuito di più della metà; tuttavia, sul viso di tutti c’era serenità e gioia mentre si riunivano intorno al fuoco, raccontando e ascoltando vecchie storie dei tempi passati. Lentamente e pacificamente, il padre si addormentò nel sepolcro, e poco dopo anche colui che aveva condiviso tutte le sue preoccupazioni lo seguì in un luogo di riposo. I pochi sopravvissuti si inginocchiarono accanto alla sua tomba e bagnarono con le loro lacrime l’erba verde che la copriva; poi si alzarono e se ne andarono, con tristezza e dolore, ma senza grida amare o lamenti disperati, perché sapevano che un giorno si sarebbero riuniti di nuovo. E ancora una volta si mescolarono alla vita quotidiana, ritrovando serenità e gioia. La nuvola si posò sulla scena, nascondendola dalla vista del custode del cimitero.

“Che ne pensi di quella cosa?”, disse il goblin, girando il suo grande viso verso Gabriel Grub.

“Gabriel mormorò qualcosa riguardo al fatto che fosse molto bella, e sembrava un po’ imbarazzato mentre il folletto gli fissava i suoi occhi ardenti.”

“Sei un uomo miserabile!”, disse il goblin con tono di estrema disprezzo. “Tu!” Sembrava voler aggiungere altro, ma l’indignazione gli impedì di parlare; così sollevò una delle sue gambe molto flessibili, la agitò un po’ sopra la testa per prendere la mira e sferrò un forte calcio a Gabriel Grub. Subito dopo, tutti i goblin presenti si affollarono intorno al povero sagrestano e lo presero a calci senza pietà, secondo l’usanza consolidata e invariabile dei cortigiani sulla terra: chi viene preso a calci dalla royalty, viene preso a calci anche dagli altri, e chi viene abbracciato dalla royalty, viene abbracciato anche dagli altri.

“Mostrategliene ancora!” disse il re dei goblin.

A queste parole, la nuvola si dissipò e apparve davanti ai loro occhi un paesaggio ricco e bellissimo: esiste ancora oggi, a meno di mezzo miglio dall’antica città monastica, un luogo simile. Il sole splendeva nel cielo azzurro; l’acqua scintillava sotto i suoi raggi, gli alberi sembravano più verdi e i fiori più vivaci. L’acqua ondeggiava dolcemente, gli alberi frusciavano nella leggera >vento che mormorava tra le loro foglie, gli uccelli cantavano sui rami e la allodola intonava il suo canto di benvenuto alla mattina. Sì, era mattina: la luminosa e fresca mattina dell’estate; anche la più piccola foglia, l’erba più tenera erano piene di vita. La formica usciva per il suo lavoro quotidiano, la farfalla volteggiava godendosi i caldi raggi del sole; innumerevoli —insetti spiegavano le loro ali trasparenti e si divertivano nella loro breve ma felice esistenza. L’uomo usciva, rallegrato da quella scena; tutto era luce e splendore.

’”_You _a miserable man!” said the king of the goblins, in a more contemptuous tone than before. And again the king of the goblins gave his leg a flourish; again it descended on the shoulders of the sexton; and again the attendant goblins imitated the example of their chief.

‘Many a time the cloud went and came, and many a lesson it taught to Gabriel Grub, who, although his shoulders smarted with pain from the frequent applications of the goblins’ feet thereunto, looked on with an interest that nothing could diminish. He saw that men who worked hard, and earned their scanty bread with lives of labour, were cheerful and happy; and that to the most ignorant, the sweet face of Nature was a never-failing source of cheerfulness and joy. He saw those who had been delicately nurtured, and tenderly brought up, cheerful under privations, and superior to suffering, that would have crushed many of a rougher grain, because they bore within their own bosoms the materials of happiness, contentment, and peace. He saw that women, the tenderest and most fragile of all God’s creatures, were the oftenest superior to sorrow, adversity, and distress; and he saw that it was because they bore, in their own hearts, an inexhaustible well-spring of affection and devotion. Above all, he saw that men like himself, who snarled at the mirth and cheerfulness of others, were the foulest weeds on the fair surface of the earth; and setting all the good of the world against the evil, he came to the conclusion that it was a very decent and respectable sort of world after all. No sooner had he formed it, than the cloud which had closed over the last picture, seemed to settle on his senses, and lull him to repose. One by one, the goblins faded from his sight; and, as the last one disappeared, he sank to sleep.

‘The day had broken when Gabriel Grub awoke, and found himself lying at full length on the flat gravestone in the churchyard, with the wicker bottle lying empty by his side, and his coat, spade, and lantern, all well whitened by the last night’s frost, scattered on the ground. The stone on which he had first seen the goblin seated, stood bolt upright before him, and the grave at which he had worked, the night before, was not far off. At first, he began to doubt the reality of his adventures, but the acute pain in his shoulders when he attempted to rise, assured him that the kicking of the goblins was certainly not ideal. He was staggered again, by observing no traces of footsteps in the snow on which the goblins had played at leap-frog with the gravestones, but he speedily accounted for this circumstance when he remembered that, being spirits, they would leave no visible impression behind them. So, Gabriel Grub got on his feet as well as he could, for the pain in his back; and, brushing the frost off his coat, put it on, and turned his face towards the town.

‘But he was an altered man, and he could not bear the thought of returning to a place where his repentance would be scoffed at, and his reformation disbelieved. He hesitated for a few moments; and then turned away to wander where he might, and seek his bread elsewhere.

‘The lantern, the spade, and the wicker bottle were found, that day, in the churchyard. There were a great many speculations about the sexton’s fate, at first, but it was speedily determined that he had been carried away by the goblins; and there were not wanting some very credible witnesses who had distinctly seen him whisked through the air on the back of a chestnut horse blind of one eye, with the hind-quarters of a lion, and the tail of a bear. At length all this was devoutly believed; and the new sexton used to exhibit to the curious, for a trifling emolument, a good-sized piece of the church weathercock which had been accidentally kicked off by the aforesaid horse in his aerial flight, and picked up by himself in the churchyard, a year or two afterwards.

‘Unfortunately, these stories were somewhat disturbed by the unlooked- for reappearance of Gabriel Grub himself, some ten years afterwards, a ragged, contented, rheumatic old man. He told his story to the clergyman, and also to the mayor; and in course of time it began to be received as a matter of history, in which form it has continued down to this very day. The believers in the weathercock tale, having misplaced their confidence once, were not easily prevailed upon to part with it again, so they looked as wise as they could, shrugged their shoulders, touched their foreheads, and murmured something about Gabriel Grub having drunk all the Hollands, and then fallen asleep on the flat tombstone; and they affected to explain what he supposed he had witnessed in the goblin’s cavern, by saying that he had seen the world, and grown wiser. But this opinion, which was by no means a popular one at any time, gradually died off; and be the matter how it may, as Gabriel Grub was afflicted with rheumatism to the end of his days, this story has at least one moral, if it teach no better one—and that is, that if a man turn sulky and drink by himself at Christmas time, he may make up his mind to be not a bit the better for it: let the spirits be never so good, or let them be even as many degrees beyond proof, as those which Gabriel Grub saw in the goblin’s cavern.’

“Sei un uomo miserabile!”, disse il re dei goblin, con un tono ancora più sprezzante di prima. E di nuovo il re dei goblin mosse la sua gamba; ancora una volta essa colpì le spalle del sagrestano; e ancora una volta i goblin presenti imitarono l’esempio del loro capo.

‘Molte volte la nuvola andava e veniva, e insegnava molte lezioni a Gabriel Grub. Anche se le sue spalle soffrivano per le frequenti pressioni esercitate sui suoi muscoli dai piedi dei goblin, egli osservava tutto con un interesse che nulla poteva diminuire. Vide che gli uomini che lavoravano sodo e guadagnavano il loro misero sostentamento con fatica erano felici e sereni; e che anche per i più ignoranti, il dolce volto della Natura era una fonte inesauribile di gioia. Vide che coloro che venivano educati con tenerezza erano capaci di sopportare le privazioni e di superare le sofferenze, mentre molti altri sarebbero crollati sotto lo stesso peso; perché dentro di loro esistevano già i materiali della felicità, del contentamento e della pace. Vide anche che le donne, le più delicate e fragili tra tutte le creature di Dio, spesso riuscivano a superare la tristezza, le avversità e il dolore; e capì che questo accadeva perché nel loro cuore esisteva una fonte inesauribile di affetto e devozione. Soprattutto, vide che persone come lui, quelle che si arrabbiavano per la gioia e la felicità altrui, erano in realtà le piante più vili sulla superficie della terra; e confrontando tutto il bene del mondo con il male, giunse alla conclusione che, dopotutto, questo fosse un mondo davvero decente e rispettabile. Non appena ebbe formulato questo pensiero, la nuvola che aveva oscurato l’ultima immagine sembrò avvolgerlo completamente, portandolo al sonno. Uno dopo l’altro, i goblin scomparvero dalla sua vista; e quando anche l’ultimo di loro svanì, egli si addormentò.’

Il giorno era già spuntato quando Gabriel Grub si svegliò e si trovò disteso completamente sulla lastra tombale piatta nel cimitero, con la bottiglia di vimini vuota accanto a lui, mentre il suo cappotto, la pala e la lanterna erano tutti ben imbiancati dal gelo della notte precedente, sparsi per terra. La pietra su cui aveva visto per la prima volta il goblin seduto si ergeva dritta davanti a lui, e la tomba su cui aveva lavorato la notte prima non era lontana. All’inizio iniziò a dubitare della realtà delle sue avventure, ma il forte dolore alle spalle quando cercò di alzarsi gli confermò che le percosse dei goblin sicuramente non erano affatto piacevoli. Si stupì nuovamente nel non notare tracce di passi nella neve su cui i goblin avevano giocato a saltellare sopra le lapidi, ma presto spiegò questa circostanza ricordando che, essendo spiriti, non avrebbero lasciato alcuna traccia visibile. Così, Gabriel Grub si alzò in piedi il meglio che poté, nonostante il dolore alla schiena; si pulì il gelo dal cappotto e se lo mise addosso, poi si diresse verso la città.

“Ma era un uomo cambiato, e non riusciva a sopportare l’idea di tornare in un luogo dove il suo pentimento sarebbe stato deriso e la sua riforma considerata incredibile. Esitò per qualche momento; poi se ne andò, alla ricerca di un altro posto dove poter cercarsi da vivere.”

‘La lanterna, la spada e la bottiglia di vimini furono trovate quel giorno nel cimitero della chiesa. All’inizio ci furono molte congetture sul destino del sagrestano, ma si stabilì rapidamente che fosse stato portato via dai goblin; inoltre, vi furono alcuni testimoni molto credibili che lo avevano visto chiaramente volare attraverso l’aria a cavallo di un cavallo castagno con un occhio cieco, il posteriore di un leone e la coda di un orso. Alla fine, tutto ciò fu accettato senza dubbi; e il nuovo sagrestano, in cambio di una piccola ricompensa, mostrava ai curiosi un pezzo abbastanza grande della guglia della chiesa che, durante il volo del suddetto cavallo, era stato accidentalmente calciato via e poi raccolto da lui stesso nel cimitero, un anno o due dopo.’

‘Purtroppo, queste storie furono un po’ turbate dal ritorno inaspettato di Gabriel Grub stesso, circa dieci anni dopo: un vecchio malandato, soddisfatto della sua sorte e affetto da reumatismi. Raccontò la sua storia al pastore e anche al sindaco; col passare del tempo, essa iniziò ad essere considerata un fatto storico, e così è rimasta fino ai giorni nostri. Coloro che credevano nella storia della banderuola, avendo una volta perso fiducia in essa, non furono facilmente convinti a rinunciarvi; quindi si limitavano a scrollare le spalle, toccarsi la fronte e mormorare qualcosa sul fatto che Gabriel Grub avesse bevuto tutte le “Hollands” e poi si fosse addormentato sulla lapide piatta. Tentavano anche di spiegare ciò che lui aveva presunto di aver visto nella caverna del goblin, dicendo che aveva visto il mondo intero e diventato più saggio. Ma questa opinione, che in nessun momento fu particolarmente popolare, finì gradualmente per svanire; e comunque sia, poiché Gabriel Grub soffrì di reumatismi fino alla fine dei suoi giorni, questa storia ha almeno un insegnamento da offrire, anche se non fosse altro che questo: se un uomo diventa cupo e beve da solo a Natale, potrebbe finire per non migliorare affatto; che gli spiriti siano quantunque buoni, o addirittura “al di là della prova”, come quelli che Gabriel Grub vide nella caverna del goblin, ’

CHAPTER XXX. HOW THE PICKWICKIANS MADE AND CULTIVATED THE ACQUAINTANCE OF A COUPLE OF NICE YOUNG MEN BELONGING TO ONE OF THE LIBERAL PROFESSIONS; HOW THEY DISPORTED THEMSELVES ON THE ICE; AND HOW THEIR VISIT CAME TO A CONCLUSION

Well, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as that favoured servitor entered his bed-chamber, with his warm water, on the morning of Christmas Day, ‘still frosty?’

‘Water in the wash-hand basin’s a mask o’ ice, Sir,’ responded Sam.

‘Severe weather, Sam,’ observed Mr. Pickwick.

‘Fine time for them as is well wropped up, as the Polar bear said to himself, ven he was practising his skating,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘I shall be down in a quarter of an hour, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, untying his nightcap.

‘Wery good, sir,’ replied Sam. ‘There’s a couple o’ sawbones downstairs.’

‘A couple of what!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, sitting up in bed.

‘A couple o’ sawbones,’ said Sam.

‘What’s a sawbones?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, not quite certain whether it was a live animal, or something to eat.

‘What! Don’t you know what a sawbones is, sir?’ inquired Mr. Weller. ‘I thought everybody know’d as a sawbones was a surgeon.’

‘Oh, a surgeon, eh?’ said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile.

‘Just that, sir,’ replied Sam. ‘These here ones as is below, though, ain’t reg’lar thoroughbred sawbones; they’re only in trainin’.’

In other words they’re medical students, I suppose?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

Sam Weller nodded assent.

‘I am glad of it,’ said Mr. Pickwick, casting his nightcap energetically on the counterpane. ‘They are fine fellows—very fine fellows; with judgments matured by observation and reflection; and tastes refined by reading and study. I am very glad of it.’

‘They’re a-smokin’ cigars by the kitchen fire,’ said Sam.

‘Ah!’ observed Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his hands, ‘overflowing with kindly feelings and animal spirits. Just what I like to see.’

And one on ‘em,’ said Sam, not noticing his master’s interruption, ‘one on ‘em’s got his legs on the table, and is a-drinking brandy neat, vile the t’other one—him in the barnacles—has got a barrel o’ oysters atween his knees, which he’s a-openin’ like steam, and as fast as he eats ‘em, he takes a aim vith the shells at young dropsy, who’s a sittin’ down fast asleep, in the chimbley corner.’

‘Eccentricities of genius, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘You may retire.’

Sam did retire accordingly. Mr. Pickwick at the expiration of the quarter of an hour, went down to breakfast.

‘Here he is at last!’ said old Mr. Wardle. ‘Pickwick, this is Miss Allen’s brother, Mr. Benjamin Allen. Ben we call him, and so may you, if you like. This gentleman is his very particular friend, Mr.—’

‘Mr. Bob Sawyer,’ interposed Mr. Benjamin Allen; whereupon Mr. Bob Sawyer and Mr. Benjamin Allen laughed in concert.

Mr. Pickwick bowed to Bob Sawyer, and Bob Sawyer bowed to Mr. Pickwick. Bob and his very particular friend then applied themselves most assiduously to the eatables before them; and Mr. Pickwick had an opportunity of glancing at them both.

Mr. Benjamin Allen was a coarse, stout, thick-set young man, with black hair cut rather short, and a white face cut rather long. He was embellished with spectacles, and wore a white neckerchief. Below his single-breasted black surtout, which was buttoned up to his chin, appeared the usual number of pepper-and-salt coloured legs, terminating in a pair of imperfectly polished boots. Although his coat was short in the sleeves, it disclosed no vestige of a linen wristband; and although there was quite enough of his face to admit of the encroachment of a shirt collar, it was not graced by the smallest approach to that appendage. He presented, altogether, rather a mildewy appearance, and emitted a fragrant odour of full-flavoured Cubas.

Mr. Bob Sawyer, who was habited in a coarse, blue coat, which, without being either a greatcoat or a surtout, partook of the nature and qualities of both, had about him that sort of slovenly smartness, and swaggering gait, which is peculiar to young gentlemen who smoke in the streets by day, shout and scream in the same by night, call waiters by their Christian names, and do various other acts and deeds of an equally facetious description. He wore a pair of plaid trousers, and a large, rough, double-breasted waistcoat; out of doors, he carried a thick stick with a big top. He eschewed gloves, and looked, upon the whole, something like a dissipated Robinson Crusoe.

Such were the two worthies to whom Mr. Pickwick was introduced, as he took his seat at the breakfast-table on Christmas morning.

‘Splendid morning, gentlemen,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

Mr. Bob Sawyer slightly nodded his assent to the proposition, and asked Mr. Benjamin Allen for the mustard.

‘Have you come far this morning, gentlemen?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Blue Lion at Muggleton,’ briefly responded Mr. Allen.

‘You should have joined us last night,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘So we should,’ replied Bob Sawyer, ‘but the brandy was too good to leave in a hurry; wasn’t it, Ben?’

‘Certainly,’ said Mr. Benjamin Allen; ‘and the cigars were not bad, or the pork-chops either; were they, Bob?’

‘Decidedly not,’ said Bob. The particular friends resumed their attack upon the breakfast, more freely than before, as if the recollection of last night’s supper had imparted a new relish to the meal.

‘Peg away, Bob,’ said Mr. Allen, to his companion, encouragingly.

‘So I do,’ replied Bob Sawyer. And so, to do him justice, he did.

‘Nothing like dissecting, to give one an appetite,’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer, looking round the table.

Mr. Pickwick slightly shuddered.

‘By the bye, Bob,’ said Mr. Allen, ‘have you finished that leg yet?’

‘Nearly,’ replied Sawyer, helping himself to half a fowl as he spoke. ‘It’s a very muscular one for a child’s.’

Is it?’ inquired Mr. Allen carelessly.

CAPITOLO XXX. COME I PICKWICKIANI FANNO CONOSCERE E INVEGGIANO UN PAIO DI BELLI GIOVANI APPARTENENTI A UNA DALL’ASpetto LIBERALE PROFESSIONE; COME SI DIVERTONO SUL GHIACIO; E COME LA LORO VISITA GIUNGE AL SUO TERMINE.

“Beh, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick quando quel fedele servitore entrò nella sua camera da letto, portando con sé l’acqua calda della mattina di Natale, “è ancora ghiacciata?”

“L’acqua nel lavandino è una maschera di ghiaccio, signore,” rispose Sam.

“Condizioni meteorologiche severe, Sam,” osservò il signor Pickwick.

“È giunto il momento finale per loro; ormai sono ben cresciuti,” rispose il signor Weller, mentre si dedicava alla sua attività di pattinaggio.

“Sarò giù tra quindici minuti, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick, slacciandosi il berretto da notte.

“Molto bene, signore,” rispose Sam. “Ci sono un paio di seghe giù al piano di sotto.”

“Un paio di cosa!”, esclamò il signor Pickwick, alzandosi a sedere sul letto.

“Un paio di ossa,” disse Sam.

“Che cos’è una ‘sawbones’?” chiese il signor Pickwick, non essendo del tutto sicuro che si trattasse di un animale vivo o di qualcosa da mangiare.

“Che cosa! Non sa forse cosa sia un chirurgo, signore?”, chiese il signor Weller. “Pensavo che tutti sapessero che un chirurgo è una persona che esegue interventi medici.”

“Ah, un chirurgo, eh?”, disse il signor Pickwick sorridendo.

“Solo questo, signore,” rispose Sam. “Però questi qui, quelli che sono sotto, non sono veri e propri individui di razza pura; stanno ancora solo imparando.”

“In altre parole, sono studenti di medicina, suppongo?” disse il signor Pickwick.

Sam Weller annuì in segno di accordo.

“Ne sono felice,” disse il signor Pickwick, gettando con forza il suo bicchiere da notte sul copriletto. “Sono ragazzi davvero in gamba, molto in gamba; le loro opinioni sono maturate attraverso osservazione e riflessione, i loro gusti sono stati affinati dalla lettura e lo studio. Ne sono davvero felice.”

“Stanno fumando sigari vicino al fuoco in cucina,” disse Sam.

“Ah!”, osservò il signor Pickwick strofinandosi le mani, “un’espressione piena di sentimenti gentili e spirito animale. Proprio quello che mi piace vedere.”

“E uno di loro,” disse Sam, senza notare l’interruzione del suo padrone, “uno di loro ha le gambe appoggiate sul tavolo e sta bevendo brandy d’un fiato. Quell’altro, invece, quello che è nel capanno, ha un barile di ostriche tra le ginocchia; le apre una dopo l’altra con grande velocità. E mentre le mangia, usa le conchiglie per prendere di mira quel povero giovane malato di idropisia, che sta seduto lì, addormentato nel angolo del camino.”

“Le eccentricità del genio, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Puoi andare.”

Sam si ritirò effettivamente come previsto. Al termine di quel quarto d’ora, il signor Pickwick scese a colazione.

“Eccolo finalmente!” disse il vecchio signor Wardle. “Pickwick, questo è il fratello di Miss Allen, il signor Benjamin Allen. Lo chiamiamo Ben, e voi potete farlo anche voi, se vi piace. Questo gentiluomo è un suo amico molto intimo, il signor, ”

“Signor Bob Sawyer,” intervenne il signor Benjamin Allen; allora sia il signor Bob Sawyer che il signor Benjamin Allen risero insieme.

Il signor Pickwick fece un inchino a Bob Sawyer, e Bob Sawyer fece un inchino al signor Pickwick. Poi Bob e il suo amico molto particolare si dedicarono con grande impegno ai cibi davanti a loro; il signor Pickwick ebbe così l’opportunità di osservarli entrambi.

Il signor Benjamin Allen era un giovane robusto e di corporatura massiccia, con i capelli neri tagliati piuttosto corti e il viso bianco, leggermente allungato. Indossava occhiali e un fazzoletto bianco al collo. Sotto il suo soprabito nero a una sola manica, abbottonato fino al mento, si intravedevano le sue gambe, di colore marrone scuro, che terminavano in un paio di stivali poco lucidi. Sebbene il suo soprabito avesse maniche corte, non mostrava traccia di polsini di lino; e sebbene il suo viso fosse abbastanza largo da permettere l’uso di una cravatta, essa assolutamente mancava. Nel complesso, dava un’impressione piuttosto trasandata e emanava un odore caratteristico dei sigari cubani di alta qualità.

Il signor Bob Sawyer, vestito con un粗呢大衣 di colore blu che non era né un cappotto né una giacca elegante, ma presentava le caratteristiche di entrambi, aveva quell’aspetto trasandato e allo stesso tempo un modo di camminare arrogante tipico dei giovani signori che di giorno fumano per strada, di notte gridano e urlano, chiamano i camerieri con i loro nomi di battesimo e compiono altre azioni altrettanto buffe. Indossava un paio di pantaloni a quadri e una grande giacca a doppio petto; all’aperto portava sempre con sé un grosso bastone. Evitava di indossare i guanti e, nel complesso, assomigliava a un Robinson Crusoe dissoluto.

Ecco i due gentiluomini a cui fu presentato il signor Pickwick quando si sedette a tavola per la colazione la mattina di Natale.

“Buongiorno meraviglioso, signori,” disse il signor Pickwick.

Il signor Bob Sawyer annuì leggermente in segno di accordo con la proposta e chiese al signor Benjamin Allen il senape.

“Siete venuti fin qui stamattina, signori?”, chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Il ‘Leone Azzurro’ di Muggleton,” rispose brevemente il signor Allen.

“Avresti dovuto unirti a noi la scorsa notte,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Lo so che dovremmo,” rispose Bob Sawyer, “ma quel brandy era troppo buono per lasciarlo così in fretta, vero, Ben?”

“Certo,” disse il signor Benjamin Allen; “e i sigari non erano male, né le cotolette di maiale; vero, Bob?”

“Assolutamente no,” disse Bob. Gli amici in questione ripresero il loro attacco contro la colazione, con ancora più entusiasmo di prima, come se il ricordo della cena della scorsa notte avesse aggiunto un nuovo sapore al pasto.

“Continua a colpire, Bob,” disse il signor Allen al suo compagno, incoraggiandolo.

“Lo so,” rispose Bob Sawyer. E, per essere giusti con lui, lo fece davvero.

“Niente come dissezionare per stimolare l’appetito,” disse il signor Bob Sawyer, guardandosi intorno al tavolo.

Il signor Pickwick ebbe un leggero brivido.

“Arrivederci, Bob,” disse il signor Allen, “hai finito di fare quella gamba?”

“Quasi,” rispose Sawyer, prendendosi mezza gallina mentre parlava. “È davvero molto muscolosa per essere quella di un >bambino.”

“È così?” chiese distrattamente il signor Allen.

‘Very,’ said Bob Sawyer, with his mouth full.

‘I’ve put my name down for an arm at our place,’ said Mr. Allen. ‘We’re clubbing for a subject, and the list is nearly full, only we can’t get hold of any fellow that wants a head. I wish you’d take it.’

‘No,’ replied ‘Bob Sawyer; ‘can’t afford expensive luxuries.’

‘Nonsense!’ said Allen.

‘Can’t, indeed,’ rejoined Bob Sawyer, ‘I wouldn’t mind a brain, but I couldn’t stand a whole head.’

Hush, hush, gentlemen, pray,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I hear the ladies.’

As Mr. Pickwick spoke, the ladies, gallantly escorted by Messrs. Snodgrass, Winkle, and Tupman, returned from an early walk.

‘Why, Ben!’ said Arabella, in a tone which expressed more surprise than pleasure at the sight of her brother.

‘Come to take you home to-morrow,’ replied Benjamin.

Mr. Winkle turned pale.

‘Don’t you see Bob Sawyer, Arabella?’ inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, somewhat reproachfully. Arabella gracefully held out her hand, in acknowledgment of Bob Sawyer’s presence. A thrill of hatred struck to Mr. Winkle’s heart, as Bob Sawyer inflicted on the proffered hand a perceptible squeeze.

‘Ben, dear!’ said Arabella, blushing; ‘have—have—you been introduced to Mr. Winkle?’

‘I have not been, but I shall be very happy to be, Arabella,’ replied her brother gravely. Here Mr. Allen bowed grimly to Mr. Winkle, while Mr. Winkle and Mr. Bob Sawyer glanced mutual distrust out of the corners of their eyes.

The arrival of the two new visitors, and the consequent check upon Mr. Winkle and the young lady with the fur round her boots, would in all probability have proved a very unpleasant interruption to the hilarity of the party, had not the cheerfulness of Mr. Pickwick, and the good humour of the host, been exerted to the very utmost for the common weal. Mr. Winkle gradually insinuated himself into the good graces of Mr. Benjamin Allen, and even joined in a friendly conversation with Mr. Bob Sawyer; who, enlivened with the brandy, and the breakfast, and the talking, gradually ripened into a state of extreme facetiousness, and related with much glee an agreeable anecdote, about the removal of a tumour on some gentleman’s head, which he illustrated by means of an oyster-knife and a half-quartern loaf, to the great edification of the assembled company. Then the whole train went to church, where Mr. Benjamin Allen fell fast asleep; while Mr. Bob Sawyer abstracted his thoughts from worldly matters, by the ingenious process of carving his name on the seat of the pew, in corpulent letters of four inches long.

‘Now,’ said Wardle, after a substantial lunch, with the agreeable items of strong beer and cherry-brandy, had been done ample justice to, ‘what say you to an hour on the ice? We shall have plenty of time.’

‘Capital!’ said Mr. Benjamin Allen.

‘Prime!’ ejaculated Mr. Bob Sawyer.

‘You skate, of course, Winkle?’ said Wardle.

‘Ye-yes; oh, yes,’ replied Mr. Winkle. ‘I—I—am _rather _out of practice.’

‘Oh, do skate, Mr. Winkle,’ said Arabella. ‘I like to see it so much.’

‘Oh, it is so graceful,’ said another young lady.

A third young lady said it was elegant, and a fourth expressed her opinion that it was ‘swan-like.’

‘I should be very happy, I’m sure,’ said Mr. Winkle, reddening; ‘but I have no skates.’

This objection was at once overruled. Trundle had a couple of pair, and the fat boy announced that there were half a dozen more downstairs; whereat Mr. Winkle expressed exquisite delight, and looked exquisitely uncomfortable.

Old Wardle led the way to a pretty large sheet of ice; and the fat boy and Mr. Weller, having shovelled and swept away the snow which had fallen on it during the night, Mr. Bob Sawyer adjusted his skates with a dexterity which to Mr. Winkle was perfectly marvellous, and described circles with his left leg, and cut figures of eight, and inscribed upon the ice, without once stopping for breath, a great many other pleasant and astonishing devices, to the excessive satisfaction of Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Tupman, and the ladies; which reached a pitch of positive enthusiasm, when old Wardle and Benjamin Allen, assisted by the aforesaid Bob Sawyer, performed some mystic evolutions, which they called a reel.

All this time, Mr. Winkle, with his face and hands blue with the cold, had been forcing a gimlet into the sole of his feet, and putting his skates on, with the points behind, and getting the straps into a very complicated and entangled state, with the assistance of Mr. Snodgrass, who knew rather less about skates than a Hindoo. At length, however, with the assistance of Mr. Weller, the unfortunate skates were firmly screwed and buckled on, and Mr. Winkle was raised to his feet.

‘Now, then, Sir,’ said Sam, in an encouraging tone; ‘off vith you, and show ‘em how to do it.’

‘Stop, Sam, stop!’ said Mr. Winkle, trembling violently, and clutching hold of Sam’s arms with the grasp of a drowning man. ‘How slippery it is, Sam!’

‘Not an uncommon thing upon ice, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Hold up, Sir!’

This last observation of Mr. Weller’s bore reference to a demonstration Mr. Winkle made at the instant, of a frantic desire to throw his feet in the air, and dash the back of his head on the ice.

‘These—these—are very awkward skates; ain’t they, Sam?’ inquired Mr. Winkle, staggering.

‘I’m afeerd there’s a orkard gen’l’m’n in ‘em, Sir,’ replied Sam.

‘Now, Winkle,’ cried Mr. Pickwick, quite unconscious that there was anything the matter. ‘Come; the ladies are all anxiety.’

‘Yes, yes,’ replied Mr. Winkle, with a ghastly smile. ‘I’m coming.’

‘Just a-goin’ to begin,’ said Sam, endeavouring to disengage himself. ‘Now, Sir, start off!’

‘Stop an instant, Sam,’ gasped Mr. Winkle, clinging most affectionately to Mr. Weller. ‘I find I’ve got a couple of coats at home that I don’t want, Sam. You may have them, Sam.’

‘Thank’ee, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘Never mind touching your hat, Sam,’ said Mr. Winkle hastily. ‘You needn’t take your hand away to do that. I meant to have given you five shillings this morning for a Christmas box, Sam. I’ll give it you this afternoon, Sam.’

“Molto bene,” disse Bob Sawyer, con la bocca piena.

“Ho messo il mio nome per un braccio nella nostra squadra,” disse il signor Allen. “Stiamo cercando qualcuno per la posizione di testa, e l’elenco è quasi completo, solo che non riusciamo a trovare nessuno disposto a prendere quel posto. Vorrei che tu lo accettassi.”

“No,” rispose Bob Sawyer, “non posso permettermi lussi costosi.”

“Sciocchezze!”, disse Allen.

“Non posso proprio,” ribatté Bob Sawyer, “non mi dispiacerebbe avere un cervello, ma non potrei sopportare un intero cranio.”

“Zitti, zitti, signori,” disse il signor Pickwick, “sento arrivare le signore.”

Mentre il signor Pickwick parlava, le signore, gentilmente scortate dai signori Snodgrass, Winkle e Tupman, tornavano da una passeggiata mattutina.

“Ma che cosa. Ben!”, disse Arabella, con un tono che esprimeva più sorpresa che piacere nel vedere suo fratello.

“Per portarti a casa domani,” rispose Benjamin.

Il signor Winkle impallidì.

“Non lo vedi forse, Bob Sawyer, Arabella?” chiese il signor Benjamin Allen, con un tono leggermente rimproveratorio. Arabella tese gentilmente la mano in segno di riconoscimento della presenza di Bob Sawyer. Un brivido d’odio attraversò il cuore del signor Winkle quando Bob Sawyer strinse con forza quella mano che gli veniva offerta.

“Beh, caro!” disse Arabella, arrossendo; “hai, hai già conosciuto il signor Winkle?”

“Non ci sono mai stata, ma sarò molto felice di farlo, Arabella,” rispose seriamente suo fratello. In quel momento, il signor Allen fece un inchino cupo al signor Winkle, mentre questi e il signor Bob Sawyer si scambiarono sguardi pieni di sfiducia.

L’arrivo dei due nuovi visitatori, e il conseguente controllo su Mr. Winkle e la giovane signorina con il pelo intorno alle scarpe, avrebbero molto probabilmente interrotto in modo sgradevole l’allegria della compagnia, se non fosse stato per l’allegria di Mr. Pickwick e il buon umorismo dell’ospite, che furono messi al massimo per il bene comune. Mr. Winkle riuscì gradualmente ad entrare nelle grazie di Mr. Benjamin Allen e addirittura iniziò una conversazione amichevole con Mr. Bob Sawyer; quest’ultimo, ravvivato dal brandy, dalla colazione e dalle chiacchiere, divenne sempre più loquace e raccontò con grande divertimento un aneddoto riguardante l’asportazione di un tumore dalla testa di un gentiluomo, illustrandolo con un coltello da ostriche e un mezzo quarto di pane, a grande beneficio di tutti i presenti. Poi l’intera compagnia andò in chiesa, dove Mr. Benjamin Allen si addormentò profondamente; mentre Mr. Bob Sawyer distolse i suoi pensieri dalle cose mondane, incisendo con abilità il proprio nome sul sedile della panca, in caratteri grossi di quattro pollici di lunghezza.

“Ora,” disse Wardle, dopo aver goduto abbondantemente di un pranzo sostanzioso, accompagnato da birra forte e brandy alle ciliegie, “che ne dici di passare un’ora sul ghiaccio? Avremo sicuramente abbastanza tempo.”

“Capitale!” disse il signor Benjamin Allen.

“Primo!” esclamò il signor Bob Sawyer.

“Naturalmente sai pattinare, vero, Winkle?” disse Wardle.

“Sì-sì; oh, sì,” rispose il signor Winkle. “Io, io, sono un po’ fuori esercizio.”

“Oh, faccia pure la slitta, signor Winkle,” disse Arabella. “Mi piace molto vederlo fare.”

“Ah, è davvero molto aggraziata,” disse un’altra giovane signora.

Una terza giovane signora disse che era elegante, mentre una quarta esprimeva il suo parere secondo cui era “simile a un cigno”.

“Dovrei essere molto felice, ne sono sicuro,” disse il signor Winkle, arrossendo; “ma non ho i pattini.”

Questo obiezione fu immediatamente respinta. Trundle ne aveva un paio, e il ragazzo grasso annunciò che ce n’erano altre sei in basso; all’udire ciò, il signor Winkle esprimebbe una grande gioia, ma allo stesso tempo sembrava estremamente a disagio.

Il vecchio Wardle li guidò verso un ampio pezzo di ghiaccio; il ragazzo grasso e il signor Weller, dopo aver spalato e ripulito la neve che vi si era accumulata durante la notte, permisero al signor Bob Sawyer di sistemare i suoi pattini con grande abilità. Il signor Winkle trovò questa destrezza davvero meravigliosa: Bob Sawyer disegnava cerchi con la gamba sinistra, formava figure a otto e incideva sul ghiaccio molte altre figure straordinarie, senza mai fermarsi nemmeno per riprendere fiato. Questo spettacolo riscosse grande entusiasmo da parte del signor Pickwick, del signor Tupman e delle signore; l’entusiasmo raggiunse il suo apice quando il vecchio Wardle, insieme a Benjamin Allen e Bob Sawyer, eseguirono alcune complesse evoluzioni sul ghiaccio, che chiamavano “reel”.

Per tutto questo tempo, il signor Winkle, con il viso e le mani blu per il freddo, cercava disperatamente di infilare una vite nel tacco del suo scarpone, mettendosi poi gli scarponi da pattinaggio con la punta rivolta all’indietro; inoltre, con l’aiuto del signor Snodgrass – che ne sapeva ancora meno sugli scarponi da pattinaggio di un indù – riuscì finalmente a fissare saldamente le cinghie. Alla fine, il signor Winkle riuscì ad alzarsi in piedi.

“Allora, signore,” disse Sam con tono incoraggiante, “vada pure e mostri loro come farlo.”

“Fermati, Sam, fermati!” disse il signor Winkle, tremando violentemente e afferrando le braccia di Sam con la forza di un uomo che sta annegando. “Com’è scivoloso. Sam!”

“Non è affatto un fenomeno raro sul ghiaccio, signore,” rispose il signor Weller. “Aspetti un attimo, signore!”

Questa ultima osservazione riguardava una dimostrazione che il signor Winkle fece in quel momento: un desiderio frenetico di alzare i piedi in aria e sbattere la testa contro il ghiaccio.

“Questi, questi pattini sono davvero molto scomodi, vero, Sam?” chiese il signor Winkle, barcollando.

“Temo che ci sia un generale Orkard tra loro, signore,” rispose Sam.

“Ora, Winkle,” gridò il signor Pickwick, del tutto ignaro che ci fosse qualche problema. “Vieni; tutte le signore sono molto preoccupate.”

“Sì, sì,” rispose il signor Winkle con un sorriso orribile. “Vengo.”

“Sto solo per iniziare,” disse Sam, cercando di liberarsi.
“Ora, signore, cominci pure!”

“Fermati un attimo, Sam,” ansimò il signor Winkle, aggrappandosi con grande affetto al signor Weller. “Mi sono reso conto di avere a >casa alcuni cappotti che non voglio più. Puoi prenderli tu, Sam.”

“Grazie mille, signore,” rispose il signor Weller.

“Non importa se tocchi il tuo cappello, Sam,” disse in fretta il signor Winkle. “Non devi nemmeno togliere la mano per farlo. In realtà volevo darti cinque scellini stamattina per una scatola di Natale, Sam. Te li darò questo pomeriggio.”

‘You’re wery good, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘Just hold me at first, Sam; will you?’ said Mr. Winkle. ‘There—that’s right. I shall soon get in the way of it, Sam. Not too fast, Sam; not too fast.’

Mr. Winkle, stooping forward, with his body half doubled up, was being assisted over the ice by Mr. Weller, in a very singular and un-swan-like manner, when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the opposite bank—

‘Sam!’

‘Sir?’

‘Here. I want you.’

‘Let go, Sir,’ said Sam. ‘Don’t you hear the governor a-callin’? Let go, sir.’

With a violent effort, Mr. Weller disengaged himself from the grasp of the agonised Pickwickian, and, in so doing, administered a considerable impetus to the unhappy Mr. Winkle. With an accuracy which no degree of dexterity or practice could have insured, that unfortunate gentleman bore swiftly down into the centre of the reel, at the very moment when Mr. Bob Sawyer was performing a flourish of unparalleled beauty. Mr. Winkle struck wildly against him, and with a loud crash they both fell heavily down. Mr. Pickwick ran to the spot. Bob Sawyer had risen to his feet, but Mr. Winkle was far too wise to do anything of the kind, in skates. He was seated on the ice, making spasmodic efforts to smile; but anguish was depicted on every lineament of his countenance.

‘Are you hurt?’ inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, with great anxiety.

‘Not much,’ said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back very hard.

‘I wish you’d let me bleed you,’ said Mr. Benjamin, with great eagerness.

‘No, thank you,’ replied Mr. Winkle hurriedly.

‘I really think you had better,’ said Allen.

‘Thank you,’ replied Mr. Winkle; ‘I’d rather not.’

‘What do _you _think, Mr. Pickwick?’ inquired Bob Sawyer.

Mr. Pickwick was excited and indignant. He beckoned to Mr. Weller, and said in a stern voice, ‘Take his skates off.’

‘No; but really I had scarcely begun,’ remonstrated Mr. Winkle.

‘Take his skates off,’ repeated Mr. Pickwick firmly.

The command was not to be resisted. Mr. Winkle allowed Sam to obey it, in silence.

‘Lift him up,’ said Mr. Pickwick. Sam assisted him to rise.

Mr. Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the bystanders; and, beckoning his friend to approach, fixed a searching look upon him, and uttered in a low, but distinct and emphatic tone, these remarkable words—

‘You’re a humbug, sir.’

A what?’ said Mr. Winkle, starting.

‘A humbug, Sir. I will speak plainer, if you wish it. An impostor, sir.’

With those words, Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on his heel, and rejoined his friends.

While Mr. Pickwick was delivering himself of the sentiment just recorded, Mr. Weller and the fat boy, having by their joint endeavours cut out a slide, were exercising themselves thereupon, in a very masterly and brilliant manner. Sam Weller, in particular, was displaying that beautiful feat of fancy-sliding which is currently denominated ‘knocking at the cobbler’s door,’ and which is achieved by skimming over the ice on one foot, and occasionally giving a postman’s knock upon it with the other. It was a good long slide, and there was something in the motion which Mr. Pickwick, who was very cold with standing still, could not help envying.

‘It looks a nice warm exercise that, doesn’t it?’ he inquired of Wardle, when that gentleman was thoroughly out of breath, by reason of the indefatigable manner in which he had converted his legs into a pair of compasses, and drawn complicated problems on the ice.

‘Ah, it does, indeed,’ replied Wardle. ‘Do you slide?’

‘I used to do so, on the gutters, when I was a boy,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Try it now,’ said Wardle.

‘Oh, do, please, Mr. Pickwick!’ cried all the ladies.

‘I should be very happy to afford you any amusement,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘but I haven’t done such a thing these thirty years.’

‘Pooh! pooh! Nonsense!’ said Wardle, dragging off his skates with the impetuosity which characterised all his proceedings. ‘Here; I’ll keep you company; come along!’ And away went the good-tempered old fellow down the slide, with a rapidity which came very close upon Mr. Weller, and beat the fat boy all to nothing.

Mr. Pickwick paused, considered, pulled off his gloves and put them in his hat; took two or three short runs, baulked himself as often, and at last took another run, and went slowly and gravely down the slide, with his feet about a yard and a quarter apart, amidst the gratified shouts of all the spectators.

‘Keep the pot a-bilin’, Sir!’ said Sam; and down went Wardle again, and then Mr. Pickwick, and then Sam, and then Mr. Winkle, and then Mr. Bob Sawyer, and then the fat boy, and then Mr. Snodgrass, following closely upon each other’s heels, and running after each other with as much eagerness as if their future prospects in life depended on their expedition.

It was the most intensely interesting thing, to observe the manner in which Mr. Pickwick performed his share in the ceremony; to watch the torture of anxiety with which he viewed the person behind, gaining upon him at the imminent hazard of tripping him up; to see him gradually expend the painful force he had put on at first, and turn slowly round on the slide, with his face towards the point from which he had started; to contemplate the playful smile which mantled on his face when he had accomplished the distance, and the eagerness with which he turned round when he had done so, and ran after his predecessor, his black gaiters tripping pleasantly through the snow, and his eyes beaming cheerfulness and gladness through his spectacles. And when he was knocked down (which happened upon the average every third round), it was the most invigorating sight that can possibly be imagined, to behold him gather up his hat, gloves, and handkerchief, with a glowing countenance, and resume his station in the rank, with an ardour and enthusiasm that nothing Could abate.

The sport was at its height, the sliding was at the quickest, the laughter was at the loudest, when a sharp smart crack was heard. There was a quick rush towards the bank, a wild scream from the ladies, and a shout from Mr. Tupman. A large mass of ice disappeared; the water bubbled up over it; Mr. Pickwick’s hat, gloves, and handkerchief were floating on the surface; and this was all of Mr. Pickwick that anybody could see.

“Siete davvero bravo, signore,” rispose il signor Weller.

“Per prima cosa, abbracciami solo un attimo, Sam, va bene?” disse il signor Winkle. “Ecco, così è giusto. Presto sarò io a intralciarti, Sam. Non troppo velocemente, Sam, ”

Il signor Winkle, curvo in avanti con il corpo quasi piegato a metà, stava ricevendo aiuto sul ghiaccio dal signor Weller, in un modo davvero insolito e poco simile al modo tipico di uno svan. Quando il signor Pickwick, con estrema innocenza, gridò dall’altra riva.

“Sam!”

“Signore?”

“Ecco. Ti voglio qui.”

“Lasci andare, signore,” disse Sam. “Non sente il governatore che sta chiamando? Lasci andare, signore.”

Con un grande sforzo, il signor Weller riuscì a liberarsi dalla presa del povero Pickwickian e, nel farlo, diede una notevole spinta al sfortunato signor Winkle. Con una precisione che nessuna abilità o pratica avrebbero potuto garantire, quel gentiluomo cadde rapidamente verso il centro della pista, proprio nel momento in cui il signor Bob Sawyer stava eseguendo un movimento di danza di incomparabile bellezza. Il signor Winkle lo colpì violentemente e, con un forte rumore, entrambi caddero a terra pesantemente. Il signor Pickwick corse sul posto: Bob Sawyer si era già rialzato in piedi, ma il signor Winkle, saggiamente, non fece nulla; seduto sul ghiaccio, cercava disperatamente di sorridere, ma l’angoscia era evidente su ogni tratto del suo viso.

“Sei ferito?” chiese il signor Benjamin Allen con grande ansia.

“Non molto,” disse il signor Winkle, strofinandosi la schiena con forza.

“Vorrei tanto potervi far sanguinare,” disse il signor Benjamin con grande desiderio.

“No, grazie,” rispose prontamente il signor Winkle.

“Penso davvero che sia meglio per te,” disse Allen.

“Grazie,” rispose il signor Winkle; “preferisco di no.”

“Cosa ne pensa lei, signor Pickwick?”, chiese Bob Sawyer.

Il signor Pickwick era eccitato e indignato. Chiamò il signor Weller e disse con voce severa: “Toglietegli i pattini.”

“No; ma in realtà avevo appena iniziato,” si lamentò il signor Winkle.

“Toglietegli i pattini,” ripeté con fermezza il signor Pickwick.

Quel comando non doveva essere disobbedito. Il signor Winkle permise a Sam di attuarlo, in silenzio.

“Alzatelo,” disse il signor Pickwick. Sam lo aiutò a rimettersi in piedi.

Il signor Pickwick si allontanò di qualche passo dai presenti; poi, chiamando il suo amico vicino, lo fissò attentamente e pronunciò, con voce bassa ma chiara ed enfatica, queste parole straordinarie.

“Lei è un impostore, signore.”

“A cosa?” disse il signor Winkle, sorpreso.

“Un truffatore, signore. Posso esprimermi più chiaramente, se lo desiderate. Un imbroglione, signore.”

Con quelle parole, il signor Pickwick si girò lentamente e tornò dai suoi amici.

Mentre il signor Pickwick esprimeva i sentimenti appena descritti, il signor Weller e il ragazzo grasso, dopo aver realizzato congiuntamente una lastra di ghiaccio liscia, si esercitavano su di essa in modo davvero abile e spettacolare. In particolare, Sam Weller dimostrava quella splendida tecnica di scivolamento sul ghiaccio, attualmente chiamata “bussare alla porta del calzolaio”: consisteva nel muoversi sulla superficie ghiacciata su un piede e, di tanto in tanto, colpendola con l’altro come se si bussasse a una porta. Era uno scivolamento lungo e fluido; c’era qualcosa in quel movimento che il signor Pickwick, intirritato dal freddo per essere rimasto fermo, non poteva fare a meno di invidiare.

“Sembra un esercizio piacevole e caldo, vero?” chiese lui a Wardle, quando quell’uomo era ormai completamente senza fiato, a causa del modo instancabile con cui aveva trasformato le sue gambe in una sorta di compasso, disegnando complessi schemi sul ghiaccio.

“Ah, sì, davvero,” rispose Wardle. “Ti muovi scivolando?”

“Lo facevo anch’io, sulle grondaie, quando ero ragazzo,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

“Provalo ora,” disse Wardle.

“Oh, sì, per favore, signor Pickwick!”, gridarono tutte le signore.

“Sarei molto felice di potervi offrire qualsiasi divertimento desideriate,” rispose il signor Pickwick, “ma non l’ho mai fatto negli ultimi trent’anni.”

“Puf! Puf! Sciocchezze!” disse Wardle, togliendosi i pattini con la stessa impetuosità che caratterizzava tutte le sue azioni. “Ecco, vi farò compagnia; venite!” E via andò quel buon vecchio lungo la pista, a una velocità tale da avvicinarsi molto a quella del signor Weller e superare di gran lunga il ragazzo grassoccio.

Il signor Pickwick fece una pausa, ci pensò su, si tolse i guanti e li mise nel cappello; fece due o tre tentativi, inciampando ad ogni volta, finché alla fine riuscì a scivolare giù lentamente e con dignità, tenendo i piedi distanziati di circa un metro e venti centimetri l’uno dall’altro, tra gli applausi soddisfatti di tutti gli spettatori.

“Tenete la pentola in movimento, signore!”, disse Sam; e così Wardle tornò giù, poi il signor Pickwick, poi Sam, poi il signor Winkle, poi il signor Bob Sawyer, poi il ragazzo grasso, e infine il signor Snodgrass, tutti seguendosi a ruota viva, correndo l’uno dietro all’altro con tale frenesia, come se le loro prospettive future dipendessero proprio da quell’esplorazione.

Era davvero la cosa più interessante da osservare: il modo in cui il signor Pickwick svolgeva la sua parte nella cerimonia; l’ansia con cui guardava la persona che gli stava alle spalle, avvicinandosi sempre di più a lui con il rischio di farlo inciampare; il modo in cui gradualmente riduceva la forza che aveva impiegato all’inizio e si girava lentamente, con il viso rivolto verso il punto da cui era partito; il sorriso giocoso che gli appariva sul volto quando raggiungeva la fine del percorso, e l’entusiasmo con cui riprendeva a correre dietro al suo predecessore, i suoi stivali neri che scivolavano piacevolmente sulla neve, e i suoi occhi che brillavano di gioia attraverso gli occhiali. E quando cadeva a terra (cosa che accadeva, in media, ogni tre giri), era uno spettacolo davvero rinvigorente: lo si vedeva raccogliere cappello, guanti e fazzoletto, con il viso radioso, e riprendere il suo posto nella fila, con un ardore e un entusiasmo che nulla poteva attenuare.

Lo sport era al suo apice: le slitte si muovevano alla massima velocità, le risate erano le più sonore, quando improvvisamente si udì un forte schianto. Ci fu un corso precipitoso verso la riva, un grido spaventato da parte delle signore e un urlo di Mr. Tupman. Una grande massa di ghiaccio scomparve; l’acqua iniziò a bollire sopra di essa; il cappello, i guanti e il fazzoletto di Mr. Pickwick galleggiavano sulla superficie. E questo era tutto ciò che si poteva vedere di lui.

Dismay and anguish were depicted on every countenance; the males turned pale, and the females fainted; Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle grasped each other by the hand, and gazed at the spot where their leader had gone down, with frenzied eagerness; while Mr. Tupman, by way of rendering the promptest assistance, and at the same time conveying to any persons who might be within hearing, the clearest possible notion of the catastrophe, ran off across the country at his utmost speed, screaming ‘Fire!’ with all his might.

It was at this moment, when old Wardle and Sam Weller were approaching the hole with cautious steps, and Mr. Benjamin Allen was holding a hurried consultation with Mr. Bob Sawyer on the advisability of bleeding the company generally, as an improving little bit of professional practice—it was at this very moment, that a face, head, and shoulders, emerged from beneath the water, and disclosed the features and spectacles of Mr. Pickwick.

‘Keep yourself up for an instant—for only one instant!’ bawled Mr. Snodgrass.

‘Yes, do; let me implore you—for my sake!’ roared Mr. Winkle, deeply affected. The adjuration was rather unnecessary; the probability being, that if Mr. Pickwick had declined to keep himself up for anybody else’s sake, it would have occurred to him that he might as well do so, for his own.

‘Do you feel the bottom there, old fellow?’ said Wardle.

‘Yes, certainly,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, wringing the water from his head and face, and gasping for breath. ‘I fell upon my back. I couldn’t get on my feet at first.’

The clay upon so much of Mr. Pickwick’s coat as was yet visible, bore testimony to the accuracy of this statement; and as the fears of the spectators were still further relieved by the fat boy’s suddenly recollecting that the water was nowhere more than five feet deep, prodigies of valour were performed to get him out. After a vast quantity of splashing, and cracking, and struggling, Mr. Pickwick was at length fairly extricated from his unpleasant position, and once more stood on dry land.

‘Oh, he’ll catch his death of cold,’ said Emily.

‘Dear old thing!’ said Arabella. ‘Let me wrap this shawl round you, Mr. Pickwick.’

‘Ah, that’s the best thing you can do,’ said Wardle; ‘and when you’ve got it on, run home as fast as your legs can carry you, and jump into bed directly.’

A dozen shawls were offered on the instant. Three or four of the thickest having been selected, Mr. Pickwick was wrapped up, and started off, under the guidance of Mr. Weller; presenting the singular phenomenon of an elderly gentleman, dripping wet, and without a hat, with his arms bound down to his sides, skimming over the ground, without any clearly-defined purpose, at the rate of six good English miles an hour.

But Mr. Pickwick cared not for appearances in such an extreme case, and urged on by Sam Weller, he kept at the very top of his speed until he reached the door of Manor Farm, where Mr. Tupman had arrived some five minutes before, and had frightened the old lady into palpitations of the heart by impressing her with the unalterable conviction that the kitchen chimney was on fire—a calamity which always presented itself in glowing colours to the old lady’s mind, when anybody about her evinced the smallest agitation.

Mr. Pickwick paused not an instant until he was snug in bed. Sam Weller lighted a blazing fire in the room, and took up his dinner; a bowl of punch was carried up afterwards, and a grand carouse held in honour of his safety. Old Wardle would not hear of his rising, so they made the bed the chair, and Mr. Pickwick presided. A second and a third bowl were ordered in; and when Mr. Pickwick awoke next morning, there was not a symptom of rheumatism about him; which proves, as Mr. Bob Sawyer very justly observed, that there is nothing like hot punch in such cases; and that if ever hot punch did fail to act as a preventive, it was merely because the patient fell into the vulgar error of not taking enough of it.

The jovial party broke up next morning. Breakings-up are capital things in our school-days, but in after life they are painful enough. Death, self-interest, and fortune’s changes, are every day breaking up many a happy group, and scattering them far and wide; and the boys and girls never come back again. We do not mean to say that it was exactly the case in this particular instance; all we wish to inform the reader is, that the different members of the party dispersed to their several homes; that Mr. Pickwick and his friends once more took their seats on the top of the Muggleton coach; and that Arabella Allen repaired to her place of destination, wherever it might have been—we dare say Mr. Winkle knew, but we confess we don’t—under the care and guardianship of her brother Benjamin, and his most intimate and particular friend, Mr. Bob Sawyer.

Before they separated, however, that gentleman and Mr. Benjamin Allen drew Mr. Pickwick aside with an air of some mystery; and Mr. Bob Sawyer, thrusting his forefinger between two of Mr. Pickwick’s ribs, and thereby displaying his native drollery, and his knowledge of the anatomy of the human frame, at one and the same time, inquired—

‘I say, old boy, where do you hang out?’ Mr. Pickwick replied that he was at present suspended at the George and Vulture.

‘I wish you’d come and see me,’ said Bob Sawyer.

‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘There’s my lodgings,’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer, producing a card. ‘Lant Street, Borough; it’s near Guy’s, and handy for me, you know. Little distance after you’ve passed St. George’s Church—turns out of the High Street on the right hand side the way.’

‘I shall find it,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Come on Thursday fortnight, and bring the other chaps with you,’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer; ‘I’m going to have a few medical fellows that night.’

Mr. Pickwick expressed the pleasure it would afford him to meet the medical fellows; and after Mr. Bob Sawyer had informed him that he meant to be very cosy, and that his friend Ben was to be one of the party, they shook hands and separated.

We feel that in this place we lay ourself open to the inquiry whether Mr. Winkle was whispering, during this brief conversation, to Arabella Allen; and if so, what he said; and furthermore, whether Mr. Snodgrass was conversing apart with Emily Wardle; and if so, what he said. To this, we reply, that whatever they might have said to the ladies, they said nothing at all to Mr. Pickwick or Mr. Tupman for eight-and-twenty miles, and that they sighed very often, refused ale and brandy, and looked gloomy. If our observant lady readers can deduce any satisfactory inferences from these facts, we beg them by all means to do so.

Disperazione e angoscia si leggevano su tutti i volti; gli uomini impallidirono, le donne svennero; il signor Snodgrass e il signor Winkle si tennero per mano, fissando con frenesia il punto in cui il loro leader era caduto; intanto il signor Tupman, nel tentativo di prestare aiuto il più rapidamente possibile e al contempo di far comprendere chiaramente a chiunque potesse sentirlo ciò che era accaduto, corse attraverso la campagna a tutta la velocità possibile, gridando con tutte le sue forze: “Fuoco!”.

Fu in questo momento che il vecchio Wardle e Sam Weller si avvicinarono con cautela alla buca, mentre il signor Benjamin Allen aveva appena iniziato una rapida consultazione con il signor Bob Sawyer riguardo all’opportunità di praticare un salasso su tutti i membri del gruppo, considerandolo un modo per migliorare le proprie competenze professionali. Fu proprio in quel momento che un viso, una testa e delle spalle emersero dall’acqua, rivelando i tratti e gli occhiali del signor Pickwick.

“Tieniti sveglio per un attimo, solo per un attimo!” gridò il signor Snodgrass.

“Sì, fatelo; vi supplico, per il mio bene!” gridò il signor Winkle, profondamente commosso. Quella preghiera era in realtà del tutto superflua; infatti, se il signor Pickwick avesse rifiutato di fare qualcosa per il bene degli altri, probabilmente gli sarebbe venuto in mente che avrebbe potuto farlo ugualmente per il proprio bene.

“Riesci a sentire quella parte inferiore lì, vecchio mio?” disse Wardle.

“Sì, certamente,” rispose il signor Pickwick, scuotendo l’acqua dal proprio capo e dal viso, mentre cercava di riprendere fiato. “Sono caduto a faccia in giù. All’inizio non riuscivo nemmeno a rialzarmi.”

La terra rossa che si vedeva ancora su gran parte del cappotto di Mr. Pickwick testimoniava l’accuratezza di questa descrizione; e poiché le paure degli spettatori diminuirono ulteriormente quando il ragazzo grassoccio ricordò improvvisamente che l’acqua non era profonda più di cinque piedi, si compirono veri e propri atti di coraggio per tirarlo fuori. Dopo molte schizze d’acqua, rumori di schianti e sforzi disperati, Mr. Pickwick riuscì finalmente a uscire da quella situazione spiacevole e si trovò di nuovo sulla terraferma.

“Ah, morirà di freddo,” disse Emily.

“Caro vecchino!” disse Arabella. “Lasciate che vi avvolga questo scialle, signor Pickwick.”

“Ah, è la cosa migliore che tu possa fare,” disse Wardle; “e una volta fatto, corri a casa il più velocemente possibile e mettiti a letto subito.”

All’istante furono offerti una dozzina di sciarpe. Dopo aver selezionato tre o quattro delle più spesse, il signor Pickwick fu avvolto in esse e partì, sotto la guida del signor Weller; creando così lo strano spettacolo di un anziano gentiluomo completamente bagnato, senza cappello e con le braccia legate lungo i fianchi, che si muoveva veloce sul terreno, senza alcun obiettivo preciso, a una velocità di ben sei miglia inglesi all’ora.

Ma il signor Pickwick, in un caso del genere, non si curava affatto delle apparenze; spinto da Sam Weller, proseguì a tutta la sua velocità fino ad arrivare alla porta di Manor Farm. Il signor Tupman era già arrivato circa cinque minuti prima e, con la sua insistenza, aveva spaventato la vecchia signora al punto da farle provare palpitazioni: le aveva infatti fatto credere con fermezza che il camino della cucina fosse in fiamme. Una calamità che, nella mente della vecchia signora, si manifestava sempre sotto forma di immagini vivide ogni volta che qualcuno intorno a lei mostrava anche solo il minimo segno di agitazione.

Il signor Pickwick non esitò un istante prima di mettersi a letto comodamente. Sam Weller accese un fuoco ardente nella stanza e iniziò a mangiare la sua cena; poco dopo gli portarono anche una ciotola di punch, e si tenne una grande festa per celebrare il suo “salvo”. Il vecchio Wardle non voleva nemmeno sentir parlare del fatto che il signor Pickwick si alzasse, quindi decisero di utilizzare il letto come sedia, e fu proprio il signor Pickwick a presiedere alle celebrazioni. Furono ordinate altre due ciotole di punch; la mattina seguente, quando il signor Pickwick si svegliò, non mostrava alcun segno di reumatismo. Il che dimostra, come osservò molto giustamente il signor Bob Sawyer, che in casi del genere non c’è nulla di meglio del punch caldo; e che, se mai questo dovesse fallire nel suo ruolo preventivo, è soltanto perché il paziente commette l’errore comune di non berne abbastanza.

La gioiosa compagnia si sciolse la mattina seguente. Le separazioni sono eventi abituali durante i nostri anni scolastici, ma nella vita reale possono rivelarsi davvero dolorose. Morte, l’egoismo e i cambiamenti della fortuna causano ogni giorno la rottura di molte coppie felici, spargendole in tutte le direzioni; e quei ragazzi e ragazze non si riuniscono mai più. Non intendiamo dire che sia esattamente accaduto in questo caso specifico; vogliamo soltanto informare il lettore che i vari membri del gruppo se ne andarono ognuno per la propria strada; che il signor Pickwick e i suoi amici ripresero posto sul treno di Muggleton; e che Arabella Allen raggiunse la sua destinazione, qualunque essa fosse. Osiamo dire che il signor Winkle lo sapesse, ma ammettiamo di non esserne certi, sotto la cura e la protezione di suo fratello Benjamin e del suo amico più intimo, il signor Bob Sawyer.

Prima che si separassero, tuttavia, quel signore e il signor Benjamin Allen trascinarono da parte il signor Pickwick con un’aria di mistero; mentre il signor Bob Sawyer, infilando il dito indice tra due delle costole del signor Pickwick, dimostrò al contempo la sua naturale spiritosità e la sua conoscenza dell’anatomia del corpo umano, chiedendo.

“Dico, vecchio mio, dove ti trovi di solito?” Il signor Pickwick rispose che in quel momento si trovava al George and Vulture.

“Vorrei che tu venissi a trovarmi,” disse Bob Sawyer.

“Niente potrebbe darmi maggiore piacere,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

“Ecco dove abito,” disse il signor Bob Sawyer, tirando fuori una carta. “Lant Street, nel Borough; è vicino a Guy’s e molto comoda per me, capite? Dopo aver superato la chiesa di San Giorgio, basta svoltare a destra sulla High Street.”

“Lo troverò,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Vieni pure il prossimo >Giovedì, tra due settimane, e porta con te anche gli altri ragazzi,” disse il signor Bob Sawyer; “quella sera avrò alcuni colleghi medici qui da me.”

Il signor Pickwick esprimeva la gioia che gli avrebbe procurato incontrare quei medici; e dopo che il signor Bob Sawyer gli aveva detto che intendeva trascorrere un periodo molto confortevole e che suo amico Ben avrebbe fatto parte del gruppo, si strinsero la mano e si separarono.

Riteniamo che in questo contesto ci si debba chiedere se il signor Winkle abbia sussurrato qualcosa ad Arabella Allen durante quella breve conversazione, e, in tal caso, cosa abbia detto; inoltre, se il signor Snodgrass abbia parlato in privato con Emily Wardle, e, ancora, cosa abbia detto lui. A queste domande rispondiamo che, qualunque cosa abbiano potuto dire alle signore, non hanno detto assolutamente nulla né al signor Pickwick né al signor Tupman per ben ventotto miglia; inoltre, sospiravano spesso, rifiutavano birra e brandy e avevano un aspetto cupo. Se le nostre attente lettrici riescono a trarre qualche conclusione soddisfacente da questi fatti, vi preghiamo vivamente di farlo.

CHAPTER XXXI. WHICH IS ALL ABOUT THE LAW, AND SUNDRY GREAT AUTHORITIES LEARNED THEREIN

Scattered about, in various holes and corners of the Temple, are certain dark and dirty chambers, in and out of which, all the morning in vacation, and half the evening too in term time, there may be seen constantly hurrying with bundles of papers under their arms, and protruding from their pockets, an almost uninterrupted succession of lawyers’ clerks. There are several grades of lawyers’ clerks. There is the articled clerk, who has paid a premium, and is an attorney in perspective, who runs a tailor’s bill, receives invitations to parties, knows a family in Gower Street, and another in Tavistock Square; who goes out of town every long vacation to see his father, who keeps live horses innumerable; and who is, in short, the very aristocrat of clerks. There is the salaried clerk—out of door, or in door, as the case may be—who devotes the major part of his thirty shillings a week to his Personal pleasure and adornments, repairs half-price to the Adelphi Theatre at least three times a week, dissipates majestically at the cider cellars afterwards, and is a dirty caricature of the fashion which expired six months ago. There is the middle-aged copying clerk, with a large family, who is always shabby, and often drunk. And there are the office lads in their first surtouts, who feel a befitting contempt for boys at day-schools, club as they go home at night, for saveloys and porter, and think there’s nothing like ‘life.’ There are varieties of the genus, too numerous to recapitulate, but however numerous they may be, they are all to be seen, at certain regulated business hours, hurrying to and from the places we have just mentioned.

These sequestered nooks are the public offices of the legal profession, where writs are issued, judgments signed, declarations filed, and numerous other ingenious machines put in motion for the torture and torment of His Majesty’s liege subjects, and the comfort and emolument of the practitioners of the law. They are, for the most part, low- roofed, mouldy rooms, where innumerable rolls of parchment, which have been perspiring in secret for the last century, send forth an agreeable odour, which is mingled by day with the scent of the dry-rot, and by night with the various exhalations which arise from damp cloaks, festering umbrellas, and the coarsest tallow candles.

About half-past seven o’clock in the evening, some ten days or a fortnight after Mr. Pickwick and his friends returned to London, there hurried into one of these offices, an individual in a brown coat and brass buttons, whose long hair was scrupulously twisted round the rim of his napless hat, and whose soiled drab trousers were so tightly strapped over his Blucher boots, that his knees threatened every moment to start from their concealment. He produced from his coat pockets a long and narrow strip of parchment, on which the presiding functionary impressed an illegible black stamp. He then drew forth four scraps of paper, of similar dimensions, each containing a printed copy of the strip of parchment with blanks for a name; and having filled up the blanks, put all the five documents in his pocket, and hurried away.

The man in the brown coat, with the cabalistic documents in his pocket, was no other than our old acquaintance Mr. Jackson, of the house of Dodson & Fogg, Freeman’s Court, Cornhill. Instead of returning to the office whence he came, however, he bent his steps direct to Sun Court, and walking straight into the George and Vulture, demanded to know whether one Mr. Pickwick was within.

‘Call Mr. Pickwick’s servant, Tom,’ said the barmaid of the George and Vulture.

‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ said Mr. Jackson. ‘I’ve come on business. If you’ll show me Mr. Pickwick’s room I’ll step up myself.’

‘What name, Sir?’ said the waiter.

‘Jackson,’ replied the clerk.

The waiter stepped upstairs to announce Mr. Jackson; but Mr. Jackson saved him the trouble by following close at his heels, and walking into the apartment before he could articulate a syllable.

Mr. Pickwick had, that day, invited his three friends to dinner; they were all seated round the fire, drinking their wine, when Mr. Jackson presented himself, as above described.

‘How de do, sir?’ said Mr. Jackson, nodding to Mr. Pickwick.

That gentleman bowed, and looked somewhat surprised, for the physiognomy of Mr. Jackson dwelt not in his recollection.

‘I have called from Dodson and Fogg’s,’ said Mr. Jackson, in an explanatory tone.

Mr. Pickwick roused at the name. ‘I refer you to my attorney, Sir; Mr. Perker, of Gray’s Inn,’ said he. ‘Waiter, show this gentleman out.’

‘Beg your pardon, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Jackson, deliberately depositing his hat on the floor, and drawing from his pocket the strip of parchment. ‘But personal service, by clerk or agent, in these cases, you know, Mr. Pickwick—nothing like caution, sir, in all legal forms—eh?’

Here Mr. Jackson cast his eye on the parchment; and, resting his hands on the table, and looking round with a winning and persuasive smile, said, ‘Now, come; don’t let’s have no words about such a little matter as this. Which of you gentlemen’s name’s Snodgrass?’

At this inquiry, Mr. Snodgrass gave such a very undisguised and palpable start, that no further reply was needed.

‘Ah! I thought so,’ said Mr. Jackson, more affably than before. ‘I’ve a little something to trouble you with, Sir.’

‘Me!’ exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass.

‘It’s only a subpoena in Bardell and Pickwick on behalf of the plaintiff,’ replied Jackson, singling out one of the slips of paper, and producing a shilling from his waistcoat pocket. ‘It’ll come on, in the settens after Term: fourteenth of Febooary, we expect; we’ve marked it a special jury cause, and it’s only ten down the paper. That’s yours, Mr. Snodgrass.’ As Jackson said this, he presented the parchment before the eyes of Mr. Snodgrass, and slipped the paper and the shilling into his hand.

capitolo XXXI. IL DIRITTO E ALTRE AUTORITÀ AUTOREVOLI

Disperse in varie stanze e angoli del Tempio, ci sono alcune camere oscure e sporche; tutto il mattino durante le vacanze, e anche per metà della sera durante l’orario di lavoro, si può vedere un flusso continuo di impiegati legali che corrono avanti e indietro, con mazzi di documenti sotto il braccio e fuori dalle tasche. Esistono diversi gradi di questi impiegati: c’è l’impiegato apprendista, che ha pagato una somma per diventare un futuro avvocato; gestisce le fatture dei sarti, riceve inviti a feste, conosce diverse famiglie nelle strade di Londra. Ogni lunga vacanza va in campagna a trovare suo padre, il quale possiede numerosi cavalli vivi; insomma, è davvero l’“aristocratico” tra gli impiegati. C’è poi l’impiegato a stipendio fisso: lavora sia all’interno che all’esterno dell’ufficio; dedica la maggior parte dei suoi trenta scellini settimanali ai propri piaceri personali e alle spese di vestiti, frequenta almeno tre volte a settimana il teatro Adelphi, si diverte poi nei pub, ed è una disgustosa caricatura della moda che è già passata di moda da sei mesi. C’è ancora l’impiegato di mezza età, con una grande famiglia; è sempre trasandato e spesso ubriaco. E ci sono infine quegli giovani impiegati in gilet, che provano un disprezzo profondo per i ragazzi delle scuole elementari, per il loro cibo semplice e per la loro vita monotona. Pensano davvero che non esista nulla di meglio della “vita” così com’è. Ci sono molte altre varianti di questo tipo di impiegati, troppe per essere elencate tutte. Ma in ogni caso, durante gli orari di lavoro stabiliti, si possono sempre vederli correre avanti e indietro nei luoghi che abbiamo appena menzionato.

Questi angoli nascosti rappresentano gli uffici pubblici della professione legale: qui vengono emessi ordini giudiziari, firmati verdetti, presentate dichiarazioni, e attivati numerosi altri meccanismi utilizzati per “tormentare” i sudditi di Sua Maestà, e, allo stesso tempo, per garantire comodità e guadagni ai professionisti del diritto. Per lo più si tratta di stanze con soffitti bassi e piene di muffa; in esse, innumerevoli rotoli di pergamena, che hanno “sudato” in segreto per l’ultimo secolo, emettono un odore gradevole, che durante il giorno si mescola con quello della muffa, e di notte con i vari gas prodotti da mantelli umidi, ombrelli marci e candele di sego grezzo.

Intorno alle sette e mezza di sera, circa dieci giorni o due settimane dopo il ritorno del signor Pickwick e dei suoi amici a Londra, un individuo con un cappotto marrone e bottoni di ottone si affrettò in uno di quegli uffici. I suoi lunghi capelli erano accuratamente raccolti intorno al bordo del suo cappello, mentre i suoi pantaloni logori erano strettamente legati intorno alle sue scarpe da ginnastica; a ogni momento, le ginocchia sembravano sul punto di “uscire” da quei pantaloni. Estrasse dalle tasche del cappotto una lunga striscia di pergamena su cui l’ufficiale incaricato appose un timbro nero illeggibile. Poi tirò fuori quattro fogli di carta delle stesse dimensioni, ognuno contenente una copia della striscia di pergamena con spazi vuoti per il nome; dopo aver compilati tali spazi, mise tutti e cinque i documenti in tasca e se ne andò di fretta.

L’uomo con il cappotto marrone, che aveva dei documenti cabalistici in tasca, non era altri che il nostro vecchio conoscente, il signor Jackson, dell’ufficio Dodson & Fogg, situato in Freeman’s Court, a Cornhill. Tuttavia, invece di tornare in ufficio, si diresse direttamente verso Sun Court e, entrando nel locale George and Vulture, chiese se vi fosse un certo signor Pickwick.

“Chiamate il servitore del signor Pickwick, Tom,” disse la cameriera del locale George and Vulture.

“Non vi disturbate,” disse il signor Jackson. “Sono qui per affari. Se mi mostrate la stanza del signor Pickwick, me ne occuperò io stesso.”

“Qual nome, signore?” chiese il cameriere.

“Jackson,” rispose il commesso.

Il cameriere salì le scale per annunciare l’arrivo del signor Jackson; ma il signor Jackson gli risparmiò la fatica seguendolo immediatamente e entrando nell’appartamento prima che lui riuscisse a pronunciare una parola.

Quel giorno, il signor Pickwick aveva invitato i suoi tre amici a cena; erano tutti seduti intorno al >focolare, bevendo il loro vino, quando il signor Jackson si presentò, come descritto sopra.

“Come state, signore?” disse il signor Jackson, annuendo al signor Pickwick.

Quel signore si inchinò, sembrando piuttosto sorpreso, poiché non ricordava affatto il volto di Mr. Jackson.

“Ho chiamato da Dodson and Fogg’s,” disse il signor Jackson con tono spiegativo.

Il signor Pickwick si svegliò al suono di quel nome. “Vi indirizzo al mio avvocato, signore: il signor Perker, dello studio legale Gray’s Inn,” disse. “Cameriere, accompagni questo gentiluomo fuori.”

“Perdonatemi, signor Pickwick,” disse Jackson, posando deliberatamente il cappello a terra e tirando fuori dalla tasca la striscia di pergamena. “Ma in questi casi, come sapete, signor Pickwick, è fondamentale utilizzare un servizio personale, tramite impiegato o agente. Niente può sostituire la cautela, signore, in tutte le questioni legali, eh?”

Ecco, il signor Jackson posò lo sguardo sul pergameno; appoggiò le mani sulla tavola e, guardandosi intorno con un sorriso affabile e persuasivo, disse: “Ora, venite. Non facciamoci perdere tempo in discussioni su una questione così insignificante. Qual è il nome di quel signore tra voi che si chiama Snodgrass?”

A questa domanda, il signor Snodgrass ebbe una reazione così evidente e inequivoca che non fu necessario alcun ulteriore commento.

“Ah! Pensavo proprio di sì,” disse il signor Jackson, in tono più cordiale del solito. “Ho una piccola questione da sottoporgliere, signore.”

“Me!”, esclamò il signor Snodgrass.

“È solo una citazione in giudizio presentata da Bardell e Pickwick a nome del querelante,” rispose Jackson, indicando uno dei fogli di carta e tirando fuori una sterlina dalla tasca della sua giacca. “Arriverà tra pochi giorni, dopo la fine del periodo legale: ci aspettiamo il quattordicesimo di febbraio; abbiamo segnalato che si tratta di un caso che richiede una giuria speciale, e l’elenco delle cause è solo a dieci voci di distanza. Questo è per lei, signor Snodgrass.” Mentre parlava, Jackson mostrò il documento al signor Snodgrass e gli mise in mano sia il foglio che la sterlina.

Mr. Tupman had witnessed this process in silent astonishment, when Jackson, turning sharply upon him, said—

‘I think I ain’t mistaken when I say your name’s Tupman, am I?’

Mr. Tupman looked at Mr. Pickwick; but, perceiving no encouragement in that gentleman’s widely-opened eyes to deny his name, said—

‘Yes, my name is Tupman, Sir.’

‘And that other gentleman’s Mr. Winkle, I think?’ said Jackson. Mr. Winkle faltered out a reply in the affirmative; and both gentlemen were forthwith invested with a slip of paper, and a shilling each, by the dexterous Mr. Jackson.

‘Now,’ said Jackson, ‘I’m afraid you’ll think me rather troublesome, but I want somebody else, if it ain’t inconvenient. I have Samuel Weller’s name here, Mr. Pickwick.’

‘Send my servant here, waiter,’ said Mr. Pickwick. The waiter retired, considerably astonished, and Mr. Pickwick motioned Jackson to a seat.

There was a painful pause, which was at length broken by the innocent defendant.

‘I suppose, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, his indignation rising while he spoke—‘I suppose, Sir, that it is the intention of your employers to seek to criminate me upon the testimony of my own friends?’

Mr. Jackson struck his forefinger several times against the left side of his nose, to intimate that he was not there to disclose the secrets of the prison house, and playfully rejoined—

‘Not knowin’, can’t say.’

‘For what other reason, Sir,’ pursued Mr. Pickwick, ‘are these subpoenas served upon them, if not for this?’

‘Very good plant, Mr. Pickwick,’ replied Jackson, slowly shaking his head. ‘But it won’t do. No harm in trying, but there’s little to be got out of me.’

Here Mr. Jackson smiled once more upon the company, and, applying his left thumb to the tip of his nose, worked a visionary coffee-mill with his right hand, thereby performing a very graceful piece of pantomime (then much in vogue, but now, unhappily, almost obsolete) which was familiarly denominated ‘taking a grinder.’

‘No, no, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Jackson, in conclusion; ‘Perker’s people must guess what we’ve served these subpoenas for. If they can’t, they must wait till the action comes on, and then they’ll find out.’

Mr. Pickwick bestowed a look of excessive disgust on his unwelcome visitor, and would probably have hurled some tremendous anathema at the heads of Messrs. Dodson & Fogg, had not Sam’s entrance at the instant interrupted him.

‘Samuel Weller?’ said Mr. Jackson, inquiringly.

‘Vun o’ the truest things as you’ve said for many a long year,’ replied Sam, in a most composed manner.

‘Here’s a subpoena for you, Mr. Weller,’ said Jackson.

‘What’s that in English?’ inquired Sam.

‘Here’s the original,’ said Jackson, declining the required explanation.

‘Which?’ said Sam.

‘This,’ replied Jackson, shaking the parchment.

‘Oh, that’s the ‘rig’nal, is it?’ said Sam. ‘Well, I’m wery glad I’ve seen the ‘rig’nal, ‘cos it’s a gratifyin’ sort o’ thing, and eases vun’s mind so much.’

‘And here’s the shilling,’ said Jackson. ‘It’s from Dodson and Fogg’s.’

‘And it’s uncommon handsome o’ Dodson and Fogg, as knows so little of me, to come down vith a present,’ said Sam. ‘I feel it as a wery high compliment, sir; it’s a wery honorable thing to them, as they knows how to reward merit werever they meets it. Besides which, it’s affectin’ to one’s feelin’s.’

As Mr. Weller said this, he inflicted a little friction on his right eyelid, with the sleeve of his coat, after the most approved manner of actors when they are in domestic pathetics.

Mr. Jackson seemed rather puzzled by Sam’s proceedings; but, as he had served the subpoenas, and had nothing more to say, he made a feint of putting on the one glove which he usually carried in his hand, for the sake of appearances; and returned to the office to report progress.

Mr. Pickwick slept little that night; his memory had received a very disagreeable refresher on the subject of Mrs. Bardell’s action. He breakfasted betimes next morning, and, desiring Sam to accompany him, set forth towards Gray’s Inn Square.

‘Sam!’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking round, when they got to the end of Cheapside.

‘Sir?’ said Sam, stepping up to his master.

‘Which way?’

Up Newgate Street.’

Mr. Pickwick did not turn round immediately, but looked vacantly in Sam’s face for a few seconds, and heaved a deep sigh.

‘What’s the matter, sir?’ inquired Sam.

‘This action, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘is expected to come on, on the fourteenth of next month.’

Remarkable coincidence that ‘ere, sir,’ replied Sam.

‘Why remarkable, Sam?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Walentine’s day, sir,’ responded Sam; ‘reg’lar good day for a breach o’ promise trial.’

Mr. Weller’s smile awakened no gleam of mirth in his master’s countenance. Mr. Pickwick turned abruptly round, and led the way in silence.

They had walked some distance, Mr. Pickwick trotting on before, plunged in profound meditation, and Sam following behind, with a countenance expressive of the most enviable and easy defiance of everything and everybody, when the latter, who was always especially anxious to impart to his master any exclusive information he possessed, quickened his pace until he was close at Mr. Pickwick’s heels; and, pointing up at a house they were passing, said—

‘Wery nice pork-shop that ‘ere, sir.’

‘Yes, it seems so,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Celebrated sassage factory,’ said Sam.

‘Is it?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Is it!’ reiterated Sam, with some indignation; ‘I should rayther think it was. Why, sir, bless your innocent eyebrows, that’s where the mysterious disappearance of a ‘spectable tradesman took place four years ago.’

‘You don’t mean to say he was burked, Sam?’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking hastily round.

‘No, I don’t indeed, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, ‘I wish I did; far worse than that. He was the master o’ that ‘ere shop, sir, and the inwentor o’ the patent-never-leavin’-off sassage steam-ingin, as ‘ud swaller up a pavin’ stone if you put it too near, and grind it into sassages as easy as if it was a tender young babby. Wery proud o’ that machine he was, as it was nat’ral he should be, and he’d stand down in the celler a-lookin’ at it wen it was in full play, till he got quite melancholy with joy. A wery happy man he’d ha’ been, Sir, in the procession o’ that ‘ere ingin and two more lovely hinfants besides, if it hadn’t been for his wife, who was a most owdacious wixin. She was always a-follerin’ him about, and dinnin’ in his ears, till at last he couldn’t stand it no longer. “I’ll tell you what it is, my dear,” he says one day; “if you persewere in this here sort of amusement,” he says, “I’m blessed if I don’t go away to ‘Merriker; and that’s all about it.” “You’re a idle willin,” says she, “and I wish the ‘Merrikins joy of their bargain.” Arter which she keeps on abusin’ of him for half an hour, and then runs into the little parlour behind the shop, sets to a-screamin’, says he’ll be the death on her, and falls in a fit, which lasts for three good hours—one o’ them fits wich is all screamin’ and kickin’. Well, next mornin’, the husband was missin’. He hadn’t taken nothin’ from the till—hadn’t even put on his greatcoat—so it was quite clear he warn’t gone to ‘Merriker. Didn’t come back next day; didn’t come back next week; missis had bills printed, sayin’ that, if he’d come back, he should be forgiven everythin’ (which was very liberal, seein’ that he hadn’t done nothin’ at all); the canals was dragged, and for two months arterwards, wenever a body turned up, it was carried, as a reg’lar thing, straight off to the sassage shop. Hows’ever, none on ‘em answered; so they gave out that he’d run away, and she kep’ on the bis’ness. One Saturday night, a little, thin, old gen’l’m’n comes into the shop in a great passion and says, “Are you the missis o’ this here shop?” “Yes, I am,” says she. “Well, ma’am,” says he, “then I’ve just looked in to say that me and my family ain’t a-goin’ to be choked for nothin’; and more than that, ma’am,” he says, “you’ll allow me to observe that as you don’t use the primest parts of the meat in the manafacter o’ sassages, I’d think you’d find beef come nearly as cheap as buttons.” “As buttons, Sir!” says she. “Buttons, ma’am,” says the little, old gentleman, unfolding a bit of paper, and showin’ twenty or thirty halves o’ buttons. “Nice seasonin’ for sassages, is trousers’ buttons, ma’am.” “They’re my husband’s buttons!” says the widder beginnin’ to faint, “What!” screams the little old gen’l’m’n, turnin’ wery pale. “I see it all,” says the widder; “in a fit of temporary insanity he rashly converted hisself into sassages!” And so he had, Sir,’ said Mr. Weller, looking steadily into Mr. Pickwick’s horror-stricken countenance, ‘or else he’d been draw’d into the ingin; but however that might ha’ been, the little, old gen’l’m’n, who had been remarkably partial to sassages all his life, rushed out o’ the shop in a wild state, and was never heerd on arterwards!’

Il signor Tupman aveva assistito a questo processo con silenziosa meraviglia, quando Jackson, girandosi bruscamente verso di lui, disse.

“Credo di non sbagliarmi se dico che il tuo nome è Tupman, vero?”

Il signor Tupman guardò il signor Pickwick; ma, non vedendo alcun segno di incoraggiamento negli occhi spalancati di quel gentiluomo a negare il proprio nome, disse.

“Sì, il mio nome è Tupman, signore.”

“E l’altro signore, il signor Winkle, giusto?” disse Jackson. Il signor Winkle rispose affermativamente; e entrambi i signori ricevettero immediatamente un foglietto di carta e una sterlina ciascuno da parte del abile signor Jackson.

“Ora,” disse Jackson, “temo che possiate considerarmi un po’ fastidioso, ma vorrei che qualcun altro si occupasse di questa faccenda, se non è troppo scomodo. Ho qui il nome di Samuel Weller: il signor Pickwick.”

“Mandate qui il mio servitore, cameriere,” disse il signor Pickwick. Il cameriere se ne andò, piuttosto sorpreso, e il signor Pickwick fece segno a Jackson di sedersi.

Ci fu un lungo silenzio imbarazzante, che alla fine fu interrotto dall’innocente imputato.

“Suppongo di sì, signore,” disse il signor Pickwick, con l’indignazione che cresceva man mano che parlava. “Suppongo che l’intenzione dei vostri datori di lavoro sia quella di incolparmi sulla base delle testimonianze dei miei stessi amici.”

Il signor Jackson batté più volte il dito indice contro il lato sinistro del proprio naso, per far capire che non era lì per rivelare i segreti della prigione, e poi aggiunse scherzosamente.

“Non lo so, non posso dirlo.”

“Per quale altro motivo, signore,” continuò il signor Pickwick, “verrebbero emesse queste citazioni, se non per questo?”

“Una pianta molto bella, signor Pickwick,” rispose Jackson, scuotendo lentamente la testa. “Ma non andrà bene. Non fa male provare, ma non ci si può aspettare molto da me.”

Qui il signor Jackson sorrise di nuovo alla compagnia e, appoggiando il pollice sinistro sulla punta del naso, utilizzò la mano destra per imitare il movimento di un macinacaffè, eseguendo così una pantomima molto graziosa (all’epoca molto in voga, ma oggi purtroppo quasi obsoleta), comunemente chiamata “fare finta di usare un macinacaffè”.

“No, no, signor Pickwick,” disse Jackson alla fine; “la gente di Perker dovrà indovinare per quale motivo abbiamo emesso queste citazioni. Se non ci riescono, dovranno aspettare che inizi il processo, e allora lo scopriranno.”

Il signor Pickwick lanciò uno sguardo di profondo disgusto verso il suo visitatore indesiderato; probabilmente avrebbe maledetto con forza i signori Dodson & Fogg, se non fosse stato per l’arrivo di Sam in quel momento, che lo interruppe.

“Samuel Weller?”, chiese il signor Jackson con curiosità.

“Una delle cose più vere che tu abbia mai detto, negli ultimi molti anni,” rispose Sam, con estrema calma.

“Ecco un mandato per lei, signor Weller,” disse Jackson.

“Cos’è questo in inglese?”, chiese Sam.

“Ecco l’originale,” disse Jackson, rifiutando di fornire la spiegazione richiesta.

“Quale?” disse Sam.

“Questo,” rispose Jackson, scuotendo il pergameno.

“Oh, quella è la ‘macchina’ giusta, vero?” disse Sam. “Beh, sono davvero contento di averla vista, perché è una cosa molto rassicurante e aiuta davvero a tranquillizzare la mente.”

“Ecco qui la sterlina,” disse Jackson. “Proviene da Dodson e Fogg’s.”

“E non è affatto comune da parte di Dodson e Fogg, che sanno così poco di me, venire a portarmi un regalo,” disse Sam. “Lo considero davvero un grande complimento, signore; per loro è una cosa molto onorifica, visto che sanno sempre come ricompensare chi merita di essere premiato. Inoltre, fa davvero piacere al cuore.”

Mentre il signor Weller diceva queste cose, si strofinò leggermente la palpebra destra con la manica del cappotto, nel modo più consueto tra gli attori quando interpretano scene di commozione domestica.

Il signor Jackson sembrava piuttosto perplesso dalle azioni di Sam; ma poiché aveva già inviato le citazioni e non aveva altro da dire, fece finta di infilarsi il guanto che di solito portava con sé, solo per mantenere un’apparenza appropriata; poi tornò in ufficio per riferire i progressi.

Il signor Pickwick dormì poco quella notte; la sua memoria aveva ricevuto un ricordo molto sgradevole riguardo alle azioni della signora Bardell. La mattina seguente si alzò presto e, desiderando che Sam lo accompagnasse, si diresse verso Gray’s Inn Square.

“Sam!” disse il signor Pickwick, guardandosi intorno, quando arrivarono alla fine di Cheapside.

“Signore?”, disse Sam avvicinandosi al suo padrone.

“Quale direzione?”

“Su per Newgate Street.”

Il signor Pickwick non si girò immediatamente, ma fissò il volto di Sam per alcuni secondi con uno sguardo vuoto, poi emise un profondo sospiro.

“Che c’è che non va, signore?” chiese Sam.

“Questa azione, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick, “si prevede che avvenga il quattordicesimo del prossimo mese.”

Straordinaria coincidenza, “Sì, signore,” rispose Sam.

“Perché straordinario, Sam?”, chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Giorno di San Valentino, signore,” rispose Sam; “un giorno perfetto per un processo riguardante la violazione di una promessa.”

Il sorriso di Mr. Weller non suscitò alcuna traccia di gioia sul volto del suo padrone. Mr. Pickwick si girò bruscamente e guidò la strada in silenzio.

Avevano percorso una certa distanza: il signor Pickwick camminava avanti a passo veloce, immerso in profonda meditazione, mentre Sam lo seguiva, con un’espressione sul viso che rifletteva un atteggiamento di sfida disinvolta e ammirabile verso tutto e tutti. A quel punto, Sam, che era sempre particolarmente desideroso di condividere con il suo padrone qualsiasi informazione esclusiva possedesse, accelerò il passo fino a raggiungere quasi il signor Pickwick; poi, indicando una casa che stavano superando, disse.

“Un ottimo negozio di maiale, davvero, signore.”

“Sì, sembra proprio così,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Famosa fabbrica di massaggio,” disse Sam.

“Davvero?” disse il signor Pickwick.

“È proprio così!”, ripeté Sam con un certo indignazione; “Anzi, dovrei pensare che lo sia davvero. Perbacco, signore, benedette siano le vostre innocenti sopracciglia: è lì che avvenne la misteriosa scomparsa di quel rispettabile commerciante quattro anni fa.”

“Non vuoi dire che è stato sepolto vivo, Sam?”, disse il signor Pickwick, guardandosi intorno in fretta.

“I no, davvero no, signore,” rispose il signor Weller, “vorrei che fosse così; sarebbe molto peggio. Lui era il proprietario di quel negozio, signore, e l’inventore di quella macchina per friggere a vapore che, beh, se la si avvicinava troppo, inghiottiva persino una pietra e la trasformava in cibo altrettanto facilmente come se fosse un tenero bambino. Era molto orgoglioso di quella macchina, naturalmente; stava sempre nel seminterrato a guardarla mentre funzionava, fino a diventare davvero, felice. Sarebbe stato un uomo molto felice, signore, se non fosse stato per sua moglie, una donna davvero terribile. Gli stava sempre addosso, gli sussurrava all’orecchio, finché lui non ne poté più sopportare la presenza. Un giorno gli disse: ‘Senti un po’, caro, se continui così con queste cose, giuro che me ne andrò da Merriker. E basta.’ Lui rispose: ‘Sei solo pigra e viziata, auguro a Merriker tutta la felicità del mondo.’ Dopo averlo insultato per mezz’ora, lei corse nel piccolo salotto dietro il negozio e iniziò a urlare, dicendo che lui le avrebbe causato la morte. Poi ebbe un attacco che durò tre ore intere. Un attacco pieno di urla e calci. Il giorno dopo, il marito era scomparso. Non aveva preso nulla dal registratore di cassa, nemmeno indossato il cappotto. Quindi era chiaro che non fosse andato da Merriker. Non tornò il giorno seguente, né la settimana successiva. La moglie stampò dei cartelli in cui diceva che, se fosse tornato, gli sarebbe stata perdonata tutto. Il canale fu dragato. E per due mesi, ogni volta che appariva un cadavere, veniva portato direttamente nel negozio di friggitura. Ma nessuno rispondeva. Così si disse che fosse scappato. E lei continuò a gestire il negozio. Una sera di sabato, un vecchio signore magro e dall’aspetto dignitoso entrò nel negozio furioso e chiese: ‘È lei la moglie di questo negozio?’ ‘Sì,’ rispose lei. ‘Beh, allora devo dirle che io e la mia famiglia non intendiamo morire per niente. E inoltre,’ aggiunse, ‘devo anche dire che, poiché lei non utilizza le parti migliori della carne per preparare i cibi fritti, penso che il manzo possa essere venduto quasi allo stesso prezzo dei bottoni.’ ‘Ai bottoni, signore!’ esclamò lei. ‘Esatto, signora,’ disse il vecchio signore, aprendo un foglio di carta e mostrandole venti o trenta metà di bottoni, ‘Che ottima stagione per preparare i cibi fritti. I bottoni dei pantaloni, per esempio, ’ ‘Sono i bottoni di mio marito!’ gridò la vedova, quasi svenendo, ‘Cosa?’ urlò il vecchio signore, impallidendo, ‘Capisco tutto,’ disse la vedova, ‘In un momento di follia temporanea, lui ha, trasformato se stesso in cibo fritto!’”

The relation of this affecting incident of private life brought master and man to Mr. Perker’s chambers. Lowten, holding the door half open, was in conversation with a rustily-clad, miserable-looking man, in boots without toes and gloves without fingers. There were traces of privation and suffering—almost of despair—in his lank and care-worn countenance; he felt his poverty, for he shrank to the dark side of the staircase as Mr. Pickwick approached.

‘It’s very unfortunate,’ said the stranger, with a sigh.

‘Very,’ said Lowten, scribbling his name on the doorpost with his pen, and rubbing it out again with the feather. ‘Will you leave a message for him?’

‘When do you think he’ll be back?’ inquired the stranger.

‘Quite uncertain,’ replied Lowten, winking at Mr. Pickwick, as the stranger cast his eyes towards the ground.

‘You don’t think it would be of any use my waiting for him?’ said the stranger, looking wistfully into the office.

‘Oh, no, I’m sure it wouldn’t,’ replied the clerk, moving a little more into the centre of the doorway. ‘He’s certain not to be back this week, and it’s a chance whether he will be next; for when Perker once gets out of town, he’s never in a hurry to come back again.’

‘Out of town!’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘dear me, how unfortunate!’

‘Don’t go away, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Lowten, ‘I’ve got a letter for you.’ The stranger, seeming to hesitate, once more looked towards the ground, and the clerk winked slyly at Mr. Pickwick, as if to intimate that some exquisite piece of humour was going forward, though what it was Mr. Pickwick could not for the life of him divine.

‘Step in, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Lowten. ‘Well, will you leave a message, Mr. Watty, or will you call again?’

‘Ask him to be so kind as to leave out word what has been done in my business,’ said the man; ‘for God’s sake don’t neglect it, Mr. Lowten.’

‘No, no; I won’t forget it,’ replied the clerk. ‘Walk in, Mr. Pickwick. Good-morning, Mr. Watty; it’s a fine day for walking, isn’t it?’ Seeing that the stranger still lingered, he beckoned Sam Weller to follow his master in, and shut the door in his face.

‘There never was such a pestering bankrupt as that since the world began, I do believe!’ said Lowten, throwing down his pen with the air of an injured man. ‘His affairs haven’t been in Chancery quite four years yet, and I’m d----d if he don’t come worrying here twice a week. Step this way, Mr. Pickwick. Perker is in, and he’ll see you, I know. Devilish cold,’ he added pettishly, ‘standing at that door, wasting one’s time with such seedy vagabonds!’ Having very vehemently stirred a particularly large fire with a particularly small poker, the clerk led the way to his principal’s private room, and announced Mr. Pickwick.

‘Ah, my dear Sir,’ said little Mr. Perker, bustling up from his chair. ‘Well, my dear sir, and what’s the news about your matter, eh? Anything more about our friends in Freeman’s Court? They’ve not been sleeping, I know that. Ah, they’re very smart fellows; very smart, indeed.’

As the little man concluded, he took an emphatic pinch of snuff, as a tribute to the smartness of Messrs. Dodson and Fogg.

‘They are great scoundrels,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Aye, aye,’ said the little man; ‘that’s a matter of opinion, you know, and we won’t dispute about terms; because of course you can’t be expected to view these subjects with a professional eye. Well, we’ve done everything that’s necessary. I have retained Serjeant Snubbin.’

‘Is he a good man?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Good man!’ replied Perker; ‘bless your heart and soul, my dear Sir, Serjeant Snubbin is at the very top of his profession. Gets treble the business of any man in court—engaged in every case. You needn’t mention it abroad; but we say—we of the profession—that Serjeant Snubbin leads the court by the nose.’

The little man took another pinch of snuff as he made this communication, and nodded mysteriously to Mr. Pickwick.

‘They have subpoenaed my three friends,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Ah! of course they would,’ replied Perker. ‘Important witnesses; saw you in a delicate situation.’

‘But she fainted of her own accord,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘She threw herself into my arms.’

‘Very likely, my dear Sir,’ replied Perker; ‘very likely and very natural. Nothing more so, my dear Sir, nothing. But who’s to prove it?’

‘They have subpoenaed my servant, too,’ said Mr. Pickwick, quitting the other point; for there Mr. Perker’s question had somewhat staggered him.

‘Sam?’ said Perker.

Mr. Pickwick replied in the affirmative.

‘Of course, my dear Sir; of course. I knew they would. I could have told you that, a month ago. You know, my dear Sir, if you _will _take the management of your affairs into your own hands after entrusting them to your solicitor, you must also take the consequences.’ Here Mr. Perker drew himself up with conscious dignity, and brushed some stray grains of snuff from his shirt frill.

‘And what do they want him to prove?’ asked Mr. Pickwick, after two or three minutes’ silence.

‘That you sent him up to the plaintiff ‘s to make some offer of a compromise, I suppose,’ replied Perker. ‘It don’t matter much, though; I don’t think many counsel could get a great deal out of him.’

‘I don’t think they could,’ said Mr. Pickwick, smiling, despite his vexation, at the idea of Sam’s appearance as a witness. ‘What course do we pursue?’

‘We have only one to adopt, my dear Sir,’ replied Perker; ‘cross-examine the witnesses; trust to Snubbin’s eloquence; throw dust in the eyes of the judge; throw ourselves on the jury.’

‘And suppose the verdict is against me?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

Mr. Perker smiled, took a very long pinch of snuff, stirred the fire, shrugged his shoulders, and remained expressively silent.

A causa di questo commovente episodio della vita privata, il padrone e il suo servitore si recarono negli uffici del signor Perker. Lowten, tenendo la porta semiaperta, stava conversando con un uomo dall’aspetto misero e vestito in modo trasandato: indossava stivali senza tomaie e guanti senza dita. Sul suo volto si leggevano tracce di privazione e sofferenza, quasi di disperazione; era consapevole della propria povertà, perché si ritirò sul lato buio delle scale non appena il signor Pickwick si avvicinò.

“È molto sfortunato,” disse lo sconosciuto, sospirando.

“Molto bene,” disse Lowten, scrivendo il proprio nome sullo stipite della porta con la penna, per poi cancellarlo di nuovo con la piuma. “Gli lascerai un messaggio?”

“Quando pensi che tornerà?” chiese lo sconosciuto.

“Piuttosto incerto,” rispose Lowten, facendo l’occhiolino al signor Pickwick mentre lo sconosciuto abbassava lo sguardo a terra.

“Non pensi che aspettarlo possa servire a qualcosa?” disse lo sconosciuto, guardando con aria malinconica all’interno dell’ufficio.

“Oh, no, sono sicuro che non tornerà,” rispose il commesso, spostandosi un po’ di più verso il centro della porta. “Di certo non tornerà questa settimana, e non si sa nemmeno se lo farà la prossima; perché quando Perker esce dalla città, non ha mai fretta di tornare indietro.”

“Fuori città!”, disse il signor Pickwick; “dio mio, che sfortuna!”

“Non andate via, signor Pickwick,” disse Lowten, “ho una lettera per voi.” Lo sconosciuto, sembrando esitare, guardò di nuovo verso il suolo; il commesso fece l’occhiolino a signor Pickwick, come se volesse suggerire che stava per accadere qualcosa di molto divertente, anche se signor Pickwick non riuscì assolutamente a capire di cosa si trattasse.

“Entri pure, signor Pickwick,” disse Lowten. “Beh, lascerà un messaggio, signor Watty, o richiamerà più tardi?”

“Chiedetegli di avere la gentilezza di omettere qualsiasi menzione di ciò che è stato fatto nei miei affari,” disse l’uomo; “per l’amor di Dio, non trascuratelo, signor Lowten.”

“No, no; non me ne dimenticherò,” rispose il commesso. “Entrate pure, signor Pickwick. Buongiorno, signor Watty; è una bella giornata per passeggiare, vero?” Vedendo che lo sconosciuto esitava ancora, fece segno a Sam Weller di seguirlo dentro e chiuse la porta davanti al suo viso.

“Non c’è mai stato un fallito così fastidioso da quando esiste il mondo, ve lo dico io!”, disse Lowten, gettando giù la penna con l’aria di un uomo offeso. “I suoi affari sono ancora in mano al Tribunale della Corona da meno di quattro anni, e vi giuro che viene qui a disturbarci due volte alla settimana. Venga da questa parte, signor Pickwick. Perker è dentro; sicuramente lo riceverà. Che freddo maledetto, stare lì davanti a quella porta a perdere il proprio tempo con dei vagabondi di quel genere!” Dopo aver ravvivato con grande energia un fuoco particolarmente grande usando un attizzatoio particolarmente piccolo, l’impiegato lo accompagnò nella stanza privata del suo principale e annunciò l’arrivo di signor Pickwick.

“Ah, mio caro signore,” disse il piccolo signor Perker, alzandosi di scatto dalla sua sedia.
“Beh, mio caro signore, quali novità ci sono riguardo alla sua questione? C’è qualcosa di nuovo sui nostri amici in tribunale a Freeman’s Court? So che non hanno dormito molto. Ah, sono davvero persone molto intelligenti; davvero molto intelligenti.”

Quando il piccolo uomo finì di parlare, si prese una forte pizzicata di tabacco, in segno di ammirazione per l’intelligenza dei signori Dodson e Fogg.

“Sono grandi furfanti,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Sì, sì,” disse il piccolo uomo; “è una questione di opinione, sai. E non discuteremo sui termini; dopotutto non ci si può aspettare che tu consideri queste cose con uno sguardo professionale. Beh, abbiamo fatto tutto ciò che era necessario. Ho tenuto Serjeant Snubbin.”

“È un uomo buono?”, chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Buon uomo!”, rispose Perker; “che il cielo benedica il suo cuore e la sua ‘anima, caro signore. Il sergente Snubbin è davvero all’apice della sua professione. Raccoglie il triplo di clienti rispetto a chiunque altro alla >corte; partecipa a ogni caso possibile. Non c’è bisogno nemmeno di parlarne all’estero. Ma noi, che lavoriamo in questo campo, sappiamo bene che il sergente Snubbin guida davvero la >corte per mano.”

Il piccolo uomo prese un’altra pizzicata di tabacco mentre effettuava questa comunicazione, e annuì misteriosamente al signor Pickwick.

“Hanno emesso un mandato di comparizione per i miei tre amici,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Ah! Certo che lo faranno,” rispose Perker. “Testimoni importanti, vi hanno visto in una situazione delicata.”

“Ma è svenuta di sua volontà,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Si è gettata tra le mie braccia.”

“Molto probabilmente, mio caro Signore,” rispose Perker; “molto probabilmente e molto naturalmente. Non c’è nulla di più probabile, mio caro Signore. Ma chi può provarlo?”

“Hanno anche citato in giudizio il mio servitore,” disse il signor Pickwick, abbandonando l’altro argomento; perché su quel punto la domanda del signor Perker lo aveva un po’ messo in imbarazzo.

“Sam?” disse Perker.

Il signor Pickwick rispose affermativamente.

“Certo, mio caro Signore; certo. Sapevo che lo avrebbero fatto. Avrei potuto dirvelo anche un mese fa. Sa, mio caro Signore, se deciderete di prendervi voi stessi in mano la gestione delle vostre faccende dopo averla affidata al vostro avvocato, dovrete anche assumervene le conseguenze.” A questo punto, il signor Perker si raddrizzò con dignità e spazzolò via alcuni granelli di tabacco dalla sua cravatta.

“E cosa vogliono che provi?” chiese il signor Pickwick dopo due o tre minuti di silenzio.

“Immagino che tu l’abbia mandato dal querelante per proporgli una qualche soluzione conciliativa,” rispose Perker. “Comunque non ha molta importanza; non credo che molti avvocati riuscirebbero a ottenere molto da lui.”

“Non credo che possano riuscirci,” disse il signor Pickwick sorridendo, nonostante la sua frustrazione, all’idea che Sam potesse comparire come testimone. “Qual è la prossima mossa da fare?”

“Abbiamo solo uno da adottare, mio caro signore,” rispose Perker; “esamini attentamente i testimoni; fidati dell’eloquenza di Snubbin; metti della polvere negli occhi del giudice; affidiamoci al giurì.”

“E se il verdetto fosse contro di me?” disse il signor Pickwick.

Il signor Perker sorrise, prese una lunga pizzicata di tabacco da naso, mescolò il fuoco, alzò le spalle e rimase in silenzio, con un’espressione significativa sul viso.

‘You mean that in that case I must pay the damages?’ said Mr. Pickwick, who had watched this telegraphic answer with considerable sternness.

Perker gave the fire another very unnecessary poke, and said, ‘I am afraid so.’

‘Then I beg to announce to you my unalterable determination to pay no damages whatever,’ said Mr. Pickwick, most emphatically. ‘None, Perker. Not a pound, not a penny of my money, shall find its way into the pockets of Dodson and Fogg. That is my deliberate and irrevocable determination.’ Mr. Pickwick gave a heavy blow on the table before him, in confirmation of the irrevocability of his intention.

‘Very well, my dear Sir, very well,’ said Perker. ‘You know best, of course.’

‘Of course,’ replied Mr. Pickwick hastily. ‘Where does Serjeant Snubbin live?’

In Lincoln’s Inn Old Square,’ replied Perker.

‘I should like to see him,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘See Serjeant Snubbin, my dear Sir!’ rejoined Perker, in utter amazement. ‘Pooh, pooh, my dear Sir, impossible. See Serjeant Snubbin! Bless you, my dear Sir, such a thing was never heard of, without a consultation fee being previously paid, and a consultation fixed. It couldn’t be done, my dear Sir; it couldn’t be done.’

Mr. Pickwick, however, had made up his mind not only that it could be done, but that it should be done; and the consequence was, that within ten minutes after he had received the assurance that the thing was impossible, he was conducted by his solicitor into the outer office of the great Serjeant Snubbin himself.

It was an uncarpeted room of tolerable dimensions, with a large writing- table drawn up near the fire, the baize top of which had long since lost all claim to its original hue of green, and had gradually grown gray with dust and age, except where all traces of its natural colour were obliterated by ink-stains. Upon the table were numerous little bundles of papers tied with red tape; and behind it, sat an elderly clerk, whose sleek appearance and heavy gold watch-chain presented imposing indications of the extensive and lucrative practice of Mr. Serjeant Snubbin.

‘Is the Serjeant in his room, Mr. Mallard?’ inquired Perker, offering his box with all imaginable courtesy.

‘Yes, he is,’ was the reply, ‘but he’s very busy. Look here; not an opinion given yet, on any one of these cases; and an expedition fee paid with all of ‘em.’ The clerk smiled as he said this, and inhaled the pinch of snuff with a zest which seemed to be compounded of a fondness for snuff and a relish for fees.

‘Something like practice that,’ said Perker.

‘Yes,’ said the barrister’s clerk, producing his own box, and offering it with the greatest cordiality; ‘and the best of it is, that as nobody alive except myself can read the serjeant’s writing, they are obliged to wait for the opinions, when he has given them, till I have copied ‘em, ha-ha-ha!’

‘Which makes good for we know who, besides the serjeant, and draws a little more out of the clients, eh?’ said Perker; ‘Ha, ha, ha!’ At this the serjeant’s clerk laughed again—not a noisy boisterous laugh, but a silent, internal chuckle, which Mr. Pickwick disliked to hear. When a man bleeds inwardly, it is a dangerous thing for himself; but when he laughs inwardly, it bodes no good to other people.

‘You haven’t made me out that little list of the fees that I’m in your debt, have you?’ said Perker.

‘No, I have not,’ replied the clerk.

‘I wish you would,’ said Perker. ‘Let me have them, and I’ll send you a cheque. But I suppose you’re too busy pocketing the ready money, to think of the debtors, eh? ha, ha, ha!’ This sally seemed to tickle the clerk amazingly, and he once more enjoyed a little quiet laugh to himself.

‘But, Mr. Mallard, my dear friend,’ said Perker, suddenly recovering his gravity, and drawing the great man’s great man into a Corner, by the lappel of his coat; ‘you must persuade the Serjeant to see me, and my client here.’

‘Come, come,’ said the clerk, ‘that’s not bad either. See the Serjeant! come, that’s too absurd.’ Notwithstanding the absurdity of the proposal, however, the clerk allowed himself to be gently drawn beyond the hearing of Mr. Pickwick; and after a short conversation conducted in whispers, walked softly down a little dark passage, and disappeared into the legal luminary’s sanctum, whence he shortly returned on tiptoe, and informed Mr. Perker and Mr. Pickwick that the Serjeant had been prevailed upon, in violation of all established rules and customs, to admit them at once.

Mr. Serjeant Snubbins was a lantern-faced, sallow-complexioned man, of about five-and-forty, or—as the novels say—he might be fifty. He had that dull-looking, boiled eye which is often to be seen in the heads of people who have applied themselves during many years to a weary and laborious course of study; and which would have been sufficient, without the additional eyeglass which dangled from a broad black riband round his neck, to warn a stranger that he was very near-sighted. His hair was thin and weak, which was partly attributable to his having never devoted much time to its arrangement, and partly to his having worn for five- and-twenty years the forensic wig which hung on a block beside him. The marks of hairpowder on his coat-collar, and the ill-washed and worse tied white neckerchief round his throat, showed that he had not found leisure since he left the court to make any alteration in his dress; while the slovenly style of the remainder of his costume warranted the inference that his personal appearance would not have been very much improved if he had. Books of practice, heaps of papers, and opened letters, were scattered over the table, without any attempt at order or arrangement; the furniture of the room was old and rickety; the doors of the book-case were rotting in their hinges; the dust flew out from the carpet in little clouds at every step; the blinds were yellow with age and dirt; the state of everything in the room showed, with a clearness not to be mistaken, that Mr. Serjeant Snubbin was far too much occupied with his professional pursuits to take any great heed or regard of his personal comforts.

“Volete dire che in quel caso dovrei pagare i danni?” disse il signor Pickwick, che aveva osservato questa risposta laconica con notevole severità.

Perker diede un’altra spinta inutile al fuoco, e disse: “Ho paura proprio per questo.”

“Allora vi annuncio con la massima fermezza la mia determinazione inalterabile di non pagare alcuna compensazione,” disse il signor Pickwick con grande enfasi. “Nessuna, Perker. Nemmeno una sterlina, nemmeno un penny dei miei soldi finirà nelle tasche di Dodson e Fogg. Questa è la mia decisione deliberata e irrevocabile.” Il signor Pickwick batté con forza sul tavolo davanti a sé per confermare l’irrevocabilità della sua intenzione.

“Molto bene, mio caro signore, molto bene,” disse Perker. “Dopotutto, è voi a saperlo meglio.”

“Certo,” rispose prontamente il signor Pickwick. “Dove vive il sergente Snubbin?”

“Nell’Inn Lincoln’s Inn Old Square,” rispose Perker.

“Vorrei vederlo,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Vedete il Sergente Snubbin, mio caro Signore!” esclamò Perker, completamente sbalordito. “Ma no, mio caro Signore, è impossibile. Vedete il Sergente Snubbin! Benedetto voi, mio caro Signore: una cosa del genere non si è mai sentita prima. Senza prima pagare una tariffa per la consulenza e senza fissare un appuntamento. Non potrebbe essere fatto, mio caro Signore; semplicemente non è possibile.”

Tuttavia, il signor Pickwick aveva già deciso non solo che fosse possibile farlo, ma anche che doveva essere fatto; e di conseguenza, dieci minuti dopo aver ricevuto la notizia che si trattava di qualcosa di impossibile, fu accompagnato dal suo avvocato nell’ufficio esterno dello stesso grande sergente Snubbin.

Era una stanza senza tappeti, di dimensioni tollerabili, con un grande tavolo da scrivere posizionato vicino al focolare; il piano in velluto del tavolo aveva da tempo perso ogni traccia del suo colore verde originale e si era gradualmente scurito a causa della polvere e dell’usura, tranne nei punti dove le macchie d’inchiostro avevano completamente cancellato ogni segno del suo colore naturale. Sul tavolo c’erano numerosi mucchietti di fogli legati con nastro rosso; dietro di esso sedeva un impiegato anziano, il cui aspetto curato e la pesante catena d’oro dell’orologio indicavano chiaramente l’estesa e redditizia attività professionale del signor Serjeant Snubbin.

“Il Sergente è nella sua stanza, signor Mallard?” chiese Perker, porgendo la scatola con tutta la cortesia possibile.

“Sì, lo è,” fu la risposta, “ma è molto impegnato. Guardate: non è stata ancora data alcuna opinione su nessuno di questi casi; eppure il compenso per l’espedizione è stato pagato per tutti. Il impiegato sorrise mentre lo diceva, e inalò con entusiasmo quella pizzicata di tabacco, come se quel piacere derivasse sia dall’amore per il tabacco che dal gusto per i compensi ricevuti.”

“Qualcosa del genere,” disse Perker.

“Sì,” disse l’impiegato dell’avvocato, tirando fuori la sua scatola e porgendola con grande cordialità; “e il meglio è che, poiché nessuno al mondo tranne me può leggere la grafia del sergente, sono costretti ad aspettare le sue opinioni, finché non le avrò trascritte io, ahahah!”

“Questo significa che, oltre al sergente, anche un’altra persona ne trae vantaggio, eh?”, disse Perker; “Ha, ha, ha!” A queste parole, il segretario del sergente rise di nuovo: non una risata rumorosa e scatenata, ma una silenziosa, interna risatina che al signor Pickwick non piacque affatto ascoltare. Quando un uomo ride dentro di sé, questo rappresenta un pericolo per lui stesso; ma quando ride in silenzio, non porta alcun bene agli altri.

“Non mi hai ancora fornito quella lista di spese per cui ti devo dei soldi, vero?” disse Perker.

“No, non l’ho,” rispose il commesso.

“Vorrei che lo facessi,” disse Perker. “Dammi quei soldi e ti manderò un assegno. Ma immagino che tu sia troppo occupato a intascare i soldi immediatamente disponibili per pensare ai debitori, eh? Ha, ha, ha!” Questa battuta sembrò divertire incredibilmente il cassiere, che si mise di nuovo a ridere tra sé e sé.

“Ma, signor Mallard, mio caro amico,” disse Perker, riprendendo improvvisamente la sua serietà e trascinando il grande uomo in un angolo, afferrandolo per il bavero del cappotto; “deve convincere il sergente a ricevermi, insieme al mio cliente qui presente.”

“Ma come, ma come,” disse l’impiegato, “anche questo non è male. Guardate il Sergente! Ma no, è davvero assurdo.” Nonostante l’assurdità della proposta, l’impiegato si lasciò comunque guidare silenziosamente al di fuori dell’udito del signor Pickwick; dopo una breve conversazione sussurrata, camminò in punta di piedi lungo un piccolo corridoio buio e scomparve nel sanctum del legale. Tornò poco dopo e comunicò al signor Perker e al signor Pickwick che il Sergente aveva acconsentito, violando tutte le regole e le consuetudini stabilite, ad ammetterli immediatamente.

Il signor Sergente Snubbins era un uomo dal viso pallido e dall’aspetto smunto, di circa cinquant’anni; o, come si dice nei romanzi, poteva anche averne cinquantaquattro. Aveva quell’occhio spento, tipico di chi per molti anni si è dedicato a uno studio noioso e faticoso; e quel difetto visivo, unito agli occhiali appesi a una larga striscia nera intorno al collo, era più che sufficiente per far capire a un estraneo che era molto miope. I suoi capelli erano sottili e deboli: in parte perché non vi dedicava mai molto tempo, in parte perché da venticinque anni indossava la parrucca da giudice che giaceva accanto a lui. Le tracce di cipria sul colletto della sua giacca, insieme al fazzoletto bianco mal lavato e male annodato intorno al collo, dimostravano che da quando aveva lasciato il tribunale non aveva mai trovato il tempo di sistemarsi adeguatamente; inoltre, lo stile trasandato del resto del suo abbigliamento faceva pensare che la sua apparenza personale non sarebbe migliorata nemmeno se ci avesse provato. Libri di diritto, mucchi di documenti e lettere aperte erano sparsi sul tavolo, senza alcun tentativo di ordine o sistemazione; i mobili della stanza erano vecchi e malandati; le porte dell’armadio erano rotte alle serrature; la polvere si alzava a nuvole dal tappeto ogni volta che si camminava; le tende erano gialle per l’uso e la sporcizia; insomma, tutto nella stanza indicava chiaramente che il signor Sergente Snubbins era troppo impegnato con i suoi doveri professionali per curarsi minimamente del proprio aspetto personale.

The Serjeant was writing when his clients entered; he bowed abstractedly when Mr. Pickwick was introduced by his solicitor; and then, motioning them to a seat, put his pen carefully in the inkstand, nursed his left leg, and waited to be spoken to.

‘Mr. Pickwick is the defendant in Bardell and Pickwick, Serjeant Snubbin,’ said Perker.

‘I am retained in that, am I?’ said the Serjeant.

‘You are, Sir,’ replied Perker.

The Serjeant nodded his head, and waited for something else.

‘Mr. Pickwick was anxious to call upon you, Serjeant Snubbin,’ said Perker, ‘to state to you, before you entered upon the case, that he denies there being any ground or pretence whatever for the action against him; and that unless he came into court with clean hands, and without the most conscientious conviction that he was right in resisting the plaintiff’s demand, he would not be there at all. I believe I state your views correctly; do I not, my dear Sir?’ said the little man, turning to Mr. Pickwick.

‘Quite so,’ replied that gentleman.

Mr. Serjeant Snubbin unfolded his glasses, raised them to his eyes; and, after looking at Mr. Pickwick for a few seconds with great curiosity, turned to Mr. Perker, and said, smiling slightly as he spoke—

‘Has Mr. Pickwick a strong case?’

The attorney shrugged his shoulders.

‘Do you propose calling witnesses?’

‘No.’

The smile on the Serjeant’s countenance became more defined; he rocked his leg with increased violence; and, throwing himself back in his easy- chair, coughed dubiously.

These tokens of the Serjeant’s presentiments on the subject, slight as they were, were not lost on Mr. Pickwick. He settled the spectacles, through which he had attentively regarded such demonstrations of the barrister’s feelings as he had permitted himself to exhibit, more firmly on his nose; and said with great energy, and in utter disregard of all Mr. Perker’s admonitory winkings and frownings—

‘My wishing to wait upon you, for such a purpose as this, Sir, appears, I have no doubt, to a gentleman who sees so much of these matters as you must necessarily do, a very extraordinary circumstance.’

The Serjeant tried to look gravely at the fire, but the smile came back again.

‘Gentlemen of your profession, Sir,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, ‘see the worst side of human nature. All its disputes, all its ill-will and bad blood, rise up before you. You know from your experience of juries (I mean no disparagement to you, or them) how much depends upon effect; and you are apt to attribute to others, a desire to use, for purposes of deception and self-interest, the very instruments which you, in pure honesty and honour of purpose, and with a laudable desire to do your utmost for your client, know the temper and worth of so well, from constantly employing them yourselves. I really believe that to this circumstance may be attributed the vulgar but very general notion of your being, as a body, suspicious, distrustful, and over-cautious. Conscious as I am, sir, of the disadvantage of making such a declaration to you, under such circumstances, I have come here, because I wish you distinctly to understand, as my friend Mr. Perker has said, that I am innocent of the falsehood laid to my charge; and although I am very well aware of the inestimable value of your assistance, Sir, I must beg to add, that unless you sincerely believe this, I would rather be deprived of the aid of your talents than have the advantage of them.’

Long before the close of this address, which we are bound to say was of a very prosy character for Mr. Pickwick, the Serjeant had relapsed into a state of abstraction. After some minutes, however, during which he had reassumed his pen, he appeared to be again aware of the presence of his clients; raising his head from the paper, he said, rather snappishly—

‘Who is with me in this case?’

‘Mr. Phunky, Serjeant Snubbin,’ replied the attorney.

‘Phunky—Phunky,’ said the Serjeant, ‘I never heard the name before. He must be a very young man.’

‘Yes, he is a very young man,’ replied the attorney. ‘He was only called the other day. Let me see—he has not been at the Bar eight years yet.’

‘Ah, I thought not,’ said the Serjeant, in that sort of pitying tone in which ordinary folks would speak of a very helpless little child. ‘Mr. Mallard, send round to Mr.—Mr.—’

Phunky’s—Holborn Court, Gray’s Inn,’ interposed Perker. (Holborn Court, by the bye, is South Square now.)—‘Mr. Phunky, and say I should be glad if he’d step here, a moment.’

Mr. Mallard departed to execute his commission; and Serjeant Snubbin relapsed into abstraction until Mr. Phunky himself was introduced.

Although an infant barrister, he was a full-grown man. He had a very nervous manner, and a painful hesitation in his speech; it did not appear to be a natural defect, but seemed rather the result of timidity, arising from the consciousness of being ‘kept down’ by want of means, or interest, or connection, or impudence, as the case might be. He was overawed by the Serjeant, and profoundly courteous to the attorney.

‘I have not had the pleasure of seeing you before, Mr. Phunky,’ said Serjeant Snubbin, with haughty condescension.

Mr. Phunky bowed. He _had _had the pleasure of seeing the Serjeant, and of envying him too, with all a poor man’s envy, for eight years and a quarter.

‘You are with me in this case, I understand?’ said the Serjeant.

If Mr. Phunky had been a rich man, he would have instantly sent for his clerk to remind him; if he had been a wise one, he would have applied his forefinger to his forehead, and endeavoured to recollect, whether, in the multiplicity of his engagements, he had undertaken this one or not; but as he was neither rich nor wise (in this sense, at all events) he turned red, and bowed.

‘Have you read the papers, Mr. Phunky?’ inquired the Serjeant.

Il sergente stava scrivendo quando i suoi clienti entrarono; fece un inchino distratto quando il signor Pickwick fu presentato dal suo avvocato; poi, invitandoli a sedersi, posò con cura la penna nell’inchiostroio, si sistemò la gamba sinistra e attese che qualcuno gli parlasse.

“Il signor Pickwick è l’imputato nel caso Bardell contro Pickwick, sergente Snubbin,” disse Perker.

“Sono quindi trattenuto lì, giusto?” disse il Sergente.

“Sì, signore,” rispose Perker.

Il sergente annuì con la testa, aspettando che succedesse qualcos’altro.

“Il signor Pickwick desidera molto incontrarvi, sergente Snubbin,” disse Perker, “per comunicarvi, prima che iniziate la causa, che nega categoricamente l’esistenza di qualsiasi fondamento o pretesto per le accuse rivolte contro di lui; e che, a meno di presentarsi in tribunale con le mani pulite, senza alcuna convinzione sincera riguardo alla correttezza della sua resistenza alle richieste del querelante, non si presenterà affatto. Credo di esprimere correttamente il vostro punto di vista, vero, mio caro signore?” disse il piccolo uomo, rivolgendosi al signor Pickwick.

“Esattamente,” rispose quel gentiluomo.

Il sergente Snubbin aprì i suoi occhiali, se li portò davanti agli occhi; e, dopo aver osservato il signor Pickwick per alcuni secondi con grande curiosità, si rivolse al signor Perker e disse, sorridendo leggermente mentre parlava.

“Ha il signor Pickwick delle prove solide a sostegno della sua tesi?”

L’avvocato alzò le spalle.

“Proponete di chiamare dei testimoni?”

‘No.’

Il sorriso sul volto del Sergente divenne ancora più evidente; dondolava la gamba con maggiore intensità; poi, appoggiandosi allo schienale della poltrona, tossì in modo incerto.

Questi segni dei presentimenti del sergente su tale argomento, per quanto insignificanti fossero, non passarono inosservati al signor Pickwick. Si sistemò meglio gli occhiali, attraverso i quali aveva osservato con attenzione tali manifestazioni dei sentimenti dell’avvocato, e disse con grande energia, ignorando completamente tutti i segnali di avvertimento e le espressioni corrucciate del signor Perker.

“Desidero servirvi per un simile scopo, signore; non ho alcun >dubbio che, per un gentiluomo che conosce così bene queste cose come voi, si tratti di una circostanza davvero straordinaria.”

Il sergente cercò di guardare con serietà il fuoco, ma il sorriso tornò immediatamente.

‘Signori della vostra professione,’ continuò il signor Pickwick, ‘vi trovate di fronte al lato peggiore della natura umana. Tutte le sue dispute, tutto il suo malanimo e la sua cattiveria vi vengono mostrati chiaramente. Dalla vostra esperienza con i giurì (non intendo offendervi né loro), sapete quanto dipenda dall’impatto visivo; ed è facile che attribuiate agli altri il desiderio di utilizzare, a fini di inganno e interesse personale, gli stessi strumenti che voi, con pura onestà e buone intenzioni, e con il desiderio lodevole di fare del vostro meglio per i vostri clienti, conoscete così bene, avendoli spesso usati personalmente. Credo davvero che a questa circostanza si possa attribuire quell’idea comune ma errata secondo cui voi, come categoria professionale, siate sospettosi, diffidenti e eccessivamente cauti. Nonostante sia consapevole dei disagi che una dichiarazione del genere può causarvi in queste circostanze, sono venuto qui perché desidero che comprendiate chiaramente, come ha detto il mio amico il signor Perker, che io sono innocente delle false accuse rivolte contro di me; e anche se sono ben consapevole del valore inestimabile del vostro aiuto, devo aggiungere che, a meno che non crediate sinceramente in questa mia innocenza, preferirei rinunciare al vostro sostegno piuttosto che godermene.’

Molto prima della fine di questo discorso, che dobbiamo ammettere fosse di carattere molto prosastico per il signor Pickwick, il sergente era ricaduto in uno stato di distacco. Tuttavia, dopo alcuni minuti, durante i quali aveva ripreso a scrivere, sembrò rendersi conto nuovamente della presenza dei suoi clienti; alzando lo sguardo dal foglio, disse, con un tono piuttosto brusco.

“Chi è al mio fianco in questa situazione?”

“Signor Phunky, Sergente Snubbin,” rispose l’avvocato.

“Phunky–Phunky,” disse il Sergente, “Non ho mai sentito questo nome prima. Deve essere un ragazzo molto giovane.”

“Sì, è un uomo molto giovane,” rispose l’avvocato. “È stato chiamato solo l’altro giorno. Lasciami pensare. Non fa ancora otto anni che è entrato nell’ordine degli avvocati.”

“Ah, non mi aspettavo proprio questo,” disse il Sergente, con quel tono di compassione che le persone comuni usano quando parlano di un piccolo >bambino completamente indifeso. “Signor Mallard, mandi a chiamare il signor, il signor, ”

“Phunky’s – Holborn Courtyard, Gray’s Inn,” intervenne Perker. (“Holborn Courtyard, tra l’altro, ora si chiama South Square, ) – ‘Signor Phunky, dica che sarei felice se potesse venire qui un momento.’”

Il signor Mallard partì per adempiere al suo incarico; il sergente Snubbin tornò a immergersi nei suoi pensieri, fino a quando non fu presentato personalmente il signor Phunky.

Sebbene fosse un giovane avvocato, in realtà era già un uomo adulto. Aveva un modo di comportarsi molto nervoso e esitava profondamente nel parlare; questa caratteristica non sembrava essere un difetto naturale, ma piuttosto il risultato della timidezza, derivante dal rendersi conto di essere “sopraffatto” dalla mancanza di mezzi, di interessi, di relazioni o di audacia, a seconda dei casi. Era intimidito dal sergente e estremamente cortese con l’avvocato.

“Non ho avuto il piacere di incontrarla prima, signor Phunky,” disse Sergente Snubbin con un tono arrogante e condiscendente.

Il signor Phunky fece un inchino. Aveva avuto il piacere di incontrare il Sergente, e anche di invidiarlo, con tutta l’invidia di un poveruomo, per otto anni e mezzo.

“Sei con me in questa situazione, giusto?” disse il Sergente.

Se il signor Phunky fosse stato un uomo ricco, avrebbe immediatamente chiamato il suo segretario per farsi ricordare; se fosse stato saggio, si sarebbe premuto l’indice sulla fronte cercando di ricordare se, tra le molteplici sue impegni, avesse preso in considerazione anche questo; ma poiché non era né ricco né saggio (almeno in questo senso), arrossì e fece un inchino.

“Ha letto i giornali, signor Phunky?”, chiese il sergente.

Here again, Mr. Phunky should have professed to have forgotten all about the merits of the case; but as he had read such papers as had been laid before him in the course of the action, and had thought of nothing else, waking or sleeping, throughout the two months during which he had been retained as Mr. Serjeant Snubbin’s junior, he turned a deeper red and bowed again.

‘This is Mr. Pickwick,’ said the Serjeant, waving his pen in the direction in which that gentleman was standing.

Mr. Phunky bowed to Mr. Pickwick, with a reverence which a first client must ever awaken; and again inclined his head towards his leader.

‘Perhaps you will take Mr. Pickwick away,’ said the Serjeant, ‘and—and- -and—hear anything Mr. Pickwick may wish to communicate. We shall have a consultation, of course.’ With that hint that he had been interrupted quite long enough, Mr. Serjeant Snubbin, who had been gradually growing more and more abstracted, applied his glass to his eyes for an instant, bowed slightly round, and was once more deeply immersed in the case before him, which arose out of an interminable lawsuit, originating in the act of an individual, deceased a century or so ago, who had stopped up a pathway leading from some place which nobody ever came from, to some other place which nobody ever went to.

Mr. Phunky would not hear of passing through any door until Mr. Pickwick and his solicitor had passed through before him, so it was some time before they got into the Square; and when they did reach it, they walked up and down, and held a long conference, the result of which was, that it was a very difficult matter to say how the verdict would go; that nobody could presume to calculate on the issue of an action; that it was very lucky they had prevented the other party from getting Serjeant Snubbin; and other topics of doubt and consolation, common in such a position of affairs.

Mr. Weller was then roused by his master from a sweet sleep of an hour’s duration; and, bidding adieu to Lowten, they returned to the city.

CHAPTER XXXII. DESCRIBES, FAR MORE FULLY THAN THE COURT NEWSMAN EVER DID, A BACHELOR’S PARTY, GIVEN BY MR. BOB SAWYER AT HIS LODGINGS IN THE BOROUGH

There is a repose about Lant Street, in the Borough, which sheds a gentle melancholy upon the soul. There are always a good many houses to let in the street: it is a by-street too, and its dulness is soothing. A house in Lant Street would not come within the denomination of a first- rate residence, in the strict acceptation of the term; but it is a most desirable spot nevertheless. If a man wished to abstract himself from the world—to remove himself from within the reach of temptation—to place himself beyond the possibility of any inducement to look out of the window—we should recommend him by all means go to Lant Street.

In this happy retreat are colonised a few clear-starchers, a sprinkling of journeymen bookbinders, one or two prison agents for the Insolvent Court, several small housekeepers who are employed in the Docks, a handful of mantua-makers, and a seasoning of jobbing tailors. The majority of the inhabitants either direct their energies to the letting of furnished apartments, or devote themselves to the healthful and invigorating pursuit of mangling. The chief features in the still life of the street are green shutters, lodging-bills, brass door-plates, and bell-handles; the principal specimens of animated nature, the pot-boy, the muffin youth, and the baked-potato man. The population is migratory, usually disappearing on the verge of quarter-day, and generally by night. His Majesty’s revenues are seldom collected in this happy valley; the rents are dubious; and the water communication is very frequently cut off.

Mr. Bob Sawyer embellished one side of the fire, in his first-floor front, early on the evening for which he had invited Mr. Pickwick, and Mr. Ben Allen the other. The preparations for the reception of visitors appeared to be completed. The umbrellas in the passage had been heaped into the little corner outside the back-parlour door; the bonnet and shawl of the landlady’s servant had been removed from the bannisters; there were not more than two pairs of pattens on the street-door mat; and a kitchen candle, with a very long snuff, burned cheerfully on the ledge of the staircase window. Mr. Bob Sawyer had himself purchased the spirits at a wine vaults in High Street, and had returned home preceding the bearer thereof, to preclude the possibility of their delivery at the wrong house. The punch was ready-made in a red pan in the bedroom; a little table, covered with a green baize cloth, had been borrowed from the parlour, to play at cards on; and the glasses of the establishment, together with those which had been borrowed for the occasion from the public-house, were all drawn up in a tray, which was deposited on the landing outside the door.

Notwithstanding the highly satisfactory nature of all these arrangements, there was a cloud on the countenance of Mr. Bob Sawyer, as he sat by the fireside. There was a sympathising expression, too, in the features of Mr. Ben Allen, as he gazed intently on the coals, and a tone of melancholy in his voice, as he said, after a long silence—

‘Well, it is unlucky she should have taken it in her head to turn sour, just on this occasion. She might at least have waited till to-morrow.’

‘That’s her malevolence—that’s her malevolence,’ returned Mr. Bob Sawyer vehemently. ‘She says that if I can afford to give a party I ought to be able to pay her confounded “little bill.”’

How long has it been running?’ inquired Mr. Ben Allen. A bill, by the bye, is the most extraordinary locomotive engine that the genius of man ever produced. It would keep on running during the longest lifetime, without ever once stopping of its own accord.

Ancora una volta, il signor Phunky avrebbe dovuto fingere di aver dimenticato completamente i dettagli del caso; ma poiché aveva letto tutti quei documenti presentati davanti a lui durante le procedure legali e non aveva pensato ad altro, né sveglio né dormendo, per i due mesi in cui era stato assunto come assistente del signor Serjeant Snubbin, arrossì ancora di più e si inchinò di nuovo.

“Questo è il signor Pickwick”, disse il sergente, agitando la penna nella direzione in cui quel gentiluomo si trovava.

Il signor Phunky si inchinò davanti al signor Pickwick con un rispetto tale che solo un cliente per la prima volta può provare; poi di nuovo inclinò la testa verso il suo capo.

“Forse potreste portare via il signor Pickwick,” disse il sergente, “e, e ascoltare qualsiasi cosa desideri comunicarci. Naturalmente, avremo una consultazione.” Con quel suggerimento che fosse stato interrotto abbastanza a lungo, il signor Serjeant Snubbin, che ormai era diventato sempre più assorto nei suoi pensieri, si avvicinò il bicchiere agli occhi per un istante, si piegò leggermente in avanti e si immerse nuovamente nella questione che aveva davanti a sé: una causa legale interminabile, nata dall’azione di un individuo deceduto circa un secolo prima, il quale si era fermato su un sentiero che portava da qualche luogo da cui nessuno mai veniva, verso un altro luogo dove nessuno mai andava.

Il signor Phunky non voleva assolutamente passare da nessuna porta finché il signor Pickwick e il suo avvocato non ci fossero passati prima di lui; quindi ci volle un po’ di tempo prima che riuscissero ad entrare nella piazza. Una volta lì, camminarono su e giù per le strade e tennero una lunga discussione. Alla fine conclusero che era molto difficile prevedere quale sarebbe stata la sentenza; che nessuno poteva azzardarsi a fare previsioni riguardo all’esito della causa; e che era davvero fortunati ad aver impedito alla controparte di assumere il sergente Snubbin. E così via, argomenti pieni di >dubbio e consolazione, tipici in una situazione del genere.

Il signor Weller fu poi svegliato dal suo padrone da un dolce sonno durato un’ora; e, dopo essersi congedati da Lowten, tornarono in città.

CAPITOLO XXXII. Descrive, in modo molto più dettagliato di quanto abbia mai fatto il giornalista della corte, una festa per studenti universitari organizzata dal signor Bob Sawyer nella sua residenza nel borgo.

C’è una sorta di tranquillità in via Lant, nel quel quartiere, che diffonde una dolce melancolia sull’anima delle persone. In quella strada ci sono sempre molte case disponibili per l’affitto: è anche una traversa, e la sua quiete ha un effetto rilassante. Una casa in via Lant non rientrerebbe nella categoria delle residenze di prim’ordine, nel senso stretto del termine; tuttavia, si tratta comunque di un luogo molto desiderabile. Se qualcuno volesse allontanarsi dal mondo, mettersi al riparo dalle tentazioni e evitare qualsiasi stimolo che potesse spingerlo a guardare fuori dalla finestra, gli consiglieremmo assolutamente di andare in via Lant.

In questo tranquillo rifugio risiedono alcuni impiegati addetti alla preparazione dello zucchero semolato, un po’ di librai viaggiatori, uno o due agenti penitenziari incaricati presso il Tribunale per i Falliti, alcune domestiche che lavorano nei porti, un paio di sarti e qualche altro artigiano occasionale. La maggior parte degli abitanti si dedica either all’affitto di appartamenti arredati o a quella attività tanto salutare quanto stimolante, consistente nel “lavorare” su oggetti vari. Gli elementi principali che caratterizzano questa strada sono le persiane verdi, gli avvisi di affitto, le targhe di bronzo sulle porte e i pomelli delle campane; gli esempi più rappresentativi della “natura vivente” presenti in quest’area sono il ragazzo incaricato di portare le brocche, il giovane che vende muffin e l’uomo che vende patate arrosto. La popolazione è migratoria: spesso scompare proprio alla vigilia dei giorni di pagamento e generalmente di notte. Le entrate del Sovrano in questa “felice valle” sono molto scarse; gli affitti sono dubbi, e i collegamenti idrici vengono spesso interrotti.

Il signor Bob Sawyer aveva decorato un lato del camino situato sul davanti del suo primo piano, quella sera stessa in cui aveva invitato il signor Pickwick e il signor Ben Allen. I preparativi per ricevere gli ospiti sembravano essere completati: gli ombrelli erano stati ammucchiati nell’angolo fuori dalla porta del salotto posteriore; il cappello e lo scialle della domestica dell’affittuosa erano stati tolti dai corrimani; sul tappeto davanti alla porta d’ingresso non c’erano più di due paia di pattini da neve; e una candela da cucina, con un lungo stoppino, ardeva felicemente sul davanzale della finestra del corridoio. Il signor Bob Sawyer stesso aveva acquistato gli alcolici in una cantina situata in High Street ed era tornato a casa prima del loro consegnatario, per evitare che venissero portati nella casa sbagliata. Il punch era già pronto in una pentola rossa nella camera da letto; un piccolo tavolo coperto con un panno verde era stato preso in prestito dal salotto per giocare a carte; e i bicchieri dell’osteria, insieme a quelli presi in prestito appositamente per l’occasione dalla locanda pubblica, erano tutti disposti su un vassoio, posizionato sul pianerottolo fuori dalla porta.

Nonostante la natura estremamente soddisfacente di tutti questi accordi, c’era un’ombra sul volto del signor Bob Sawyer mentre sedeva accanto al fuoco. Anche sul viso del signor Ben Allen si leggeva un’espressione di comprensione mentre fissava attentamente i carboni; nel suo tono di voce, dopo un lungo silenzio, c’era una nota di melanconia.

‘Beh, è sfortunato che abbia deciso di comportarsi male proprio in questa occasione. Avrebbe potuto aspettare almeno fino a domani.’

“Ecco la sua malvagità, ecco la sua malvagità,” ribatté con veemenza il signor Bob Sawyer. “Dice che se posso permettermi di dare una festa, allora dovrei anche essere in grado di pagare quella maledetta ‘piccola fattura’ sua.”

“Da quanto tempo funziona già?”, chiese il signor Ben Allen. Tra l’altro, la “bill” è il motore locomotivo più straordinario che il genio umano abbia mai creato: continuerebbe a funzionare per tutta la durata della vita umana, senza mai fermarsi di sua iniziativa.

‘Only a quarter, and a month or so,’ replied Mr. Bob Sawyer.

Ben Allen coughed hopelessly, and directed a searching look between the two top bars of the stove.

‘It’ll be a deuced unpleasant thing if she takes it into her head to let out, when those fellows are here, won’t it?’ said Mr. Ben Allen at length.

‘Horrible,’ replied Bob Sawyer, ‘horrible.’

A low tap was heard at the room door. Mr. Bob Sawyer looked expressively at his friend, and bade the tapper come in; whereupon a dirty, slipshod girl in black cotton stockings, who might have passed for the neglected daughter of a superannuated dustman in very reduced circumstances, thrust in her head, and said—

‘Please, Mister Sawyer, Missis Raddle wants to speak to you.’

Before Mr. Bob Sawyer could return any answer, the girl suddenly disappeared with a jerk, as if somebody had given her a violent pull behind; this mysterious exit was no sooner accomplished, than there was another tap at the door—a smart, pointed tap, which seemed to say, ‘Here I am, and in I’m coming.’

Mr. Bob Sawyer glanced at his friend with a look of abject apprehension, and once more cried, ‘Come in.’

The permission was not at all necessary, for, before Mr. Bob Sawyer had uttered the words, a little, fierce woman bounced into the room, all in a tremble with passion, and pale with rage.

‘Now, Mr. Sawyer,’ said the little, fierce woman, trying to appear very calm, ‘if you’ll have the kindness to settle that little bill of mine I’ll thank you, because I’ve got my rent to pay this afternoon, and my landlord’s a-waiting below now.’ Here the little woman rubbed her hands, and looked steadily over Mr. Bob Sawyer’s head, at the wall behind him.

‘I am very sorry to put you to any inconvenience, Mrs. Raddle,’ said Bob Sawyer deferentially, ‘but—’

‘Oh, it isn’t any inconvenience,’ replied the little woman, with a shrill titter. ‘I didn’t want it particular before to-day; leastways, as it has to go to my landlord directly, it was as well for you to keep it as me. You promised me this afternoon, Mr. Sawyer, and every gentleman as has ever lived here, has kept his word, Sir, as of course anybody as calls himself a gentleman does.’ Mrs. Raddle tossed her head, bit her lips, rubbed her hands harder, and looked at the wall more steadily than ever. It was plain to see, as Mr. Bob Sawyer remarked in a style of Eastern allegory on a subsequent occasion, that she was ‘getting the steam up.’

‘I am very sorry, Mrs. Raddle,’ said Bob Sawyer, with all imaginable humility, ‘but the fact is, that I have been disappointed in the City to-day.’—Extraordinary place that City. An astonishing number of men always _are _getting disappointed there.

‘Well, Mr. Sawyer,’ said Mrs. Raddle, planting herself firmly on a purple cauliflower in the Kidderminster carpet, ‘and what’s that to me, Sir?’

‘I—I—have no doubt, Mrs. Raddle,’ said Bob Sawyer, blinking this last question, ‘that before the middle of next week we shall be able to set ourselves quite square, and go on, on a better system, afterwards.’

This was all Mrs. Raddle wanted. She had bustled up to the apartment of the unlucky Bob Sawyer, so bent upon going into a passion, that, in all probability, payment would have rather disappointed her than otherwise. She was in excellent order for a little relaxation of the kind, having just exchanged a few introductory compliments with Mr. R. in the front kitchen.

‘Do you suppose, Mr. Sawyer,’ said Mrs. Raddle, elevating her voice for the information of the neighbours—‘do you suppose that I’m a-going day after day to let a fellar occupy my lodgings as never thinks of paying his rent, nor even the very money laid out for the fresh butter and lump sugar that’s bought for his breakfast, and the very milk that’s took in, at the street door? Do you suppose a hard-working and industrious woman as has lived in this street for twenty year (ten year over the way, and nine year and three-quarters in this very house) has nothing else to do but to work herself to death after a parcel of lazy idle fellars, that are always smoking and drinking, and lounging, when they ought to be glad to turn their hands to anything that would help ‘em to pay their bills? Do you—’

‘My good soul,’ interposed Mr. Benjamin Allen soothingly.

‘Have the goodness to keep your observashuns to yourself, Sir, I beg,’ said Mrs. Raddle, suddenly arresting the rapid torrent of her speech, and addressing the third party with impressive slowness and solemnity. ‘I am not aweer, Sir, that you have any right to address your conversation to me. I don’t think I let these apartments to you, Sir.’

‘No, you certainly did not,’ said Mr. Benjamin Allen.

‘Very good, Sir,’ responded Mrs. Raddle, with lofty politeness. ‘Then p’raps, Sir, you’ll confine yourself to breaking the arms and legs of the poor people in the hospitals, and keep yourself to yourself, Sir, or there may be some persons here as will make you, Sir.’

‘But you are such an unreasonable woman,’ remonstrated Mr. Benjamin Allen.

‘I beg your parding, young man,’ said Mrs. Raddle, in a cold perspiration of anger. ‘But will you have the goodness just to call me that again, sir?’

‘I didn’t make use of the word in any invidious sense, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Benjamin Allen, growing somewhat uneasy on his own account.

‘I beg your parding, young man,’ demanded Mrs. Raddle, in a louder and more imperative tone. ‘But who do you call a woman? Did you make that remark to me, sir?’

‘Why, bless my heart!’ said Mr. Benjamin Allen.

‘Did you apply that name to me, I ask of you, sir?’ interrupted Mrs. Raddle, with intense fierceness, throwing the door wide open.

‘Why, of course I did,’ replied Mr. Benjamin Allen.

‘Yes, of course you did,’ said Mrs. Raddle, backing gradually to the door, and raising her voice to its loudest pitch, for the special behoof of Mr. Raddle in the kitchen. ‘Yes, of course you did! And everybody knows that they may safely insult me in my own ‘ouse while my husband sits sleeping downstairs, and taking no more notice than if I was a dog in the streets. He ought to be ashamed of himself (here Mrs. Raddle sobbed) to allow his wife to be treated in this way by a parcel of young cutters and carvers of live people’s bodies, that disgraces the lodgings (another sob), and leaving her exposed to all manner of abuse; a base, faint-hearted, timorous wretch, that’s afraid to come upstairs, and face the ruffinly creatures—that’s afraid—that’s afraid to come!’ Mrs. Raddle paused to listen whether the repetition of the taunt had roused her better half; and finding that it had not been successful, proceeded to descend the stairs with sobs innumerable; when there came a loud double knock at the street door; whereupon she burst into an hysterical fit of weeping, accompanied with dismal moans, which was prolonged until the knock had been repeated six times, when, in an uncontrollable burst of mental agony, she threw down all the umbrellas, and disappeared into the back parlour, closing the door after her with an awful crash.

“Solo un quarto, più o meno un mese,” rispose il signor Bob Sawyer.

Ben Allen tossì un colpo di tosse disperato, poi lanciò uno sguardo intenso tra le due barre superiori del camino.

“Sarà davvero molto sgradevole se le venisse in mente di rivelarlo mentre quei tipi sono qui, non credete?” disse finalmente il signor Ben Allen.

“Terribile,” rispose Bob Sawyer, “terribile.”

Si udì un leggero bussare alla porta della stanza. Il signor Bob Sawyer guardò il suo amico con espressione significativa e invitò la persona che bussava ad entrare; subito dopo, una ragazza sporca, con le calze di cotone nero e i vestiti in disordine, che avrebbe potuto essere scambiata per la figlia trascurata di un spazzino in difficoltà economiche, fece capolino e disse.

“Per favore, signor Sawyer, la signora Raddle vuole parlarle.”

Prima che il signor Bob Sawyer potesse rispondere, la ragazza scomparve all’improvviso, come se qualcuno l’avesse tirata con forza da dietro; non appena questa misteriosa uscita ebbe luogo, si sentì un altro colpo alla porta – un colpo rapido e deciso, che sembrava dire: “Eccomi qui, sto entrando.”

Il signor Bob Sawyer guardò il suo amico con un’espressione di profonda preoccupazione e ancora una volta gridò: “Entra.”

La permessa non era affatto necessaria, perché prima ancora che il signor Bob Sawyer avesse pronunciato quelle parole, una donna piccola e furiosa entrò nella stanza, tremante per la passione e pallida di rabbia.

“Ora, signor Sawyer,” disse la piccola donna dallo sguardo deciso, cercando di apparire molto calma, “se avesse la gentilezza di saldare quel piccolo conto mio, le sarei molto grata. Questo pomeriggio devo pagare l’affitto, e il mio padrone di casa sta aspettando giù.” Mentre parlava, si strofinò le mani e fissò lo sguardo oltre la testa di Mr. Bob Sawyer, verso il muro alle sue spalle.

“Mi dispiace molto di causarvi qualche incomodo, signora Raddle,” disse Bob Sawyer con deferenza, “ma, ”

“Oh, non è affatto un disturbo,” rispose la piccola donna con una risatina stridula. “Prima d’oggi non ne avevo particolare bisogno; in ogni caso, poiché doveva essere inviata direttamente al mio padrone di casa, era altrettanto conveniente che la teneste voi quanto me. Mi avevate promesso questo pomeriggio, signor Sawyer. E tutti gli uomini che sono mai vissuti qui hanno mantenuto la loro parola, signore. Come è naturale che faccia chiunque si consideri un gentiluomo.” La signora Raddle scosse la testa, morse il labbro, si strofinò le mani ancora più energicamente e fissò il muro con maggiore intensità del solito. Era evidente, come osservò in seguito il signor Bob Sawyer con uno stile tipico delle “allegorie orientali”, che lei stava “cominciando a innervosirsi”.

“Mi dispiace molto, signora Raddle,” disse Bob Sawyer con tutta la umiltà immaginabile, “ma il fatto è che oggi sono rimasto deluso in città.” Che strano posto quella città. Un numero incredibile di persone ci rimane sempre deluso.

“Beh, signor Sawyer,” disse la signora Raddle, sistemandosi con decisione su un cavolfiore viola del tappeto di Kidderminster, “e cosa c’entra questo con me, signore?”

“N—non ho alcun >dubbio, signora Raddle,” disse Bob Sawyer, battendo le palpebre di fronte a questa ultima domanda, “che entro la metà della prossima settimana saremo in grado di sistemare tutto perfettamente e poi proseguire seguendo un sistema migliore.”

Era esattamente ciò che la signora Raddle desiderava. Si era precipitata nell’appartamento del sfortunato Bob Sawyer, così ansiosa di scatenare una scenata che, molto probabilmente, anche il pagamento avrebbe finito per deluderla piuttosto che soddisfarla. Era davvero nella condizione ideale per un piccolo sfogo del genere, dopo aver appena scambiato alcuni complimenti preliminari con il signor R. in cucina.

“Lei crede davvero, signor Sawyer,” disse la signora Raddle alzando la voce affinché i vicini potessero sentire, “che io vada giorno dopo giorno a permettere a certi individui pigri e inutili di occupare le mie stanze, senza che nemmeno pensino a pagare l’affitto, né tantomeno il denaro speso per il burro fresco, lo zucchero e il latte che gli vengono forniti ogni mattina? Lei crede davvero che una donna laboriosa e onesta, che vive in questa strada da vent’anni (dieci anni nell’altra casa e nove anni e tre quarti proprio in questa), non abbia nient’altro da fare se non lavorare fino allo sfinimento per mantenere quegli individui pigri, che passano il tempo a fumare, bere e poltrire, invece di impegnarsi in qualcosa che possa aiutarli a pagare le loro bollette? Lei crede davvero, ”

“Mia cara ‘anima”, intervenne gentilmente il signor Benjamin Allen.

“Per favore, tenete per voi le vostre osservazioni, signore,” disse la signora Raddle, interrompendo improvvisamente il flusso rapido delle sue parole e rivolgendosi al terzo interlocutore con una lentezza e solennità impressionanti. “Non temo affatto che voi abbiate il diritto di rivolgervi a me in questo modo. Non credo proprio di avervi concesso il permesso di utilizzare queste stanze, signore.”

“No, certamente no,” disse il signor Benjamin Allen.

“Molto bene, signore,” rispose la signora Raddle con un tono di altezzosa cortesia. “Allora, forse, signore, si limiterà a rompere braccia e gambe alle povere persone negli ospedali, e starà per conto suo, signore. Altrimenti potrebbero esserci persone qui che la faranno cambiare idea, signore.”

“Ma tu sei davvero una donna irragionevole,” protestò il signor Benjamin Allen.

“La prego, giovane signore,” disse la signora Raddle, con un freddo sudore di rabbia. “Ma potrebbe almeno chiamarmi di nuovo così, per favore?”

“Non ho usato quella parola in alcun senso offensivo, signora,” rispose il signor Benjamin Allen, cominciando a sentirsi a disagio per se stesso.

“La prego per l’amor del cielo, giovane uomo,” esclamò la signora Raddle con tono più alto e più imperativo. “Ma chi definisce donna una persona del genere? L’ha detto davvero a me, signore?”

“Perbacco!”, esclamò il signor Benjamin Allen.

“Mi ha davvero dato quel nome, mi chiedo, signore?”, interruppe la signora Raddle con intensa furia, spalancando la porta.

“Certo che sì,” rispose il signor Benjamin Allen.

“Sì, certo che l’hai fatto,” disse la signora Raddle, indietreggiando gradualmente verso la porta e alzando la voce al massimo del suo potere, esclusivamente a beneficio del signor Raddle in cucina. “Sì, certo che l’hai fatto! E tutti sanno che possono insultarmi tranquillamente nella mia stessa casa, mentre mio marito dorme di sotto senza nemmeno accorgersene, come se fossi un cane per strada. Dovrebbe vergognarsi (qui la signora Raddle singhiozzò) di permettere che sua moglie venga trattata in questo modo da quei giovani teppisti e macellai di corpi umani. Che disonore per queste stanze. E lasciarla esposta a ogni sorta di abusi. Un essere meschino, debole, codardo, che ha paura di salire al piano di sopra e affrontare quelle creature rozze. Ha paura. Ha paura, ” La signora Raddle fece una pausa per vedere se la ripetizione di queste offese avesse sortito qualche effetto; non avendo ottenuto nulla, continuò a scendere le scale tra innumerevoli singhiozzi. All’improvviso si udì un forte bussare alla porta d’ingresso; lei scoppiò in un attacco isterico di pianto, accompagnato da lamenti disperati, che continuarono fino a quando il bussare non fu ripetuto per la sesta volta. In quel momento, sopraffatta dall’angoscia, gettò a terra tutti gli ombrelli e scomparve nel salotto posteriore, chiudendo la porta con un terribile tonfo.

‘Does Mr. Sawyer live here?’ said Mr. Pickwick, when the door was opened.

‘Yes,’ said the girl, ‘first floor. It’s the door straight afore you, when you gets to the top of the stairs.’ Having given this instruction, the handmaid, who had been brought up among the aboriginal inhabitants of Southwark, disappeared, with the candle in her hand, down the kitchen stairs, perfectly satisfied that she had done everything that could possibly be required of her under the circumstances.

Mr. Snodgrass, who entered last, secured the street door, after several ineffectual efforts, by putting up the chain; and the friends stumbled upstairs, where they were received by Mr. Bob Sawyer, who had been afraid to go down, lest he should be waylaid by Mrs. Raddle.

‘How are you?’ said the discomfited student. ‘Glad to see you—take care of the glasses.’ This caution was addressed to Mr. Pickwick, who had put his hat in the tray.

‘Dear me,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I beg your pardon.’

‘Don’t mention it, don’t mention it,’ said Bob Sawyer. ‘I’m rather confined for room here, but you must put up with all that, when you come to see a young bachelor. Walk in. You’ve seen this gentleman before, I think?’ Mr. Pickwick shook hands with Mr. Benjamin Allen, and his friends followed his example. They had scarcely taken their seats when there was another double knock.

‘I hope that’s Jack Hopkins!’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer. ‘Hush. Yes, it is. Come up, Jack; come up.’

A heavy footstep was heard upon the stairs, and Jack Hopkins presented himself. He wore a black velvet waistcoat, with thunder-and-lightning buttons; and a blue striped shirt, with a white false collar.

‘You’re late, Jack?’ said Mr. Benjamin Allen.

‘Been detained at Bartholomew’s,’ replied Hopkins.

‘Anything new?’

‘No, nothing particular. Rather a good accident brought into the casualty ward.’

‘What was that, sir?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Only a man fallen out of a four pair of stairs’ window; but it’s a very fair case indeed.’

‘Do you mean that the patient is in a fair way to recover?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘No,’ replied Mr. Hopkins carelessly. ‘No, I should rather say he wouldn’t. There must be a splendid operation, though, to-morrow— magnificent sight if Slasher does it.’

‘You consider Mr. Slasher a good operator?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Best alive,’ replied Hopkins. ‘Took a boy’s leg out of the socket last week—boy ate five apples and a gingerbread cake—exactly two minutes after it was all over, boy said he wouldn’t lie there to be made game of, and he’d tell his mother if they didn’t begin.’

‘Dear me!’ said Mr. Pickwick, astonished.

‘Pooh! That’s nothing, that ain’t,’ said Jack Hopkins. ‘Is it, Bob?’

‘Nothing at all,’ replied Mr. Bob Sawyer.

‘By the bye, Bob,’ said Hopkins, with a scarcely perceptible glance at Mr. Pickwick’s attentive face, ‘we had a curious accident last night. A child was brought in, who had swallowed a necklace.’

‘Swallowed what, Sir?’ interrupted Mr. Pickwick.

‘A necklace,’ replied Jack Hopkins. ‘Not all at once, you know, that would be too much—you couldn’t swallow that, if the child did—eh, Mr. Pickwick? ha, ha!’ Mr. Hopkins appeared highly gratified with his own pleasantry, and continued—‘No, the way was this. Child’s parents were poor people who lived in a court. Child’s eldest sister bought a necklace—common necklace, made of large black wooden beads. Child being fond of toys, cribbed the necklace, hid it, played with it, cut the string, and swallowed a bead. Child thought it capital fun, went back next day, and swallowed another bead.’

‘Bless my heart,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘what a dreadful thing! I beg your pardon, Sir. Go on.’

‘Next day, child swallowed two beads; the day after that, he treated himself to three, and so on, till in a week’s time he had got through the necklace—five-and-twenty beads in all. The sister, who was an industrious girl, and seldom treated herself to a bit of finery, cried her eyes out, at the loss of the necklace; looked high and low for it; but, I needn’t say, didn’t find it. A few days afterwards, the family were at dinner—baked shoulder of mutton, and potatoes under it—the child, who wasn’t hungry, was playing about the room, when suddenly there was heard a devil of a noise, like a small hailstorm. “Don’t do that, my boy,” said the father. “I ain’t a-doin’ nothing,” said the child. “Well, don’t do it again,” said the father. There was a short silence, and then the noise began again, worse than ever. “If you don’t mind what I say, my boy,” said the father, “you’ll find yourself in bed, in something less than a pig’s whisper.” He gave the child a shake to make him obedient, and such a rattling ensued as nobody ever heard before. “Why, damme, it’s in the child!” said the father, “he’s got the croup in the wrong place!” “No, I haven’t, father,” said the child, beginning to cry, “it’s the necklace; I swallowed it, father.”—The father caught the child up, and ran with him to the hospital; the beads in the boy’s stomach rattling all the way with the jolting; and the people looking up in the air, and down in the cellars, to see where the unusual sound came from. He’s in the hospital now,’ said Jack Hopkins, ‘and he makes such a devil of a noise when he walks about, that they’re obliged to muffle him in a watchman’s coat, for fear he should wake the patients.’

‘That’s the most extraordinary case I ever heard of,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with an emphatic blow on the table.

‘Oh, that’s nothing,’ said Jack Hopkins. ‘Is it, Bob?’

‘Certainly not,’ replied Bob Sawyer.

‘Very singular things occur in our profession, I can assure you, Sir,’ said Hopkins.

‘So I should be disposed to imagine,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

Another knock at the door announced a large-headed young man in a black wig, who brought with him a scorbutic youth in a long stock. The next comer was a gentleman in a shirt emblazoned with pink anchors, who was closely followed by a pale youth with a plated watchguard. The arrival of a prim personage in clean linen and cloth boots rendered the party complete. The little table with the green baize cover was wheeled out; the first instalment of punch was brought in, in a white jug; and the succeeding three hours were devoted to Vingt-et-un at sixpence a dozen, which was only once interrupted by a slight dispute between the scorbutic youth and the gentleman with the pink anchors; in the course of which, the scorbutic youth intimated a burning desire to pull the nose of the gentleman with the emblems of hope; in reply to which, that individual expressed his decided unwillingness to accept of any ‘sauce’ on gratuitous terms, either from the irascible young gentleman with the scorbutic countenance, or any other person who was ornamented with a head.

“Il signor Sawyer vive qui?” chiese il signor Pickwick quando la porta si aprì.

“Sì,” disse la ragazza, “il primo piano. È la porta proprio davanti a te, quando arrivi in cima alle scale.” Dopo aver dato queste istruzioni, la serva, che era cresciuta tra gli abitanti autoctoni di Southwark, scomparve, con la candela in mano, giù per le scale della cucina, assolutamente convinta di aver fatto tutto ciò che fosse possibile richiederle dalle circostanze.

Il signor Snodgrass, che era entrato per ultimo, riuscì a chiudere la porta d’ingresso, dopo alcuni tentativi infruttuosi, mettendo su la catena; poi gli amici salirono le scale, dove furono accolti dal signor Bob Sawyer, il quale aveva paura di scendere per non rischiare di essere fermato dalla signora Raddle.

“Come stai?” disse lo studente imbarazzato. “È bello rivederti, fai attenzione ai occhiali.” Questo avvertimento era rivolto al signor Pickwick, che aveva messo il cappello nel vassoio.

“Mio Dio,” disse il signor Pickwick, “mi scusi per l’interruzione.”

“Non parliamone nemmeno,” disse Bob Sawyer. “Qui ho spazio piuttosto limitato, ma bisogna sopportare queste cose quando si va a visitare un giovane scapolo. Entri pure. Penso che tu abbia già incontrato questo signore, vero?” Il signor Pickwick strinse la mano al signor Benjamin Allen, e anche i suoi amici seguirono il suo esempio. Appena si erano seduti, si sentì un altro colpo alla porta.

“Spero sia Jack Hopkins!”, disse il signor Bob Sawyer. “Zitto. Sì, è proprio lui. Vieni su, Jack, vieni su.”

Si udirono passi pesanti sulle scale, e comparve Jack Hopkins. Indossava un gilet di velluto nero con bottoni raffiguranti tuoni e fulmini, e una camicia a strisce blu con colletto bianco finto.

“Sei in ritardo, Jack?” disse il signor Benjamin Allen.

“È stato trattenuto presso il carcere di Bartholomew’s,” rispose Hopkins.

“Niente di nuovo?”

“No, nulla di particolare. Piuttosto, un bel caso fortunato che mi ha portato nel reparto dei feriti.”

“Cos’è stato, signore?”, chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Solo un uomo caduto da una finestra situata al quarto piano, ” Ma in effetti è un’argomentazione molto valida.

“Volete dire che il paziente ha buone probabilità di guarire?”, chiese il signor Pickwick.

“No,” rispose il signor Hopkins con noncuranza. “No, piuttosto direi che non lo farebbe. Comunque, domani dovrà esserci un’operazione davvero spettacolare. Sarà uno spettacolo magnifico se Slasher la esegue.”

“Ritenete che il signor Slasher sia un bravo professionista?” chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Il migliore in circolazione,” rispose Hopkins. “La scorsa settimana ho rimosso una gamba a un ragazzo dal suo alveolo. Il ragazzo aveva mangiato cinque mele e una torta di pan di zenzero. Esattamente due minuti dopo che l’intervento era finito, il ragazzo disse che non avrebbe più permesso che lo prendessero in giro e che avrebbe detto a sua madre di smettere se continuavano.”

“Mio Dio!”, esclamò il signor Pickwick, sorpreso.

“Puf! Niente affatto, non è nulla,” disse Jack Hopkins. “Non è vero, Bob?”

“Assolutamente nulla,” rispose il signor Bob Sawyer.

“Arrivederci, Bob,” disse Hopkins, lanciando uno sguardo appena percettibile verso il volto attento del signor Pickwick, “ieri sera è successo un incidente curioso. È stato portato qui un >bambino che aveva ingoiato un collare.”

“Ha ingoiato cosa, signore?”, interruppe il signor Pickwick.

“Un collare,” rispose Jack Hopkins. “Non tutto insieme, capisce, sarebbe troppo: non potreste certo ingoiarlo, anche se il >bambino ci provasse, eh, signor Pickwick? Ahah!” Il signor Hopkins sembrava molto compiaciuto della propria battuta e continuò: “No, la storia è questa. I genitori del >bambino erano persone povere che vivevano in una >corte. La sorella maggiore del bambino comprò un collare, un collare comune, fatto di grandi perle di legno nero. Poiché il bambino amava i giocattoli, rubò quel collare, lo nascose, ci giocò, tagliò la corda e ingoiò una perla. Gli sembrò molto divertente, il giorno dopo ne ingoiò un’altra.”

“Mio Dio,” disse il signor Pickwick, “che cosa terribile! Vi chiedo scusa, signore. Continuate.”

Il giorno dopo, il bambino ingoiò due perle; il giorno successivo ne mangiò tre, e così via, fino a quando, in una settimana, ebbe finito l’intero collare: ventiquattro perle in totale. La sorella, che era una ragazza laboriosa e raramente si concedeva qualche lusso, pianse disperatamente alla perdita del collare; lo cercò dappertutto, ma ovviamente non lo trovò. Qualche giorno dopo, la famiglia stava pranzando: spalla di montone arrosto con patate sotto. Il bambino, che non aveva fame, giocava in giro per la stanza quando, all’improvviso, si sentì un rumore assordante, simile a una piccola tempesta di grandine. “Non farlo, ragazzo mio,” disse il padre. “Non sto facendo nulla,” rispose il bambino. “Beh, non farlo più,” insistette il padre. Ci fu un breve silenzio, poi il rumore ricominciò, ancora più forte di prima. “Se non mi ascolti, ragazzo mio, finirai a letto, e in condizioni molto spiacevoli,” disse il padre scuotendolo per farlo obbedire. Il risultato fu un rumore assordante, come nessuno aveva mai sentito prima, “Ma che diavolo, è dentro il bambino!” esclamò il padre. “No, non è vero, papà, ” disse il bambino scoppiando a piangere. “È il collare, l’ho ingoiato, papà, ” Il padre prese il bambino e corse con lui in ospedale; le perle nello stomaco del ragazzo continuavano a rumoreggiare durante tutto il tragitto. La gente guardava in alto e in basso, cercando di capire da dove provenisse quel suono insolito, “Ora è in ospedale,” disse Jack Hopkins. “E fa un rumore così forte quando si muove che devono coprirlo con un cappotto da custode, per paura che svegli i pazienti.”

“È il caso più straordinario che abbia mai sentito,” disse il signor Pickwick, dando un colpo deciso sul tavolo.

“Ah, niente di che,” disse Jack Hopkins. “Vero, Bob?”

“Certamente no,” rispose Bob Sawyer.

“Nella nostra professione accadono cose davvero strane, posso assicurarvelo, signore,” disse Hopkins.

“So che dovrei essere disposto a immaginare, ”, rispose il signor Pickwick.

Un altro colpo alla porta annunciò l’arrivo di un giovane dall’aspetto robusto, con una parrucca nera; lo seguiva un ragazzo malaticcio, vestito in abiti lungi. Poi arrivò un gentiluomo con una camicia decorata con ancore rosa, subito dopo di lui un giovane pallido, munito di un orologio protetto da una custodia metallica. Con l’arrivo di quest’ultimo, il gruppo era completo. Fu portato fuori il piccolo tavolo coperto di stoffa verde; la prima porzione di punch fu servita in un giuggiole bianco. Le tre ore successive furono dedicate al gioco del “Vingt-et-un”, a sei penny a dozzina; l’unica interruzione ebbe luogo quando il ragazzo malaticcio e il gentiluomo con le ancore rosa ebbero una piccola discussione: durante essa, il primo manifestò un forte desiderio di “strappare il naso” al secondo; quest’ultimo, in risposta, dichiarò apertamente la sua totale riluttanza ad accettare alcun tipo di “condimento” gratuitamente, né da quel giovane irascibile dal viso malaticcio, né da chiunque altro fosse dotato di una testa.

When the last ‘natural’ had been declared, and the profit and loss account of fish and sixpences adjusted, to the satisfaction of all parties, Mr. Bob Sawyer rang for supper, and the visitors squeezed themselves into corners while it was getting ready.

It was not so easily got ready as some people may imagine. First of all, it was necessary to awaken the girl, who had fallen asleep with her face on the kitchen table; this took a little time, and, even when she did answer the bell, another quarter of an hour was consumed in fruitless endeavours to impart to her a faint and distant glimmering of reason. The man to whom the order for the oysters had been sent, had not been told to open them; it is a very difficult thing to open an oyster with a limp knife and a two-pronged fork; and very little was done in this way. Very little of the beef was done either; and the ham (which was also from the German-sausage shop round the corner) was in a similar predicament. However, there was plenty of porter in a tin can; and the cheese went a great way, for it was very strong. So upon the whole, perhaps, the supper was quite as good as such matters usually are.

After supper, another jug of punch was put upon the table, together with a paper of cigars, and a couple of bottles of spirits. Then there was an awful pause; and this awful pause was occasioned by a very common occurrence in this sort of place, but a very embarrassing one notwithstanding.

The fact is, the girl was washing the glasses. The establishment boasted four: we do not record the circumstance as at all derogatory to Mrs. Raddle, for there never was a lodging-house yet, that was not short of glasses. The landlady’s glasses were little, thin, blown-glass tumblers, and those which had been borrowed from the public-house were great, dropsical, bloated articles, each supported on a huge gouty leg. This would have been in itself sufficient to have possessed the company with the real state of affairs; but the young woman of all work had prevented the possibility of any misconception arising in the mind of any gentleman upon the subject, by forcibly dragging every man’s glass away, long before he had finished his beer, and audibly stating, despite the winks and interruptions of Mr. Bob Sawyer, that it was to be conveyed downstairs, and washed forthwith.

It is a very ill wind that blows nobody any good. The prim man in the cloth boots, who had been unsuccessfully attempting to make a joke during the whole time the round game lasted, saw his opportunity, and availed himself of it. The instant the glasses disappeared, he commenced a long story about a great public character, whose name he had forgotten, making a particularly happy reply to another eminent and illustrious individual whom he had never been able to identify. He enlarged at some length and with great minuteness upon divers collateral circumstances, distantly connected with the anecdote in hand, but for the life of him he couldn’t recollect at that precise moment what the anecdote was, although he had been in the habit of telling the story with great applause for the last ten years.

‘Dear me,’ said the prim man in the cloth boots, ‘it is a very extraordinary circumstance.’

‘I am sorry you have forgotten it,’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer, glancing eagerly at the door, as he thought he heard the noise of glasses jingling; ‘very sorry.’

‘So am I,’ responded the prim man, ‘because I know it would have afforded so much amusement. Never mind; I dare say I shall manage to recollect it, in the course of half an hour or so.’

The prim man arrived at this point just as the glasses came back, when Mr. Bob Sawyer, who had been absorbed in attention during the whole time, said he should very much like to hear the end of it, for, so far as it went, it was, without exception, the very best story he had ever heard.

The sight of the tumblers restored Bob Sawyer to a degree of equanimity which he had not possessed since his interview with his landlady. His face brightened up, and he began to feel quite convivial.

‘Now, Betsy,’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer, with great suavity, and dispersing, at the same time, the tumultuous little mob of glasses the girl had collected in the centre of the table—‘now, Betsy, the warm water; be brisk, there’s a good girl.’

‘You can’t have no warm water,’ replied Betsy.

‘No warm water!’ exclaimed Mr. Bob Sawyer.

‘No,’ said the girl, with a shake of the head which expressed a more decided negative than the most copious language could have conveyed. ‘Missis Raddle said you warn’t to have none.’

The surprise depicted on the countenances of his guests imparted new courage to the host.

‘Bring up the warm water instantly—instantly!’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer, with desperate sternness.

‘No. I can’t,’ replied the girl; ‘Missis Raddle raked out the kitchen fire afore she went to bed, and locked up the kittle.’

‘Oh, never mind; never mind. Pray don’t disturb yourself about such a trifle,’ said Mr. Pickwick, observing the conflict of Bob Sawyer’s passions, as depicted in his countenance, ‘cold water will do very well.’

‘Oh, admirably,’ said Mr. Benjamin Allen.

‘My landlady is subject to some slight attacks of mental derangement,’ remarked Bob Sawyer, with a ghastly smile; ‘I fear I must give her warning.’

‘No, don’t,’ said Ben Allen.

‘I fear I must,’ said Bob, with heroic firmness. ‘I’ll pay her what I owe her, and give her warning to-morrow morning.’ Poor fellow! how devoutly he wished he could!

Mr. Bob Sawyer’s heart-sickening attempts to rally under this last blow, communicated a dispiriting influence to the company, the greater part of whom, with the view of raising their spirits, attached themselves with extra cordiality to the cold brandy-and-water, the first perceptible effects of which were displayed in a renewal of hostilities between the scorbutic youth and the gentleman in the shirt. The belligerents vented their feelings of mutual contempt, for some time, in a variety of frownings and snortings, until at last the scorbutic youth felt it necessary to come to a more explicit understanding on the matter; when the following clear understanding took place.

Quando l’ultimo esemplare “naturale” fu dichiarato e il rendiconto dei profitti e delle perdite relativi ai pesci e alle monete di sei penny venne aggiustato, a soddisfazione di tutte le parti interessate, il signor Bob Sawyer chiamò per la cena. Gli ospiti si sistemarono negli angoli mentre i preparativi venivano fatti.

Non fu così facile prepararlo come alcuni potrebbero immaginare. Prima di tutto, fu necessario svegliare la ragazza, che si era addormentata con il viso appoggiato sul tavolo della cucina; ci volle un po’ di tempo, e anche quando finalmente rispose al campanello, ne passò un altro quarto d’ora in tentativi vani di farle ritrovare un minimo di lucidità. L’uomo a cui era stata inviata l’ordinazione per le ostriche non era stato incaricato di aprirle; è davvero molto difficile aprire un’ostrica con un coltello inutile e una forchetta a due punte, e così poco fu fatto in questo senso. Anche la carne di manzo venne cotta solo parzialmente; lo stesso valeva per il prosciutto (anch’esso acquistato dal negozio di salsicce tedesche all’angolo della strada). Tuttavia, c’era abbondante birra in lattina; e il formaggio fu molto utile, poiché era molto forte. Quindi, nel complesso, forse la cena risultò davvero buona, per quanto possano essere queste cose di solito.

Dopo cena, un’altra giara di punch fu messa sul tavolo, insieme a un pacchetto di sigari e un paio di bottiglie di alcolici. Poi seguì un terribile silenzio; quel silenzio fu causato da un evento molto comune in posti del genere, ma purtroppo anche molto imbarazzante.

Il fatto è che la ragazza stava lavando i bicchieri. L’ostello si vantava di averne quattro: non registriamo questa circostanza come minimamente offensiva per la signora Raddle, perché fino ad allora non esisteva ancora nessun ostello che ne fosse sprovvisto. I bicchieri della padrona di casa erano piccoli, sottili, fatti di vetro soffiato; quelli presi in prestito dall’ostello pubblico, invece, erano grandi, gonfi e ingombranti, ognuno su un piedistallo enorme. Questo solo sarebbe stato sufficiente a far comprendere alla compagnia la vera situazione. Ma quella giovane donna, con il suo comportamento, aveva evitato che qualche gentiluomo potesse fraintendere le cose: portava via i bicchieri di tutti molto prima che finissero la loro birra, e dichiarava ad alta voce, nonostante gli sguardi e le interruzioni del signor Bob Sawyer, che sarebbero stati subito portati giù per essere lavati.

È un vento molto cattivo, che non porta alcun beneficio a nessuno. L’uomo anziano con gli stivali di cuoio, che per tutto il tempo in cui era durata la partita aveva cercato invano di fare una battuta, colse l’occasione e ne approfittò. Non appena i bicchieri scomparvero, iniziò a raccontare una lunga storia su un importante personaggio pubblico, il cui nome aveva dimenticato; rispose in modo particolarmente divertente a un altro individuo eminente e illustre che, però, non era mai riuscito a identificare. Si soffermò a lungo e con grande dettaglio su diverse circostanze collaterali, lontanamente collegate alla storia che stava raccontando, ma, per quanto si sforzasse, in quel preciso momento non riusciva proprio a ricordare di cosa si trattasse, nonostante avesse l’abitudine di raccontarla sempre con grande successo negli ultimi dieci anni.

“Mio Dio,” disse l’uomo dignitoso con gli stivali di cuoio, “è davvero una circostanza molto straordinaria.”

“Mi dispiace che tu l’abbia dimenticato,” disse il signor Bob Sawyer, guardando con impazienza verso la porta, poiché gli sembrava di sentire il rumore dei bicchieri che si urtavano tra loro; “davvero molto dispiaciuto.”

“Lo so bene,” rispose l’uomo rigido, “perché so che avrebbe procurato molta divertimento. Non importa; credo di riuscire a ricordarlo entro mezz’ora o giù di lì.”

Il signor primato arrivò in questo momento proprio quando i bicchieri tornarono; il signor Bob Sawyer, che aveva seguito attentamente tutta la storia, disse che gli sarebbe piaciuto molto ascoltarne la fine, perché, fino a quel punto, era senza dubbio la migliore storia che avesse mai sentito.

La vista dei tumbler restituì a Bob Sawyer un certo grado di serenità, che non provava più da quando aveva avuto quell’incontro con la sua padrona di casa. Il suo viso si illuminò e iniziò a sentirsi molto più allegro.

“Ora, Betsy,” disse il signor Bob Sawyer con grande dolcezza, mentre allo stesso tempo disperdeva quella piccola folla di bicchieri che la ragazza aveva raccolto al centro del tavolo, “Ora, Betsy, l’acqua calda; sbrigati, brava bambina.”

“Non si può vivere senza acqua calda,” rispose Betsy.

“Nessuna acqua calda!” esclamò il signor Bob Sawyer.

“No,” disse la ragazza, scuotendo la testa in un modo che esprimeva un rifiuto più deciso di quanto qualsiasi parola avrebbe potuto farlo. “La signora Raddle ha detto che non dovevate averne nessuna.”

La sorpresa che si leggeva sui volti dei suoi ospiti infuse nuovo coraggio nell’ospite stesso.

“Portate su immediatamente l’acqua calda, immediatamente!” disse il signor Bob Sawyer con una severità disperata.

“No. Non posso,” rispose la ragazza; “La signora Raddle ha spento il fuoco in cucina prima di andare a letto e ha chiuso a chiave il pentolone.”

“Oh, niente importanza; per favore non vi disturbate per una cosa del genere,” disse il signor Pickwick, osservando il conflitto di emozioni che si rifletteva sul volto di Bob Sawyer. “Un po’ d’acqua fredda andrà più che bene.”

“Ah, davvero ammirevole,” disse il signor Benjamin Allen.

“La mia padrona di casa soffre di occasionali disturbi mentali,” osservò Bob Sawyer con un sorriso orribile; “temo di doverla avvertire.”

“No, non farlo,” disse Ben Allen.

“Devo affrontare questi timori”, disse Bob con eroica determinazione. “Le pagherò quello che le devo e la avvertirò domani mattina.” Povero ragazzo, quanto desiderava davvero poterlo fare!

I tentativi disperati di Mr. Bob Sawyer di ristabilire l’ordine dopo questo ultimo colpo ebbero un effetto deprimente sull’intera compagnia. La maggior parte dei presenti, nel tentativo di risollevare il morale, si attaccò con ancora maggiore entusiasmo al freddo brandy mescolato con acqua; i primi effetti di questa bevanda si manifestarono in un rinnovato aumento delle ostilità tra il giovane affetto da scorbuto e il gentiluomo in camicia. Per un po’, i due avversari espressero il loro reciproco disprezzo attraverso varie smorfie e sospiri; alla fine, il giovane decise di chiarire la situazione una volta per tutte. E così fu fatto.

‘Sawyer,’ said the scorbutic youth, in a loud voice.

‘Well, Noddy,’ replied Mr. Bob Sawyer.

‘I should be very sorry, Sawyer,’ said Mr. Noddy, ‘to create any unpleasantness at any friend’s table, and much less at yours, Sawyer— very; but I must take this opportunity of informing Mr. Gunter that he is no gentleman.’

‘And I should be very sorry, Sawyer, to create any disturbance in the street in which you reside,’ said Mr. Gunter, ‘but I’m afraid I shall be under the necessity of alarming the neighbours by throwing the person who has just spoken, out o’ window.’

‘What do you mean by that, sir?’ inquired Mr. Noddy.

‘What I say, Sir,’ replied Mr. Gunter.

‘I should like to see you do it, Sir,’ said Mr. Noddy.

‘You shall _feel _me do it in half a minute, Sir,’ replied Mr. Gunter.

‘I request that you’ll favour me with your card, Sir,’ said Mr. Noddy.

‘I’ll do nothing of the kind, Sir,’ replied Mr. Gunter.

‘Why not, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Noddy.

‘Because you’ll stick it up over your chimney-piece, and delude your visitors into the false belief that a gentleman has been to see you, Sir,’ replied Mr. Gunter.

‘Sir, a friend of mine shall wait on you in the morning,’ said Mr. Noddy.

‘Sir, I’m very much obliged to you for the caution, and I’ll leave particular directions with the servant to lock up the spoons,’ replied Mr. Gunter.

At this point the remainder of the guests interposed, and remonstrated with both parties on the impropriety of their conduct; on which Mr. Noddy begged to state that his father was quite as respectable as Mr. Gunter’s father; to which Mr. Gunter replied that his father was to the full as respectable as Mr. Noddy’s father, and that his father’s son was as good a man as Mr. Noddy, any day in the week. As this announcement seemed the prelude to a recommencement of the dispute, there was another interference on the part of the company; and a vast quantity of talking and clamouring ensued, in the course of which Mr. Noddy gradually allowed his feelings to overpower him, and professed that he had ever entertained a devoted personal attachment towards Mr. Gunter. To this Mr. Gunter replied that, upon the whole, he rather preferred Mr. Noddy to his own brother; on hearing which admission, Mr. Noddy magnanimously rose from his seat, and proffered his hand to Mr. Gunter. Mr. Gunter grasped it with affecting fervour; and everybody said that the whole dispute had been conducted in a manner which was highly honourable to both parties concerned.

‘Now,’ said Jack Hopkins, ‘just to set us going again, Bob, I don’t mind singing a song.’ And Hopkins, incited thereto by tumultuous applause, plunged himself at once into ‘The King, God bless him,’ which he sang as loud as he could, to a novel air, compounded of the ‘Bay of Biscay,’ and ‘A Frog he would.’ The chorus was the essence of the song; and, as each gentleman sang it to the tune he knew best, the effect was very striking indeed.

It was at the end of the chorus to the first verse, that Mr. Pickwick held up his hand in a listening attitude, and said, as soon as silence was restored—

‘Hush! I beg your pardon. I thought I heard somebody calling from upstairs.’

A profound silence immediately ensued; and Mr. Bob Sawyer was observed to turn pale.

‘I think I hear it now,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Have the goodness to open the door.’

The door was no sooner opened than all doubt on the subject was removed.

‘Mr. Sawyer! Mr. Sawyer!’ screamed a voice from the two-pair landing.

‘It’s my landlady,’ said Bob Sawyer, looking round him with great dismay. ‘Yes, Mrs. Raddle.’

‘What do you mean by this, Mr. Sawyer?’ replied the voice, with great shrillness and rapidity of utterance. ‘Ain’t it enough to be swindled out of one’s rent, and money lent out of pocket besides, and abused and insulted by your friends that dares to call themselves men, without having the house turned out of the window, and noise enough made to bring the fire-engines here, at two o’clock in the morning?—Turn them wretches away.’

‘You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,’ said the voice of Mr. Raddle, which appeared to proceed from beneath some distant bed-clothes.

‘Ashamed of themselves!’ said Mrs. Raddle. ‘Why don’t you go down and knock ‘em every one downstairs? You would if you was a man.’

I should if I was a dozen men, my dear,’ replied Mr. Raddle pacifically, ‘but they have the advantage of me in numbers, my dear.’

‘Ugh, you coward!’ replied Mrs. Raddle, with supreme contempt. ‘Do you mean to turn them wretches out, or not, Mr. Sawyer?’

‘They’re going, Mrs. Raddle, they’re going,’ said the miserable Bob. ‘I am afraid you’d better go,’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer to his friends. ‘I thought you were making too much noise.’

‘It’s a very unfortunate thing,’ said the prim man. ‘Just as we were getting so comfortable too!’ The prim man was just beginning to have a dawning recollection of the story he had forgotten.

‘It’s hardly to be borne,’ said the prim man, looking round. ‘Hardly to be borne, is it?’

‘Not to be endured,’ replied Jack Hopkins; ‘let’s have the other verse, Bob. Come, here goes!’

‘No, no, Jack, don’t,’ interposed Bob Sawyer; ‘it’s a capital song, but I am afraid we had better not have the other verse. They are very violent people, the people of the house.’

‘Shall I step upstairs, and pitch into the landlord?’ inquired Hopkins, ‘or keep on ringing the bell, or go and groan on the staircase? You may command me, Bob.’

‘I am very much indebted to you for your friendship and good-nature, Hopkins,’ said the wretched Mr. Bob Sawyer, ‘but I think the best plan to avoid any further dispute is for us to break up at once.’

‘Now, Mr. Sawyer,’ screamed the shrill voice of Mrs. Raddle, ‘are them brutes going?’

‘They’re only looking for their hats, Mrs. Raddle,’ said Bob; ‘they are going directly.’

‘Going!’ said Mrs. Raddle, thrusting her nightcap over the banisters just as Mr. Pickwick, followed by Mr. Tupman, emerged from the sitting- room. ‘Going! what did they ever come for?’

‘My dear ma’am,’ remonstrated Mr. Pickwick, looking up.

‘Get along with you, old wretch!’ replied Mrs. Raddle, hastily withdrawing the nightcap. ‘Old enough to be his grandfather, you willin! You’re worse than any of ‘em.’

Mr. Pickwick found it in vain to protest his innocence, so hurried downstairs into the street, whither he was closely followed by Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass. Mr. Ben Allen, who was dismally depressed with spirits and agitation, accompanied them as far as London Bridge, and in the course of the walk confided to Mr. Winkle, as an especially eligible person to intrust the secret to, that he was resolved to cut the throat of any gentleman, except Mr. Bob Sawyer, who should aspire to the affections of his sister Arabella. Having expressed his determination to perform this painful duty of a brother with proper firmness, he burst into tears, knocked his hat over his eyes, and, making the best of his way back, knocked double knocks at the door of the Borough Market office, and took short naps on the steps alternately, until daybreak, under the firm impression that he lived there, and had forgotten the key.

The visitors having all departed, in compliance with the rather pressing request of Mrs. Raddle, the luckless Mr. Bob Sawyer was left alone, to meditate on the probable events of to-morrow, and the pleasures of the evening.

“Sawyer,” disse il giovane dal viso pallido ad alta voce.

“Beh, Noddy,” rispose il signor Bob Sawyer.

“Dovrei davvero scusarmi molto, Sawyer,” disse il signor Noddy, “per aver causato qualsiasi dispiacere alla tavola di un amico, e tanto meno alla tua. Davvero; ma devo approfittare di questa occasione per informare il signor Gunter che non è affatto un gentiluomo.”

“E dovrei davvero scusarmi molto, Sawyer, per causare qualsiasi disturbo nella strada in cui vivete,” disse il signor Gunter, “ma temo che sarò costretto a allarmare i vicini gettando fuori dalla finestra la persona che ha appena parlato.”

“Cosa intende dire con questo, signore?”, chiese il signor Noddy.

“Quello che dico, signore,” rispose il signor Gunter.

“Mi piacerebbe vedere come lo fate, signore,” disse il signor Noddy.

“Potrà vedere me farlo in mezzo minuto, signore,” rispose il signor Gunter.

“Le chiedo di concedermi il suo biglietto, signore,” disse il signor Noddy.

“Non farò nulla del genere, signore,” rispose il signor Gunter.

“Perché no, signore?”, chiese il signor Noddy.

“Perché ve la metterete sopra il camino e ingannerete i vostri visitatori, facendoli credere che un gentiluomo sia venuto a trovarvi, signore,” rispose il signor Gunter.

“Signore, un mio amico vi attendereà questa mattina,” disse il signor Noddy.

“Signore, le sono molto grato per la sua premura e darò precise istruzioni al servitore affinché chiuda a chiave le cucchiaie,” rispose il signor Gunter.

A questo punto, il resto degli ospiti intervenne e rimproverò entrambe le parti per l’inappropriatità del loro comportamento; su ciò, il signor Noddy chiese di precisare che suo padre era altrettanto rispettabile quanto quello del signor Gunter; al che il signor Gunter rispose che suo padre era proprio allo stesso livello di rispettozza di quello del signor Noddy, e che il figlio di suo padre era un uomo tanto buono quanto quello del signor Noddy, in qualsiasi giorno della settimana. Poiché questa dichiarazione sembrava preludere a una ripresa della disputa, ci fu un’altra intervento da parte degli ospiti; ne seguì una gran quantità di discussioni e clamori, durante i quali il signor Noddy, gradualmente, lasciò che i propri sentimenti prendessero il sopravvento e ammise di aver sempre provato un profondo affetto per il signor Gunter. A questo, il signor Gunter rispose che, in fondo, preferiva il signor Noddy a suo fratello stesso; sentendo questa affermazione, il signor Noddy, con grande magnanimità, si alzò dal suo posto e tese la mano al signor Gunter. Questi la strinse con sincera emozione; e tutti dissero che l’intera disputa era stata condotta in modo assai onorevole da entrambe le parti coinvolte.

“Ora,” disse Jack Hopkins, “per rinfrescarci un po’ l’atmosfera, Bob, non mi dispiace cantare una canzone.” E Hopkins, incoraggiato dagli scroscianti applausi, iniziò immediatamente a cantare “Il Re, che Dio lo benedica”, a voce alta quanto possibile, su un ritmo originale composto da frammenti di “La Baia di Biscaglia” e “Una rana che voleva, ” Il coro rappresentava l’essenza stessa della canzone; e mentre ogni signore la cantava con il motivo che conosceva meglio, l’effetto complessivo risultò davvero notevole.

Fu alla fine del coro della prima strofa che il signor Pickwick alzò la mano, assumendo un atteggiamento attento, e disse non appena tornò il silenzio.

“Silenzio! Mi scusi. Pensavo di aver sentito qualcuno chiamare dal piano di sopra.”

Seguì immediatamente un profondo silenzio; si notò che il signor Bob Sawyer impallidì.

“Credo di sentirlo adesso,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Per favore, apra la porta.”

Non appena la porta fu aperta, ogni >dubbio al riguardo scomparve.

“Signor Sawyer! Signor Sawyer!” gridò una voce dal padiglione d’atterraggio.

“È la mia padrona di casa,” disse Bob Sawyer, guardandosi intorno con grande preoccupazione. “Sì, la signora Raddle.”

“Cosa intendete dire con questo, signor Sawyer?” rispose la voce, con grande acutezza e rapidità nel parlare. “Non basta già essere derubati del proprio affitto, avere i soldi prestati dati via senza rimborso, essere insultati e maltrattati da quegli individui che si definiscono uomini. Senza che inoltre la casa venga distrutta e il rumore sia così forte da far arrivare qui le autopompe a due di notte? Mandateli via, quei maledetti.”

“Dovreste vergognarvi,” disse la voce del signor Raddle, che sembrava provenire da sotto alcuni indumenti da letto posizionati lontano.

“Imbarazzati di se stessi!” disse la signora Raddle. “Perché non scendete e non li colpite tutti quanti? Lo fareste se foste uomini.”

“Dovrei farlo se fossi una dozzina di uomini, cara mia,” rispose tranquillamente il signor Raddle, “ma loro hanno il vantaggio del numero su di me, cara mia.”

“Uff, che codardo!” rispose la signora Raddle con profondo disprezzo. “Allora, intende davvero trasformarli in miserabili, o no, signor Sawyer?”

“Stanno andando via, signora Raddle, stanno andando via,” disse il povero Bob. “Temo che sia meglio che anche voi ve ne andiate,” disse il signor Bob Sawyer ai suoi amici. “Pensavo che stavate facendo troppo rumore.”

“È una cosa molto sfortunata,” disse l’uomo rigido e convenzionale. “Proprio quando stavamo iniziando ad ambientarci, ” L’uomo rigido stava appena cominciando a ricordare quella storia che aveva dimenticato.

“È davvero insopportabile,” disse l’uomo rigido, guardandosi intorno. “Davvero insopportabile, non è vero?”

“Non è affatto sopportabile,” rispose Jack Hopkins; “diamo un’occhiata anche all’altra strofa, Bob. Forza, inizia!”

“No, no, Jack, non farlo,” intervenne Bob Sawyer; “è una canzone davvero bella, ma temo che sia meglio omettere il secondo verso. Quelle persone della >casa sono molto violente.”

“Dovrei salire di sopra e affrontare direttamente il proprietario?” chiese Hopkins, “o continuare a suonare il campanello, o andare a lamentarmi sulle scale? Puoi darmi ordini, Bob.”

“Sono davvero molto in debito con voi per la vostra amicizia e la vostra buona >natura,” disse il povero signor Bob Sawyer, “ma penso che il modo migliore per evitare ulteriori dispute sia separarci immediatamente.”

“Ora, signor Sawyer!”, gridò la stridula voce della signora Raddle, “quelli animali stanno per andarsene?”

“Stanno solo cercando i loro cappelli, signora Raddle,” disse Bob; “se ne stanno andando direttamente.”

“Vado!” disse la signora Raddle, infilando il berretto da notte oltre la ringhiera proprio nel momento in cui il signor Pickwick, seguito dal signor Tupman, uscì dal salotto. “Vado, ma a che scopo sono venuti?”

“Mia cara signora,” obiettò il signor Pickwick, alzando lo sguardo.

“Vattene tu, vecchio miserabile!” rispose la signora Raddle, ritirando in fretta il berretto da notte. “Sei abbastanza vecchio da essere suo nonno. Eppure lo fai lo stesso! Sei peggiore di tutti loro.”

Il signor Pickwick si rese conto che era inutile protestare la propria innocenza, quindi si affrettò a scendere le scale e uscire in strada, dove fu immediatamente seguito dal signor Tupman, dal signor Winkle e dal signor Snodgrass. Il signor Ben Allen, profondamente depresso e agitato, li accompagnò fino al London Bridge; durante il cammino confidò al signor Winkle, ritenendolo la persona più adatta a cui affidare quel segreto, che era deciso a strangolare qualsiasi gentiluomo, tranne il signor Bob Sawyer, che osasse aspirare ai sentimenti di sua sorella Arabella. Dopo aver espresso con fermezza questa sua determinazione, scoppiò in lacrime, si calò il cappello sugli occhi e, cercando di tornare a casa nel modo più veloce possibile, bussò ripetutamente alla porta dell’ufficio del Borough Market; alternativamente si addormentava sui gradini, fino all’alba, convinto fermamente di vivere lì e di aver dimenticato la chiave.

Dopo che tutti i visitatori se ne erano andati, e in risposta alla piuttosto insistente richiesta della signora Raddle, il sfortunato signor Bob Sawyer rimase solo, per riflettere sugli eventi probabili del giorno seguente e sui piaceri della serata.

CHAPTER XXXIII. MR. WELLER THE ELDER DELIVERS SOME CRITICAL SENTIMENTS RESPECTING LITERARY COMPOSITION; AND, ASSISTED BY HIS SON SAMUEL, PAYS A SMALL INSTALMENT OF RETALIATION TO THE ACCOUNT OF THE REVEREND GENTLEMAN WITH THE RED NOSE

The morning of the thirteenth of February, which the readers of this authentic narrative know, as well as we do, to have been the day immediately preceding that which was appointed for the trial of Mrs. Bardell’s action, was a busy time for Mr. Samuel Weller, who was perpetually engaged in travelling from the George and Vulture to Mr. Perker’s chambers and back again, from and between the hours of nine o’clock in the morning and two in the afternoon, both inclusive. Not that there was anything whatever to be done, for the consultation had taken place, and the course of proceeding to be adopted, had been finally determined on; but Mr. Pickwick being in a most extreme state of excitement, persevered in constantly sending small notes to his attorney, merely containing the inquiry, ‘Dear Perker. Is all going on well?’ to which Mr. Perker invariably forwarded the reply, ‘Dear Pickwick. As well as possible’; the fact being, as we have already hinted, that there was nothing whatever to go on, either well or ill, until the sitting of the court on the following morning.

But people who go voluntarily to law, or are taken forcibly there, for the first time, may be allowed to labour under some temporary irritation and anxiety; and Sam, with a due allowance for the frailties of human nature, obeyed all his master’s behests with that imperturbable good- humour and unruffable composure which formed one of his most striking and amiable characteristics.

Sam had solaced himself with a most agreeable little dinner, and was waiting at the bar for the glass of warm mixture in which Mr. Pickwick had requested him to drown the fatigues of his morning’s walks, when a young boy of about three feet high, or thereabouts, in a hairy cap and fustian overalls, whose garb bespoke a laudable ambition to attain in time the elevation of an hostler, entered the passage of the George and Vulture, and looked first up the stairs, and then along the passage, and then into the bar, as if in search of somebody to whom he bore a commission; whereupon the barmaid, conceiving it not improbable that the said commission might be directed to the tea or table spoons of the establishment, accosted the boy with—

‘Now, young man, what do you want?’

‘Is there anybody here, named Sam?’ inquired the youth, in a loud voice of treble quality.

‘What’s the t’other name?’ said Sam Weller, looking round.

‘How should I know?’ briskly replied the young gentleman below the hairy cap.

‘You’re a sharp boy, you are,’ said Mr. Weller; ‘only I wouldn’t show that wery fine edge too much, if I was you, in case anybody took it off. What do you mean by comin’ to a hot-el, and asking arter Sam, vith as much politeness as a vild Indian?’

‘’Cos an old gen’l’m’n told me to,’ replied the boy.

‘What old gen’l’m’n?’ inquired Sam, with deep disdain.

‘Him as drives a Ipswich coach, and uses our parlour,’ rejoined the boy. ‘He told me yesterday mornin’ to come to the George and Wultur this arternoon, and ask for Sam.’

‘It’s my father, my dear,’ said Mr. Weller, turning with an explanatory air to the young lady in the bar; ‘blessed if I think he hardly knows wot my other name is. Well, young brockiley sprout, wot then?’

‘Why then,’ said the boy, ‘you was to come to him at six o’clock to our ‘ouse, ‘cos he wants to see you—Blue Boar, Leaden’all Markit. Shall I say you’re comin’?’

‘You may wenture on that ‘ere statement, Sir,’ replied Sam. And thus empowered, the young gentleman walked away, awakening all the echoes in George Yard as he did so, with several chaste and extremely correct imitations of a drover’s whistle, delivered in a tone of peculiar richness and volume.

Mr. Weller having obtained leave of absence from Mr. Pickwick, who, in his then state of excitement and worry, was by no means displeased at being left alone, set forth, long before the appointed hour, and having plenty of time at his disposal, sauntered down as far as the Mansion House, where he paused and contemplated, with a face of great calmness and philosophy, the numerous cads and drivers of short stages who assemble near that famous place of resort, to the great terror and confusion of the old-lady population of these realms. Having loitered here, for half an hour or so, Mr. Weller turned, and began wending his way towards Leadenhall Market, through a variety of by-streets and courts. As he was sauntering away his spare time, and stopped to look at almost every object that met his gaze, it is by no means surprising that Mr. Weller should have paused before a small stationer’s and print- seller’s window; but without further explanation it does appear surprising that his eyes should have no sooner rested on certain pictures which were exposed for sale therein, than he gave a sudden start, smote his right leg with great vehemence, and exclaimed, with energy, ‘if it hadn’t been for this, I should ha’ forgot all about it, till it was too late!’

The particular picture on which Sam Weller’s eyes were fixed, as he said this, was a highly-coloured representation of a couple of human hearts skewered together with an arrow, cooking before a cheerful fire, while a male and female cannibal in modern attire, the gentleman being clad in a blue coat and white trousers, and the lady in a deep red pelisse with a parasol of the same, were approaching the meal with hungry eyes, up a serpentine gravel path leading thereunto. A decidedly indelicate young gentleman, in a pair of wings and nothing else, was depicted as superintending the cooking; a representation of the spire of the church in Langham Place, London, appeared in the distance; and the whole formed a ‘valentine,’ of which, as a written inscription in the window testified, there was a large assortment within, which the shopkeeper pledged himself to dispose of, to his countrymen generally, at the reduced rate of one-and-sixpence each.

CAPITOLO XXXIII. IL SIGOR WELLER IL VECCHIO ESPRIME ALGUNI SENTIMENTI CRITICI RIGUARDANTI LA COMPOSIZIONE LITERARIA; E, CON L’AIUTO DI SUO FIGLIO SAMUEL, PAGA UN PICCOLO ACQUISITO IN RETORSIONE A Danno del Signor Reverendo dal Naso Rosso

La mattina del tredicesimo febbraio – che i lettori di questa autentica narrazione conoscono, tanto quanto noi, come il giorno immediatamente precedente a quello fissato per il processo relativo alla causa della signora Bardell – fu un periodo molto impegnativo per il signor Samuel Weller, il quale passava continuamente da ufficio a ufficio, tra le ore nove del mattino e le due del pomeriggio. Non c’era nulla di particolare da fare, poiché le consultazioni erano già avvenute e la procedura da seguire era stata definitivamente stabilita; tuttavia il signor Pickwick, essendo in uno stato di estrema agitazione, continuava a inviare continui messaggi al proprio avvocato, contenenti semplicemente la domanda: “Caro Perker, tutto procede bene?”, a cui il signor Perker rispondeva sempre allo stesso modo: “Caro Pickwick, il meglio possibile”. Il fatto è che, come abbiamo già accennato, non c’era nulla di concreto da fare, né in senso positivo né negativo, fino alla seduta del tribunale del giorno seguente.

Ma le persone che vanno volontariamente in prigione, o vi vengono portate con la forza, per la prima volta, potrebbero essere soggette a qualche forma di irritazione e ansia temporanea; e Sam, tenendo conto delle debolezze della natura umana, obbediva a tutti gli ordini del suo padrone con quell’indomabile buon umore e quella calma inalterabile che costituivano una delle sue caratteristiche più straordinarie e affascinanti.

Sam si era consolato con una deliziosa piccola cena e stava aspettando al bancone quel bicchiere di miscela calda che il signor Pickwick gli aveva chiesto di utilizzare per scacciare la fatica delle sue passeggiate mattutine, quando un ragazzino alto circa un metro e ottanta, con un cappello peloso e un grembiule di tela grezza, il cui abbigliamento rivelava una lodevole ambizione di raggiungere, in futuro, la posizione di cameriere, entrò nel locale del George and Vulture. Prima guardò su per le scale, poi lungo il corridoio, infine si avvicinò al bancone, come se stesse cercando qualcuno a cui consegnare un messaggio. La barista, pensando che quel messaggio potesse riguardare forse le cucchiaie da tè o da tavola del locale, si avvicinò al ragazzo.

“Ora, giovane uomo, cosa vuoi?”

“C’è qualcuno qui di nome Sam?” chiese il giovane, con una voce alta e acuta.

“Qual è l’altro nome?”, chiese Sam Weller, guardandosi intorno.

“Come potrei saperlo?” rispose prontamente il giovane gentiluomo sotto quel cappello peloso.

“Sei davvero un ragazzo astuto,” disse il signor Weller; “ma se fossi in te, non mostrerei quella tua grande abilità troppo spesso, nel caso qualcuno decidesse di togliertela. Cosa intendi dire venendo in questo albergo e chiedendo di Sam con tutta quella cortesia, come farebbe un selvaggio indiano?”

“È quello che un vecchio gentiluomo mi ha detto di fare,” rispose il ragazzo.

“Che vecchio idiota sono diventato?” chiese Sam, con profondo disprezzo.

“Lo vedo guidare l’autobus dell’Ipswich e utilizzare il nostro salotto,” rispose il ragazzo. “Ieri mattina mi ha detto di venire al George and Wurtler questo pomeriggio e chiedere di Sam.”

“È mio padre, cara,” disse il signor Weller, rivolgendosi con un tono spiegativo alla giovane donna al bar; “dio sa se lui stesso sa quale sia il mio altro nome. Beh, giovane ragazzo, cosa ne pensi?”

“Allora,” disse il ragazzo, “dovevi venire da lui alle sei in punto a casa nostra, perché vuole vederti. Blue Boar, Leaden’all Markit. Devo dirgli che vieni?”

“Potete continuare con quella dichiarazione, signore,” rispose Sam. E così, autorizzato, il giovane gentiluomo se ne andò, suscitando nell’aria di George Yard tutti i “echi” prodotti da alcune imitazioni molto caste ed estremamente corrette del fischio di un pastore, eseguite con un tono particolarmente ricco e potente.

Dopo aver ottenuto il permesso di assenza da parte di Mr. Pickwick, il quale, nel suo stato di eccitazione e preoccupazione del momento, non era affatto dispiaciuto di essere lasciato da solo, Mr. Weller partì molto prima dell’ora stabilita e, avendo a disposizione tanto tempo, si incamminò fino alla Mansion House, dove si soffermò per osservare, con un’espressione di grande calma e filosofia, i numerosi individui poco onesti che si radunavano in quella famosa zona, causando grande terrore e confusione tra la popolazione anziana della zona. Dopo essersi soffermato lì per circa mezz’ora, Mr. Weller riprese il suo cammino verso il mercato di Leadenhall, passando attraverso varie strade secondarie e cortili. Mentre si divertiva a osservare qualsiasi oggetto attirasse la sua attenzione durante il suo tempo libero, non sorprende affatto che si fermasse davanti alla vetrina di un piccolo negozio di libri e stampa; tuttavia, è sorprendente che, non appena i suoi occhi si posarono su alcune immagini esposte in vendita, egli sobbalzò improvvisamente, colpì con forza la sua gamba destra ed esclamò con energia: “Se non fosse stato per questo, me ne sarei dimenticato del tutto, fino a quando non sarebbe stato troppo tardi!”

L’immagine su cui gli occhi di Sam Weller erano fissi rappresentava, come egli stesso disse, due cuori umani infilzati insieme a una freccia e cucinati davanti a un allegro fuoco. Un uomo e una donna cannibali, vestiti in abiti moderni – l’uomo con un cappotto blu e pantaloni bianchi, la donna con un mantello rosso scuro e un ombrello dello stesso colore – si avvicinavano al pasto con occhi affamati, lungo un sentiero di ghiaia serpeggiante. Un giovane gentiluomo decisamente indecente, vestito soltanto con delle ali, era raffigurato mentre supervisionava la cottura; in lontananza si intravedeva anche la guglia della chiesa di Langham Place, a Londra. L’insieme formava una sorta di “valentino”, e come testimoniava un’iscrizione scritta su una finestra del negozio, all’interno vi era una vasta selezione di oggetti del genere; il proprietario si impegnava a venderli ai propri connazionali a un prezzo ridotto: uno scellino e sei pence ciascuno.

‘I should ha’ forgot it; I should certainly ha’ forgot it!’ said Sam; so saying, he at once stepped into the stationer’s shop, and requested to be served with a sheet of the best gilt-edged letter-paper, and a hard- nibbed pen which could be warranted not to splutter. These articles having been promptly supplied, he walked on direct towards Leadenhall Market at a good round pace, very different from his recent lingering one. Looking round him, he there beheld a signboard on which the painter’s art had delineated something remotely resembling a cerulean elephant with an aquiline nose in lieu of trunk. Rightly conjecturing that this was the Blue Boar himself, he stepped into the house, and inquired concerning his parent.

‘He won’t be here this three-quarters of an hour or more,’ said the young lady who superintended the domestic arrangements of the Blue Boar.

‘Wery good, my dear,’ replied Sam. ‘Let me have nine-penn’oth o’ brandy- and-water luke, and the inkstand, will you, miss?’

The brandy-and-water luke, and the inkstand, having been carried into the little parlour, and the young lady having carefully flattened down the coals to prevent their blazing, and carried away the poker to preclude the possibility of the fire being stirred, without the full privity and concurrence of the Blue Boar being first had and obtained, Sam Weller sat himself down in a box near the stove, and pulled out the sheet of gilt-edged letter-paper, and the hard-nibbed pen. Then looking carefully at the pen to see that there were no hairs in it, and dusting down the table, so that there might be no crumbs of bread under the paper, Sam tucked up the cuffs of his coat, squared his elbows, and composed himself to write.

To ladies and gentlemen who are not in the habit of devoting themselves practically to the science of penmanship, writing a letter is no very easy task; it being always considered necessary in such cases for the writer to recline his head on his left arm, so as to place his eyes as nearly as possible on a level with the paper, and, while glancing sideways at the letters he is constructing, to form with his tongue imaginary characters to correspond. These motions, although unquestionably of the greatest assistance to original composition, retard in some degree the progress of the writer; and Sam had unconsciously been a full hour and a half writing words in small text, smearing out wrong letters with his little finger, and putting in new ones which required going over very often to render them visible through the old blots, when he was roused by the opening of the door and the entrance of his parent.

‘Vell, Sammy,’ said the father.

‘Vell, my Prooshan Blue,’ responded the son, laying down his pen. ‘What’s the last bulletin about mother-in-law?’

‘Mrs. Veller passed a very good night, but is uncommon perwerse, and unpleasant this mornin’. Signed upon oath, Tony Veller, Esquire. That’s the last vun as was issued, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller, untying his shawl.

‘No better yet?’ inquired Sam.

‘All the symptoms aggerawated,’ replied Mr. Weller, shaking his head. ‘But wot’s that, you’re a-doin’ of? Pursuit of knowledge under difficulties, Sammy?’

‘I’ve done now,’ said Sam, with slight embarrassment; ‘I’ve been a- writin’.’

‘So I see,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Not to any young ‘ooman, I hope, Sammy?’

‘Why, it’s no use a-sayin’ it ain’t,’ replied Sam; ‘it’s a walentine.’

‘A what!’ exclaimed Mr. Weller, apparently horror-stricken by the word.

‘A walentine,’ replied Sam.

‘Samivel, Samivel,’ said Mr. Weller, in reproachful accents, ‘I didn’t think you’d ha’ done it. Arter the warnin’ you’ve had o’ your father’s wicious propensities; arter all I’ve said to you upon this here wery subject; arter actiwally seein’ and bein’ in the company o’ your own mother-in-law, vich I should ha’ thought wos a moral lesson as no man could never ha’ forgotten to his dyin’ day! I didn’t think you’d ha’ done it, Sammy, I didn’t think you’d ha’ done it!’ These reflections were too much for the good old man. He raised Sam’s tumbler to his lips and drank off its contents.

‘Wot’s the matter now?’ said Sam.

‘Nev’r mind, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller, ‘it’ll be a wery agonisin’ trial to me at my time of life, but I’m pretty tough, that’s vun consolation, as the wery old turkey remarked wen the farmer said he wos afeerd he should be obliged to kill him for the London market.’

‘Wot’ll be a trial?’ inquired Sam.

‘To see you married, Sammy—to see you a dilluded wictim, and thinkin’ in your innocence that it’s all wery capital,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘It’s a dreadful trial to a father’s feelin’s, that ‘ere, Sammy—’

‘Nonsense,’ said Sam. ‘I ain’t a-goin’ to get married, don’t you fret yourself about that; I know you’re a judge of these things. Order in your pipe and I’ll read you the letter. There!’

We cannot distinctly say whether it was the prospect of the pipe, or the consolatory reflection that a fatal disposition to get married ran in the family, and couldn’t be helped, which calmed Mr. Weller’s feelings, and caused his grief to subside. We should be rather disposed to say that the result was attained by combining the two sources of consolation, for he repeated the second in a low tone, very frequently; ringing the bell meanwhile, to order in the first. He then divested himself of his upper coat; and lighting the pipe and placing himself in front of the fire with his back towards it, so that he could feel its full heat, and recline against the mantel-piece at the same time, turned towards Sam, and, with a countenance greatly mollified by the softening influence of tobacco, requested him to ‘fire away.’

Sam dipped his pen into the ink to be ready for any corrections, and began with a very theatrical air—

‘“Lovely—“’

‘Stop,’ said Mr. Weller, ringing the bell. ‘A double glass o’ the inwariable, my dear.’

‘Very well, Sir,’ replied the girl; who with great quickness appeared, vanished, returned, and disappeared.

“Avrei dovuto dimenticarmene. Di certo avrei dovuto dimenticarmene!”, disse Sam; detto questo, entrò immediatamente nel negozio di cartoleria e chiese di essere servito con un foglio di carta da lettere con bordi dorati e una penna a punta rigida, la cui qualità fosse garantita. Una volta ottenuti questi oggetti, si avviò direttamente verso il mercato di Leadenhall, camminando a passo svelto, molto diverso dal suo solito modo lento e incerto. Guardandosi intorno, vide un cartello sul quale l’artista aveva raffigurato qualcosa che assomigliava vagamente a un elefante azzurro con un naso aquilino al posto della proboscide. Intuendo immediatamente che si trattasse del famoso “Blue Boar”, entrò nell’edificio indicato e chiese informazioni su suo padre.

“Non tornerà qui in questi tre quarti d’ora o più,” disse la giovane signorina che si occupava delle faccende domestiche della Blue Boar.

“Molto bene, cara,” rispose Sam. “Dammi nove penny di brandy e un po’ d’acqua tiepida, oltre alla penna d’inchiostro, per favore.”

Il brandy e l’acqua Luke, insieme allo stilo per inchiostro, furono portati nella piccola stanza; la giovane signorina si assicurò che i carboni non scoppiettassero più, e tolse via il pungolo per evitare che l’fuoco si riaccendesse. Solo dopo aver ottenuto l’approvazione e il consenso del “Blue Boar”, Sam Weller si sedette su una scatola vicino al camino, tirò fuori la carta da lettera con bordi dorati e lo stilo dal pennino rigido. Poi controllò attentamente lo stilo per assicurarsi che non ci fossero peli attaccati, spazzolò via la polvere dal tavolo per evitare che ci fossero briciole di pane sotto la carta, si arrotolò le maniche della giacca, sistemò i gomiti e si preparò a scrivere.

A signore e signore che non sono abituati a dedicarsi attivamente alla scienza della calligrafia, scrivere una lettera non è affatto un compito facile. In tali casi, si ritiene sempre necessario che lo scrivente appoggi la testa sul braccio sinistro, in modo che i suoi occhi siano il più possibile allineati con il foglio di carta; mentre osserva di sbieco le lettere che sta scrivendo, utilizza la lingua per formare i caratteri corrispondenti. Questi movimenti, sebbene indubbiamente molto utili nella composizione di testi, rallentano in qualche misura l’andamento del lavoro dello scrivente. Sam aveva trascorso inconsapevolmente un’ora e mezza a scrivere parole in caratteri minuscoli, cancellando lettere sbagliate con il mignolo e inserendone di nuove che richiedevano spesso correzioni per essere visibili attraverso le macchie precedenti, quando fu svegliato dall’apertura della porta e dall’ingresso dei suoi genitori.

“Beh, Sammy,” disse il padre.

“Beh, mio caro Prooshan Blue,” rispose il figlio, mettendo giù la penna.
“Qual è l’ultimo aggiornamento su mia suocera?”

“La signora Veller ha trascorso una buona notte, ma stamattina è molto malata e sgradevole da trattare.” Firmato sotto giuramento, Tony Veller, gentiluomo. “Quella è l’ultima dichiarazione ricevuta, Sammy,” rispose il signor Veller, sciogliendo il suo scialle.

“Non è ancora meglio?” chiese Sam.

“Tutti i sintomi sono peggiorati,” rispose il signor Weller scuotendo la testa.
“Ma che stai facendo? Cercare di acquisire conoscenza nonostante le difficoltà, Sammy?”

“Ora ho finito,” disse Sam, con un leggero imbarazzo; “stova scrivendo, ”

“Capisco,” rispose il signor Weller. “Spero che non si tratti di qualche giovane donna, Sammy, ”

“Beh, non serve dire che non lo è,” rispose Sam; “è un San Valentino.”

“Che cosa!”, esclamò il signor Weller, chiaramente sconvolto da quella parola.

“Un regalo di San Valentino,” rispose Sam.

“Samivel, Samivel,” disse il signor Weller con tono di rimprovero, “Non pensavo che avresti fatto una cosa del genere. Dopo tutti gli avvertimenti riguardo alle cattive abitudini di tuo padre; dopo tutto ciò che ti ho detto su questo argomento; dopo aver visto e frequentato addirittura tua suocera. Avrei dovuto pensare che questa fosse una lezione morale che nessuno potrebbe mai dimenticare per tutta la vita! Non pensavo che avresti fatto una cosa del genere, Sammy. Non pensavo davvero che l’avresti fatto!” Queste parole furono troppo pesanti da sopportare per il buon vecchio uomo. Prese il bicchiere di Sam e lo bevve tutto d’un fiato.

“Che c’è adesso?” disse Sam.

“Nessun problema, Sammy,” rispose il signor Weller, “sarà un processo davvero doloroso per me a questa età. Ma sono abbastanza forte, questo è almeno un conforto. Proprio come disse quel vecchio tacchino quando l’agricoltore gli confessò di temere di doverlo uccidere per il mercato di Londra.”

“Che tipo di prova sarà questa?”, chiese Sam.

“Vederti sposato, Sammy, vederti diventare una vittima ingannata, e tu, nella tua innocenza, pensare che tutto questo sia giusto, ” rispose il signor Weller. “È davvero una terribile prova per i sentimenti di un padre, ”

“Sciocchezze,” disse Sam. “Non ho intenzione di sposarmi, non preoccuparti per questo; so che sei un esperto in queste cose. Metti via la pipa e ti leggerò la lettera. Ecco!”

Non possiamo dire con certezza se sia stata la prospettiva di fumare la pipa o il pensiero consolante che una tendenza fatale al matrimonio esistesse nella famiglia e non potesse essere evitata, a calmare i sentimenti del signor Weller e a far diminuire il suo dolore. Saremmo più propensi a ritenere che il risultato sia stato ottenuto combinando entrambe queste fonti di consolazione: infatti, egli ripeteva spesso quel pensiero in tono sommesso, mentre suonava la campanella per farsi portare la pipa. Poi si tolse il cappotto, accese la pipa e si mise davanti al focolare, con le spalle rivolte verso di esso in modo da poter sentire tutto il calore; appoggiandosi allo stipite del camino, si girò verso Sam e, con un volto molto più sereno a causa dell’effetto rilassante del tabacco, gli chiese di “accendere la pipa”.

Sam immerse la penna nell’inchiostro, pronto per eventuali correzioni, e iniziò con un certo teatralismo.

“Adorabile, ”

“Basta,” disse il signor Weller, suonando la campanella. “Un bicchiere doppio di quell’invecchiabile, caro mio.”

“Molto bene, signore,” rispose la ragazza; che apparve immediatamente, scomparve, tornò indietro e poi sparì di nuovo.

‘They seem to know your ways here,’ observed Sam.

‘Yes,’ replied his father, ‘I’ve been here before, in my time. Go on, Sammy.’

‘“Lovely creetur,”’ repeated Sam.

‘’Tain’t in poetry, is it?’ interposed his father.

‘No, no,’ replied Sam.

‘Wery glad to hear it,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Poetry’s unnat’ral; no man ever talked poetry ‘cept a beadle on boxin’-day, or Warren’s blackin’, or Rowland’s oil, or some of them low fellows; never you let yourself down to talk poetry, my boy. Begin agin, Sammy.’

Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with critical solemnity, and Sam once more commenced, and read as follows:

‘“Lovely creetur I feel myself a damned—“’

That ain’t proper,’ said Mr. Weller, taking his pipe from his mouth.

‘No; it ain’t “damned,”’ observed Sam, holding the letter up to the light, ‘it’s “shamed,” there’s a blot there—“I feel myself ashamed.”’

‘Wery good,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Go on.’

‘Feel myself ashamed, and completely cir—’ I forget what this here word is,’ said Sam, scratching his head with the pen, in vain attempts to remember.

‘Why don’t you look at it, then?’ inquired Mr. Weller.

‘So I am a-lookin’ at it,’ replied Sam, ‘but there’s another blot. Here’s a “c,” and a “i,” and a “d.”’

‘Circumwented, p’raps,’ suggested Mr. Weller.

‘No, it ain’t that,’ said Sam, ‘“circumscribed”; that’s it.’

‘That ain’t as good a word as “circumwented,” Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller gravely.

‘Think not?’ said Sam.

‘Nothin’ like it,’ replied his father.

‘But don’t you think it means more?’ inquired Sam.

‘Vell p’raps it’s a more tenderer word,’ said Mr. Weller, after a few moments’ reflection. ‘Go on, Sammy.’

‘“Feel myself ashamed and completely circumscribed in a-dressin’ of you, for you are a nice gal and nothin’ but it.”’

‘That’s a wery pretty sentiment,’ said the elder Mr. Weller, removing his pipe to make way for the remark.

‘Yes, I think it is rayther good,’ observed Sam, highly flattered.

‘Wot I like in that ‘ere style of writin’,’ said the elder Mr. Weller, ‘is, that there ain’t no callin’ names in it—no Wenuses, nor nothin’ o’ that kind. Wot’s the good o’ callin’ a young ‘ooman a Wenus or a angel, Sammy?’

‘Ah! what, indeed?’ replied Sam.

‘You might jist as well call her a griffin, or a unicorn, or a king’s arms at once, which is wery well known to be a collection o’ fabulous animals,’ added Mr. Weller.

‘Just as well,’ replied Sam.

‘Drive on, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller.

Sam complied with the request, and proceeded as follows; his father continuing to smoke, with a mixed expression of wisdom and complacency, which was particularly edifying.

‘“Afore I see you, I thought all women was alike.”’

‘So they are,’ observed the elder Mr. Weller parenthetically.

‘“But now,”’ continued Sam, ‘“now I find what a reg’lar soft-headed, inkred’lous turnip I must ha’ been; for there ain’t nobody like you, though I like you better than nothin’ at all.” I thought it best to make that rayther strong,’ said Sam, looking up.

Mr. Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam resumed.

‘“So I take the privilidge of the day, Mary, my dear—as the gen’l’m’n in difficulties did, ven he valked out of a Sunday—to tell you that the first and only time I see you, your likeness was took on my hart in much quicker time and brighter colours than ever a likeness was took by the profeel macheen (wich p’raps you may have heerd on Mary my dear) altho it _does _finish a portrait and put the frame and glass on complete, with a hook at the end to hang it up by, and all in two minutes and a quarter.”’

‘I am afeerd that werges on the poetical, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller dubiously.

‘No, it don’t,’ replied Sam, reading on very quickly, to avoid contesting the point—

‘“Except of me Mary my dear as your walentine and think over what I’ve said.—My dear Mary I will now conclude.” That’s all,’ said Sam.

‘That’s rather a Sudden pull-up, ain’t it, Sammy?’ inquired Mr. Weller.

‘Not a bit on it,’ said Sam; ‘she’ll vish there wos more, and that’s the great art o’ letter-writin’.’

‘Well,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘there’s somethin’ in that; and I wish your mother-in-law ‘ud only conduct her conwersation on the same gen-teel principle. Ain’t you a-goin’ to sign it?’

‘That’s the difficulty,’ said Sam; ‘I don’t know what to sign it.’

‘Sign it—“Veller”,’ said the oldest surviving proprietor of that name.

‘Won’t do,’ said Sam. ‘Never sign a walentine with your own name.’

‘Sign it “Pickwick,” then,’ said Mr. Weller; ‘it’s a wery good name, and a easy one to spell.’

The wery thing,’ said Sam. ‘I _could _end with a werse; what do you think?’

‘I don’t like it, Sam,’ rejoined Mr. Weller. ‘I never know’d a respectable coachman as wrote poetry, ‘cept one, as made an affectin’ copy o’ werses the night afore he was hung for a highway robbery; and he wos only a Cambervell man, so even that’s no rule.’

But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical idea that had occurred to him, so he signed the letter—

‘Your love-sick Pickwick.’

And having folded it, in a very intricate manner, squeezed a downhill direction in one corner: ‘To Mary, Housemaid, at Mr. Nupkins’s, Mayor’s, Ipswich, Suffolk’; and put it into his pocket, wafered, and ready for the general post. This important business having been transacted, Mr. Weller the elder proceeded to open that, on which he had summoned his son.

‘The first matter relates to your governor, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘He’s a-goin’ to be tried to-morrow, ain’t he?’

‘The trial’s a-comin’ on,’ replied Sam.

‘Vell,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘Now I s’pose he’ll want to call some witnesses to speak to his character, or p’rhaps to prove a alleybi. I’ve been a- turnin’ the bis’ness over in my mind, and he may make his-self easy, Sammy. I’ve got some friends as’ll do either for him, but my adwice ‘ud be this here—never mind the character, and stick to the alleybi. Nothing like a alleybi, Sammy, nothing.’ Mr. Weller looked very profound as he delivered this legal opinion; and burying his nose in his tumbler, winked over the top thereof, at his astonished son.

“Sembra che conoscano bene i tuoi modi di fare qui,” osservò Sam.

“Sì,” rispose suo padre, “sono stato qui prima, ai tempi miei. Vai avanti, Sammy.”

“Carina creaturina, ”, ripeté Sam.

“Non è certo poesia, vero?” intervenne suo padre.

“No, no,” rispose Sam.

“Molto contento di saperlo,” disse il signor Weller. “La poesia è qualcosa di innaturale. Nessuno parla mai di poesia, tranne che un prete il giorno della processione, o Warren che vende carbonella, o Rowland che vende olio. Mai ti abbassare a parlare di poesia, ragazzo mio. Riprova, Sammy.”

Il signor Weller riprese a fumare la sua pipa con una solennità critica, e Sam iniziò di nuovo a leggere, come segue:

“Adorabile creatura. Mi sento un dannato, ”

“Non è affatto corretto,” disse il signor Weller, togliendosi la pipa dalla bocca.

“No; non è ‘maledetto’,” osservò Sam, tenendo la lettera alla luce, “è ‘imbarazzato’. C’è una macchia lì: ‘Mi sento imbarazzato’.”

“Molto bene,” disse il signor Weller. “Continua.”

“Mi sento in imbarazzo, completamente, ”, disse Sam, grattandosi la testa con la penna nel tentativo vano di ricordare quale fosse quella parola.

“Allora, perché non lo guardi tu stesso?” chiese il signor Weller.

“Lo so, sto guardandolo,” rispose Sam, “ma c’è un altro errore. Ecco una ‘c’, una ‘i’ e una ‘d’.”

“Ricoperto d’intorno, forse,” suggerì il signor Weller.

“No, non è proprio così,” disse Sam, “‘delimitato’; ecco il termine giusto.”

“Quella non è un’espressione altrettanto appropriata di ‘circondato’, Sammy”, disse seriamente il signor Weller.

“Non lo pensi anche tu?”, disse Sam.

“Niente di paragonabile,” rispose suo padre.

“Ma non pensi che significhi qualcosa di più?” chiese Sam.

“Forse è una parola più gentile,” disse il signor Weller dopo alcuni momenti di riflessione. “Continua, Sammy.”

“Mi sento in imbarazzo e completamente limitato nel comportarmi con te,
perché sei davvero una brava ragazza e nient’altro.”

“È davvero un sentimento molto bello,” disse il signor Weller più anziano, togliendosi la pipa per fare spazio a quel commento.

“Sì, penso che sia abbastanza buono,” osservò Sam, molto lusingato.

“Quello che mi piace di quel modo di scrivere,” disse il signor Weller più anziano, “è che non ci sono insulti né nomi offensivi: nessuna Venere, niente del genere. A cosa serve chiamare una giovane donna Venere o angelo, Sammy?”

“Ah! Cosa, davvero?” rispose Sam.

“Potreste benissimo chiamarla un grifone, o un unicorno, o addirittura le armi di un re. Si sa bene che si tratta di una collezione di straordinari animali”, aggiunse il signor Weller.

“Esattamente così,” rispose Sam.

“Continua ad andare, Sammy,” disse il signor Weller.

Sam acconsentì alla richiesta e procedette come segue: suo padre continuò a fumare, con un’espressione mista di saggezza e compiacimento, il che fu particolarmente istruttivo.

“Prima di incontrarti, pensavo che tutte le donne fossero uguali.”

“So che lo sono,” osservò il signor Weller più anziano in modo casuale.

“Ma ora,” continuò Sam, “ora mi rendo conto di quanto io sia stato davvero un idiota, incredulo e stupido; non c’è nessuno come te, anche se ti voglio più bene che qualsiasi altra cosa al mondo.” Pensai fosse meglio esprimerlo in modo un po’ più forte,” disse Sam, alzando lo sguardo.

Il signor Weller annuì in segno di approvazione, e Sam continuò.

“Quindi, Mary mia cara, ho il privilegio di parlarti oggi, proprio come fece quel generale nei momenti difficili, quando uscì da una chiesa domenicale per dirti che, la prima e unica volta che ti ho vista, il tuo volto si è impresso nel mio cuore in modo molto più rapido e con colori più vividi di qualsiasi altro ritratto possa essere realizzato, anche se poi bisogna completare il quadro, mettere il telaio e il vetro, aggiungere un gancio per appenderlo. E tutto questo in due minuti e un quarto.”

“Temo che le cose prendano una piega troppo poetica, Sammy,” disse il signor Weller con scetticismo.

“No, non è così,” rispose Sam, leggendo molto velocemente per evitare di discutere l’argomento.

“Tranne che per me, cara Mary, come tuo valentino, rifletti su ciò che ho detto. Cara Mary, ora concluderò.” “Ecco tutto,” disse Sam.

“È davvero un’impresa improvvisa, non trovi, Sammy?” chiese il signor Weller.

“Nemmeno un po’,” disse Sam; “lei vorrà che ci siano ancora di più, ed è proprio questa l’arte suprema della scrittura.”

“Beh,” disse il signor Weller, “c’è qualcosa di vero in quello che dici; e vorrei che tua suocera conducesse le sue conversazioni seguendo lo stesso principio. Non intenderai firmarlo, vero?”

“Ecco il problema,” disse Sam; “non so cosa scrivere sopra.”

“Firma qui: ‘Veller’,” disse l’ultimo proprietario ancora in vita di quel nome.

“Non va affatto,” disse Sam. “Mai firmare una cartolina di San Valentino con il proprio nome.”

“Scrivilo semplicemente ‘Pickwick’, allora,” disse il signor Weller; “è un nome davvero bello e facile da scrivere.”

“La cosa strana, ”, disse Sam. “Potrei anche concludere con una parola ancora più strana; che ne pensi?”

“Non mi piace affatto, Sam,” ribatté il signor Weller. “Non avevo mai saputo che un cocchiere rispettabile potesse scrivere poesie, tranne uno che, la notte prima di essere impiccato per una rapina lungo la strada, aveva scritto una falsa imitazione di versi; e inoltre era solo un uomo del Camberwell, quindi nemmeno questo può considerarsi una regola.”

Ma Sam non volle lasciarsi dissuadere dall’idea poetica che gli era venuta in mente, quindi firmò la lettera.

“Il vostro innamorato pazzo d’amore, Pickwick.”

Dopo averlo piegato in modo molto complicato, diede alla busta una forma che indicava la direzione “in discesa”: “A Mary, cameriera, presso il signor Nupkins, a Ipswich, Suffolk”; poi la mise in tasca, pronto per l’invio tramite servizio postale ordinario. Una volta sbrigata questa importante incombenza, il signor Weller il vecchio procedette ad aprire quella busta per cui aveva chiamato suo figlio.

“La prima questione riguarda il vostro governatore, Sammy,” disse il signor Weller. “Domani verrà processato, vero?”

“Il processo sta per iniziare,” rispose Sam.

“Vedi,” disse il signor Weller, “adesso probabilmente vorrà chiamare alcuni testimoni per parlare del suo carattere, o forse per provare un alibi. Ho riflettuto a lungo sulla questione. Potrebbe riuscire a cavarsela facilmente, Sammy. Ho alcuni amici che potrebbero aiutarlo in questo senso, ma il mio consiglio sarebbe questo: dimentica il carattere e concentrati sugli alibi. Gli alibi sono la cosa più importante, Sammy, davvero.” Il signor Weller sembrava molto serio mentre esponeva questo parere legale; poi seppellì il naso nel suo bicchiere e, guardando oltre il bordo, fece l’occhiolino a suo figlio, stupito da quelle parole.

‘Why, what do you mean?’ said Sam; ‘you don’t think he’s a-goin’ to be tried at the Old Bailey, do you?’

‘That ain’t no part of the present consideration, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Verever he’s a-goin’ to be tried, my boy, a alleybi’s the thing to get him off. Ve got Tom Vildspark off that ‘ere manslaughter, with a alleybi, ven all the big vigs to a man said as nothing couldn’t save him. And my ‘pinion is, Sammy, that if your governor don’t prove a alleybi, he’ll be what the Italians call reg’larly flummoxed, and that’s all about it.’

As the elder Mr. Weller entertained a firm and unalterable conviction that the Old Bailey was the supreme court of judicature in this country, and that its rules and forms of proceeding regulated and controlled the practice of all other courts of justice whatsoever, he totally disregarded the assurances and arguments of his son, tending to show that the alibi was inadmissible; and vehemently protested that Mr. Pickwick was being ‘wictimised.’ Finding that it was of no use to discuss the matter further, Sam changed the subject, and inquired what the second topic was, on which his revered parent wished to consult him.

‘That’s a pint o’ domestic policy, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘This here Stiggins—’

‘Red-nosed man?’ inquired Sam.

‘The wery same,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘This here red-nosed man, Sammy, wisits your mother-in-law vith a kindness and constancy I never see equalled. He’s sitch a friend o’ the family, Sammy, that wen he’s avay from us, he can’t be comfortable unless he has somethin’ to remember us by.’

‘And I’d give him somethin’ as ‘ud turpentine and beeswax his memory for the next ten years or so, if I wos you,’ interposed Sam.

‘Stop a minute,’ said Mr. Weller; ‘I wos a-going to say, he always brings now, a flat bottle as holds about a pint and a half, and fills it vith the pine-apple rum afore he goes avay.’

‘And empties it afore he comes back, I s’pose?’ said Sam.

‘Clean!’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘never leaves nothin’ in it but the cork and the smell; trust him for that, Sammy. Now, these here fellows, my boy, are a-goin’ to-night to get up the monthly meetin’ o’ the Brick Lane Branch o’ the United Grand Junction Ebenezer Temperance Association. Your mother-in-law wos a-goin’, Sammy, but she’s got the rheumatics, and can’t; and I, Sammy—I’ve got the two tickets as wos sent her.’ Mr. Weller communicated this secret with great glee, and winked so indefatigably after doing so, that Sam began to think he must have got the Tic Doloureux in his right eyelid.

‘Well?’ said that young gentleman.

‘Well,’ continued his progenitor, looking round him very cautiously, ‘you and I’ll go, punctiwal to the time. The deputy-shepherd won’t, Sammy; the deputy-shepherd won’t.’ Here Mr. Weller was seized with a paroxysm of chuckles, which gradually terminated in as near an approach to a choke as an elderly gentleman can, with safety, sustain.

‘Well, I never see sitch an old ghost in all my born days,’ exclaimed Sam, rubbing the old gentleman’s back, hard enough to set him on fire with the friction. ‘What are you a-laughin’ at, corpilence?’

‘Hush! Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, looking round him with increased caution, and speaking in a whisper. ‘Two friends o’ mine, as works the Oxford Road, and is up to all kinds o’ games, has got the deputy- shepherd safe in tow, Sammy; and ven he does come to the Ebenezer Junction (vich he’s sure to do: for they’ll see him to the door, and shove him in, if necessary), he’ll be as far gone in rum-and-water, as ever he wos at the Markis o’ Granby, Dorkin’, and that’s not sayin’ a little neither.’ And with this, Mr. Weller once more laughed immoderately, and once more relapsed into a state of partial suffocation, in consequence.

Nothing could have been more in accordance with Sam Weller’s feelings than the projected exposure of the real propensities and qualities of the red-nosed man; and it being very near the appointed hour of meeting, the father and son took their way at once to Brick Lane, Sam not forgetting to drop his letter into a general post-office as they walked along.

The monthly meetings of the Brick Lane Branch of the United Grand Junction Ebenezer Temperance Association were held in a large room, pleasantly and airily situated at the top of a safe and commodious ladder. The president was the straight-walking Mr. Anthony Humm, a converted fireman, now a schoolmaster, and occasionally an itinerant preacher; and the secretary was Mr. Jonas Mudge, chandler’s shopkeeper, an enthusiastic and disinterested vessel, who sold tea to the members. Previous to the commencement of business, the ladies sat upon forms, and drank tea, till such time as they considered it expedient to leave off; and a large wooden money-box was conspicuously placed upon the green baize cloth of the business-table, behind which the secretary stood, and acknowledged, with a gracious smile, every addition to the rich vein of copper which lay concealed within.

On this particular occasion the women drank tea to a most alarming extent; greatly to the horror of Mr. Weller, senior, who, utterly regardless of all Sam’s admonitory nudgings, stared about him in every direction with the most undisguised astonishment.

‘Sammy,’ whispered Mr. Weller, ‘if some o’ these here people don’t want tappin’ to-morrow mornin’, I ain’t your father, and that’s wot it is. Why, this here old lady next me is a-drowndin’ herself in tea.’

Be quiet, can’t you?’ murmured Sam.

‘Sam,’ whispered Mr. Weller, a moment afterwards, in a tone of deep agitation, ‘mark my vords, my boy. If that ‘ere secretary fellow keeps on for only five minutes more, he’ll blow hisself up with toast and water.’

‘Well, let him, if he likes,’ replied Sam; ‘it ain’t no bis’ness o’ yourn.’

‘If this here lasts much longer, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, in the same low voice, ‘I shall feel it my duty, as a human bein’, to rise and address the cheer. There’s a young ‘ooman on the next form but two, as has drunk nine breakfast cups and a half; and she’s a-swellin’ wisibly before my wery eyes.’

“Ma cosa intendi?” disse Sam; “non pensi che verrà processato al tribunale di Old Bailey, vero?”

“Quello non rientra affatto nell’ambito delle considerazioni attuali, Sammy,” rispose il signor Weller. “Certo che verrà processato, ragazzo mio. Ma l’unica possibilità per farlo assolvere è trovare un alibi. Abbiamo visto Tom Vildspark essere scagionato da un’accusa di omicidio colposo grazie a un alibi. Anche i criminali più pericolosi sono stati salvati in questo modo, quando qualcuno ha dichiarato che nulla avrebbe potuto salvarli. E la mia opinione è, Sammy, che se il tuo governatore non riesce a trovare un alibi, sarà davvero nei guai. E basta.”

Poiché il vecchio signor Weller nutriva una ferma e irrevocabile convinzione che la Corte dell’Old Bailey fosse la massima autorità giudiziaria di questo paese, e che le sue regole e procedure disciplinassero e controllassero l’operato di tutte le altre corti di giustizia, ignorò completamente le argomentazioni e le rassicurazioni di suo figlio, le quali tendevano a dimostrare che quell’alibi fosse inaccettabile; protestò con veemenza contro il fatto che il signor Pickwick venisse “vittimizzato”. Ritenendo inutile continuare la discussione, Sam cambiò argomento e chiese quale fosse il secondo tema su cui suo rispettato genitore desiderava consultarlo.

“Questa è davvero una buona politica interna, Sammy,” disse il signor Weller. “Questo qui. Stiggins, ”

“Uomo dal naso rosso?”, chiese Sam.

“Esattamente lo stesso,” rispose il signor Weller. “Questo tizio dal naso rosso, Sammy, visita tua suocera con una gentilezza e costanza che non ho mai visto eguagliate. È un vero amico della famiglia, Sammy. Quando non è con noi, non riesce a stare tranquillo se non ha qualcosa che gli ricordi di noi.”

“E io gli darei qualcosa che, per i prossimi dieci anni o giù di lì, ‘untorcerebbe’ la sua memoria con la trementina e la cera d’api, se fossi in te,” intervenne Sam.

“Un attimo,” disse il signor Weller; “stavo per dire che lui porta sempre con sé una bottiglia piatta, capace di circa un paio e mezzo di pinte, e la riempie di rum al ananas prima di andarsene.”

“E lo svuota prima che torni indietro, immagino?” disse Sam.

“Pulito!” rispose il signor Weller; “non lascia dentro nient’altro che la stoppa e l’odore. Fidati di lui, Sammy. Ora, questi ragazzi, mio ragazzo, andranno stasera alla riunione mensile della sezione Brick Lane dell’Associazione per il Temperanza Ebenezer United Grand Junction. Tua suocera voleva venire anche lei, Sammy, ma ha l’artrite e non può. E io, Sammy, ho i due biglietti che erano stati inviati a lei.” Il signor Weller comunicò questo segreto con grande gioia, e continuò a fare l’occhiolino in modo così incessante che Sam iniziò a pensare che avesse davvero il “Tic Doloureux” nell’occhio destro.

“‘Beh?’” disse quel giovane gentiluomo.

“Beh,” continuò il suo antenato, guardandosi intorno con molta cautela, “tu ed io andremo, puntualemente all’orario stabilito. Il vice pastore no, Sammy; il vice pastore non verrà.” A quel punto, il signor Weller fu colpito da un attacco di risate che, gradualmente, si trasformò in una specie di singhiozzo, il massimo a cui un gentiluomo anziano possa arrivare senza correre pericoli.

“Beh, non ho mai visto una vecchia fantasma in tutta la mia vita,” esclamò Sam, strofinando la schiena del vecchio signore con tanta forza da farlo quasi “bruciare” per l’attrito. “Di cosa stai ridendo, vecchio mio?”

“Zitto! Sammy,” disse il signor Weller, guardandosi intorno con maggiore cautela e parlando sottovoce. “Due miei amici, che abitano lungo la Oxford Road e sono sempre impegnati in ogni sorta di guai, hanno già portato il vice-pastore con loro, Sammy; e quando arriverà alla stazione di Ebenezer Junction (e sicuramente ci arriverà: gli faranno entrare fino alla porta, se necessario), sarà completamente ubriaco di rum e, acqua, proprio come lo era al castello del marchese di Granby, a Dorkin. E non è certo una piccola cosa.” Detto questo, il signor Weller scoppiò di nuovo a ridere in modo incontrollato, finendo per ritrovarsi nuovamente in uno stato di quasi soffocazione.

Niente avrebbe potuto essere più in linea con i sentimenti di Sam Weller dell’eventuale rivelazione delle vere inclinazioni e qualità di quell’uomo dal naso rosso; e poiché l’ora dell’incontro era ormai vicina, padre e figlio si avviarono immediatamente verso Brick Lane, senza che Sam dimenticasse di lasciare la sua lettera all’ufficio postale lungo la strada.

Le riunioni mensili della filiale di Brick Lane dell’United Grand Junction Ebenezer Temperance Association si tenevano in una grande stanza, situata al piano superiore di una scala sicura e comoda. Il presidente era il rispettabile signor Anthony Humm, un ex vigile del fuoco che ora lavorava come insegnante e occasionalmente come predicatore itinerante; il segretario era il signor Jonas Mudge, proprietario di una bottega di candele, un uomo entusiasta e imparziale che vendeva tè ai membri dell’associazione. Prima dell’inizio delle riunioni, le signore si sedevano sulle panche e bevevano tè fino al momento in cui ritenevano opportuno interrompere; su un grande vassoio di legno posto sopra il tavolo da lavoro, il segretario accettava con un sorriso ogni donazione in monete di rame che veniva fatta.

In questa particolare occasione, le donne bevvero tè in quantità davvero allarmante; per grande orrore del signor Weller senior, che, noncurante di tutti i suggerimenti ammonitori di Sam, guardava intorno a sé con la massima meraviglia e sorpresa.

“Sammy,” sussurrò il signor Weller, “se qualcuno di queste persone non vuole che io tappi domani mattina, allora non sono tuo padre. E basta. Guarda, questa vecchia signora accanto a me sta quasi annegando nel tè.”

“Stai zitto, per favore”, mormorò Sam.

“Sam,” sussurrò il signor Weller poco dopo, con un tono di profonda agitazione, “ascolta attentamente le mie parole, ragazzo mio. Se quel maledetto segretario continua così per soltanto cinque minuti in più, si farà esplodere con il pane tostato e l’acqua.”

“Beh, lascialo fare se vuole,” rispose Sam; “non è affar tuo.”

“Se questa situazione continua ancora per molto tempo, Sammy,” disse il signor Weller, sempre con quella voce bassa, “riterrò mio dovere, come essere umano, alzarmi e intervenire. C’è una giovane donna due banchi più avanti che ha bevuto nove tazze di caffè e mezza; e sta visibilmente ingrassando davanti ai miei occhi.”

There is little doubt that Mr. Weller would have carried his benevolent intention into immediate execution, if a great noise, occasioned by putting up the cups and saucers, had not very fortunately announced that the tea-drinking was over. The crockery having been removed, the table with the green baize cover was carried out into the centre of the room, and the business of the evening was commenced by a little emphatic man, with a bald head and drab shorts, who suddenly rushed up the ladder, at the imminent peril of snapping the two little legs incased in the drab shorts, and said—

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I move our excellent brother, Mr. Anthony Humm, into the chair.’

The ladies waved a choice selection of pocket-handkerchiefs at this proposition; and the impetuous little man literally moved Mr. Humm into the chair, by taking him by the shoulders and thrusting him into a mahogany-frame which had once represented that article of furniture. The waving of handkerchiefs was renewed; and Mr. Humm, who was a sleek, white-faced man, in a perpetual perspiration, bowed meekly, to the great admiration of the females, and formally took his seat. Silence was then proclaimed by the little man in the drab shorts, and Mr. Humm rose and said—That, with the permission of his Brick Lane Branch brothers and sisters, then and there present, the secretary would read the report of the Brick Lane Branch committee; a proposition which was again received with a demonstration of pocket-handkerchiefs.

The secretary having sneezed in a very impressive manner, and the cough which always seizes an assembly, when anything particular is going to be done, having been duly performed, the following document was read:

‘REPORT OF THE COMMITTEE OF THE BRICK LANE BRANCH OF THE UNITED GRAND JUNCTION EBENEZER TEMPERANCE ASSOCIATION

‘Your committee have pursued their grateful labours during the past month, and have the unspeakable pleasure of reporting the following additional cases of converts to Temperance.

‘H. Walker, tailor, wife, and two children. When in better circumstances, owns to having been in the constant habit of drinking ale and beer; says he is not certain whether he did not twice a week, for twenty years, taste “dog’s nose,” which your committee find upon inquiry, to be compounded of warm porter, moist sugar, gin, and nutmeg (a groan, and ‘So it is!’ from an elderly female). Is now out of work and penniless; thinks it must be the porter (cheers) or the loss of the use of his right hand; is not certain which, but thinks it very likely that, if he had drunk nothing but water all his life, his fellow-workman would never have stuck a rusty needle in him, and thereby occasioned his accident (tremendous cheering). Has nothing but cold water to drink, and never feels thirsty (great applause).

‘Betsy Martin, widow, one child, and one eye. Goes out charing and washing, by the day; never had more than one eye, but knows her mother drank bottled stout, and shouldn’t wonder if that caused it (immense cheering). Thinks it not impossible that if she had always abstained from spirits she might have had two eyes by this time (tremendous applause). Used, at every place she went to, to have eighteen-pence a day, a pint of porter, and a glass of spirits; but since she became a member of the Brick Lane Branch, has always demanded three-and-sixpence (the announcement of this most interesting fact was received with deafening enthusiasm).

‘Henry Beller was for many years toast-master at various corporation dinners, during which time he drank a great deal of foreign wine; may sometimes have carried a bottle or two home with him; is not quite certain of that, but is sure if he did, that he drank the contents. Feels very low and melancholy, is very feverish, and has a constant thirst upon him; thinks it must be the wine he used to drink (cheers). Is out of employ now; and never touches a drop of foreign wine by any chance (tremendous plaudits).

‘Thomas Burton is purveyor of cat’s meat to the Lord Mayor and Sheriffs, and several members of the Common Council (the announcement of this gentleman’s name was received with breathless interest). Has a wooden leg; finds a wooden leg expensive, going over the stones; used to wear second-hand wooden legs, and drink a glass of hot gin-and-water regularly every night—sometimes two (deep sighs). Found the second-hand wooden legs split and rot very quickly; is firmly persuaded that their constitution was undermined by the gin-and-water (prolonged cheering). Buys new wooden legs now, and drinks nothing but water and weak tea. The new legs last twice as long as the others used to do, and he attributes this solely to his temperate habits (triumphant cheers).’

Anthony Humm now moved that the assembly do regale itself with a song. With a view to their rational and moral enjoyment, Brother Mordlin had adapted the beautiful words of ‘Who hasn’t heard of a Jolly Young Waterman?’ to the tune of the Old Hundredth, which he would request them to join him in singing (great applause). He might take that opportunity of expressing his firm persuasion that the late Mr. Dibdin, seeing the errors of his former life, had written that song to show the advantages of abstinence. It was a temperance song (whirlwinds of cheers). The neatness of the young man’s attire, the dexterity of his feathering, the enviable state of mind which enabled him in the beautiful words of the poet, to

‘Row along, thinking of nothing at all,’

all combined to prove that he must have been a water-drinker (cheers). Oh, what a state of virtuous jollity! (rapturous cheering). And what was the young man’s reward? Let all young men present mark this:

‘The maidens all flocked to his boat so readily.’

(Loud cheers, in which the ladies joined.) What a bright example! The sisterhood, the maidens, flocking round the young waterman, and urging him along the stream of duty and of temperance. But, was it the maidens of humble life only, who soothed, consoled, and supported him? No!

Non c’è quasi alcun >dubbio che il signor Weller avrebbe messo immediatamente in atto le sue intenzioni benevole, se non fosse stato per un gran rumore causato dallo sistemare tazze e piattini. Che fortuna, quindi, che quel rumore segnasse la fine della cerimonia del tè! Dopo che la stoviglieria fu rimossa, il tavolo coperto con la tovaglia verde venne portato al centro della stanza, e le attività serali iniziarono. Un uomo dall’aspetto deciso, con la testa calva e dei pantaloncini scuri, salì improvvisamente sulla scala, rischiando di rompersi le gambe racchiuse in quei pantaloncini. E poi disse:

“Signore e signori, propongo di eleggere il nostro eccellente fratello, il signor Anthony Humm, a presidente.”

Le signore agitarono una selezione di fazzoletti di tasca in risposta a questa proposta; l’uomo impulsivo prese letteralmente il signor Humm per le spalle e lo spinse dentro una sedia dal telaio di mogano che un tempo aveva rappresentato proprio quel tipo di mobili. L’agitazione dei fazzoletti continuò; il signor Humm, un uomo dall’aspetto curato, con il viso pallido e sempre sudato, si inchinò umilmente, suscitando grande ammirazione tra le donne, e poi prese formalmente posto. A quel punto l’uomo in pantaloncini scuri dichiarò il silenzio, e il signor Humm si alzò e disse che, con il permesso dei fratelli e delle sorelle della filiale di Brick Lane presenti lì, il segretario avrebbe letto il rapporto del comitato della filiale stessa; proposta che fu nuovamente accettata con un’altra ondata di gesti con i fazzoletti.

Dopo che la segretaria aveva starnutito in modo davvero notevole, e dopo che la tosse che colpisce sempre tutte le riunioni quando sta per accadere qualcosa di importante era stata debitamente manifestata, fu letto il seguente documento.

“Rapporto del comitato della sezione Brick Lane dell’Associazione per la Temperanza Ebenezer United Grand Junction”

Il vostro comitato ha svolto con impegno il proprio lavoro nell’ultimo mese e ha l’enorme piacere di comunicarvi i seguenti nuovi casi di persone che hanno abbracciato la temperanza.

‘H. Walker: sarto, con moglie e due figli. In tempi migliori, aveva l’abitudine costante di bere birra e ale; afferma di non essere sicuro se, per vent’anni, non abbia assaggiato due volte alla settimana una bevanda chiamata “dog’s nose”, che, secondo le indagini della vostra commissione, è composta da porter caldo, zucchero umido, gin e noce moscata (un gemito e un “Ecco dunque!” da parte di una donna anziana). Attualmente è disoccupato e senza un soldo; pensa che la causa del suo problema sia probabilmente il porter, o l’uso impossibile della sua mano destra; non ne è certo, ma ritiene molto probabile che, se per tutta la vita avesse bevuto solo acqua, i suoi colleghi non gli avrebbero mai infilato un ago arrugginito nel corpo, causandogli così l’incidente (grande entusiasmo da parte del pubblico). Ora beve soltanto acqua fredda, e non si sente mai assetato (forti applausi).’

‘Betsy Martin, vedova, con un solo figlio e un solo occhio. Di giorno va in giro a fare opere di carità e a lavare; non ha mai avuto più di un occhio, ma sa che sua madre beveva birra in bottiglia. Non dovrebbe meravigliarsi se questo ne sia la causa (enormi risate). Pensa che non sarebbe impossibile, se avesse sempre astenuto dal bere alcolici, avere ora due occhi (tremendo applauso). Prima, ovunque andasse, guadagnava diciotto penny al giorno: una pinta di birra e un bicchiere di alcol. Ma da quando è diventata membro della sezione di Brick Lane, chiede sempre tre scellini e sei pence (l’annuncio di questo fatto estremamente interessante fu accolto con entusiasmo assordante).’

‘Henry Beller, per molti anni, è stato il responsabile del servizio dei drink durante vari banchetti aziendali; in quel periodo beveva molta vino straniero. A volte portava a casa una o due bottiglie. Non ne è del tutto sicuro, ma è certo che, se lo faceva, beveva tutto il contenuto delle bottiglie. Si sente molto depresso e melanconico, ha la febbre alta e una sete costante; pensa che sia sicuramente a causa del vino che beveva in passato. Ora è senza lavoro e non tocca più nemmeno una goccia di vino straniero. Ottimi complimenti.’

‘Thomas Burton fornisce carne di gatto al Lord Mayor e ai sindaci, nonché a diversi membri del Consiglio Comunale; l’annuncio del nome di questo gentiluomo fu accolto con grande interesse. Ha una gamba di legno; ritiene che queste gambe siano troppo costose da utilizzare sulle pietre, quindi in passato ne indossava di seconda mano e ogni notte beveva regolarmente un bicchiere di gin mescolato con acqua, a volte anche due (sospiri profondi). Scoprì che le gambe di legno di seconda mano si spezzavano e marcivano molto rapidamente; è fermamente convinto che la loro durata fosse compromessa dall’abitudine di bere gin e acqua, (applausi prolungati). Ora compra nuove gambe di legno e beve soltanto acqua e tè debole. Le nuove gambe durano il doppio rispetto alle precedenti; attribuisce questo successo esclusivamente alle sue abitudini moderate, (applausi trionfali).’

Anthony Humm propose quindi che l’assemblea si deliziasse con una canzone. Al fine di garantire loro un piacere razionale e morale, Fratello Mordlin aveva adattato le belle parole della canzone “Chi non ha mai sentito parlare di un giovane marinaio allegro?” alla melodia dell’“Old Hundredth”; chiese loro di unirsi a lui nel canto (grande applauso). Approfittò anche di questa occasione per esprimere la sua ferma convincenza che il defunto signor Dibdin, avendo compreso gli errori della propria vita passata, avesse scritto quella canzone proprio per evidenziare i vantaggi dell’astinenza. Si trattava di una canzone a tema temperanza (urli di approvazione). L’eleganza nell’abbigliamento del giovane, la destrezza con cui suonava il flauto e lo stato d’animo encomiabile che gli permetteva di interpretare con tanta maestria le belle parole del poeta, tutto contribuì a creare un’atmosfera davvero piacevole.

“Rema senza pensare a nulla.”

Tutto ciò messo insieme prova che doveva essere un bevitore d’acqua. Evviva! Oh, che stato di gioia e virtù! (Applausi entusiasti). E quale fu la ricompensa per quel giovane? Che tutti i giovani presenti prendano atto di questo.

“Le fanciulle si affollarono subito intorno alla sua barca.”

(Applausi fragorosi, a cui si unirono anche le signore.) Che esempio luminoso! Le sorelle, le giovani donne, che si radunarono intorno al giovane uomo e lo incoraggiarono ad seguire la strada del dovere e della temperanza. Ma erano solo le giovani donne di umili origini a consolarlo, a sostenerlo? No!

‘He was always first oars with the fine city ladies.’

(Immense cheering.) The soft sex to a man—he begged pardon, to a female—rallied round the young waterman, and turned with disgust from the drinker of spirits (cheers). The Brick Lane Branch brothers were watermen (cheers and laughter). That room was their boat; that audience were the maidens; and he (Mr. Anthony Humm), however unworthily, was ‘first oars’ (unbounded applause).

‘Wot does he mean by the soft sex, Sammy?’ inquired Mr. Weller, in a whisper.

‘The womin,’ said Sam, in the same tone.

‘He ain’t far out there, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘they _must _be a soft sex—a wery soft sex, indeed—if they let themselves be gammoned by such fellers as him.’

Any further observations from the indignant old gentleman were cut short by the announcement of the song, which Mr. Anthony Humm gave out two lines at a time, for the information of such of his hearers as were unacquainted with the legend. While it was being sung, the little man with the drab shorts disappeared; he returned immediately on its conclusion, and whispered Mr. Anthony Humm, with a face of the deepest importance.

‘My friends,’ said Mr. Humm, holding up his hand in a deprecatory manner, to bespeak the silence of such of the stout old ladies as were yet a line or two behind; ‘my friends, a delegate from the Dorking Branch of our society, Brother Stiggins, attends below.’

Out came the pocket-handkerchiefs again, in greater force than ever; for Mr. Stiggins was excessively popular among the female constituency of Brick Lane.

‘He may approach, I think,’ said Mr. Humm, looking round him, with a fat smile. ‘Brother Tadger, let him come forth and greet us.’

The little man in the drab shorts who answered to the name of Brother Tadger, bustled down the ladder with great speed, and was immediately afterwards heard tumbling up with the Reverend Mr. Stiggins.

‘He’s a-comin’, Sammy,’ whispered Mr. Weller, purple in the countenance with suppressed laughter.

‘Don’t say nothin’ to me,’ replied Sam, ‘for I can’t bear it. He’s close to the door. I hear him a-knockin’ his head again the lath and plaster now.’

As Sam Weller spoke, the little door flew open, and Brother Tadger appeared, closely followed by the Reverend Mr. Stiggins, who no sooner entered, than there was a great clapping of hands, and stamping of feet, and flourishing of handkerchiefs; to all of which manifestations of delight, Brother Stiggins returned no other acknowledgment than staring with a wild eye, and a fixed smile, at the extreme top of the wick of the candle on the table, swaying his body to and fro, meanwhile, in a very unsteady and uncertain manner.

‘Are you unwell, Brother Stiggins?’ whispered Mr. Anthony Humm.

‘I am all right, Sir,’ replied Mr. Stiggins, in a tone in which ferocity was blended with an extreme thickness of utterance; ‘I am all right, Sir.’

‘Oh, very well,’ rejoined Mr. Anthony Humm, retreating a few paces.

‘I believe no man here has ventured to say that I am not all right, Sir?’ said Mr. Stiggins.

‘Oh, certainly not,’ said Mr. Humm.

‘I should advise him not to, Sir; I should advise him not,’ said Mr. Stiggins.

By this time the audience were perfectly silent, and waited with some anxiety for the resumption of business.

‘Will you address the meeting, brother?’ said Mr. Humm, with a smile of invitation.

‘No, sir,’ rejoined Mr. Stiggins; ‘No, sir. I will not, sir.’

The meeting looked at each other with raised eyelids; and a murmur of astonishment ran through the room.

‘It’s my opinion, sir,’ said Mr. Stiggins, unbuttoning his coat, and speaking very loudly—‘it’s my opinion, sir, that this meeting is drunk, sir. Brother Tadger, sir!’ said Mr. Stiggins, suddenly increasing in ferocity, and turning sharp round on the little man in the drab shorts, ‘_you _are drunk, sir!’ With this, Mr. Stiggins, entertaining a praiseworthy desire to promote the sobriety of the meeting, and to exclude therefrom all improper characters, hit Brother Tadger on the summit of the nose with such unerring aim, that the drab shorts disappeared like a flash of lightning. Brother Tadger had been knocked, head first, down the ladder.

Upon this, the women set up a loud and dismal screaming; and rushing in small parties before their favourite brothers, flung their arms around them to preserve them from danger. An instance of affection, which had nearly proved fatal to Humm, who, being extremely popular, was all but suffocated, by the crowd of female devotees that hung about his neck, and heaped caresses upon him. The greater part of the lights were quickly put out, and nothing but noise and confusion resounded on all sides.

‘Now, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, taking off his greatcoat with much deliberation, ‘just you step out, and fetch in a watchman.’

‘And wot are you a-goin’ to do, the while?’ inquired Sam.

‘Never you mind me, Sammy,’ replied the old gentleman; ‘I shall ockipy myself in havin’ a small settlement with that ‘ere Stiggins.’ Before Sam could interfere to prevent it, his heroic parent had penetrated into a remote corner of the room, and attacked the Reverend Mr. Stiggins with manual dexterity.

‘Come off!’ said Sam.

‘Come on!’ cried Mr. Weller; and without further invitation he gave the Reverend Mr. Stiggins a preliminary tap on the head, and began dancing round him in a buoyant and cork-like manner, which in a gentleman at his time of life was a perfect marvel to behold.

Finding all remonstrances unavailing, Sam pulled his hat firmly on, threw his father’s coat over his arm, and taking the old man round the waist, forcibly dragged him down the ladder, and into the street; never releasing his hold, or permitting him to stop, until they reached the corner. As they gained it, they could hear the shouts of the populace, who were witnessing the removal of the Reverend Mr. Stiggins to strong lodgings for the night, and could hear the noise occasioned by the dispersion in various directions of the members of the Brick Lane Branch of the United Grand Junction Ebenezer Temperance Association.

“Era sempre tra i primi ad accompagnare le eleganti signore di quella raffinata città.”

(Applausi immensi.) Il sesso dolce, per un uomo, chiese scusa; per una donna, si radunò intorno al giovane barcaiolo e distolse con disgusto lo sguardo dal bevitore di alcolici (applausi). I fratelli della filiale di Brick Lane erano tutti barcaioli (applausi e risate). Quella stanza era la loro “barca”; quel pubblico, le ragazze; e lui, il signor Anthony Humm, per quanto indegno di tale ruolo, fu comunque considerato il “primo rematore” (applausi scroscianti).

“Cosa intende dire con ‘soft sex’, Sammy?”, chiese sottovoce il signor Weller.

“Le donne,” disse Sam, con lo stesso tono.

“Non è certo lontano da qui, Sammy,” rispose il signor Weller; “devono essere davvero una specie di sesso debole, un sesso molto debole, in effetti, se si lasciano ingannare da individui del genere.”

Qualsiasi altra osservazione da parte del vecchio signore indignato fu interrotta dall’annuncio della canzone, che il signor Anthony Humm recitò due versi alla volta, per informare coloro tra gli ascoltatori che non conoscevano la leggenda. Mentre veniva cantata, il piccolo uomo con i pantaloncini scuri scomparve; tornò immediatamente alla fine della canzone e sussurrò qualcosa al signor Anthony Humm, con un’espressione estremamente seria.

“Amici miei,” disse il signor Humm, alzando la mano in un gesto di preghiera per chiedere il silenzio di quelle anziane signore che si trovavano ancora lì; “amici miei, c’è un delegato della sezione di Dorking della nostra società, il fratello Stiggins, che è qui sotto.”

Di nuovo vennero fuori i fazzoletti di tasca, e questa volta in numero ancora maggiore del solito; perché il signor Stiggins era estremamente popolare tra l’elettorato femminile di Brick Lane.

“Penso che possa avvicinarsi,” disse il signor Humm, guardandosi intorno con un sorriso compiaciuto. “Fratello Tadger, lasciate che venga avanti e ci saluti.”

Quel piccolo uomo con i pantaloncini scuri, che si chiamava Fratello Tadger, scese rapidamente la scala e poco dopo si sentì il rumore di lui che saliva insieme al reverendo signor Stiggins.

“Sta arrivando, Sammy,” sussurrò il signor Weller, con il viso viola per la risata trattenuta.

“Non dirmi niente,” rispose Sam, “perché non ce la faccio più. È vicino alla porta. Ora lo sento bussare di nuovo contro le assi e il cartongesso.”

Mentre Sam Weller parlava, la porticina si aprì di scatto e apparve Fratello Tadger, immediatamente seguito dal Reverendo Signor Stiggins. Non appena questi entrò, scoppiò un grande applauso, accompagnato da battiti di piedi e sventolamenti di fazzoletti; a tutte queste manifestazioni di gioia, Fratello Stiggins rispose soltanto fissando con uno sguardo folle e un sorriso immobile la parte superiore della candela sul tavolo, dondolando il proprio -corpo avanti e indietro in modo molto instabile e incerto.

“Non ti senti bene, fratello Stiggins?”, sussurrò il signor Anthony Humm.

“Sto bene, signore,” rispose il signor Stiggins, con un tono che mescolava ferocia e una pronuncia estremamente lenta e roca; “Sto bene, signore.”

“Ah, molto bene,” riprese il signor Anthony Humm, facendo qualche passo indietro.

“Credo che nessuno qui abbia mai osato dire che non sto bene, vero, signore?” disse il signor Stiggins.

“Oh, assolutamente no,” disse il signor Humm.

“Dovrei consigliargli di non farlo, signore; dovrei davvero consigliarglielo,” disse il signor Stiggins.

A quell’ora, il pubblico era completamente in silenzio e aspettava con un certo nervosismo che la rappresentazione riprendesse.

“Prenderai la parola durante la riunione, fratello?” chiese il signor Humm con un sorriso invitante.

“No, signore,” ribatté il signor Stiggins; “No, signore. Non lo farò, signore.”

Si guardarono tutti l’un l’altro con le palpebre sollevate; un mormorio di stupore si diffuse nella stanza.

“È solo la mia opinione, signore,” disse il signor Stiggins, slacciandosi il cappotto e parlando molto ad alta voce. “È solo la mia opinione, signore, che questa riunione sia piena di ubriachi. Fratello Tadger!” aggiunse improvvisamente con maggiore ferocia, girandosi bruscamente verso l’uomo in pantaloncini scuri. “_Tu _sei ubriaco, signore!” Con queste parole, il signor Stiggins, animato dal desiderio lodevole di promuovere la sobrietà della riunione e di escluderne tutti i personaggi inappropriati, colpì Fratello Tadger proprio sulla punta del naso con tale precisione che i suoi pantaloncini scuri scomparvero all’istante. Fratello Tadger fu sbattuto a testa in giù dalla scala.

Allora le donne iniziarono a urlare forte e disperatamente; correndo a gruppi davanti ai loro fratelli preferiti, li abbracciarono per proteggerli dal pericolo. Un esempio di affetto che quasi si rivelò fatale per Humm: essendo estremamente popolare, fu quasi soffocato dalla folla di donne devote che gli si gettarono addosso e lo coprirono di carezze. La maggior parte delle luci venne rapidamente spenta, e intorno non rimase altro che rumore e confusione.

“Ora, Sammy,” disse il signor Weller, togliendosi il cappotto con grande calma, “vai pure fuori e chiami un guardiano.”

“E cosa pensi di fare in tutto questo tempo?” chiese Sam.

“Lasciami stare, Sammy,” rispose il vecchio gentiluomo; “me la caverò da solo con quel maledetto Stiggins.” Prima che Sam potesse intervenire per impedirlo, suo padre aveva già raggiunto un angolo remoto della stanza e aveva attaccato il reverendo signor Stiggins con grande abilità.

“Ma che sciocchezza!” disse Sam.

“Forza!” gridò il signor Weller; e senza ulteriori inviti diede al reverendo signor Stiggins un colpetto sulla testa e iniziò a danzare intorno a lui in modo vivace e agilissimo, cosa che, per un gentiluomo della sua età, rappresentava davvero uno spettacolo straordinario.

Ritenendo inutili tutte le proteste, Sam si mise il cappello bene in testa, si gettò il cappotto di suo padre sul braccio, prese l’uomo anziano per la vita e lo trascinò a forza giù per la scala e in strada; non allentò mai la presa né gli permise di fermarsi finché non raggiunsero l’angolo. Mentre ci avvicinavano, potevano sentire le grida della folla che assisteva al trasferimento del reverendo signor Stiggins in un luogo sicuro per la notte, nonché il rumore causato dalla dispersione, in varie direzioni, dei membri della sezione di Brick Lane dell’Associazione per la Temperanza Ebenezer.

CHAPTER XXXIV. IS WHOLLY DEVOTED TO A FULL AND FAITHFUL REPORT OF THE MEMORABLE TRIAL OF BARDELL AGAINST PICKWICK

I wonder what the foreman of the jury, whoever he’ll be, has got for breakfast,’ said Mr. Snodgrass, by way of keeping up a conversation on the eventful morning of the fourteenth of February.

‘Ah!’ said Perker, ‘I hope he’s got a good one.’

Why so?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Highly important—very important, my dear Sir,’ replied Perker. ‘A good, contented, well-breakfasted juryman is a capital thing to get hold of. Discontented or hungry jurymen, my dear sir, always find for the plaintiff.’

‘Bless my heart,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking very blank, ‘what do they do that for?’

‘Why, I don’t know,’ replied the little man coolly; ‘saves time, I suppose. If it’s near dinner-time, the foreman takes out his watch when the jury has retired, and says, “Dear me, gentlemen, ten minutes to five, I declare! I dine at five, gentlemen.” “So do I,” says everybody else, except two men who ought to have dined at three and seem more than half disposed to stand out in consequence. The foreman smiles, and puts up his watch:—“Well, gentlemen, what do we say, plaintiff or defendant, gentlemen? I rather think, so far as I am concerned, gentlemen,—I say, I rather think—but don’t let that influence you—I rather think the plaintiff’s the man.” Upon this, two or three other men are sure to say that they think so too—as of course they do; and then they get on very unanimously and comfortably. Ten minutes past nine!’ said the little man, looking at his watch. ‘Time we were off, my dear sir; breach of promise trial-court is generally full in such cases. You had better ring for a coach, my dear sir, or we shall be rather late.’

Mr. Pickwick immediately rang the bell, and a coach having been procured, the four Pickwickians and Mr. Perker ensconced themselves therein, and drove to Guildhall; Sam Weller, Mr. Lowten, and the blue bag, following in a cab.

‘Lowten,’ said Perker, when they reached the outer hall of the court, ‘put Mr. Pickwick’s friends in the students’ box; Mr. Pickwick himself had better sit by me. This way, my dear sir, this way.’ Taking Mr. Pickwick by the coat sleeve, the little man led him to the low seat just beneath the desks of the King’s Counsel, which is constructed for the convenience of attorneys, who from that spot can whisper into the ear of the leading counsel in the case, any instructions that may be necessary during the progress of the trial. The occupants of this seat are invisible to the great body of spectators, inasmuch as they sit on a much lower level than either the barristers or the audience, whose seats are raised above the floor. Of course they have their backs to both, and their faces towards the judge.

‘That’s the witness-box, I suppose?’ said Mr. Pickwick, pointing to a kind of pulpit, with a brass rail, on his left hand.

‘That’s the witness-box, my dear sir,’ replied Perker, disinterring a quantity of papers from the blue bag, which Lowten had just deposited at his feet.

‘And that,’ said Mr. Pickwick, pointing to a couple of enclosed seats on his right, ‘that’s where the jurymen sit, is it not?’

‘The identical place, my dear Sir,’ replied Perker, tapping the lid of his snuff-box.

Mr. Pickwick stood up in a state of great agitation, and took a glance at the court. There were already a pretty large sprinkling of spectators in the gallery, and a numerous muster of gentlemen in wigs, in the barristers’ seats, who presented, as a body, all that pleasing and extensive variety of nose and whisker for which the Bar of England is so justly celebrated. Such of the gentlemen as had a brief to carry, carried it in as conspicuous a manner as possible, and occasionally scratched their noses therewith, to impress the fact more strongly on the observation of the spectators. Other gentlemen, who had no briefs to show, carried under their arms goodly octavos, with a red label behind, and that under-done-pie-crust-coloured cover, which is technically known as ‘law calf.’ Others, who had neither briefs nor books, thrust their hands into their pockets, and looked as wise as they conveniently could; others, again, moved here and there with great restlessness and earnestness of manner, content to awaken thereby the admiration and astonishment of the uninitiated strangers. The whole, to the great wonderment of Mr. Pickwick, were divided into little groups, who were chatting and discussing the news of the day in the most unfeeling manner possible—just as if no trial at all were coming on.

A bow from Mr. Phunky, as he entered, and took his seat behind the row appropriated to the King’s Counsel, attracted Mr. Pickwick’s attention; and he had scarcely returned it, when Mr. Serjeant Snubbin appeared, followed by Mr. Mallard, who half hid the Serjeant behind a large crimson bag, which he placed on his table, and, after shaking hands with Perker, withdrew. Then there entered two or three more Serjeants; and among them, one with a fat body and a red face, who nodded in a friendly manner to Mr. Serjeant Snubbin, and said it was a fine morning.

‘Who’s that red-faced man, who said it was a fine morning, and nodded to our counsel?’ whispered Mr. Pickwick.

‘Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz,’ replied Perker. ‘He’s opposed to us; he leads on the other side. That gentleman behind him is Mr. Skimpin, his junior.’

Mr. Pickwick was on the point of inquiring, with great abhorrence of the man’s cold-blooded villainy, how Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz, who was counsel for the opposite party, dared to presume to tell Mr. Serjeant Snubbin, who was counsel for him, that it was a fine morning, when he was interrupted by a general rising of the barristers, and a loud cry of ‘Silence!’ from the officers of the court. Looking round, he found that this was caused by the entrance of the judge.

CAPITOLO XXXIV. INTERAMENTE DEDICATO A UN RAPPORTO COMPLETO E fedele del memorabile processo di Bardell contro Pickwick

“Mi chiedo cosa abbia mangiato a colazione il presidente della giuria, chiunque esso sia,” disse il signor Snodgrass, nel tentativo di mantenere una conversazione in quella mattina importante del quattordici febbraio.

“Ah!”, disse Perker, “spero che ne abbia trovata una bella.”

“Perché?” chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Estremamente importante, davvero molto importante, mio caro signore,” rispose Perker. “Un giurato soddisfatto e ben nutrito è qualcosa di estremamente prezioso da avere dalla propria parte. I giurati insoddisfatti o affamati, invece, tendono sempre a favore del querelante.”

“Mio Dio,” disse il signor Pickwick con un’espressione molto perplessa, “perché fanno una cosa del genere?”

“Beh, non lo so,” rispose il piccolo uomo con calma; “immagino che serva a risparmiare tempo. Se è vicina l’ora di cena, il presidente tira fuori l’orologio quando la giuria si ritira e dice: ‘Accidenti, signori, mancano dieci minuti alle cinque! Io pranzo sempre alle cinque.’ ‘Anch’io,’ dicono tutti gli altri, tranne due uomini che avrebbero dovuto pranzare alle tre e sembrano decisamente intenzionati a farsi notare per questo. Il presidente sorride, guarda l’orologio e dice: ‘Beh, signori, cosa ne pensate? Vittima o imputato?’ Io, personalmente, beh, penso che sia la vittima. Ma non lasciatevi influenzare da questo. Secondo me, è la vittima.’ A questo punto, altri due o tre uomini dicono sicuramente di pensarla allo stesso modo, e poi procedono tutti all’unanimità e senza problemi. Sono già le dieci e dieci!’ disse il piccolo uomo guardando l’orologio. ‘È ora di iniziare, caro signore; in questi casi, gli uffici del tribunale sono sempre pieni. Farebbe meglio a chiamare una carrozza, caro signore, altrimenti arriveremo in ritardo.’

Il signor Pickwick suonò immediatamente il campanello; una carrozza fu procurata e i quattro compagni di Pickwick insieme al signor Perker vi salirono e si recarono a Guildhall; Sam Weller, il signor Lowten e il “bagaglio blu” li seguirono in una vettura a noleggio.

“Lowten,” disse Perker quando raggiunsero l’atrio esterno del palazzo, “metti gli amici di Mr. Pickwick nella tribuna riservata agli studenti; Mr. Pickwick stesso dovrebbe sedersi accanto a me. Da questa parte, caro signore, da questa parte.” Prendendo Mr. Pickwick per la manica del cappotto, il piccolo uomo lo guidò verso il posto basso situato proprio sotto i banchi degli avvocati del Re, un’area allestita appositamente per comodità degli avvocati stessi: da lì potevano sussurrare all’orecchio dell’avvocato principale delle istruzioni necessarie durante il corso del processo. Gli occupanti di quel posto erano invisibili al grande pubblico in aula, poiché sedevano a un livello molto più basso rispetto agli avvocati e al pubblico, i cui posti erano rialzati rispetto al pavimento. Naturalmente, avevano le spalle rivolte sia agli avvocati che al pubblico, e il viso rivolto verso il giudice.

“Quello deve essere il banco dei testimoni, immagino?” disse il signor Pickwick, indicando una sorta di pulpito munito di ringhiera in ottone situato sulla sua sinistra.

“Quella è la cabina dei testimoni, mio caro signore,” rispose Perker, estraendo una quantità di documenti dalla borsa blu che Lowten aveva appena depositato ai suoi piedi.

“E quella,” disse il signor Pickwick, indicando un paio di posti separati a destra, “è lì che siedono i giurati, vero?”

“Lo stesso posto, mio caro Signore,” rispose Perker, battendo il coperchio della sua scatola di tabacco.

Il signor Pickwick si alzò in piedi, visibilmente agitato, e gettò uno sguardo verso la aula. Nella galleria c’era già un numero considerevole di spettatori, mentre nei banchi degli avvocati si trovava una folla di gentiluomini con parrucche, i quali rappresentavano, in quanto insieme, tutta quella varietà di nasi e baffi per cui la professione legale inglese è così giustamente celebre. Quei gentiluomini che avevano dei documenti da presentare li esibivano in modo particolarmente evidente, grattandosi di tanto in tanto il naso con essi per farli notare ancora di più agli spettatori. Altri, invece, che non avevano alcun documento da mostrare, tenevano sotto braccio volumi in ottavo formato, con etichette rosse sul dorso e copertine di colore simile a quella delle crostate di torta; questi libri sono tecnicamente noti come “testi legali”. Ancora altri, che non avevano né documenti né libri, si infilavano le mani in tasca e cercavano di apparire il più saggi possibile; alcuni, infine, si muovevano avanti e indietro con grande agitazione e serietà, contenti di suscitare così l’ammirazione e lo stupore degli spettatori ignari della situazione. Tutto questo, per la grande meraviglia del signor Pickwick, si svolgeva in piccoli gruppi, dove le persone chiacchieravano e discutevano delle notizie del giorno con estrema indifferenza, come se non ci fosse affatto un processo in corso.

Un inchino da parte di Mr. Phunky, non appena entrò e si sedette dietro la fila riservata ai consiglieri del Re, attirò l’attenzione di Mr. Pickwick; e appena questi ricambiò l’inchino, comparve Mr. Serjeant Snubbin, seguito da Mr. Mallard, il quale nascose quasi completamente Mr. Snubbin dietro una grande borsa rossa che posizionò sul proprio tavolo; dopo aver stretto la mano a Perker, se ne andò. Poi entrarono ancora due o tre altri sergenti; tra loro, uno con un corpo grasso e un viso rosso, che fece un cenno amichevole a Mr. Serjeant Snubbin e disse che era una bella mattina.

“Chi è quell’uomo dal viso rosso che ha detto che era una bella mattina e ha annuito al nostro consigliere?” sussurrò il signor Pickwick.

“Il sergente maggiore Buzfuz,” rispose Perker. “È contrario a noi; combatte dall’altra parte. Quel signore dietro di lui è il signor Skimpin, il suo subordinato.”

Il signor Pickwick stava per chiedere, con grande disgusto per la crudeltà e la malvagità di quell’uomo, come il signor Serjeant Buzfuz, che rappresentava l’altra parte in tribunale, osasse dire al signor Serjeant Snubbin, suo avvocato, che era una bella mattina, quando fu interrotto da un generale alzarsi dei procuratori e dal forte grido “Silenzio!” proveniente dagli ufficiali della >corte. Guardandosi intorno, scoprì che ciò era dovuto all’ingresso del giudice.

Mr. Justice Stareleigh (who sat in the absence of the Chief Justice, occasioned by indisposition) was a most particularly short man, and so fat, that he seemed all face and waistcoat. He rolled in, upon two little turned legs, and having bobbed gravely to the Bar, who bobbed gravely to him, put his little legs underneath his table, and his little three-cornered hat upon it; and when Mr. Justice Stareleigh had done this, all you could see of him was two queer little eyes, one broad pink face, and somewhere about half of a big and very comical-looking wig.

The judge had no sooner taken his seat, than the officer on the floor of the court called out ‘Silence!’ in a commanding tone, upon which another officer in the gallery cried ‘Silence!’ in an angry manner, whereupon three or four more ushers shouted ‘Silence!’ in a voice of indignant remonstrance. This being done, a gentleman in black, who sat below the judge, proceeded to call over the names of the jury; and after a great deal of bawling, it was discovered that only ten special jurymen were present. Upon this, Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz prayed a tales; the gentleman in black then proceeded to press into the special jury, two of the common jurymen; and a greengrocer and a chemist were caught directly.

‘Answer to your names, gentlemen, that you may be sworn,’ said the gentleman in black. ‘Richard Upwitch.’

‘Here,’ said the greengrocer.

‘Thomas Groffin.’

‘Here,’ said the chemist.

‘Take the book, gentlemen. You shall well and truly try—’

‘I beg this court’s pardon,’ said the chemist, who was a tall, thin, yellow-visaged man, ‘but I hope this court will excuse my attendance.’

‘On what grounds, Sir?’ said Mr. Justice Stareleigh.

‘I have no assistant, my Lord,’ said the chemist.

‘I can’t help that, Sir,’ replied Mr. Justice Stareleigh. ‘You should hire one.’

‘I can’t afford it, my Lord,’ rejoined the chemist.

‘Then you ought to be able to afford it, Sir,’ said the judge, reddening; for Mr. Justice Stareleigh’s temper bordered on the irritable, and brooked not contradiction.

‘I know I _ought _to do, if I got on as well as I deserved; but I don’t, my Lord,’ answered the chemist.

‘Swear the gentleman,’ said the judge peremptorily.

The officer had got no further than the ‘You shall well and truly try,’ when he was again interrupted by the chemist.

‘I am to be sworn, my Lord, am I?’ said the chemist.

‘Certainly, sir,’ replied the testy little judge.

‘Very well, my Lord,’ replied the chemist, in a resigned manner. ‘Then there’ll be murder before this trial’s over; that’s all. Swear me, if you please, Sir;’ and sworn the chemist was, before the judge could find words to utter.

‘I merely wanted to observe, my Lord,’ said the chemist, taking his seat with great deliberation, ‘that I’ve left nobody but an errand-boy in my shop. He is a very nice boy, my Lord, but he is not acquainted with drugs; and I know that the prevailing impression on his mind is, that Epsom salts means oxalic acid; and syrup of senna, laudanum. That’s all, my Lord.’ With this, the tall chemist composed himself into a comfortable attitude, and, assuming a pleasant expression of countenance, appeared to have prepared himself for the worst.

Mr. Pickwick was regarding the chemist with feelings of the deepest horror, when a slight sensation was perceptible in the body of the court; and immediately afterwards Mrs. Bardell, supported by Mrs. Cluppins, was led in, and placed, in a drooping state, at the other end of the seat on which Mr. Pickwick sat. An extra-sized umbrella was then handed in by Mr. Dodson, and a pair of pattens by Mr. Fogg, each of whom had prepared a most sympathising and melancholy face for the occasion. Mrs. Sanders then appeared, leading in Master Bardell. At sight of her child, Mrs. Bardell started; suddenly recollecting herself, she kissed him in a frantic manner; then relapsing into a state of hysterical imbecility, the good lady requested to be informed where she was. In reply to this, Mrs. Cluppins and Mrs. Sanders turned their heads away and wept, while Messrs. Dodson and Fogg entreated the plaintiff to compose herself. Serjeant Buzfuz rubbed his eyes very hard with a large white handkerchief, and gave an appealing look towards the jury, while the judge was visibly affected, and several of the beholders tried to cough down their emotion.

‘Very good notion that indeed,’ whispered Perker to Mr. Pickwick. ‘Capital fellows those Dodson and Fogg; excellent ideas of effect, my dear Sir, excellent.’

As Perker spoke, Mrs. Bardell began to recover by slow degrees, while Mrs. Cluppins, after a careful survey of Master Bardell’s buttons and the button-holes to which they severally belonged, placed him on the floor of the court in front of his mother—a commanding position in which he could not fail to awaken the full commiseration and sympathy of both judge and jury. This was not done without considerable opposition, and many tears, on the part of the young gentleman himself, who had certain inward misgivings that the placing him within the full glare of the judge’s eye was only a formal prelude to his being immediately ordered away for instant execution, or for transportation beyond the seas, during the whole term of his natural life, at the very least.

‘Bardell and Pickwick,’ cried the gentleman in black, calling on the case, which stood first on the list.

‘I am for the plaintiff, my Lord,’ said Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz.

‘Who is with you, Brother Buzfuz?’ said the judge. Mr. Skimpin bowed, to intimate that he was.

‘I appear for the defendant, my Lord,’ said Mr. Serjeant Snubbin.

‘Anybody with you, Brother Snubbin?’ inquired the court.

‘Mr. Phunky, my Lord,’ replied Serjeant Snubbin.

‘Serjeant Buzfuz and Mr. Skimpin for the plaintiff,’ said the judge, writing down the names in his note-book, and reading as he wrote; ‘for the defendant, Serjeant Snubbin and Mr. Monkey.’

Il giudice Stareleigh (che presiedette in assenza del Presidente della Corte, a causa di un malessere) era un uomo particolarmente basso e molto grasso; sembrava che tutto il suo corpo fosse costituito soltanto dal viso e dal gilet. Entrò nella sala a passi incerti, su due piccole gambe storte, e dopo essersi inchinato con gravità davanti ai giudici presenti, sistemò le sue gambe sotto la scrivania e posizionò il suo piccolo cappello a tre punte sopra di essa. Quando ebbe finito, l’unica parte del suo corpo visibile erano due strani occhietti, un viso largo e rosa, e circa metà di una parrucca grande e dall’aspetto molto comico.

Non appena il giudice si fu seduto, l’ufficiale presente nella sala del tribunale gridò “Silenzio!”, con tono autoritario; subito dopo un altro ufficiale, nella galleria, ripeté lo stesso ordine in modo arrabbiato. Allora altri tre o quattro uscieri urlarono anch’essi “Silenzio!”, esprimendo il loro sdegno. Una volta calmatasi la situazione, un signore in nero, seduto sotto il giudice, iniziò a leggere i nomi dei membri della giuria; dopo molto clamore, si scoprì che erano presenti soltanto dieci giurati. A quel punto, il magistrato Serjeant Buzfuz chiese che venissero aggiunti altri due membri alla giuria; due dei giurati comuni furono quindi coinvolti nella selezione, e tra questi fu scoperto che c’erano anche un verduriere e un chimico.

“Rispondete ai vostri nomi, signori, affinché possiate essere giurati,” disse l’uomo in nero. “Richard Upwitch.”

“Ecco,” disse il verduriere.

“Thomas Groffin.”

“Ecco,” disse il chimico.

“Prendete il libro, signori. Potrete provare davvero e con successo, ”

“Chiedo perdono a questa corte”, disse il chimico, un uomo alto, magro e dal viso giallo, “ma spero che questa corte mi perdoni la mia presenza.”

“Su quali basi, signore?” chiese il giudice Stareleigh.

“Non ho alcun assistente, mio Signore,” disse il chimico.

“Non posso farci nulla, signore,” rispose il giudice Stareleigh. “Dovreste assumere qualcuno.”

“Non me lo posso permettere, mio Signore,” rispose il chimico.

“Allora dovreste essere in grado di permettervelo, signore,” disse il giudice, arrossendo; infatti il carattere del giudice Stareleigh tendeva all’irascibilità e non tollerava alcuna contraddizione.

“So che dovrei farlo, se avessi successo quanto merito; ma non lo faccio, mio Signore,” rispose il chimico.

“Giuri, signore,” disse il giudice in tono perentorio.

L’ufficiale non era ancora arrivato alla frase “Dovrai provare con tutte le tue forze e sincerità”, quando fu di nuovo interrotto dal chimico.

“Devo essere giurato, mio Signore, vero?” disse il chimico.

“Certamente, signore,” rispose il piccolo giudice, di cattivo umore.

“Molto bene, mio Signore,” rispose il chimico in tono rassegnato. “Allora ci saranno omicidi prima che questa causa finisca. Nient’altro. Vi prego, giuratelo, signore, ” E il chimico giurò, prima ancora che il giudice riuscisse a pronunciare una parola.

“Volevo semplicemente osservare, mio Signore,” disse il chimico, sedendosi con grande calma, “che nella mia bottega non è rimasto nessuno tranne un ragazzo incaricato di commissioni. È un ragazzo molto gentile, mio Signore, ma non ha alcuna conoscenza di farmaci; inoltre, so che l’impressione principale che ha è che i sali di Epsom siano acido oxalico e lo sciroppo di senape sia laudano. Tutto qui, mio Signore.” Dopo aver detto questo, il chimico alto si sistemò in una posizione comoda, assumendo un’espressione cordiale, come se si fosse preparato al peggio.

Il signor Pickwick guardava il farmacista con sentimenti di profondo orrore, quando improvvisamente si percepì un leggero movimento nel -corpo della -giudice; subito dopo, la signora Bardell, sostenuta dalla signora Cluppins, fu fatta entrare e sedette, in uno stato di profonda debolezza, all’altro capo del posto dove sedeva il signor Pickwick. Il signor Dodson consegnò un ombrello di dimensioni particolarmente grandi, mentre il signor Fogg fornì un paio di pattini; entrambi avevano preparato un’espressione di profonda compassione e tristezza per l’occasione. Poi apparve la signora Sanders, accompagnando il signor Bardell. Alla vista del suo -bambino, la signora Bardell ebbe un sussulto; ricomponendosi immediatamente, lo baciò con frenesia; poi, cadendo nuovamente in uno stato di isteria, chiese dove si trovasse. In risposta, le signore Cluppins e Sanders distolsero lo sguardo e piansero, mentre i signori Dodson e Fogg cercarono di calmarla. Il sergente Buzfuz si asciugò energicamente gli occhi con un grande fazzoletto bianco e lanciò uno sguardo supplichevole verso la giuria; il giudice, a sua volta, sembrava profondamente commosso, mentre alcuni spettatori cercavano di trattenere le proprie emozioni.

“Ottima idea davvero,” sussurrò Perker al signor Pickwick.
“Quei Dodson e Fogg sono persone eccezionali; idee davvero efficaci, mio caro signore, eccellenti.”

Mentre Perker parlava, la signora Bardell iniziò a riprendersi gradualmente; intanto, dopo aver attentamente esaminato i bottoni del signor Bardell e le asole a cui appartenevano, la signora Cluppins lo fece sedere sul pavimento della corte davanti a sua madre: una posizione strategica che non poteva fare a meno di suscitare la piena compassione sia del giudice che della giuria. Questo non avvenne senza alcuna opposizione, e soprattutto senza molte lacrime da parte dello stesso giovane gentiluomo, il quale nutriva certi timori interiori che farlo apparire sotto lo sguardo diretto del giudice fosse soltanto un preludio formale a un ordine immediato di esecuzione o, almeno, di espulsione oltre i confini del paese per il resto della sua vita.

“Bardell e Pickwick”, gridò il gentiluomo in nero, indicando il caso che si trovava in cima all’elenco.

“Sono dalla parte del querelante, mio Signore,” disse il signor Sergente Buzfuz.

“Chi è con te, Fratello Buzfuz?” chiese il giudice. Il signor Skimpin si inchinò, per indicare che era lui.

“Sono qui a rappresentare l’imputato, Vostro Onore,” disse il signor Sergente Snubbin.

“C’è qualcuno con te, Fratello Snubbin?”, chiese la >corte.

“Signor Phunky, mio signore,” rispose il sergente Snubbin.

“Sergente Buzfuz e signor Skimpin per il querelante,” disse il giudice, annotando i nomi nel suo taccuino e leggendoli mentre li scriveva; “per la difesa, Sergente Snubbin e signor Monkey.”

‘Beg your Lordship’s pardon, Phunky.’

‘Oh, very good,’ said the judge; ‘I never had the pleasure of hearing the gentleman’s name before.’ Here Mr. Phunky bowed and smiled, and the judge bowed and smiled too, and then Mr. Phunky, blushing into the very whites of his eyes, tried to look as if he didn’t know that everybody was gazing at him, a thing which no man ever succeeded in doing yet, or in all reasonable probability, ever will.

‘Go on,’ said the judge.

The ushers again called silence, and Mr. Skimpin proceeded to ‘open the case’; and the case appeared to have very little inside it when he had opened it, for he kept such particulars as he knew, completely to himself, and sat down, after a lapse of three minutes, leaving the jury in precisely the same advanced stage of wisdom as they were in before.

Serjeant Buzfuz then rose with all the majesty and dignity which the grave nature of the proceedings demanded, and having whispered to Dodson, and conferred briefly with Fogg, pulled his gown over his shoulders, settled his wig, and addressed the jury.

Serjeant Buzfuz began by saying, that never, in the whole course of his professional experience—never, from the very first moment of his applying himself to the study and practice of the law—had he approached a case with feelings of such deep emotion, or with such a heavy sense of the responsibility imposed upon him—a responsibility, he would say, which he could never have supported, were he not buoyed up and sustained by a conviction so strong, that it amounted to positive certainty that the cause of truth and justice, or, in other words, the cause of his much-injured and most oppressed client, must prevail with the high- minded and intelligent dozen of men whom he now saw in that box before him.

Counsel usually begin in this way, because it puts the jury on the very best terms with themselves, and makes them think what sharp fellows they must be. A visible effect was produced immediately, several jurymen beginning to take voluminous notes with the utmost eagerness.

‘You have heard from my learned friend, gentlemen,’ continued Serjeant Buzfuz, well knowing that, from the learned friend alluded to, the gentlemen of the jury had heard just nothing at all—‘you have heard from my learned friend, gentlemen, that this is an action for a breach of promise of marriage, in which the damages are laid at £1,500. But you have not heard from my learned friend, inasmuch as it did not come within my learned friend’s province to tell you, what are the facts and circumstances of the case. Those facts and circumstances, gentlemen, you shall hear detailed by me, and proved by the unimpeachable female whom I will place in that box before you.’

Here, Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz, with a tremendous emphasis on the word ‘box,’ smote his table with a mighty sound, and glanced at Dodson and Fogg, who nodded admiration of the Serjeant, and indignant defiance of the defendant.

‘The plaintiff, gentlemen,’ continued Serjeant Buzfuz, in a soft and melancholy voice, ‘the plaintiff is a widow; yes, gentlemen, a widow. The late Mr. Bardell, after enjoying, for many years, the esteem and confidence of his sovereign, as one of the guardians of his royal revenues, glided almost imperceptibly from the world, to seek elsewhere for that repose and peace which a custom-house can never afford.’

At this pathetic description of the decease of Mr. Bardell, who had been knocked on the head with a quart-pot in a public-house cellar, the learned serjeant’s voice faltered, and he proceeded, with emotion—

‘Some time before his death, he had stamped his likeness upon a little boy. With this little boy, the only pledge of her departed exciseman, Mrs. Bardell shrank from the world, and courted the retirement and tranquillity of Goswell Street; and here she placed in her front parlour window a written placard, bearing this inscription—“Apartments furnished for a single gentleman. Inquire within.”’ Here Serjeant Buzfuz paused, while several gentlemen of the jury took a note of the document.

‘There is no date to that, is there?’ inquired a juror.

‘There is no date, gentlemen,’ replied Serjeant Buzfuz; ‘but I am instructed to say that it was put in the plaintiff’s parlour window just this time three years. I entreat the attention of the jury to the wording of this document—“Apartments furnished for a single gentleman”! Mrs. Bardell’s opinions of the opposite sex, gentlemen, were derived from a long contemplation of the inestimable qualities of her lost husband. She had no fear, she had no distrust, she had no suspicion; all was confidence and reliance. “Mr. Bardell,” said the widow—“Mr. Bardell was a man of honour, Mr. Bardell was a man of his word, Mr. Bardell was no deceiver, Mr. Bardell was once a single gentleman himself; to single gentlemen I look for protection, for assistance, for comfort, and for consolation; in single gentlemen I shall perpetually see something to remind me of what Mr. Bardell was when he first won my young and untried affections; to a single gentleman, then, shall my lodgings be let.” Actuated by this beautiful and touching impulse (among the best impulses of our imperfect nature, gentlemen), the lonely and desolate widow dried her tears, furnished her first floor, caught her innocent boy to her maternal bosom, and put the bill up in her parlour window. Did it remain there long? No. The serpent was on the watch, the train was laid, the mine was preparing, the sapper and miner was at work. Before the bill had been in the parlour window three days—three days, gentlemen—a being, erect upon two legs, and bearing all the outward semblance of a man, and not of a monster, knocked at the door of Mrs. Bardell’s house. He inquired within—he took the lodgings; and on the very next day he entered into possession of them. This man was Pickwick—Pickwick, the defendant.’

“Chiedo scusa a Vostra Signoria, Phunky.”

“Oh, molto bene,” disse il giudice; “non ho mai avuto il piacere di conoscere il nome di questo signore prima d’ora.” A quel punto il signor Phunky si inchinò e sorrise; anche il giudice si inchinò e sorrise. Poi il signor Phunky, arrossendo fino alle punte degli occhi, cercò di fare finta di non accorgersi che tutti lo stavano guardando. Una cosa che nessun uomo è mai riuscito a fare, né probabilmente riuscirà mai a fare.

“Prosegui,” disse il giudice.

Gli uscieri chiamarono di nuovo al silenzio, e il signor Skimpin procedette ad “aprire la cassa”; sembrava che all’interno ci fosse molto poco, perché teneva per sé tutte le informazioni che conosceva. Dopo tre minuti, si sedette di nuovo, lasciando la giuria esattamente nello stesso stato di ignoranza in cui si trovava prima.

Il sergente Buzfuz quindi procedette con tutta la maestosità e dignità che la seria natura di quella situazione richiedeva; dopo aver sussurrato qualcosa a Dodson e consultato brevemente Fogg, si sistemò la veste sulle spalle, si aggiustò la parrucca e si rivolse alla giuria.

Il sergente Buzfuz iniziò dicendo che, nel corso di tutta la sua esperienza professionale – mai, nemmeno dal primo momento in cui aveva iniziato a studiare e praticare il diritto – si era trovato ad affrontare un caso con sentimenti così profondamente emozionanti, o con una consapevolezza così pesante della responsabilità che gli veniva imposta. Una responsabilità, aggiunse, che non avrebbe mai potuto sostenere se non fosse stato incoraggiato e sostenuto da una convinzione così forte da equivalere a una certezza assoluta: la causa della verità e della giustizia, in altre parole, la causa del suo cliente profondamente offeso e oppresso, doveva necessariamente trionfare davanti a quei dodici uomini di alto spirito e intelligenza che ora gli stavano davanti in quella sala.

I consigli di solito iniziano in questo modo, perché permettono alla giuria di mettersi nei migliori termini possibili rispetto a se stessa e la fanno riflettere su quanto siano intelligenti e capaci i membri della giuria stessa. Un effetto visibile si manifestò immediatamente: diversi membri della giuria iniziarono a prendere appunti con grande entusiasmo.

“Avete sentito ciò che il mio illustre amico vi ha detto, signori,” continuò il sergente Buzfuz, ben sapendo che, da quel presunto “illustre amico”, i membri della giuria non avevano affatto ricevuto alcuna informazione concreta, “Avete sentito dire che si tratta di un processo per inadempimento a una promessa di matrimonio, e che l’importo del risarcimento richiesto è di 1.500 sterline. Ma non avete certo saputo, poiché non spettava al mio ‘illustre amico’ il compito di informarvi, quali siano i fatti e le circostanze del caso. Quei fatti e quelle circostanze, signori, li ascolterete in dettaglio da me stesso, e verranno dimostrati dalla donna irreprensibile che farò comparire davanti a voi.”

Ecco qui il sergente Buzfuz: ponendo un’enorme enfasi sulla parola “scatola”, batté con forza sul tavolo, lanciando uno sguardo verso Dodson e Fogg, i quali annuirono in segno di ammirazione per il sergente, e di indignato disprezzo per l’imputato.

“L’attore, signori,” continuò il sergente Buzfuz con voce dolce e melanconica, “l’attore è una vedova; sì, signori, una vedova. Il defunto signor Bardell, dopo aver goduto per molti anni della stima e della fiducia del suo sovrano, in qualità di uno dei responsabili della gestione delle entrate reali, se ne è andato quasi inosservatamente da questo mondo, alla ricerca di quel riposo e di quella pace che una casa di tolleranza non può mai offrire.”

Di fronte a questa patetica descrizione della morte del signor Bardell, che era stato colpito alla testa con un secchio da una quarta di pinta nel seminterrato di un edificio pubblico, la voce dell’erudito sergente tremò e continuò, con emozione.

‘Alcuni tempi prima della sua morte, aveva fatto incidere il proprio ritratto su un bambino piccolo. Con questo bambino, l’unico ricordo del suo defunto marito, la signora Bardell si ritirò dal mondo e cercò la tranquillità di Goswell Street; qui, nel soggiorno anteriore, appese alla finestra un cartello con questa iscrizione: “Appartamenti arredati per un solo signore. Chiedere all’interno.” A questo punto il sergente Buzfuz si fermò, mentre diversi membri della giuria presero appunti del documento.’

“Non c’è ancora una data fissata per questo evento, vero?”, chiese un giurato.

“Non c’è alcuna data, signori,” rispose il sergente Buzfuz; “ma mi è stato ordinato di dire che fu messo nella finestra dell’appartamento del querelante proprio in questo momento, tre anni fa. Vi prego di prestare attenzione alle parole di questo documento: ‘Appartamenti arredati per un signore single’! Le opinioni della signora Bardell sul sesso opposto derivavano da una lunga contemplazione delle inestimabili qualità di suo marito scomparso. Non aveva paura, non diffidava, non sospettava nulla; c’era solo fiducia e affidamento. ‘Il signor Bardell,’ diceva la vedova, ‘era un uomo d’onore, un uomo di parola, non era un ingannatore. Anche lui era stato un signore single; è dai signori single che cerco protezione, aiuto, conforto e consolazione. Pertanto affitterò i miei appartamenti a un signore single.’ Spinta da questo nobile e commovente impulso – uno dei migliori impulsi della nostra imperfetta natura, signori – la vedova solitaria asciugò le lacrime, arredò il suo appartamento al piano terra, prese il proprio innocente bambino tra le braccia e appese l’annuncio alla finestra. Rimase lì a lungo? No. Il “serpente” era in agguato. Prima ancora che l’annuncio fosse esposto per tre giorni, una figura umana bussò alla porta di casa della signora Bardell; prese in affitto l’appartamento e il giorno seguente vi si trasferì. Quella persona era Pickwick, il convenuto.”

Serjeant Buzfuz, who had proceeded with such volubility that his face was perfectly crimson, here paused for breath. The silence awoke Mr. Justice Stareleigh, who immediately wrote down something with a pen without any ink in it, and looked unusually profound, to impress the jury with the belief that he always thought most deeply with his eyes shut. Serjeant Buzfuz proceeded—

‘Of this man Pickwick I will say little; the subject presents but few attractions; and I, gentlemen, am not the man, nor are you, gentlemen, the men, to delight in the contemplation of revolting heartlessness, and of systematic villainy.’

Here Mr. Pickwick, who had been writhing in silence for some time, gave a violent start, as if some vague idea of assaulting Serjeant Buzfuz, in the august presence of justice and law, suggested itself to his mind. An admonitory gesture from Perker restrained him, and he listened to the learned gentleman’s continuation with a look of indignation, which contrasted forcibly with the admiring faces of Mrs. Cluppins and Mrs. Sanders.

‘I say systematic villainy, gentlemen,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, looking through Mr. Pickwick, and talking at him; ‘and when I say systematic villainy, let me tell the defendant Pickwick, if he be in court, as I am informed he is, that it would have been more decent in him, more becoming, in better judgment, and in better taste, if he had stopped away. Let me tell him, gentlemen, that any gestures of dissent or disapprobation in which he may indulge in this court will not go down with you; that you will know how to value and how to appreciate them; and let me tell him further, as my Lord will tell you, gentlemen, that a counsel, in the discharge of his duty to his client, is neither to be intimidated nor bullied, nor put down; and that any attempt to do either the one or the other, or the first, or the last, will recoil on the head of the attempter, be he plaintiff or be he defendant, be his name Pickwick, or Noakes, or Stoakes, or Stiles, or Brown, or Thompson.’

This little divergence from the subject in hand, had, of course, the intended effect of turning all eyes to Mr. Pickwick. Serjeant Buzfuz, having partially recovered from the state of moral elevation into which he had lashed himself, resumed—

‘I shall show you, gentlemen, that for two years, Pickwick continued to reside constantly, and without interruption or intermission, at Mrs. Bardell’s house. I shall show you that Mrs. Bardell, during the whole of that time, waited on him, attended to his comforts, cooked his meals, looked out his linen for the washerwoman when it went abroad, darned, aired, and prepared it for wear, when it came home, and, in short, enjoyed his fullest trust and confidence. I shall show you that, on many occasions, he gave halfpence, and on some occasions even sixpences, to her little boy; and I shall prove to you, by a witness whose testimony it will be impossible for my learned friend to weaken or controvert, that on one occasion he patted the boy on the head, and, after inquiring whether he had won any “alley tors” or “commoneys” lately (both of which I understand to be a particular species of marbles much prized by the youth of this town), made use of this remarkable expression, “How should you like to have another father?” I shall prove to you, gentlemen, that about a year ago, Pickwick suddenly began to absent himself from home, during long intervals, as if with the intention of gradually breaking off from my client; but I shall show you also, that his resolution was not at that time sufficiently strong, or that his better feelings conquered, if better feelings he has, or that the charms and accomplishments of my client prevailed against his unmanly intentions, by proving to you, that on one occasion, when he returned from the country, he distinctly and in terms, offered her marriage: previously, however, taking special care that there would be no witness to their solemn contract; and I am in a situation to prove to you, on the testimony of three of his own friends—most unwilling witnesses, gentlemen—most unwilling witnesses—that on that morning he was discovered by them holding the plaintiff in his arms, and soothing her agitation by his caresses and endearments.’

A visible impression was produced upon the auditors by this part of the learned Serjeant’s address. Drawing forth two very small scraps of paper, he proceeded—

‘And now, gentlemen, but one word more. Two letters have passed between these parties, letters which are admitted to be in the handwriting of the defendant, and which speak volumes, indeed. The letters, too, bespeak the character of the man. They are not open, fervent, eloquent epistles, breathing nothing but the language of affectionate attachment. They are covert, sly, underhanded communications, but, fortunately, far more conclusive than if couched in the most glowing language and the most poetic imagery—letters that must be viewed with a cautious and suspicious eye—letters that were evidently intended at the time, by Pickwick, to mislead and delude any third parties into whose hands they might fall. Let me read the first: “Garraways, twelve o’clock. Dear Mrs. B.—Chops and tomato sauce. Yours, Pickwick.” Gentlemen, what does this mean? Chops and tomato sauce. Yours, Pickwick! Chops! Gracious heavens! and tomato sauce! Gentlemen, is the happiness of a sensitive and confiding female to be trifled away, by such shallow artifices as these? The next has no date whatever, which is in itself suspicious. “Dear Mrs. B., I shall not be at home till to-morrow. Slow coach.” And then follows this very remarkable expression. “Don’t trouble yourself about the warming-pan.” The warming-pan! Why, gentlemen, who _does _trouble himself about a warming-pan? When was the peace of mind of man or woman broken or disturbed by a warming-pan, which is in itself a harmless, a useful, and I will add, gentlemen, a comforting article of domestic furniture? Why is Mrs. Bardell so earnestly entreated not to agitate herself about this warming-pan, unless (as is no doubt the case) it is a mere cover for hidden fire—a mere substitute for some endearing word or promise, agreeably to a preconcerted system of correspondence, artfully contrived by Pickwick with a view to his contemplated desertion, and which I am not in a condition to explain? And what does this allusion to the slow coach mean? For aught I know, it may be a reference to Pickwick himself, who has most unquestionably been a criminally slow coach during the whole of this transaction, but whose speed will now be very unexpectedly accelerated, and whose wheels, gentlemen, as he will find to his cost, will very soon be greased by you!’

Sergente Buzfuz, che aveva parlato con tale fervore da far diventare il suo viso completamente rosso, si fermò per riprendere fiato. Il silenzio risvegliò il giudice Stareleigh, il quale immediatamente scrisse qualcosa con una penna che in realtà non conteneva inchiostro, e assunse un’espressione insolitamente profonda, nel tentativo di convincere la giuria che riflettesse sempre con estrema attenzione anche quando aveva gli occhi chiusi. Sergente Buzfuz proseguì.

“Di quest’uomo, Pickwick, dirò poco; l’argomento presenta poche attrazioni, e io, signori, non sono il tipo di persona, né voi lo siete, che si diverta a contemplare una crudeltà disgustosa o un’ingiustizia sistematica.”

Ecco il signor Pickwick, che per un po’ era rimasto immobile nel silenzio, improvvisamente ebbe un movimento brusco, come se gli fosse venuta in mente l’idea di aggredire il sergente Buzfuz, alla presenza solenne della giustizia e della legge. Un gesto ammonitore da parte di Perker lo trattenne, e lui ascoltò la continuazione del discorso del gentiluomo con un’espressione di indignazione, che contrastava fortemente con gli sguardi ammirati di signora Cluppins e signora Sanders.

“Dico ‘villania sistematica’, signori”, disse il sergente Buzfuz, guardando attraverso il signor Pickwick e parlando direttamente a lui; “e quando dico ‘villania sistematica’, lasciate che dica al convenuto Pickwick, se si trova in questo tribunale – come mi è stato riferito – che sarebbe stato più decente, più appropriato, e anche più saggio da parte sua astenersi dal partecipare. Lasciate che gli dica, signori, che qualsiasi gesto di dissenso o disapprovazione da lui compiuto in questo tribunale non verrà tollerato; voi saprete come valutarlo e come interpretarlo. E lasciate che gli dica ancora, come anche il mio Lord vi dirà, che un avvocato, nell’adempire ai propri doveri verso il proprio cliente, non deve essere intimidito né maltrattato, né umiliato; e che qualsiasi tentativo di farlo, sia da parte del querelante che del convenuto, sia che si tratti del primo o dell’ultimo dei comportamenti menzionati, ricadrà sulla testa di chi lo compie, che il suo nome sia Pickwick, Noakes, Stoakes, Stiles, Brown o Thompson”.

Questo piccolo deviazione dal tema principale ebbe, naturalmente, l’effetto desiderato: attirò l’attenzione di tutti su Mr. Pickwick. Il sergente Buzfuz, essendosi in parte ripreso dallo stato di elevazione morale in cui si era messo, riprese.

‘Signori, vi dimostrerò che per due anni interi Pickwick ha continuato a risiedere costantemente, senza alcuna interruzione, nella casa di Mrs. Bardell. Vi dimostrerò che, durante tutto quel periodo, Mrs. Bardell si è presa cura di lui, gli ha preparato i pasti, ha provveduto al lavaggio della sua biancheria, l’ha sistemata e pronta per il suo uso quando tornava a casa, e in breve, ha goduto della sua piena fiducia. Vi dimostrerò che, in molte occasioni, gli dava mezzo penny, e in alcune anche sei penny, per il suo bambino; e vi proverò, con la testimonianza di una persona la cui parola non potrà essere confutata dal mio illustre avversario, che in un’occasione ha accarezzato il bambino sulla testa e, dopo aver chiesto se avesse vinto qualche “alley tors” o “commoneys” di recente (entrambi tipi di biglie molto apprezzate dai giovani di questa città), ha detto: “Come vorresti avere un altro padre?” Vi dimostrerò, signori, che circa un anno fa Pickwick ha iniziato a assentarsi per lunghi periodi da casa, come se avesse intenzione di interrompere gradualmente la sua relazione con mia cliente; ma vi dimostrerò anche che, a quel tempo, la sua determinazione non era abbastanza forte, o che i suoi sentimenti più nobili hanno previsto su quelli meschini, o che i fascino e le qualità di mia cliente hanno avuto la meglio sulle sue intenzioni poco virili. Vi dimostrerò, infatti, che in un’occasione, al suo ritorno dalla campagna, le ha proposto chiaramente e formalmente di sposarlo; tuttavia, prima di ciò, si è assicurato che non ci fossero testimoni presenti a quel momento solenne. Sono in grado di dimostrarvi, con la testimonianza di tre dei suoi stessi amici – testimoni assai riluttanti, signori – che quella mattina lo hanno trovato mentre teneva la mia cliente tra le braccia e la consolava con carezze e tenerezze.’

Questa parte del discorso del sapiente Sergente lasciò un’impressione profonda sugli ascoltatori. Estratto due piccoli pezzetti di carta, proseguì.

‘E ora, signori, una parola ancora. Sono state scambiate due lettere tra queste parti; lettere riconosciute come scritte dal difeso, e che davvero dicono molto. Anche queste lettere rivelano il carattere di quell’uomo. Non sono lettere aperte, appassionate, eloquenti, piene soltanto di parole d’affetto e di devozione. Sono comunicazioni segrete, astute, subdole. Ma, fortunatamente, molto più incriminanti di quanto potrebbero essere se redatte con il linguaggio più lusinghiero o le immagini più poetiche. Lettere che bisogna considerare con cautela e sospetto. Lettere che, chiaramente, al momento della loro scrittura da parte di Pickwick, avevano lo scopo di ingannare eventuali terzi a cui potessero finire nelle mani. Lasciate che legga la prima: “Garraways, le dodici. Cara signora B.: costolette con salsa di pomodoro. Vostro affezionatamente, Pickwick.” Signori, cosa significa questo? Costolette e salsa di pomodoro. Vostro affezionatamente, Pickwick! Costolette. Per carità, e salsa di pomodoro! Signori, è davvero possibile che la felicità di una donna sensibile e fiduciosa venga distrutta da simili artifici banali? La prossima lettera non ha alcuna data, il che già è sospetto, “Cara signora B., non tornerò a casa fino a domani. Treno lento.” E poi segue questa espressione davvero strana: “Non vi preoccupate per la pentola riscaldatrice, ” La pentola riscaldatrice! Ma chi si preoccuperebbe mai di una pentola riscaldatrice? Quando mai la tranquillità di un uomo o di una donna è stata turbata da una pentola riscaldatrice, che in sé è un oggetto innocuo, utile, e, aggiungo io, confortevole per l’uso domestico? Perché la signora Bardell viene così insistentemente pregata di non preoccuparsi per quella pentola riscaldatrice, a meno che, come non c’è dubbio, non sia soltanto un pretesto per nascondere qualcosa di più oscuro, una sorta di sostituto di parole affettuose o promesse, parte di un piano di corrispondenza ben congegnato da Pickwick al fine di prepararsi alla sua futura fuga. Un piano che, purtroppo, non sono in grado di spiegare del tutto. E cosa significa poi quell’allusione al treno lento? Per quel che ne so, potrebbe riferirsi a Pickwick stesso, il quale, senza dubbio, si è comportato in modo estremamente lento durante tutta questa vicenda. Ma ora la sua “velocità” aumenterà inaspettatamente. E le sue azioni, signori, come scoprirà a sue spese, saranno presto messe in movimento da voi stessi!’

Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz paused in this place, to see whether the jury smiled at his joke; but as nobody took it but the greengrocer, whose sensitiveness on the subject was very probably occasioned by his having subjected a chaise-cart to the process in question on that identical morning, the learned Serjeant considered it advisable to undergo a slight relapse into the dismals before he concluded.

‘But enough of this, gentlemen,’ said Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz, ‘it is difficult to smile with an aching heart; it is ill jesting when our deepest sympathies are awakened. My client’s hopes and prospects are ruined, and it is no figure of speech to say that her occupation is gone indeed. The bill is down—but there is no tenant. Eligible single gentlemen pass and repass—but there is no invitation for to inquire within or without. All is gloom and silence in the house; even the voice of the child is hushed; his infant sports are disregarded when his mother weeps; his “alley tors” and his “commoneys” are alike neglected; he forgets the long familiar cry of “knuckle down,” and at tip-cheese, or odd and even, his hand is out. But Pickwick, gentlemen, Pickwick, the ruthless destroyer of this domestic oasis in the desert of Goswell Street—Pickwick who has choked up the well, and thrown ashes on the sward—Pickwick, who comes before you to-day with his heartless tomato sauce and warming-pans—Pickwick still rears his head with unblushing effrontery, and gazes without a sigh on the ruin he has made. Damages, gentlemen—heavy damages is the only punishment with which you can visit him; the only recompense you can award to my client. And for those damages she now appeals to an enlightened, a high-minded, a right- feeling, a conscientious, a dispassionate, a sympathising, a contemplative jury of her civilised countrymen.’ With this beautiful peroration, Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz sat down, and Mr. Justice Stareleigh woke up.

‘Call Elizabeth Cluppins,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, rising a minute afterwards, with renewed vigour.

The nearest usher called for Elizabeth Tuppins; another one, at a little distance off, demanded Elizabeth Jupkins; and a third rushed in a breathless state into King Street, and screamed for Elizabeth Muffins till he was hoarse.

Meanwhile Mrs. Cluppins, with the combined assistance of Mrs. Bardell, Mrs. Sanders, Mr. Dodson, and Mr. Fogg, was hoisted into the witness- box; and when she was safely perched on the top step, Mrs. Bardell stood on the bottom one, with the pocket-handkerchief and pattens in one hand, and a glass bottle that might hold about a quarter of a pint of smelling-salts in the other, ready for any emergency. Mrs. Sanders, whose eyes were intently fixed on the judge’s face, planted herself close by, with the large umbrella, keeping her right thumb pressed on the spring with an earnest countenance, as if she were fully prepared to put it up at a moment’s notice.

‘Mrs. Cluppins,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, ‘pray compose yourself, ma’am.’ Of course, directly Mrs. Cluppins was desired to compose herself, she sobbed with increased vehemence, and gave divers alarming manifestations of an approaching fainting fit, or, as she afterwards said, of her feelings being too many for her.

‘Do you recollect, Mrs. Cluppins,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, after a few unimportant questions—‘do you recollect being in Mrs. Bardell’s back one pair of stairs, on one particular morning in July last, when she was dusting Pickwick’s apartment?’

‘Yes, my Lord and jury, I do,’ replied Mrs. Cluppins.

‘Mr. Pickwick’s sitting-room was the first-floor front, I believe?’

‘Yes, it were, Sir,’ replied Mrs. Cluppins.

‘What were you doing in the back room, ma’am?’ inquired the little judge.

‘My Lord and jury,’ said Mrs. Cluppins, with interesting agitation, ‘I will not deceive you.’

‘You had better not, ma’am,’ said the little judge.

‘I was there,’ resumed Mrs. Cluppins, ‘unbeknown to Mrs. Bardell; I had been out with a little basket, gentlemen, to buy three pound of red kidney pertaties, which was three pound tuppence ha’penny, when I see Mrs. Bardell’s street door on the jar.’

‘On the what?’ exclaimed the little judge.

‘Partly open, my Lord,’ said Serjeant Snubbin.

‘She said on the jar,’ said the little judge, with a cunning look.

‘It’s all the same, my Lord,’ said Serjeant Snubbin. The little judge looked doubtful, and said he’d make a note of it. Mrs. Cluppins then resumed—

‘I walked in, gentlemen, just to say good-mornin’, and went, in a permiscuous manner, upstairs, and into the back room. Gentlemen, there was the sound of voices in the front room, and—’

‘And you listened, I believe, Mrs. Cluppins?’ said Serjeant Buzfuz.

‘Beggin’ your pardon, Sir,’ replied Mrs. Cluppins, in a majestic manner, ‘I would scorn the haction. The voices was very loud, Sir, and forced themselves upon my ear.’

‘Well, Mrs. Cluppins, you were not listening, but you heard the voices. Was one of those voices Pickwick’s?’

‘Yes, it were, Sir.’ And Mrs. Cluppins, after distinctly stating that Mr. Pickwick addressed himself to Mrs. Bardell, repeated by slow degrees, and by dint of many questions, the conversation with which our readers are already acquainted.

The jury looked suspicious, and Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz smiled as he sat down. They looked positively awful when Serjeant Snubbin intimated that he should not cross-examine the witness, for Mr. Pickwick wished it to be distinctly stated that it was due to her to say, that her account was in substance correct.

Mrs. Cluppins having once broken the ice, thought it a favourable opportunity for entering into a short dissertation on her own domestic affairs; so she straightway proceeded to inform the court that she was the mother of eight children at that present speaking, and that she entertained confident expectations of presenting Mr. Cluppins with a ninth, somewhere about that day six months. At this interesting point, the little judge interposed most irascibly; and the effect of the interposition was, that both the worthy lady and Mrs. Sanders were politely taken out of court, under the escort of Mr. Jackson, without further parley.

Il sergente Buzfuz fece una pausa in questo punto, per vedere se la giuria avesse sorriso alla sua battuta; ma poiché nessuno, tranne il verduriere, l’aveva capita – e la sensibilità del verduriere su questo argomento era probabilmente dovuta al fatto che quella stessa mattina aveva sottoposto un carretto allo stesso trattamento – il sergente decise di riprendere con il suo discorso, anche se per poco.

“Ma basta ormai, signori,” disse il sergente Buzfuz, “è difficile sorridere con il cuore spezzato; non è certo uno scherzo quando le nostre più profonde emozioni vengono risvegliate. Le speranze e le prospettive della mia cliente sono distrutte, e non è affatto una metafora dire che la sua fonte di sostentamento è davvero andata persa. Il conto è stato presentato, ma non c’è nessun inquilino. Gentiluomini single idonei passano avanti e indietro, ma non viene mai offerta l’opportunità di entrare o chiedere informazioni. Tutto è oscurità e silenzio in quella casa; persino la voce del bambino tace; i suoi giochi vengono trascurati quando sua madre piange; le sue piccole attività quotidiane vengono ignorate. Ha dimenticato persino quel familiare richiamo “mettiti al lavoro”. Ma Pickwick, signori. Pickwick, il spietato distruttore di questo angolo di serenità nella desolazione di Goswell Street, che ha ostruito la fonte d’acqua e gettato ceneri sull’erba, che oggi si presenta davanti a voi con la sua salsa di pomodoro insensibile e le sue pentole riscaldate, continua ancora a ergere la testa con impudenza, senza un briciolo di rimorso, guardando senza pietà le rovine che ha causato. Danni, signori, gravi danni sono l’unica punizione che potete infliggere a lui; l’unica compensazione che potete concedere alla mia cliente. E per questi danni, lei ora si appella a una giuria illuminata, nobile, compassionevole e imparziale, composta dai suoi concittadini civili.” Con queste parole, il sergente Buzfuz si sedette; il giudice Stareleigh, intanto, si risvegliò.

“Chiamate Elizabeth Cluppins,” disse il sergente Buzfuz, alzandosi poco dopo con rinnovato vigore.

L’usciere più vicino chiamò Elizabeth Tuppins; un altro, un po’ più lontano, chiese di vedere Elizabeth Jupkins; e un terzo, ansimante, corse in King Street gridando il nome di Elizabeth Muffins fino a perdere la voce.

Nel frattempo, la signora Cluppins, con l’aiuto congiunto della signora Bardell, della signora Sanders, del signor Dodson e del signor Fogg, fu fatta salire nell’aula dei testimoni; e quando si trovò al sicuro sul gradino più alto, la signora Bardell si posizionò su quello più basso, tenendo in una mano un fazzoletto da tasca e degli zoccoli di gomma, e nell’altra una bottiglia di vetro che conteneva circa un quarto di pinta di sali aromatici, pronta ad intervenire in caso di necessità. La signora Sanders, con lo sguardo fisso sul volto del giudice, si sistemò vicino a lei, impugnando l’ombrello grande e premendo con decisione sulla molla che lo azionava, con un’espressione seria, come se fosse pronta ad usarlo in qualsiasi momento.

“Signora Cluppins,” disse il sergente Buzfuz, “per favore, si calmi.”
Naturalmente, non appena le fu chiesto di calmarsi, la signora Cluppins iniziò a singhiozzare ancora più intensamente, mostrando diversi segni preoccupanti di un possibile svenimento, o, come disse in seguito, che i suoi sentimenti erano troppi per lei da sopportare.

“Ricorda, signora Cluppins?” disse il sergente Buzfuz, dopo aver posto alcune domande irrilevanti, “Ricorda di essere stata sul gradino sopra quello della signora Bardell, una particolare mattina di luglio dello scorso anno, mentre lei puliva l’appartamento di Pickwick?”

“Sì, mio Signore e giuria, lo faccio,” rispose la signora Cluppins.

“La sala da pranzo del signor Pickwick si trovava al piano terra, sul lato anteriore, giusto?”

“Sì, proprio così, signore,” rispose la signora Cluppins.

“Cosa stava facendo nella stanza sul retro, signora?”, chiese il piccolo giudice.

“Mio Signore e giuria,” disse la signora Cluppins con un’agitazione evidente, “non vi ingannerò.”

“Meglio di no, signora,” disse il piccolo giudice.

“Ero lì,” continuò la signora Cluppins, “senza che la signora Bardell lo sapesse; ero uscita con un piccolo cestino, signori, per comprare tre libbre di patate dolci rosse, il che costava tre libbre e due penny. Quando vidi la porta di casa della signora Bardell, ”

“Su cosa?” esclamò il piccolo giudice.

“Parzialmente aperto, mio Signore,” disse il Sergente Snubbin.

“Disse così sulla bottiglia,” disse il piccolo giudice, con uno sguardo astuto.

“È lo stesso comunque, mio Signore,” disse il Sergente Snubbin. Il piccolo giudice sembrò dubbioso e disse che avrebbe preso nota della cosa. A quel punto la signora Cluppins riprese a parlare.

“Sono entrato, signori, solo per salutare buongiorno, e poi sono andato, in modo disinvolto, al piano di sopra, nella stanza sul retro. Signori, c’erano voci nella stanza davanti, ”

“E lei ha ascoltato, vero, signora Cluppins?”, disse il sergente Buzfuz.

“Perdonatemi, signore,” rispose la signora Cluppins con tono maestoso, “ma disprezzerei un simile comportamento. Le voci erano molto forti, signore, e mi sono imposte all’orecchio contro la mia volontà.”

“Beh, signora Cluppins, non stava ascoltando, ma ha sentito quelle voci. Una di quelle voci era forse quella di Pickwick?”

“Sì, proprio così, signore.” E la signora Cluppins, dopo aver chiarito che il signor Pickwick si era rivolto alla signora Bardell, ripeté gradualmente, attraverso molte domande, quella conversazione di cui i nostri lettori sono già a conoscenza.

La giuria sembrava sospettosa; il sergente Buzfuz sorrise mentre si sedeva. La situazione divenne davvero terribile quando il sergente Snubbin suggerì che non dovesse fare domande incisive al testimone, poiché il signor Pickwick desiderava che fosse chiaramente dichiarato che era compito del testimone stesso a affermare che la sua versione dei fatti fosse sostanzialmente corretta.

Una volta rotto il ghiaccio, la signora Cluppins ritenne che fosse un’ottima opportunità per intraprendere una breve discussione sui propri affari domestici; così immediatamente comunicò alla >corte di essere madre di otto figli in quel momento, e manifestò grandi speranze di dare al signor Cluppins un nono figlio entro circa sei mesi. In questo momento particolarmente interessante, il giovane giudice intervenne in modo molto irascibile; di conseguenza, sia la rispettabile signora che la signora Sanders furono gentilmente scortate fuori dalla >corte dal signor Jackson, senza ulteriori discussioni.

‘Nathaniel Winkle!’ said Mr. Skimpin.

‘Here!’ replied a feeble voice. Mr. Winkle entered the witness-box, and having been duly sworn, bowed to the judge with considerable deference.

‘Don’t look at me, Sir,’ said the judge sharply, in acknowledgment of the salute; ‘look at the jury.’

Mr. Winkle obeyed the mandate, and looked at the place where he thought it most probable the jury might be; for seeing anything in his then state of intellectual complication was wholly out of the question.

Mr. Winkle was then examined by Mr. Skimpin, who, being a promising young man of two or three-and-forty, was of course anxious to confuse a witness who was notoriously predisposed in favour of the other side, as much as he could.

‘Now, Sir,’ said Mr. Skimpin, ‘have the goodness to let his Lordship know what your name is, will you?’ and Mr. Skimpin inclined his head on one side to listen with great sharpness to the answer, and glanced at the jury meanwhile, as if to imply that he rather expected Mr. Winkle’s natural taste for perjury would induce him to give some name which did not belong to him.

‘Winkle,’ replied the witness.

‘What’s your Christian name, Sir?’ angrily inquired the little judge.

‘Nathaniel, Sir.’

‘Daniel—any other name?’

‘Nathaniel, sir—my Lord, I mean.’

‘Nathaniel Daniel, or Daniel Nathaniel?’

‘No, my Lord, only Nathaniel—not Daniel at all.’

‘What did you tell me it was Daniel for, then, sir?’ inquired the judge.

‘I didn’t, my Lord,’ replied Mr. Winkle.

‘You did, Sir,’ replied the judge, with a severe frown. ‘How could I have got Daniel on my notes, unless you told me so, Sir?’

This argument was, of course, unanswerable.

‘Mr. Winkle has rather a short memory, my Lord,’ interposed Mr. Skimpin, with another glance at the jury. ‘We shall find means to refresh it before we have quite done with him, I dare say.’

‘You had better be careful, Sir,’ said the little judge, with a sinister look at the witness.

Poor Mr. Winkle bowed, and endeavoured to feign an easiness of manner, which, in his then state of confusion, gave him rather the air of a disconcerted pickpocket.

‘Now, Mr. Winkle,’ said Mr. Skimpin, ‘attend to me, if you please, Sir; and let me recommend you, for your own sake, to bear in mind his Lordship’s injunctions to be careful. I believe you are a particular friend of Mr. Pickwick, the defendant, are you not?’

‘I have known Mr. Pickwick now, as well as I recollect at this moment, nearly—’

‘Pray, Mr. Winkle, do not evade the question. Are you, or are you not, a particular friend of the defendant’s?’

‘I was just about to say, that—’

‘Will you, or will you not, answer my question, Sir?’

If you don’t answer the question, you’ll be committed, Sir,’ interposed the little judge, looking over his note-book.

‘Come, Sir,’ said Mr. Skimpin, ‘yes or no, if you please.’

‘Yes, I am,’ replied Mr. Winkle.

‘Yes, you are. And why couldn’t you say that at once, Sir? Perhaps you know the plaintiff too? Eh, Mr. Winkle?’

‘I don’t know her; I’ve seen her.’

‘Oh, you don’t know her, but you’ve seen her? Now, have the goodness to tell the gentlemen of the jury what you mean by that, Mr. Winkle.’

‘I mean that I am not intimate with her, but I have seen her when I went to call on Mr. Pickwick, in Goswell Street.’

‘How often have you seen her, Sir?’

‘How often?’

‘Yes, Mr. Winkle, how often? I’ll repeat the question for you a dozen times, if you require it, Sir.’ And the learned gentleman, with a firm and steady frown, placed his hands on his hips, and smiled suspiciously to the jury.

On this question there arose the edifying brow-beating, customary on such points. First of all, Mr. Winkle said it was quite impossible for him to say how many times he had seen Mrs. Bardell. Then he was asked if he had seen her twenty times, to which he replied, ‘Certainly—more than that.’ Then he was asked whether he hadn’t seen her a hundred times— whether he couldn’t swear that he had seen her more than fifty times— whether he didn’t know that he had seen her at least seventy-five times, and so forth; the satisfactory conclusion which was arrived at, at last, being, that he had better take care of himself, and mind what he was about. The witness having been by these means reduced to the requisite ebb of nervous perplexity, the examination was continued as follows—

‘Pray, Mr. Winkle, do you remember calling on the defendant Pickwick at these apartments in the plaintiff’s house in Goswell Street, on one particular morning, in the month of July last?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Were you accompanied on that occasion by a friend of the name of Tupman, and another by the name of Snodgrass?’

‘Yes, I was.’

‘Are they here?’

Yes, they are,’ replied Mr. Winkle, looking very earnestly towards the spot where his friends were stationed.

‘Pray attend to me, Mr. Winkle, and never mind your friends,’ said Mr. Skimpin, with another expressive look at the jury. ‘They must tell their stories without any previous consultation with you, if none has yet taken place (another look at the jury). Now, Sir, tell the gentlemen of the jury what you saw on entering the defendant’s room, on this particular morning. Come; out with it, Sir; we must have it, sooner or later.’

‘The defendant, Mr. Pickwick, was holding the plaintiff in his arms, with his hands clasping her waist,’ replied Mr. Winkle with natural hesitation, ‘and the plaintiff appeared to have fainted away.’

‘Did you hear the defendant say anything?’

‘I heard him call Mrs. Bardell a good creature, and I heard him ask her to compose herself, for what a situation it was, if anybody should come, or words to that effect.’

‘Now, Mr. Winkle, I have only one more question to ask you, and I beg you to bear in mind his Lordship’s caution. Will you undertake to swear that Pickwick, the defendant, did not say on the occasion in question— “My dear Mrs. Bardell, you’re a good creature; compose yourself to this situation, for to this situation you must come,” or words to that effect?’

“‘Nathaniel Winkle!’”, disse il signor Skimpin.

“Eccomi!” rispose una voce debole. Il signor Winkle entrò nell’aula dei testimoni e, dopo essere stato debitamente giurato, si inchinò al giudice con notevole rispetto.

“Non guardatemi, signore,” disse il giudice con fermezza, in risposta al saluto; “guardate la giuria.”

Il signor Winkle obbedì all’ordine e guardò il luogo che riteneva fosse il più probabile in cui si trovasse la giuria; poiché, data la sua condizione mentale in quel momento, era del tutto impossibile per lui notare qualcosa.

A quel punto, il signor Winkle fu esaminato dal signor Skimpin, un giovane promettente di circa venti o venticinque anni, che naturalmente desiderava confondere al massimo possibile un testimone notoriamente incline a favore dell’altra parte.

“Ora, signore,” disse il signor Skimpin, “per favore faccia sapere a Sua Signoria qual è il suo nome, le dispiace?” Il signor Skimpin inclinò la testa da un lato per ascoltare con grande attenzione la risposta, mentre di tanto in tanto lanciava uno sguardo alla giuria, come se si aspettasse che il naturale propenso del signor Winkle al falso testimonio lo spingesse a fornire un nome che non fosse il suo.

“Winkle,” rispose il testimone.

“Qual è il suo nome cristiano, signore?” chiese con rabbia il piccolo giudice.

“Nathaniel, signore.”

Daniel, o qualche altro nome?

“Nathaniel, signore, intendo dire, mio Signore.”

“Nathaniel Daniel, o Daniel Nathaniel?”

“No, mio Signore, solo Nathaniel, assolutamente non Daniel.”

“Quindi mi ha detto che si trattava di Daniel, signore?” chiese il giudice.

“Non l’ho fatto, mio Signore,” rispose il signor Winkle.

“Sì, signore,” rispose il giudice con un severo cipiglio. “Come avrei potuto includere il nome di Daniel nelle mie note, se non fosse stato per il suo suggerimento, signore?”

Questo argomento, naturalmente, non poteva essere confutato.

“Il signor Winkle ha una memoria piuttosto debole, mio Signore,” intervenne il signor Skimpin, lanciando un altro sguardo alla giuria. “Scommetto che troveremo il modo di rinfrescargli la memoria prima di aver finito con lui.”

“Farà meglio ad essere cauto, signore,” disse il piccolo giudice, lanciando uno sguardo sinistro alla testimone.

Povero signor Winkle si inchinò e cercò di fingere un atteggiamento disinvolto; ma, data la sua confusione in quel momento, sembrava più un ladro imbarazzato che qualcuno davvero tranquillo.

“Ora, signor Winkle,” disse il signor Skimpin, “per favore presti attenzione a quanto sto per dirle; e lasciate che le consigli, per il suo stesso bene, di ricordarsi delle istruzioni del suo Signoria riguardo alla necessità di essere cauto. Credo che lei sia un amico particolare del signor Pickwick, l’imputato, vero?”

Conosco il signor Pickwick ormai da un po’, per quanto ricordi in questo momento, quasi.

“Per favore, signor Winkle, non eludga la domanda. È o non è lei un amico particolare dell’imputato?”

“Stavo proprio per dire che, ”

“Risponderà o no alla mia domanda, signore?”

“Se non risponde alla domanda, sarà costretto ad accettare l’offerta, signore,” intervenne il piccolo giudice, guardando il suo taccuino.

“Venga pure, signore,” disse il signor Skimpin, “sì o no, la prego.”

“Sì, lo sono,” rispose il signor Winkle.

“Sì, lo sono. E perché non l’ha detto subito, signore? Forse conosce anche il querelante. Eh, signor Winkle?”

“Non la conosco; l’ho solo vista.”

“Oh, non la conoscete, ma l’avete vista? Ora, per favore, spiegate ai signori della giuria cosa intendete dire, signor Winkle.”

Voglio dire che non ho una relazione intima con lei, ma l’ho vista quando sono andato a far visita al signor Pickwick in Goswell Street.

“Quante volte l’ha vista, signore?”

“Quante volte?”

“Sì, signor Winkle, con quale frequenza? Ripeterò la domanda una dozzina di volte, se lo desiderate, signore.” E il gentiluomo erudito, con un cipiglio deciso e fermo, si mise le mani sui fianchi e sorrise in modo sospettoso alla giuria.

Su questa questione si verificò quella tipica sequenza di domande e risposte che è consueta in tali circostanze. Prima di tutto, il signor Winkle affermò che era del tutto impossibile per lui dire quante volte avesse visto la signora Bardell. Poi gli fu chiesto se l’avesse vista venti volte; lui rispose: “Certo, più di così”. Successivamente gli fu chiesto se non l’avesse vista cento volte, se non potesse giurare di averla vista più di cinquanta volte, se non sapesse di averla vista almeno settantacinque volte, e via dicendo. Alla fine si arrivò alla conclusione che fosse meglio che il testimone facesse attenzione a ciò che faceva. Dopo essere stato ridotto in questo modo allo stato di nervosa confusione desiderato, l’interrogatorio proseguì come segue.

“Prego, signor Winkle, ricorda di essere andato a trovare l’imputato Pickwick in questi appartamenti, situati nella casa del querelante in Goswell Street, una particolare mattina dello scorso luglio?”

“Sì, lo faccio.”

“In quell’occasione eri accompagnato da un amico di nome Tupman e da un altro di nome Snodgrass?”

‘Sì, lo ero.’

“Sono qui?”

“Sì, ci sono,” rispose il signor Winkle, guardando con grande attenzione nella direzione in cui si trovavano i suoi amici.

“Per favore, presta attenzione a me, signor Winkle, e non pensare ai tuoi amici,” disse il signor Skimpin, lanciando un altro sguardo significativo alla giuria. “Dovranno raccontare le loro storie senza alcuna consultazione preventiva con voi, a meno che questa non sia già avvenuta (un altro sguardo alla giuria). Ora, signore, dica ai gentiluomini della giuria cosa ha visto entrando nella stanza dell’imputato, quella particolare mattina. Venga, parli pure; dobbiamo saperlo, prima o poi.”

“L’imputato, il signor Pickwick, teneva la querelante tra le braccia, con le mani intrecciate attorno alla sua vita,” rispose il signor Winkle con una naturale esitazione, “e sembrava che la querelante fosse svenuta.”

“Hai sentito cosa ha detto l’imputato?”

“Ho sentito chiamare la signora Bardell una brava persona, e ho sentito che le diceva di calmarsi, considerando in quale situazione si trovavano, nel caso qualcuno dovesse arrivare, ”

‘Ora, signor Winkle, ho solo un’altra domanda da farle e le prego di tenere a mente l’avvertimento del suo Signore. Sarà disposto a giurare che Pickwick, l’imputato, non abbia detto nell’occasione in questione: “Mia cara signora Bardell, è una brava persona; si adatti a questa situazione, perché non potrà evitarla”, o parole del genere?’

‘I—I didn’t understand him so, certainly,’ said Mr. Winkle, astounded on this ingenious dove-tailing of the few words he had heard. ‘I was on the staircase, and couldn’t hear distinctly; the impression on my mind is—’

‘The gentlemen of the jury want none of the impressions on your mind, Mr. Winkle, which I fear would be of little service to honest, straightforward men,’ interposed Mr. Skimpin. ‘You were on the staircase, and didn’t distinctly hear; but you will not swear that Pickwick did not make use of the expressions I have quoted? Do I understand that?’

‘No, I will not,’ replied Mr. Winkle; and down sat Mr. Skimpin with a triumphant countenance.

Mr. Pickwick’s case had not gone off in so particularly happy a manner, up to this point, that it could very well afford to have any additional suspicion cast upon it. But as it could afford to be placed in a rather better light, if possible, Mr. Phunky rose for the purpose of getting something important out of Mr. Winkle in cross-examination. Whether he did get anything important out of him, will immediately appear.

‘I believe, Mr. Winkle,’ said Mr. Phunky, ‘that Mr. Pickwick is not a young man?’

‘Oh, no,’ replied Mr. Winkle; ‘old enough to be my father.’

‘You have told my learned friend that you have known Mr. Pickwick a long time. Had you ever any reason to suppose or believe that he was about to be married?’

‘Oh, no; certainly not;’ replied Mr. Winkle with so much eagerness, that Mr. Phunky ought to have got him out of the box with all possible dispatch. Lawyers hold that there are two kinds of particularly bad witnesses—a reluctant witness, and a too-willing witness; it was Mr. Winkle’s fate to figure in both characters.

‘I will even go further than this, Mr. Winkle,’ continued Mr. Phunky, in a most smooth and complacent manner. ‘Did you ever see anything in Mr. Pickwick’s manner and conduct towards the opposite sex, to induce you to believe that he ever contemplated matrimony of late years, in any case?’

‘Oh, no; certainly not,’ replied Mr. Winkle.

‘Has his behaviour, when females have been in the case, always been that of a man, who, having attained a pretty advanced period of life, content with his own occupations and amusements, treats them only as a father might his daughters?’

‘Not the least doubt of it,’ replied Mr. Winkle, in the fulness of his heart. ‘That is—yes—oh, yes—certainly.’

‘You have never known anything in his behaviour towards Mrs. Bardell, or any other female, in the least degree suspicious?’ said Mr. Phunky, preparing to sit down; for Serjeant Snubbin was winking at him.

‘N-n-no,’ replied Mr. Winkle, ‘except on one trifling occasion, which, I have no doubt, might be easily explained.’

Now, if the unfortunate Mr. Phunky had sat down when Serjeant Snubbin had winked at him, or if Serjeant Buzfuz had stopped this irregular cross-examination at the outset (which he knew better than to do; observing Mr. Winkle’s anxiety, and well knowing it would, in all probability, lead to something serviceable to him), this unfortunate admission would not have been elicited. The moment the words fell from Mr. Winkle’s lips, Mr. Phunky sat down, and Serjeant Snubbin rather hastily told him he might leave the box, which Mr. Winkle prepared to do with great readiness, when Serjeant Buzfuz stopped him.

‘Stay, Mr. Winkle, stay!’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, ‘will your Lordship have the goodness to ask him, what this one instance of suspicious behaviour towards females on the part of this gentleman, who is old enough to be his father, was?’

‘You hear what the learned counsel says, Sir,’ observed the judge, turning to the miserable and agonised Mr. Winkle. ‘Describe the occasion to which you refer.’

‘My Lord,’ said Mr. Winkle, trembling with anxiety, ‘I—I’d rather not.’

‘Perhaps so,’ said the little judge; ‘but you must.’

Amid the profound silence of the whole court, Mr. Winkle faltered out, that the trifling circumstance of suspicion was Mr. Pickwick’s being found in a lady’s sleeping-apartment at midnight; which had terminated, he believed, in the breaking off of the projected marriage of the lady in question, and had led, he knew, to the whole party being forcibly carried before George Nupkins, Esq., magistrate and justice of the peace, for the borough of Ipswich!

‘You may leave the box, Sir,’ said Serjeant Snubbin. Mr. Winkle did leave the box, and rushed with delirious haste to the George and Vulture, where he was discovered some hours after, by the waiter, groaning in a hollow and dismal manner, with his head buried beneath the sofa cushions.

Tracy Tupman, and Augustus Snodgrass, were severally called into the box; both corroborated the testimony of their unhappy friend; and each was driven to the verge of desperation by excessive badgering.

Susannah Sanders was then called, and examined by Serjeant Buzfuz, and cross-examined by Serjeant Snubbin. Had always said and believed that Pickwick would marry Mrs. Bardell; knew that Mrs. Bardell’s being engaged to Pickwick was the current topic of conversation in the neighbourhood, after the fainting in July; had been told it herself by Mrs. Mudberry which kept a mangle, and Mrs. Bunkin which clear-starched, but did not see either Mrs. Mudberry or Mrs. Bunkin in court. Had heard Pickwick ask the little boy how he should like to have another father. Did not know that Mrs. Bardell was at that time keeping company with the baker, but did know that the baker was then a single man and is now married. Couldn’t swear that Mrs. Bardell was not very fond of the baker, but should think that the baker was not very fond of Mrs. Bardell, or he wouldn’t have married somebody else. Thought Mrs. Bardell fainted away on the morning in July, because Pickwick asked her to name the day: knew that she (witness) fainted away stone dead when Mr. Sanders asked her to name the day, and believed that everybody as called herself a lady would do the same, under similar circumstances. Heard Pickwick ask the boy the question about the marbles, but upon her oath did not know the difference between an ‘alley tor’ and a ‘commoney.’

“Non l’ho capito. Certo che no,” disse il signor Winkle, sbalordito da questa ingegnosa interpretazione delle poche parole che aveva sentito. “Ero sulle scale e non riuscivo a sentire chiaramente; l’impressione che ho è, ”

“Gli signori della giuria non desiderano alcuna impressione che possiate aver avuto in mente, signor Winkle, e temo che tali impressioni non siano di grande aiuto per persone oneste e schiette,” intervenne il signor Skimpin. “Eravate sulle scale e non avete sentito chiaramente; ma non potrete giurare che Pickwick non abbia utilizzato le espressioni che ho citato, vero? Ho capito bene?”

“No, non lo farò,” rispose il signor Winkle; e così il signor Skimpin si sedette, con un’espressione trionfante.

Fino a questo punto, la situazione di Mr. Pickwick non si era sviluppata in modo particolarmente positivo, quindi poteva benissimo sopportare ulteriori sospetti nei suoi confronti. Tuttavia, poiché avrebbe potuto anche essere presentato sotto una luce più favorevole, se possibile, Mr. Phunky fece di tutto per ottenere informazioni importanti da Mr. Winkle durante l’interrogatorio. Se sia riuscito a ottenerle o meno, lo scopriremo immediatamente.

“Credo, signor Winkle,” disse il signor Phunky, “che il signor Pickwick non sia un giovane, vero?”

“Oh, no,” rispose il signor Winkle; “abbastanza vecchio da poter essere mio padre.”

“Avete detto al mio stimato amico che conoscete il signor Pickwick da molto tempo. Avete mai avuto motivo di pensare o credere che stesse per sposarsi?”

“Oh, no; assolutamente no,” rispose il signor Winkle con tale fretta che il signor Phunky avrebbe dovuto farlo uscire dalla scatola il prima possibile. Gli avvocati ritengono che esistano due tipi di testimoni particolarmente inaffidabili: un testimone riluttante e uno troppo desideroso di collaborare; per il signor Winkle fu una sfortuna essere considerato appartenente a entrambi questi tipi.

“Andrò ancora oltre, signor Winkle,” continuò il signor Phunky con un tono molto fluido e compiaciuto. “Ha mai notato, nel comportamento del signor Pickwick verso l’altro sesso, qualcosa che potesse far pensare che negli ultimi anni abbia mai preso in considerazione l’idea di sposarsi?”

“Oh, no; assolutamente no,” rispose il signor Winkle.

“Quando ci sono state donne coinvolte nella situazione, il suo comportamento è sempre stato quello di un uomo che, avendo raggiunto una fase piuttosto avanzata della vita, soddisfatto delle proprie occupazioni e divertimenti, le tratta soltanto come un padre tratterebbe le sue figlie, ”

“Nessun minimo >dubbio al riguardo,” rispose il signor Winkle, con tutto il cuore. “Cioè, sì, oh, sì, certamente.”

“Non avete mai notato nulla di sospetto nel suo comportamento verso la signora Bardell, o verso qualsiasi altra donna?” chiese il signor Phunky, preparandosi a sedersi; perché il sergente Snubbin gli stava facendo l’occhiolino.

“N-no,” rispose il signor Winkle, “tranne che in un’occasione insignificante, la quale, ne sono certo, potrebbe essere facilmente spiegata.”

Ora, se il sfortunato signor Phunky si fosse seduto non appena sergente Snubbin gli aveva fatto l’occhiolino, o se sergente Buzfuz avesse fermato questa irregolare interrogazione fin dall’inizio (cosa che sapeva bene di dover evitare; notando l’ansia del signor Winkle e sapendo perfettamente che ciò molto probabilmente gli sarebbe stato utile), questa sfortunata ammissione non sarebbe mai stata ottenuta. Non appena quelle parole uscirono dalle labbra del signor Winkle, il signor Phunky si sedette immediatamente, e sergente Snubbin gli disse piuttosto in fretta di poter lasciare la stanza; il signor Winkle era pronto a farlo subito, quando sergente Buzfuz lo fermò.

“Resti, signor Winkle, resti!” disse il sergente Buzfuz. “Potrebbe Vostra Signoria avere la gentilezza di chiedergli spiegazioni su questo singolo episodio di comportamento sospetto nei confronti delle donne da parte di questo signore, che è abbastanza vecchio da poter essere suo padre?”

“Sentite ciò che dice l’avvocato esperto, signore,” osservò il giudice, rivolgendosi al povero e angosciato signor Winkle. “Descrivete l’occasione di cui parlate.”

“Mio signore,” disse il signor Winkle, tremando per l’ansia, “io, preferirei di no.”

“Forse sì,” disse il piccolo giudice; “ma devi farlo.”

Nel profondo silenzio di tutto l’palazzo, il signor Winkle balbettò che la banale circostanza della sospetta derivava dal fatto che il signor Pickwick fosse stato trovato nell’appartamento da letto di una signora a mezzanotte; questo aveva portato, secondo lui, al fallimento del progettato matrimonio della suddetta signora e aveva anche causato il fatto che l’intero gruppo venisse trascinato con la forza davanti a George Nupkins, magistrato e giudice di pace del distretto di Ipswich.

“Può lasciare la scatola, signore,” disse il sergente Snubbin. Il signor Winkle lasciò quindi la scatola e corse con frenesia al ristorante George and Vulture, dove fu ritrovato qualche ora dopo dal cameriere: gemeva in modo disperato, con la testa sepolta sotto i cuscini del divano.

Tracy Tupman e Augustus Snodgrass furono chiamati uno dopo l’altro davanti al tribunale; entrambi confermarono la testimonianza della loro sfortunata amica; e ciascuno di loro fu spinto sull’orlo del disperazione a causa delle continue pressioni subite.

Fu quindi chiamata Susannah Sanders, che fu esaminata dal sergente Buzfuz e sottoposta a un controesame dal sergente Snubbin. Aveva sempre detto e creduto che Pickwick avrebbe sposato la signora Bardell; sapeva che l’fidanzamento della signora Bardell con Pickwick era l’argomento di conversazione del quartiere dopo l’episodio dell’incoscienza avvenuto a luglio; ne aveva parlato personalmente sia con la signora Mudberry che con la signora Bunkin, ma non le aveva viste in tribunale. Aveva sentito Pickwick chiedere al bambino come gli piacesse avere un altro padre. Non sapeva che in quel momento la signora Bardell fosse in compagnia del panettiere, ma sapeva che il panettiere all’epoca era single e ora era sposato. Non poteva giurare che la signora Bardell non provasse simpatia per il panettiere, ma riteneva che anche lui non provasse molta affetto per lei, altrimenti non avrebbe sposato un’altra donna. Pensava che la signora Bardell fosse svenuta quella mattina di luglio perché Pickwick le aveva chiesto di indicare la data; sapeva che lei stessa era svenuta completamente quando il signor Sanders le aveva fatto la stessa domanda, e credeva che qualsiasi donna si considerasse “lady” avrebbe reagito allo stesso modo in circostanze simili. Aveva sentito Pickwick porre al bambino quella domanda riguardo alle biglie, ma giurava su quanto le era caro non sapere la differenza tra un “alley tor” e un “commoney”.

By the court.—During the period of her keeping company with Mr. Sanders, had received love letters, like other ladies. In the course of their correspondence Mr. Sanders had often called her a ‘duck,’ but never ‘chops,’ nor yet ‘tomato sauce.’ He was particularly fond of ducks. Perhaps if he had been as fond of chops and tomato sauce, he might have called her that, as a term of affection.

Serjeant Buzfuz now rose with more importance than he had yet exhibited, if that were possible, and vociferated; ‘Call Samuel Weller.’

It was quite unnecessary to call Samuel Weller; for Samuel Weller stepped briskly into the box the instant his name was pronounced; and placing his hat on the floor, and his arms on the rail, took a bird’s- eye view of the Bar, and a comprehensive survey of the Bench, with a remarkably cheerful and lively aspect.

‘What’s your name, sir?’ inquired the judge.

‘Sam Weller, my Lord,’ replied that gentleman.

‘Do you spell it with a “V” or a “W”?’ inquired the judge.

‘That depends upon the taste and fancy of the speller, my Lord,’ replied Sam; ‘I never had occasion to spell it more than once or twice in my life, but I spells it with a “V.”’

Here a voice in the gallery exclaimed aloud, ‘Quite right too, Samivel, quite right. Put it down a “we,” my Lord, put it down a “we.”’

Who is that, who dares address the court?’ said the little judge, looking up. ‘Usher.’

‘Yes, my Lord.’

‘Bring that person here instantly.’

‘Yes, my Lord.’

But as the usher didn’t find the person, he didn’t bring him; and, after a great commotion, all the people who had got up to look for the culprit, sat down again. The little judge turned to the witness as soon as his indignation would allow him to speak, and said—

‘Do you know who that was, sir?’

‘I rayther suspect it was my father, my lord,’ replied Sam.

‘Do you see him here now?’ said the judge.

‘No, I don’t, my Lord,’ replied Sam, staring right up into the lantern at the roof of the court.

‘If you could have pointed him out, I would have committed him instantly,’ said the judge. Sam bowed his acknowledgments and turned, with unimpaired cheerfulness of countenance, towards Serjeant Buzfuz.

‘Now, Mr. Weller,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz.

‘Now, sir,’ replied Sam.

‘I believe you are in the service of Mr. Pickwick, the defendant in this case? Speak up, if you please, Mr. Weller.’

‘I mean to speak up, Sir,’ replied Sam; ‘I am in the service o’ that ‘ere gen’l’man, and a wery good service it is.’

‘Little to do, and plenty to get, I suppose?’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, with jocularity.

‘Oh, quite enough to get, Sir, as the soldier said ven they ordered him three hundred and fifty lashes,’ replied Sam.

‘You must not tell us what the soldier, or any other man, said, Sir,’ interposed the judge; ‘it’s not evidence.’

‘Wery good, my Lord,’ replied Sam.

‘Do you recollect anything particular happening on the morning when you were first engaged by the defendant; eh, Mr. Weller?’ said Serjeant Buzfuz.

‘Yes, I do, sir,’ replied Sam.

‘Have the goodness to tell the jury what it was.’

‘I had a reg’lar new fit out o’ clothes that mornin’, gen’l’men of the jury,’ said Sam, ‘and that was a wery partickler and uncommon circumstance vith me in those days.’

Hereupon there was a general laugh; and the little judge, looking with an angry countenance over his desk, said, ‘You had better be careful, Sir.’

‘So Mr. Pickwick said at the time, my Lord,’ replied Sam; ‘and I was wery careful o’ that ‘ere suit o’ clothes; wery careful indeed, my Lord.’

The judge looked sternly at Sam for full two minutes, but Sam’s features were so perfectly calm and serene that the judge said nothing, and motioned Serjeant Buzfuz to proceed.

‘Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Weller,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, folding his arms emphatically, and turning half-round to the jury, as if in mute assurance that he would bother the witness yet—‘do you mean to tell me, Mr. Weller, that you saw nothing of this fainting on the part of the plaintiff in the arms of the defendant, which you have heard described by the witnesses?’

Certainly not,’ replied Sam; ‘I was in the passage till they called me up, and then the old lady was not there.’

‘Now, attend, Mr. Weller,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, dipping a large pen into the inkstand before him, for the purpose of frightening Sam with a show of taking down his answer. ‘You were in the passage, and yet saw nothing of what was going forward. Have you a pair of eyes, Mr. Weller?’

‘Yes, I have a pair of eyes,’ replied Sam, ‘and that’s just it. If they wos a pair o’ patent double million magnifyin’ gas microscopes of hextra power, p’raps I might be able to see through a flight o’ stairs and a deal door; but bein’ only eyes, you see, my wision ‘s limited.’

At this answer, which was delivered without the slightest appearance of irritation, and with the most complete simplicity and equanimity of manner, the spectators tittered, the little judge smiled, and Serjeant Buzfuz looked particularly foolish. After a short consultation with Dodson & Fogg, the learned Serjeant again turned towards Sam, and said, with a painful effort to conceal his vexation, ‘Now, Mr. Weller, I’ll ask you a question on another point, if you please.’

‘If you please, Sir,’ rejoined Sam, with the utmost good-humour.

‘Do you remember going up to Mrs. Bardell’s house, one night in November last?’

Oh, yes, wery well.’

‘Oh, you do remember that, Mr. Weller,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, recovering his spirits; ‘I thought we should get at something at last.’

‘I rayther thought that, too, sir,’ replied Sam; and at this the spectators tittered again.

‘Well; I suppose you went up to have a little talk about this trial—eh, Mr. Weller?’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, looking knowingly at the jury.

‘I went up to pay the rent; but we did get a-talkin’ about the trial,’ replied Sam.

‘Oh, you did get a-talking about the trial,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, brightening up with the anticipation of some important discovery. ‘Now, what passed about the trial; will you have the goodness to tell us, Mr. Weller’?’

Presso la corte.–Durante il periodo in cui frequentava il signor Sanders, aveva ricevuto lettere d’amore, come tutte le altre donne. Nel corso della loro corrispondenza, il signor Sanders la chiamava spesso “anatra”, ma mai “costolette” né “salsa di pomodoro”. Gli piacevano particolarmente le anatre. Forse, se gli fossero piaciute di più le costolette e la salsa di pomodoro, l’avrebbe chiamata così anche lui, come segno d’affetto.

Il sergente Buzfuz ora ostentava un’importanza molto maggiore di quanta ne avesse mai dimostrata prima, se ciò fosse stato possibile, e gridava: “Chiamate Samuel Weller!”

Non era affatto necessario chiamare Samuel Weller; infatti, non appena il suo nome fu pronunciato, lui entrò rapidamente nella sala e, posando il cappello a terra e appoggiando le braccia sul parapetto, osservò l’intera aula con uno sguardo attento, esaminando anche i membri del tribunale; il suo aspetto era notevolmente allegro e vivace.

“Come si chiama, signore?”, chiese il giudice.

“‘Sam Weller, mio Signore’, rispose quel gentiluomo.”

“Si scrive con una ‘V’ o con una ‘W’?”, chiese il giudice.

“Ciò dipende dal gusto e dall’immaginazione di chi scrive, mio Signore,” rispose Sam; “Nella mia vita non ho mai avuto bisogno di scriverlo più di una o due volte, ma lo scrivo sempre con una ‘V’.”

Qui, una voce nella galleria esclamò ad alta voce: “Esattamente, Samivel, esatto. Scrivete ‘noi’, mio signore, scrivete ‘noi’.”

“Chi è quell’uomo che osa rivolgersi alla >corte?”, chiese il piccolo giudice alzando lo sguardo. “Un usciere.”

“Sì, mio Signore.”

“Portate immediatamente quella persona qui.”

“Sì, mio Signore.”

Ma poiché l’usciere non trovò quella persona, non la portò con sé; e, dopo un grande trambusto, tutte le persone che si erano alzate per cercare il colpevole, si sedettero di nuovo. Il piccolo giudice si rivolse al testimone non appena la sua indignazione gli permise di parlare, e disse.

“Sa chi fosse quella persona, signore?”

“Sospetto che sia stato mio padre, mio signore,” rispose Sam.

“Lo vedete qui adesso?” chiese il giudice.

“No, mio Signore, non lo faccio,” rispose Sam, guardando dritto nella lanterna posizionata sul tetto della corte.

“Se solo aveste potuto indicarmelo, l’avrei arrestato all’istante,” disse il giudice. Sam ringraziò con un inchino e, con un’espressione di allegria inalterata sul volto, si rivolse al sergente Buzfuz.

“Ora, signor Weller,” disse il sergente Buzfuz.

“Ora, signore,” rispose Sam.

‘Credo che lei lavori al servizio del signor Pickwick, l’imputato in questo caso. Si pronunci, la prego, signor Weller.’

“Intendo dire che devo parlare apertamente, signore,” rispose Sam; “sono al servizio di quel nobile uomo, e un servizio davvero onorevole.”

“Poco da fare, ma molto da sbrigare, immagino, ”, disse il sergente Buzfuz con tono scherzoso.

“Ah, sicuramente abbastanza per finire nei guai, signore. Come disse quel soldato quando gli ordinarono di ricevere trecentocinquanta frustate,” rispose Sam.

“Non deve dirci cosa ha detto il soldato, o qualsiasi altro uomo, signore,” intervenne il giudice; “non è una prova.”

“Molto bene, mio Signore,” rispose Sam.

“Ricorda qualcosa di particolare che sia accaduto quella mattina in cui il difensore vi ha assunto per la prima volta, eh, signor Weller?” chiese il sergente Buzfuz.

“Sì, signore,” rispose Sam.

“Per favore, dica alla giuria di cosa si tratta.”

“Quella mattina mi sono fatto confezionare un intero nuovo abito,” disse Sam, “e per me, in quei tempi, quella era una circostanza davvero particolare e insolita.”

A questo punto scoppiò una risata generale; e il piccolo giudice, guardando con un’espressione arrabbiata sopra la sua scrivania, disse: “Faresti meglio a stare attento, signore.”

“So che il signor Pickwick lo disse a quell’ora, mio signore,” rispose Sam; “e ho fatto molta attenzione a scegliere i vestiti adatti; davvero molto attenzione, mio signore.”

Il giudice fissò Sam con sguardo severo per ben due minuti, ma i tratti del suo volto erano così completamente calmi e sereni che il giudice non disse nulla e fece segno al sergente Buzfuz di procedere.

“Volete dirmi, signor Weller,” disse il sergente Buzfuz, incrociando le braccia con enfasi e girandosi parzialmente verso la giuria, come se volesse assicurarli silenziosamente che avrebbe ancora interrogato il testimone, “Volete dirmi che non avete visto nulla di questo svenimento da parte del querelante tra le braccia del convenuto, di cui avete sentito parlare dai testimoni?”

“Certo che no,” rispose Sam; “ero nel corridoio finché non mi chiamarono su, e poi la vecchia signora non c’era più.”

“Ora, ascolti bene, signor Weller,” disse il sergente Buzfuz, immergendo una grande penna nell’inchiostro davanti a sé, con l’intento di spaventare Sam facendo finta di trascrivere la sua risposta. “Tu eri nel corridoio eppure non hai visto nulla di ciò che stava accadendo. Hai forse gli occhi, signor Weller?”

“Sì, ho un paio di occhi,” rispose Sam, “e basta. Se solo fossero un paio di potenti microscopi a gas mille volte ingranditori, forse riuscirei a vedere attraverso una rampa di scale e una porta chiusa; ma essendo soltanto occhi, vedi, la mia vista è limitata.”

Di fronte a questa risposta, data senza il minimo segno di irritazione, e con la massima semplicità ed equanimità nel modo di esprimersi, gli spettatori ridacchiarono, il piccolo giudice sorrise, mentre il sergente Buzfuz sembrò particolarmente sciocco. Dopo una breve consultazione con Dodson & Fogg, il rispettabile sergente si rivolse di nuovo a Sam e, con grande sforzo per nascondere la sua irritazione, disse: “Ora, signor Weller, le farò una domanda su un altro argomento, se le va bene.”

“Se vi compiace, signore,” rispose Sam con il massimo buonumore.

“Ricordi quando siamo andati a casa della signora Bardell, una notte di novembre dell’anno scorso?”

Oh, sì, davvero molto bene.

“Ah, quindi vi ricordate davvero, signor Weller,” disse il sergente Buzfuz, riprendendosi; “pensavo che finalmente avremmo ottenuto qualche risultato.”

“Anche i Rayther la pensavano così, signore,” rispose Sam; e a queste parole gli spettatori iniziarono di nuovo a ridacchiare.

“Beh. Immagino che siate andati a parlare un po’ di questo processo, eh, signor Weller?” disse il sergente Buzfuz, guardando con aria complice la giuria.

“Sono andato a pagare l’affitto; ma abbiamo anche parlato del processo,” rispose Sam.

“Ah, quindi avete parlato del processo,” disse il sergente Buzfuz, illuminandosi all’idea di poter scoprire qualcosa d’importante. “Ora, raccontateci cosa è successo durante quel processo, per favore, signor Weller.”

‘Vith all the pleasure in life, sir,’ replied Sam. ‘Arter a few unimportant obserwations from the two wirtuous females as has been examined here to-day, the ladies gets into a very great state o’ admiration at the honourable conduct of Mr. Dodson and Fogg—them two gen’l’men as is settin’ near you now.’ This, of course, drew general attention to Dodson & Fogg, who looked as virtuous as possible.

‘The attorneys for the plaintiff,’ said Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz. ‘Well! They spoke in high praise of the honourable conduct of Messrs. Dodson and Fogg, the attorneys for the plaintiff, did they?’

‘Yes,’ said Sam, ‘they said what a wery gen’rous thing it was o’ them to have taken up the case on spec, and to charge nothing at all for costs, unless they got ‘em out of Mr. Pickwick.’

At this very unexpected reply, the spectators tittered again, and Dodson & Fogg, turning very red, leaned over to Serjeant Buzfuz, and in a hurried manner whispered something in his ear.

‘You are quite right,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz aloud, with affected composure. ‘It’s perfectly useless, my Lord, attempting to get at any evidence through the impenetrable stupidity of this witness. I will not trouble the court by asking him any more questions. Stand down, sir.’

‘Would any other gen’l’man like to ask me anythin’?’ inquired Sam, taking up his hat, and looking round most deliberately.

‘Not I, Mr. Weller, thank you,’ said Serjeant Snubbin, laughing.

‘You may go down, sir,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, waving his hand impatiently. Sam went down accordingly, after doing Messrs. Dodson & Fogg’s case as much harm as he conveniently could, and saying just as little respecting Mr. Pickwick as might be, which was precisely the object he had had in view all along.

‘I have no objection to admit, my Lord,’ said Serjeant Snubbin, ‘if it will save the examination of another witness, that Mr. Pickwick has retired from business, and is a gentleman of considerable independent property.’

‘Very well,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, putting in the two letters to be read, ‘then that’s my case, my Lord.’

Serjeant Snubbin then addressed the jury on behalf of the defendant; and a very long and a very emphatic address he delivered, in which he bestowed the highest possible eulogiums on the conduct and character of Mr. Pickwick; but inasmuch as our readers are far better able to form a correct estimate of that gentleman’s merits and deserts, than Serjeant Snubbin could possibly be, we do not feel called upon to enter at any length into the learned gentleman’s observations. He attempted to show that the letters which had been exhibited, merely related to Mr. Pickwick’s dinner, or to the preparations for receiving him in his apartments on his return from some country excursion. It is sufficient to add in general terms, that he did the best he could for Mr. Pickwick; and the best, as everybody knows, on the infallible authority of the old adage, could do no more.

Mr. Justice Stareleigh summed up, in the old-established and most approved form. He read as much of his notes to the jury as he could decipher on so short a notice, and made running-comments on the evidence as he went along. If Mrs. Bardell were right, it was perfectly clear that Mr. Pickwick was wrong, and if they thought the evidence of Mrs. Cluppins worthy of credence they would believe it, and, if they didn’t, why, they wouldn’t. If they were satisfied that a breach of promise of marriage had been committed they would find for the plaintiff with such damages as they thought proper; and if, on the other hand, it appeared to them that no promise of marriage had ever been given, they would find for the defendant with no damages at all. The jury then retired to their private room to talk the matter over, and the judge retired to _his _private room, to refresh himself with a mutton chop and a glass of sherry.

An anxious quarter of a hour elapsed; the jury came back; the judge was fetched in. Mr. Pickwick put on his spectacles, and gazed at the foreman with an agitated countenance and a quickly-beating heart.

‘Gentlemen,’ said the individual in black, ‘are you all agreed upon your verdict?’

‘We are,’ replied the foreman.

‘Do you find for the plaintiff, gentlemen, or for the defendant?’

For the plaintiff.’

‘With what damages, gentlemen?’

‘Seven hundred and fifty pounds.’

Mr. Pickwick took off his spectacles, carefully wiped the glasses, folded them into their case, and put them in his pocket; then, having drawn on his gloves with great nicety, and stared at the foreman all the while, he mechanically followed Mr. Perker and the blue bag out of court.

They stopped in a side room while Perker paid the court fees; and here, Mr. Pickwick was joined by his friends. Here, too, he encountered Messrs. Dodson & Fogg, rubbing their hands with every token of outward satisfaction.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Well, Sir,’ said Dodson, for self and partner.

‘You imagine you’ll get your costs, don’t you, gentlemen?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

Fogg said they thought it rather probable. Dodson smiled, and said they’d try.

‘You may try, and try, and try again, Messrs. Dodson and Fogg,’ said Mr. Pickwick vehemently, ‘but not one farthing of costs or damages do you ever get from me, if I spend the rest of my existence in a debtor’s prison.’

‘Ha! ha!’ laughed Dodson. ‘You’ll think better of that, before next term, Mr. Pickwick.’

‘He, he, he! We’ll soon see about that, Mr. Pickwick,’ grinned Fogg.

Speechless with indignation, Mr. Pickwick allowed himself to be led by his solicitor and friends to the door, and there assisted into a hackney-coach, which had been fetched for the purpose, by the ever- watchful Sam Weller.

Sam had put up the steps, and was preparing to jump upon the box, when he felt himself gently touched on the shoulder; and, looking round, his father stood before him. The old gentleman’s countenance wore a mournful expression, as he shook his head gravely, and said, in warning accents—

“Con tutto il piacere che c’è nella vita, signore,” rispose Sam. “Dopo alcune osservazioni poco importanti da parte delle due donne virtuose esaminate oggi, le signore sono rimaste molto colpite dal comportamento onorevole di Mr. Dodson e Fogg, quei due gentiluomini che ora si trovano proprio accanto a voi.” Questo, naturalmente, attirò l’attenzione generale su Dodson e Fogg, i quali cercarono di apparire il più virtuosi possibile.

“Gli avvocati del querelante,” disse il signor Serjeant Buzfuz. “Beh! Hanno parlato con grandi lodi del nobile comportamento dei signori Dodson e Fogg, gli avvocati del querelante, vero?”

“Sì,” disse Sam, “hanno detto che è stato davvero molto generoso da parte loro assumersi il caso a titolo gratuito e non chiedere alcun compenso per le spese, a meno che non riuscissero a farli uscire dal signor Pickwick.”

Di fronte a questa risposta del tutto inaspettata, il pubblico scoppiò di nuovo in risate; Dodson & Fogg, arrossendo molto, si chinò verso Sergente Buzfuz e gli sussurrò qualcosa all’orecchio in fretta e furia.

“Avete perfettamente ragione,” disse il sergente Buzfuz ad alta voce, con un’aria di compostezza affettata. “È assolutamente inutile, mio signore, cercare di ottenere qualche prova attraverso la totale stupidità di questo testimone. Non disturberò più la >corte ponendogli altre domande. Potete andare, signore.”

“C’è qualche altro gentiluomo che desidera farmi una domanda?”, chiese Sam, prendendo il suo cappello e guardandosi intorno con estrema attenzione.

“Non io, signor Weller, grazie,” disse sergente Snubbin ridendo.

“Può scendere ora, signore,” disse il sergente Buzfuz, agitando impazientemente la mano. Sam scese quindi, dopo aver causato il maggior danno possibile ai signori Dodson e Fogg, e aver detto il meno possibile riguardo al signor Pickwick, proprio come aveva intenzione di fare fin dall’inizio.

“Non ho obiezioni ad ammetterlo, mio Signore,” disse il Sergente Snubbin, “se ciò potrà evitare di interrogare un altro testimone. Il signor Pickwick ha cessato la sua attività commerciale ed è ora un gentiluomo con considerevoli risorse finanziarie.”

“Molto bene,” disse il Sergente Buzfuz, inserendo le due lettere da leggere, “allora questa è la mia risposta, mio Signore.”

Il sergente Snubbin si rivolse quindi alla giuria a nome dell’imputato; tenne un discorso molto lungo e molto enfatico, nel quale elogiò al massimo il comportamento e il carattere del signor Pickwick; tuttavia, poiché i nostri lettori sono in grado di valutare con maggiore accuratezza i meriti e i demeriti di quel gentiluomo rispetto a quanto potesse fare il sergente Snubbin, non riteniamo necessario entrare nei dettagli delle sue osservazioni. Egli cercò di dimostrare che le lettere presentate riguardavano soltanto la cena del signor Pickwick o i preparativi per accoglierlo nel suo appartamento al suo ritorno da un viaggio in campagna. Basta aggiungere, in termini generali, che fece del suo meglio per il signor Pickwick; e il meglio, come tutti sanno, secondo l’infallibile autorità dell’antico detto, non può mai essere di più.

Il giudice Stareleigh riassunse il caso nella forma più consolidata e accettata. Lesse alla giuria tutto ciò che riuscì a decifrare dalle sue note, avendo ricevuto un preavviso così breve, e fece commenti continui riguardo alle prove presentate durante l’udienza. Se la signora Bardell aveva ragione, era assolutamente chiaro che il signor Pickwick si sbagliava; se ritenevano le testimonianze della signora Cluppins credibili, le avrebbero accettate, altrimenti no. Se erano convinti che fosse stata violata un’impegno matrimoniale, avrebbero condannato il querelante con i danni ritenuti appropriati; se, d’altra parte, sembrava che nessun impegno matrimoniale fosse mai stato preso, avrebbero assolto il convenuto senza infliggere alcun danno. La giuria si ritirò quindi nella sua stanza privata per discutere la questione, mentre il giudice andò nella sua stanza privata per rinfrescarsi con un boccone di carne di montone e un bicchiere di sherry.

Trascorse un quarto d’ora pieno di ansia; la giuria tornò; il giudice fu chiamato. Il signor Pickwick si mise gli occhiali e fissò il presidente della giuria con un’espressione agitata e il cuore che batteva velocemente.

“Signori,” disse l’uomo in nero, “siete tutti d’accordo sul vostro verdetto?”

“Sì,” rispose il caposquadra.

“Ritenete che il caso sia a favore del querelante, signori, o del convenuto?”

“Per il querelante.”

“Con quali danni, signori?”

“Settecentocinquanta sterline.”

Il signor Pickwick si tolse gli occhiali, li pulì con cura, li ripiegò nella loro custodia e se li mise in tasca; poi, dopo essersi infilato i guanti con grande attenzione e aver fissato il caposquadra per tutto il tempo, seguì meccanicamente il signor Perker e la borsa blu fuori dall’tribunale.

Si fermarono in una stanza laterale mentre Perker pagava le tasse di tribunale; ed è qui che il signor Pickwick fu raggiunto dai suoi amici. È anche qui che incontrò i signori Dodson & Fogg, che si strofinavano le mani con ogni segno di apparente soddisfazione.

“Beh, signori,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Beh, signore,” disse Dodson, per sé e per il suo socio.

“Voi pensate di riuscire a recuperare i vostri costi, vero, signori?” disse il signor Pickwick.

Fogg disse che ritenevano la cosa abbastanza probabile. Dodson sorrise e disse che avrebbero provato.

“Potete provare ancora e ancora, signori Dodson e Fogg,” disse con forza il signor Pickwick, “ma non otterrete mai un solo penny delle spese o dei danni che avete causato; anche se dovessi trascorrere il resto della mia vita in una prigione per debitori.”

“Ahahah!” rise Dodson. “Ci ripenserete, prima del prossimo semestre, signor Pickwick.”

“Ah ah ah! Presto vedremo cosa succederà, signor Pickwick”, ghignò Fogg.

Senza parole per l’indignazione, il signor Pickwick si lasciò accompagnare dal suo avvocato e dagli amici fino alla porta; lì fu aiutato a salire in una vettura di piazza, che era stata preparata apposta per lui dal sempre attento Sam Weller.

Sam aveva già montato i gradini e stava per saltare sulla scatola quando sentì qualcuno toccargli delicatamente la spalla; guardandosi intorno, vide suo padre davanti a sé. Il volto del vecchio signore aveva un’espressione triste; scosse gravemente la testa e disse, con tono di avvertimento.

‘I know’d what ‘ud come o’ this here mode o’ doin’ bisness. Oh, Sammy, Sammy, vy worn’t there a alleybi!’

CHAPTER XXXV. IN WHICH MR. PICKWICK THINKS HE HAD BETTER GO TO BATH; AND GOES ACCORDINGLY

But surely, my dear sir,’ said little Perker, as he stood in Mr. Pickwick’s apartment on the morning after the trial, ‘surely you don’t really mean—really and seriously now, and irritation apart—that you won’t pay these costs and damages?’

‘Not one halfpenny,’ said Mr. Pickwick firmly; ‘not one halfpenny.’

‘Hooroar for the principle, as the money-lender said ven he vouldn’t renew the bill,’ observed Mr. Weller, who was clearing away the breakfast-things.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘have the goodness to step downstairs.’

‘Cert’nly, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller; and acting on Mr. Pickwick’s gentle hint, Sam retired.

‘No, Perker,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with great seriousness of manner, ‘my friends here have endeavoured to dissuade me from this determination, but without avail. I shall employ myself as usual, until the opposite party have the power of issuing a legal process of execution against me; and if they are vile enough to avail themselves of it, and to arrest my person, I shall yield myself up with perfect cheerfulness and content of heart. When can they do this?’

‘They can issue execution, my dear Sir, for the amount of the damages and taxed costs, next term,’ replied Perker, ‘just two months hence, my dear sir.’

‘Very good,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Until that time, my dear fellow, let me hear no more of the matter. And now,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, looking round on his friends with a good-humoured smile, and a sparkle in the eye which no spectacles could dim or conceal, ‘the only question is, Where shall we go next?’

Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass were too much affected by their friend’s heroism to offer any reply. Mr. Winkle had not yet sufficiently recovered the recollection of his evidence at the trial, to make any observation on any subject, so Mr. Pickwick paused in vain.

‘Well,’ said that gentleman, ‘if you leave me to suggest our destination, I say Bath. I think none of us have ever been there.’

Nobody had; and as the proposition was warmly seconded by Perker, who considered it extremely probable that if Mr. Pickwick saw a little change and gaiety he would be inclined to think better of his determination, and worse of a debtor’s prison, it was carried unanimously; and Sam was at once despatched to the White Horse Cellar, to take five places by the half-past seven o’clock coach, next morning.

There were just two places to be had inside, and just three to be had out; so Sam Weller booked for them all, and having exchanged a few compliments with the booking-office clerk on the subject of a pewter half-crown which was tendered him as a portion of his ‘change,’ walked back to the George and Vulture, where he was pretty busily employed until bed-time in reducing clothes and linen into the smallest possible compass, and exerting his mechanical genius in constructing a variety of ingenious devices for keeping the lids on boxes which had neither locks nor hinges.

The next was a very unpropitious morning for a journey—muggy, damp, and drizzly. The horses in the stages that were going out, and had come through the city, were smoking so, that the outside passengers were invisible. The newspaper-sellers looked moist, and smelled mouldy; the wet ran off the hats of the orange-vendors as they thrust their heads into the coach windows, and diluted the insides in a refreshing manner. The Jews with the fifty-bladed penknives shut them up in despair; the men with the pocket-books made pocket-books of them. Watch-guards and toasting-forks were alike at a discount, and pencil-cases and sponges were a drug in the market.

Leaving Sam Weller to rescue the luggage from the seven or eight porters who flung themselves savagely upon it, the moment the coach stopped, and finding that they were about twenty minutes too early, Mr. Pickwick and his friends went for shelter into the travellers’ room—the last resource of human dejection.

The travellers’ room at the White Horse Cellar is of course uncomfortable; it would be no travellers’ room if it were not. It is the right-hand parlour, into which an aspiring kitchen fireplace appears to have walked, accompanied by a rebellious poker, tongs, and shovel. It is divided into boxes, for the solitary confinement of travellers, and is furnished with a clock, a looking-glass, and a live waiter, which latter article is kept in a small kennel for washing glasses, in a corner of the apartment.

One of these boxes was occupied, on this particular occasion, by a stern-eyed man of about five-and-forty, who had a bald and glossy forehead, with a good deal of black hair at the sides and back of his head, and large black whiskers. He was buttoned up to the chin in a brown coat; and had a large sealskin travelling-cap, and a greatcoat and cloak, lying on the seat beside him. He looked up from his breakfast as Mr. Pickwick entered, with a fierce and peremptory air, which was very dignified; and, having scrutinised that gentleman and his companions to his entire satisfaction, hummed a tune, in a manner which seemed to say that he rather suspected somebody wanted to take advantage of him, but it wouldn’t do.

‘Waiter,’ said the gentleman with the whiskers.

‘Sir?’ replied a man with a dirty complexion, and a towel of the same, emerging from the kennel before mentioned.

‘Some more toast.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Buttered toast, mind,’ said the gentleman fiercely.

‘Directly, sir,’ replied the waiter.

The gentleman with the whiskers hummed a tune in the same manner as before, and pending the arrival of the toast, advanced to the front of the fire, and, taking his coat tails under his arms, looked at his boots and ruminated.

“Sapevo già cosa sarebbe successo con questo modo di fare affari. Oh, Sammy, non c’era mica un’uscita secondaria!”

CAPITOLO XXXV. IN IL QUALE IL SIGNOR PICKWICK PENSA CHE AVREBBE DOVUTO ANDARE A FARSI IL BAIO; E COSÌ FA.

“Ma sicuramente, mio caro signore,” disse il piccolo Perker, mentre si trovava nell’appartamento del signor Pickwick la mattina dopo il processo, “sicuramente non intendete davvero, sul serio, ora, a parte eventuali irritazioni, che non pagherete queste spese e questi danni, vero?”

“Nemmeno mezzo penny,” disse fermamente il signor Pickwick; “nemmeno mezzo penny.”

“Evviva per i principi, visto che il prestatore aveva detto chiaramente che non avrebbe rinnovato il conto,” osservò il signor Weller, mentre sistemava i resti della colazione.

“Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick, “per favore scendi al piano di sotto.”

“Certo, signore,” rispose il signor Weller; e seguendo la gentile indicazione del signor Pickwick, Sam si ritirò.

“No, Perker,” disse il signor Pickwick con grande serietà, “i miei amici qui hanno cercato di dissuadermi da questa decisione, ma invano. Continuerò a svolgere le mie attività come al solito, fino a quando la parte avversaria non avrà il potere di emettere un ordine di esecuzione contro di me; e se saranno abbastanza vili da farlo e arrestarmi, mi consegnerò con perfetta serenità e soddisfazione. Quando potranno farlo?”

“Possono emettere l’ordine di esecuzione per l’importo dei danni e delle spese fiscali il prossimo semestre,” rispose Perker, “solo tra due mesi, mio caro signore.”

“Molto bene,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Fino a quel momento, caro amico, non voglio sentire più nulla al riguardo. Ora,” continuò il signor Pickwick, guardando i suoi amici con un sorriso cordiale e uno scintillio negli occhi che nessun paio di occhiali avrebbe potuto offuscare o nascondere, “l’unica domanda è: dove andremo ora?”

Il signor Tupman e il signor Snodgrass erano troppo commossi dall’eroismo del loro amico per riuscire a rispondere. Il signor Winkle, invece, non aveva ancora completamente ricordato ciò che aveva dichiarato al processo, quindi il signor Pickwick attese invano una loro reazione.

“Beh,” disse quel gentiluomo, “se mi lasciate scegliere la nostra destinazione, propongo Bath. Penso che nessuno di noi ci sia mai stato.”

Nessuno aveva obiezioni; e poiché la proposta fu calorosamente sostenuta da Perker, il quale riteneva estremamente probabile che, se il signor Pickwick avesse notato qualche cambiamento positivo e un po’ di allegria, fosse incline a rivedere la sua decisione e ad avere una visione meno negativa della prigione per i debitori, la proposta fu approvata all’unanimità. Sam fu immediatamente inviato al White Horse Cellar, per prenotare cinque posti sul treno delle sette e mezza del giorno seguente.

C’erano soltanto due posti all’interno e tre all’esterno; quindi Sam Weller ne prenotò tutti. Dopo aver scambiato alcune parole cordiali con il impiegato dell’ufficio di prenotazioni riguardo a una mezza corona di stagno che gli era stata offerta come resto del pagamento, tornò al pub “George and Vulture”, dove fu molto impegnato fino all’ora di andare a letto: riduceva i vestiti e la biancheria al minimo indispensabile e utilizzava il proprio ingegno meccanico per costruire vari dispositivi ingegnosi che permettessero di tenere chiuse le coperture delle scatole, le quali non avevano né serrature né cardini.

La mattina seguente non era affatto adatta per un viaggio: afosa, umida e piovigginosa. I cavalli delle diligenze che partivano da quella città fumavano così tanto che i passeggeri seduti all’esterno erano praticamente invisibili. I venditori di giornali sembravano bagnati e puzzavano di muffa; l’acqua che gocciolava dai cappelli dei venditori di arance, mentre infilavano la testa dentro le finestre delle carrozze, diluiva l’aria all’interno in modo piacevole. I ebrei con i loro coltelli a cinquanta lame li facevano tacere nel dispero; gli uomini con i portafogli ne facevano, be’, portafogli. Le guardie di sicurezza e le forchette da tostare erano entrambe in offerta; custodie per matite e spugne, invece, rappresentavano una vera “droga” sul mercato, nel senso che erano molto richieste.

Lasciando che Sam Weller si occupasse di salvare i bagagli da quei sette o otto facchini che, non appena il calesse si fermò, si gettarono su di essi con violenza, e constatando che erano arrivati circa venti minuti troppo presto, il signor Pickwick e i suoi amici andarono a cercare riparo nella sala per viaggiatori: l’ultima risorsa del disperazione umana.

La stanza per viaggiatori nel White Horse Cellar è naturalmente scomoda; altrimenti non sarebbe affatto una stanza per viaggiatori. È la sala situata sul lato destro, nella quale sembra essere entrata una “caminiera da cucina” in cerca di rifugio, accompagnata da un mazzo di carte da gioco ribelli, delle pinze e di una pala. La stanza è divisa in piccole sezioni, destinate al confinamento solitario dei viaggiatori, ed è arredata con un orologio, uno specchio e, un “cameriere vivente”; quest’ultimo, però, viene tenuto in una piccola cuccia apposita, nell’angolo dell’appartamento, dove si occupa di lavare i bicchieri.

Una di queste casse era occupata, in quell’occasione particolare, da un uomo dallo sguardo severo, di circa cinquant’anni; aveva la fronte calva e lucida, molti capelli neri sui lati e sulla parte posteriore della testa, e grandi baffi neri. Era vestito con un cappotto marrone che gli arrivava fino al mento; indossava inoltre un grande cappello di pelle di foca, oltre a un mantello e una coperta, posati sul sedile accanto a lui. Alzò lo sguardo dal suo pasto quando il signor Pickwick entrò, con un’aria decisa e autoritaria che risultava molto dignitosa; dopo aver esaminato attentamente quel gentiluomo e i suoi compagni, con evidente soddisfazione, iniziò a canticchiare una melodia, come se volesse dire che sospettava che qualcuno cercasse di approfittare di lui, ma che questo non sarebbe stato possibile.

“Cameriere,” disse il signore con le basette.

“Signore?” rispose un uomo dal viso sporco, avvolto anch’egli in un asciugamano dello stesso colore, uscendo dalla cuccia menzionata prima.

“Un po’ di pane tostato in più.”

“Sì, signore.”

“Tostato con burro, per favore,” disse il gentiluomo con fermezza.

“Direttamente, signore,” rispose il cameriere.

Il signore con le basette cantò una canzone nello stesso modo di prima; in attesa dell’arrivo del pane tostato, si avvicinò al focolare, mise le code del suo cappotto sotto le braccia e osservò i suoi stivali, assorto nei suoi pensieri.

‘I wonder whereabouts in Bath this coach puts up,’ said Mr. Pickwick, mildly addressing Mr. Winkle.

‘Hum—eh—what’s that?’ said the strange man.

‘I made an observation to my friend, sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, always ready to enter into conversation. ‘I wondered at what house the Bath coach put up. Perhaps you can inform me.’

Are you going to Bath?’ said the strange man.

‘I am, sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘And those other gentlemen?’

‘They are going also,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Not inside—I’ll be damned if you’re going inside,’ said the strange man.

‘Not all of us,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘No, not all of you,’ said the strange man emphatically. ‘I’ve taken two places. If they try to squeeze six people into an infernal box that only holds four, I’ll take a post-chaise and bring an action. I’ve paid my fare. It won’t do; I told the clerk when I took my places that it wouldn’t do. I know these things have been done. I know they are done every day; but I never was done, and I never will be. Those who know me best, best know it; crush me!’ Here the fierce gentleman rang the bell with great violence, and told the waiter he’d better bring the toast in five seconds, or he’d know the reason why.

‘My good sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘you will allow me to observe that this is a very unnecessary display of excitement. I have only taken places inside for two.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said the fierce man. ‘I withdraw my expressions. I tender an apology. There’s my card. Give me your acquaintance.’

‘With great pleasure, Sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘We are to be fellow- travellers, and I hope we shall find each other’s society mutually agreeable.’

‘I hope we shall,’ said the fierce gentleman. ‘I know we shall. I like your looks; they please me. Gentlemen, your hands and names. Know me.’

Of course, an interchange of friendly salutations followed this gracious speech; and the fierce gentleman immediately proceeded to inform the friends, in the same short, abrupt, jerking sentences, that his name was Dowler; that he was going to Bath on pleasure; that he was formerly in the army; that he had now set up in business as a gentleman; that he lived upon the profits; and that the individual for whom the second place was taken, was a personage no less illustrious than Mrs. Dowler, his lady wife.

‘She’s a fine woman,’ said Mr. Dowler. ‘I am proud of her. I have reason.’

‘I hope I shall have the pleasure of judging,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile.

‘You shall,’ replied Dowler. ‘She shall know you. She shall esteem you. I courted her under singular circumstances. I won her through a rash vow. Thus. I saw her; I loved her; I proposed; she refused me.—“You love another?”—“Spare my blushes.”—“I know him.”—“You do.”—“Very good; if he remains here, I’ll skin him.”’

‘Lord bless me!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick involuntarily.

‘Did you skin the gentleman, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Winkle, with a very pale face.

‘I wrote him a note, I said it was a painful thing. And so it was.’

‘Certainly,’ interposed Mr. Winkle.

‘I said I had pledged my word as a gentleman to skin him. My character was at stake. I had no alternative. As an officer in His Majesty’s service, I was bound to skin him. I regretted the necessity, but it must be done. He was open to conviction. He saw that the rules of the service were imperative. He fled. I married her. Here’s the coach. That’s her head.’

As Mr. Dowler concluded, he pointed to a stage which had just driven up, from the open window of which a rather pretty face in a bright blue bonnet was looking among the crowd on the pavement, most probably for the rash man himself. Mr. Dowler paid his bill, and hurried out with his travelling cap, coat, and cloak; and Mr. Pickwick and his friends followed to secure their places.

Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass had seated themselves at the back part of the coach; Mr. Winkle had got inside; and Mr. Pickwick was preparing to follow him, when Sam Weller came up to his master, and whispering in his ear, begged to speak to him, with an air of the deepest mystery.

‘Well, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘what’s the matter now?’

‘Here’s rayther a rum go, sir,’ replied Sam.

‘What?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘This here, Sir,’ rejoined Sam. ‘I’m wery much afeerd, sir, that the properiator o’ this here coach is a playin’ some imperence vith us.’

‘How is that, Sam?’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘aren’t the names down on the way-bill?’

‘The names is not only down on the vay-bill, Sir,’ replied Sam, ‘but they’ve painted vun on ‘em up, on the door o’ the coach.’ As Sam spoke, he pointed to that part of the coach door on which the proprietor’s name usually appears; and there, sure enough, in gilt letters of a goodly size, was the magic name of Pickwick!

‘Dear me,’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, quite staggered by the coincidence; ‘what a very extraordinary thing!’

‘Yes, but that ain’t all,’ said Sam, again directing his master’s attention to the coach door; ‘not content vith writin’ up “Pick-wick,” they puts “Moses” afore it, vich I call addin’ insult to injury, as the parrot said ven they not only took him from his native land, but made him talk the English langwidge arterwards.’

‘It’s odd enough, certainly, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘but if we stand talking here, we shall lose our places.’

‘Wot, ain’t nothin’ to be done in consequence, sir?’ exclaimed Sam, perfectly aghast at the coolness with which Mr. Pickwick prepared to ensconce himself inside.

‘Done!’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘What should be done?’

Ain’t nobody to be whopped for takin’ this here liberty, sir?’ said Mr. Weller, who had expected that at least he would have been commissioned to challenge the guard and the coachman to a pugilistic encounter on the spot.

‘Certainly not,’ replied Mr. Pickwick eagerly; ‘not on any account. Jump up to your seat directly.’

‘I am wery much afeered,’ muttered Sam to himself, as he turned away, ‘that somethin’ queer’s come over the governor, or he’d never ha’ stood this so quiet. I hope that ‘ere trial hasn’t broke his spirit, but it looks bad, wery bad.’ Mr. Weller shook his head gravely; and it is worthy of remark, as an illustration of the manner in which he took this circumstance to heart, that he did not speak another word until the coach reached the Kensington turnpike. Which was so long a time for him to remain taciturn, that the fact may be considered wholly unprecedented.

“Chissà dove si fermerà questo treno a Bath,” disse il signor Pickwick, rivolgendosi gentilmente al signor Winkle.

“Hmm, eh, cos’è?” disse l’uomo strano.

“Ho fatto un’osservazione al mio amico, signore,” rispose il signor Pickwick, sempre pronto a intraprendere una conversazione. “Mi chiedevo in quale hotel si fosse fermata la diligenza di Bath. Forse potreste informarmi.”

“Stai andando a Bath?”, chiese l’uomo strano.

“Sì, signore,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

“E quegli altri signori?”

“Anche loro se ne stanno andando,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Non entrare. Maledizione, non ti permetterò di entrare,” disse l’uomo strano.

“Non tutti noi,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“No, non tutti voi,” disse l’uomo strano con fermezza. “Ho prenotato due posti. Se cercano di far entrare sei persone in una cabina che ne contiene solo quattro, userò una carrozza e presenterò un reclamo. Ho pagato il mio biglietto. Non va bene; l’ho detto al cameriere quando ho effettuato la prenotazione. So che queste cose succedono. So che accadono ogni giorno. Ma io non ne ho mai fatto parte, e non lo farò mai. Coloro che mi conoscono meglio lo sanno bene. Schiacciatemi pure!” A quel punto, il gentiluomo furioso suonò il campanello con violenza e disse al cameriere di portargli il pane tostato entro cinque secondi, altrimenti avrebbe scoperto il motivo.

“Mio buon signore,” disse il signor Pickwick, “le permetto di osservare che questa è una dimostrazione di eccitazione del tutto inutile. Io stesso mi sono seduto lì dentro soltanto due volte.”

“Sono felice di saperlo,” disse l’uomo feroce. “Ritiro le mie precedenti affermazioni e porgo le mie scuse. Ecco la mia carta; dammi i tuoi recapiti.”

“Con grande piacere, signore,” rispose il signor Pickwick. “Saremo compagni di viaggio, e spero che la compagnia reciproca ci sia gradita a entrambi.”

“Spero che lo faremo,” disse il gentiluomo feroce. “So che lo faremo. Mi piacciono i tuoi tratti; mi soddisfano. Signori, presentatevi e diteci i vostri nomi. Conoscetemi.”

Naturalmente, dopo questo gentile discorso seguirono scambi di cordiali saluti; e il signore burbero procedette immediatamente a informare gli amici, con frasi brevi, brusche e interrotte, che il suo nome era Dowler; che stava andando a Bath per piacere personale; che in passato aveva fatto parte dell’esercito; che ora si dedicava agli affari come gentiluomo; che viveva dei profitti derivanti da tali attività; e che la persona per cui era stato assegnato il secondo posto non era altri che la signora Dowler, sua moglie.

“È una donna davvero meravigliosa“, disse il signor Dowler. “Ne sono orgoglioso, e ho tutte le ragioni per esserlo“.

“Spero di avere il piacere di giudicare,” disse il signor Pickwick con un sorriso.

“Lo farai,” rispose Dowler. “Lei ti conoscerà. Ti apprezzerà. L’ho corteggiata in circostanze particolari. L’ho conquistata con un voto avventato. Così: l’ho vista, l’ho amata, le ho chiesto di sposarmi, lei mi ha rifiutato. – ‘Ami un altro?’ – ‘Per favore, risparmiami l’imbarazzo.’ – ‘Lo conosco.’ – ‘Davvero?’ – ‘Molto bene, se rimane qui, lo farò a pezzi.’”

“Signore, beneditemi!” esclamò involontariamente il signor Pickwick.

“Avete scuoiato quel signore, signore?”, chiese il signor Winkle, con il viso molto pallido.

“Gli ho scritto una nota, dicendo che era una cosa dolorosa. E infatti lo era.”

“Certamente,” intervenne il signor Winkle.

“Ho detto che avevo giurato, da gentiluomo, di spellarlo vivo. La mia reputazione era in gioco. Non avevo altra scelta. Come ufficiale al servizio di Sua Maestà, ero obbligato a farlo. Mi dispiaceva, ma era necessario. Lui stesso riconosceva la validità delle regole del servizio. È fuggito. Ho sposato lei. Ecco il calesse. Quella è la sua testa.”

Come concluse il signor Dowler, indicò una vettura che era appena arrivata; dalla finestra aperta si poteva vedere un viso piuttosto carino, con un cappello blu brillante, che guardava tra la folla sul marciapiede, molto probabilmente in cerca dello stesso signor Dowler. Il signor Dowler pagò il conto e uscì di fretta, indossando il suo cappello da viaggio, il cappotto e il mantello; il signor Pickwick e i suoi amici lo seguirono per prendere i loro posti.

Il signor Tupman e il signor Snodgrass si erano seduti nella parte posteriore della carrozza; il signor Winkle era già salito a bordo; e il signor Pickwick stava per seguirlo, quando Sam Weller si avvicinò al suo padrone e, sussurrandogli all’orecchio, gli chiese di parlargli con un tono di estrema misteriosità.

“Beh, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick, “che c’è adesso?”

“Ecco un po’ di rum per voi, signore,” rispose Sam.

“Cosa?”, chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Questo qui, signore,” rispose Sam. “Temo molto che il proprietario di questo carro stia comportandosi in modo arrogante con noi.”

“Come mai, Sam?”, disse il signor Pickwick; “i nomi non sono forse scritti sul biglietto di viaggio?”

“I nomi non sono solo scritti sul biglietto di viaggio, signore,” rispose Sam, “ma sono anche dipinti sulla porta del carrozzone.” Mentre parlava, indicò la parte della porta su cui di solito compare il nome del proprietario; e lì, effettivamente, in lettere dorate di notevoli dimensioni, c’era il nome magico di Pickwick!

“Mio Dio,” esclamò il signor Pickwick, completamente sbalordito da quella coincidenza;
“Che cosa straordinaria!”

“Sì, ma non è tutto,” disse Sam, attirando di nuovo l’attenzione del suo padrone verso la porta della carrozza; “non contenti di scrivere ‘Pick-wick’, hanno aggiunto anche ‘Moses’ davanti. Il che, secondo me, è come insultare ancora di più una persona che già è stata offesa: dopo averla portata via dalla sua terra natale, l’hanno costretta a parlare inglese.”

“È abbastanza strano, certamente, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick; “ma se continuiamo a parlare qui, perderemo i nostri posti.”

“Ma, non c’è nulla che possiamo fare al riguardo, signore?”, esclamò Sam, completamente sbalordito dall’indifferenza con cui il signor Pickwick si preparava a ritirarsi dentro casa.

“Fatto!”, disse il signor Pickwick. “Ora cosa dobbiamo fare?”

“Non c’è nessuno da rimproverare per aver preso questa libertà, vero signore?”, disse il signor Weller, che si aspettava almeno di essere incaricato di sfidare la guardia e il cocchiere a un incontro pugilistico sul posto.

“Certamente no,” rispose prontamente il signor Pickwick; “assolutamente no. Vai subito a sederti al tuo posto.”

“Sono davvero molto preoccupato,” mormorò Sam tra sé mentre si allontanava, “che qualcosa di strano sia accaduto al governatore. Altrimenti non sarebbe rimasto così tranquillo. Spero che questo processo non gli abbia spezzato lo spirito, ma sembra molto grave, davvero molto grave.” Il signor Weller scosse gravemente la testa; e merita di essere notato, come esempio del modo in cui prendeva sul serio questa situazione, il fatto che non disse più una parola fino a quando il calesse non raggiunse l’incrocio di Kensington. Un periodo così lungo di silenzio da parte sua era davvero senza precedenti.

Nothing worthy of special mention occurred during the journey. Mr. Dowler related a variety of anecdotes, all illustrative of his own personal prowess and desperation, and appealed to Mrs. Dowler in corroboration thereof; when Mrs. Dowler invariably brought in, in the form of an appendix, some remarkable fact or circumstance which Mr. Dowler had forgotten, or had perhaps through modesty, omitted; for the addenda in every instance went to show that Mr. Dowler was even a more wonderful fellow than he made himself out to be. Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Winkle listened with great admiration, and at intervals conversed with Mrs. Dowler, who was a very agreeable and fascinating person. So, what between Mr. Dowler’s stories, and Mrs. Dowler’s charms, and Mr. Pickwick’s good-humour, and Mr. Winkle’s good listening, the insides contrived to be very companionable all the way.

The outsides did as outsides always do. They were very cheerful and talkative at the beginning of every stage, and very dismal and sleepy in the middle, and very bright and wakeful again towards the end. There was one young gentleman in an India-rubber cloak, who smoked cigars all day; and there was another young gentleman in a parody upon a greatcoat, who lighted a good many, and feeling obviously unsettled after the second whiff, threw them away when he thought nobody was looking at him. There was a third young man on the box who wished to be learned in cattle; and an old one behind, who was familiar with farming. There was a constant succession of Christian names in smock-frocks and white coats, who were invited to have a ‘lift’ by the guard, and who knew every horse and hostler on the road and off it; and there was a dinner which would have been cheap at half-a-crown a mouth, if any moderate number of mouths could have eaten it in the time. And at seven o’clock P.M. Mr. Pickwick and his friends, and Mr. Dowler and his wife, respectively retired to their private sitting-rooms at the White Hart Hotel, opposite the Great Pump Room, Bath, where the waiters, from their costume, might be mistaken for Westminster boys, only they destroy the illusion by behaving themselves much better.

Breakfast had scarcely been cleared away on the succeeding morning, when a waiter brought in Mr. Dowler’s card, with a request to be allowed permission to introduce a friend. Mr. Dowler at once followed up the delivery of the card, by bringing himself and the friend also.

The friend was a charming young man of not much more than fifty, dressed in a very bright blue coat with resplendent buttons, black trousers, and the thinnest possible pair of highly-polished boots. A gold eye-glass was suspended from his neck by a short, broad, black ribbon; a gold snuff-box was lightly clasped in his left hand; gold rings innumerable glittered on his fingers; and a large diamond pin set in gold glistened in his shirt frill. He had a gold watch, and a gold curb chain with large gold seals; and he carried a pliant ebony cane with a gold top. His linen was of the very whitest, finest, and stiffest; his wig of the glossiest, blackest, and curliest. His snuff was princes’ mixture; his scent bouquet du roi. His features were contracted into a perpetual smile; and his teeth were in such perfect order that it was difficult at a small distance to tell the real from the false.

‘Mr. Pickwick,’ said Mr. Dowler; ‘my friend, Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esquire, M.C.; Bantam; Mr. Pickwick. Know each other.’

‘Welcome to Ba—ath, Sir. This is indeed an acquisition. Most welcome to Ba—ath, sir. It is long—very long, Mr. Pickwick, since you drank the waters. It appears an age, Mr. Pickwick. Re-markable!’

Such were the expressions with which Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esquire, M.C., took Mr. Pickwick’s hand; retaining it in his, meantime, and shrugging up his shoulders with a constant succession of bows, as if he really could not make up his mind to the trial of letting it go again.

‘It is a very long time since I drank the waters, certainly,’ replied Mr. Pickwick; ‘for, to the best of my knowledge, I was never here before.’

‘Never in Ba—ath, Mr. Pickwick!’ exclaimed the Grand Master, letting the hand fall in astonishment. ‘Never in Ba—ath! He! he! Mr. Pickwick, you are a wag. Not bad, not bad. Good, good. He! he! he! Re-markable!’

‘To my shame, I must say that I am perfectly serious,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick. ‘I really never was here before.’

‘Oh, I see,’ exclaimed the Grand Master, looking extremely pleased; ‘yes, yes—good, good—better and better. You are the gentleman of whom we have heard. Yes; we know you, Mr. Pickwick; we know you.’

‘The reports of the trial in those confounded papers,’ thought Mr. Pickwick. ‘They have heard all about me.’

You are the gentleman residing on Clapham Green,’ resumed Bantam, ‘who lost the use of his limbs from imprudently taking cold after port wine; who could not be moved in consequence of acute suffering, and who had the water from the king’s bath bottled at one hundred and three degrees, and sent by wagon to his bedroom in town, where he bathed, sneezed, and the same day recovered. Very remarkable!’

Mr. Pickwick acknowledged the compliment which the supposition implied, but had the self-denial to repudiate it, notwithstanding; and taking advantage of a moment’s silence on the part of the M.C., begged to introduce his friends, Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass. An introduction which overwhelmed the M.C. with delight and honour.

‘Bantam,’ said Mr. Dowler, ‘Mr. Pickwick and his friends are strangers. They must put their names down. Where’s the book?’

‘The register of the distinguished visitors in Ba—ath will be at the Pump Room this morning at two o’clock,’ replied the M.C. ‘Will you guide our friends to that splendid building, and enable me to procure their autographs?’

Durante l’viaggio non accadde nulla di particolarmente degno di nota. Il signor Dowler raccontò varie aneddoti, tutti volti a dimostrare le sue capacità personali e la sua disperazione, e chiese alla signora Dowler di confermarli; quest’ultima, ogni volta, aggiungeva come “appendice” qualche fatto o circostanza straordinaria che il signor Dowler aveva dimenticato, o forse per modestia omesso. In tutti i casi, questi supplementi dimostravano che il signor Dowler era ancora una persona più meravigliosa di quanto si descrivesse. Il signor Pickwick e il signor Winkle ascoltavano con grande ammirazione e, di tanto in tanto, conversavano con la signora Dowler, che era davvero una persona molto piacevole e affascinante. Così, grazie alle storie del signor Dowler, al fascino della signora Dowler, al buon umore del signor Pickwick e all’attenzione attenta del signor Winkle, il viaggio trascorse in modo davvero piacevole.

Gli esterni facevano sempre ciò che gli esterni fanno: all’inizio di ogni tappa erano molto allegri e loquaci, nel mezzo diventavano molto tristi e sonnolenti, e verso la fine tornavano a essere vivaci e svegli. C’era un giovane signore con un mantello di gomma indiana che fumava sigari tutto il giorno; c’era un altro giovane signore con una parodia di un grande cappotto che ne accendeva molti, ma dopo il secondo tiro sembrava visibilmente a disagio e li gettava via quando pensava che nessuno lo stesse guardando. C’era anche un terzo giovane seduto sul palco che desiderava diventare esperto in materia di bestiame; e più indietro c’era un anziano che conosceva bene l’agricoltura. C’era una continua successione di persone con nomi cristiani, vestite in grembiuli e cappotti bianchi; venivano invitate dai soldati a “prendere un passaggio” e conoscevano ogni cavallo e ogni ostello lungo la strada. C’era anche una cena che sarebbe stata economica, a mezzo >crown a testa, se solo un numero moderato di persone avesse potuto mangiarla nel tempo previsto. Alle sette di sera, il signor Pickwick e i suoi amici, così come il signor Dowler e sua moglie, si ritirarono nelle loro stanze private all’hotel White Hart, di fronte alla Great Pump Room a Bath; i camerieri, dal loro abbigliamento, avrebbero potuto essere scambiati per ragazzi di Westminster, ma rovinavano questa illusione comportandosi molto meglio del solito.

Non appena la colazione fu sparecchiata la mattina seguente, un cameriere portò la carta del signor Dowler, chiedendo il permesso di presentargli un amico. Il signor Dowler non tardò ad arrivare insieme al suo amico.

Quel giovane era un uomo affascinante, non molto più di cinquant’anni, vestito con un cappotto di un blu intenso ornato da bottoni luccicanti, pantaloni neri e stivali lucidissimi e sottilissimi. Dal collo gli pendeva un monocolo d’oro fissato a una breve e larga corda nera; nella mano sinistra teneva una scatola da tabacco dorata; innumerevoli anelli d’oro brillavano sulle sue dita, mentre un grande diamante incastonato in oro lampeggiava sulla sua cravatta. Portava anche un orologio d’oro e una catena d’oro con grandi fermagli dorati; in mano reggeva un bastone di ebano flessibile con punta dorata. I suoi vestiti erano di lino bianchissimo, il più fine e rigido possibile; la sua parrucca era nera, lucida e arricciata alla perfezione. Il tabacco che fumava era di qualità superiore; il suo profumo era il “bouquet du roi”. Le sue labbra erano sempre incurvate in un sorriso; i suoi denti erano così ben allineati che, da una certa distanza, era difficile distinguere quelli veri da quelli falsi.

“Signor Pickwick”, disse il signor Dowler, “il mio amico, Angelo Cyrus Bantam, gentiluomo, membro del M.C.; Bantam. Signor Pickwick, vi conoscete.”

“Benvenuto a Ba–ath, signore. È davvero una grande acquisizione. Benvenuto a Ba–ath, signore. È trascorso molto tempo, moltissimo tempo, signor Pickwick, da quando ha bevuto le sue acque. Sembra un’eternità, signor Pickwick. Davvero notevole!”

Ecco le espressioni con cui Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esquire, M.C., prese la mano del signor Pickwick; tenendola nella sua mentre continuava a scrollare le spalle e a inchinarsi ripetutamente, come se davvero non riuscisse a decidere se lasciarla andare o meno.

“È trascorso molto tempo da quando ho bevuto queste acque, di certo,” rispose il signor Pickwick; “perché, per quanto ne so, non sono mai stato qui prima.”

“Mai a Ba–ath, signor Pickwick!” esclamò il Gran Maestro, lasciando cadere la mano per lo stupore. “Mai a Ba–ath! Lui, lui. Signor Pickwick, lei è davvero spiritoso. Niente male, davvero niente male. Ottimo, ottimo! Notevole!”

“Con mio rammarico devo dire che sono assolutamente serio,” ribatté il signor Pickwick. “Davvero, non sono mai stato qui prima.”

“Ah, capisco,” esclamò il Gran Maestro, con evidente soddisfazione;
“sì, sì, bene, molto bene, sempre meglio. Voi siete proprio quell’uomo di cui abbiamo sentito parlare. Sì, vi conosciamo, signor Pickwick; vi conosciamo.”

“Questi resoconti del processo, in quei documenti confusi, ”, pensò il signor Pickwick. “Hanno saputo tutto di me.”

“Lei è il gentiluomo che risiede a Clapham Green,” proseguì Bantam, “quello che ha perso l’uso delle membra a causa di un raffreddore contratto in modo imprudente dopo aver bevuto porto; quello che non poteva essere spostato a causa di gravi sofferenze; e che aveva fatto imbottigliare l’acqua del bagno del re a una temperatura di centotré gradi, per poi farla trasportare in carrozza fino alla sua camera da letto in città, dove si è bagnato, starnutito, e lo stesso giorno si è ripreso. Davvero straordinario!”

Il signor Pickwick accettò il complimento che quella supposizione implicava, ma ebbe la forza di autocontrollo necessaria per rifiutarlo; approfittando quindi di un momento di silenzio da parte dell’ospite, chiese di presentare i suoi amici: il signor Tupman, il signor Winkle e il signor Snodgrass. Una presentazione che riempì l’ospite di gioia e onore.

“Bantam,” disse il signor Dowler, “il signor Pickwick e i suoi amici sono estranei. Devono registrare i loro nomi. Dove è quel libro?”

“L’elenco dei visitatori illustri che hanno partecipato all’evento organizzato dal Ba’ath sarà disponibile questa mattina alle due in punto nella Pump Room,” rispose l’organizzatore. “Potrebbe accompagnare i nostri amici in quell’incantevole edificio e aiutarmi a ottenere le loro autografie?”

‘I will,’ rejoined Dowler. ‘This is a long call. It’s time to go. I shall be here again in an hour. Come.’

‘This is a ball-night,’ said the M.C., again taking Mr. Pickwick’s hand, as he rose to go. ‘The ball-nights in Ba—ath are moments snatched from paradise; rendered bewitching by music, beauty, elegance, fashion, etiquette, and—and—above all, by the absence of tradespeople, who are quite inconsistent with paradise, and who have an amalgamation of themselves at the Guildhall every fortnight, which is, to say the least, remarkable. Good-bye, good-bye!’ and protesting all the way downstairs that he was most satisfied, and most delighted, and most overpowered, and most flattered, Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esquire, M.C., stepped into a very elegant chariot that waited at the door, and rattled off.

At the appointed hour, Mr. Pickwick and his friends, escorted by Dowler, repaired to the Assembly Rooms, and wrote their names down in the book— an instance of condescension at which Angelo Bantam was even more overpowered than before. Tickets of admission to that evening’s assembly were to have been prepared for the whole party, but as they were not ready, Mr. Pickwick undertook, despite all the protestations to the contrary of Angelo Bantam, to send Sam for them at four o’clock in the afternoon, to the M.C.’s house in Queen Square. Having taken a short walk through the city, and arrived at the unanimous conclusion that Park Street was very much like the perpendicular streets a man sees in a dream, which he cannot get up for the life of him, they returned to the White Hart, and despatched Sam on the errand to which his master had pledged him.

Sam Weller put on his hat in a very easy and graceful manner, and, thrusting his hands in his waistcoat pockets, walked with great deliberation to Queen Square, whistling as he went along, several of the most popular airs of the day, as arranged with entirely new movements for that noble instrument the organ, either mouth or barrel. Arriving at the number in Queen Square to which he had been directed, he left off whistling and gave a cheerful knock, which was instantaneously answered by a powdered-headed footman in gorgeous livery, and of symmetrical stature.

‘Is this here Mr. Bantam’s, old feller?’ inquired Sam Weller, nothing abashed by the blaze of splendour which burst upon his sight in the person of the powdered-headed footman with the gorgeous livery.

‘Why, young man?’ was the haughty inquiry of the powdered-headed footman.

‘’Cos if it is, jist you step in to him with that ‘ere card, and say Mr. Veller’s a-waitin’, will you?’ said Sam. And saying it, he very coolly walked into the hall, and sat down.

The powdered-headed footman slammed the door very hard, and scowled very grandly; but both the slam and the scowl were lost upon Sam, who was regarding a mahogany umbrella-stand with every outward token of critical approval.

Apparently his master’s reception of the card had impressed the powdered-headed footman in Sam’s favour, for when he came back from delivering it, he smiled in a friendly manner, and said that the answer would be ready directly.

‘Wery good,’ said Sam. ‘Tell the old gen’l’m’n not to put himself in a perspiration. No hurry, six-foot. I’ve had my dinner.’

‘You dine early, sir,’ said the powdered-headed footman.

‘I find I gets on better at supper when I does,’ replied Sam.

‘Have you been long in Bath, sir?’ inquired the powdered-headed footman. ‘I have not had the pleasure of hearing of you before.’

‘I haven’t created any wery surprisin’ sensation here, as yet,’ rejoined Sam, ‘for me and the other fash’nables only come last night.’

‘Nice place, Sir,’ said the powdered-headed footman.

‘Seems so,’ observed Sam.

‘Pleasant society, sir,’ remarked the powdered-headed footman. ‘Very agreeable servants, sir.’

‘I should think they wos,’ replied Sam. ‘Affable, unaffected, say- nothin’-to-nobody sorts o’ fellers.’

‘Oh, very much so, indeed, sir,’ said the powdered-headed footman, taking Sam’s remarks as a high compliment. ‘Very much so indeed. Do you do anything in this way, Sir?’ inquired the tall footman, producing a small snuff-box with a fox’s head on the top of it.

‘Not without sneezing,’ replied Sam.

‘Why, it is difficult, sir, I confess,’ said the tall footman. ‘It may be done by degrees, Sir. Coffee is the best practice. I carried coffee, Sir, for a long time. It looks very like rappee, sir.’

Here, a sharp peal at the bell reduced the powdered-headed footman to the ignominious necessity of putting the fox’s head in his pocket, and hastening with a humble countenance to Mr. Bantam’s ‘study.’ By the bye, who ever knew a man who never read or wrote either, who hadn’t got some small back parlour which he _would _call a study!

‘There is the answer, sir,’ said the powdered-headed footman. ‘I’m afraid you’ll find it inconveniently large.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ said Sam, taking a letter with a small enclosure. ‘It’s just possible as exhausted natur’ may manage to surwive it.’

‘I hope we shall meet again, Sir,’ said the powdered-headed footman, rubbing his hands, and following Sam out to the door-step.

‘You are wery obligin’, sir,’ replied Sam. ‘Now, don’t allow yourself to be fatigued beyond your powers; there’s a amiable bein’. Consider what you owe to society, and don’t let yourself be injured by too much work. For the sake o’ your feller-creeturs, keep yourself as quiet as you can; only think what a loss you would be!’ With these pathetic words, Sam Weller departed.

‘A very singular young man that,’ said the powdered-headed footman, looking after Mr. Weller, with a countenance which clearly showed he could make nothing of him.

Sam said nothing at all. He winked, shook his head, smiled, winked again; and, with an expression of countenance which seemed to denote that he was greatly amused with something or other, walked merrily away.

“Lo farò,” rispose Dowler. “È una chiamata lunga. È ora di andare. Tornerò tra un’ora. Vieni.”

“Questa è una serata di ballo, ”, disse il presidente del club, prendendo di nuovo la mano del signor Pickwick mentre questi si alzava per andarsene. “Le serate di ballo a Ba–ath sono momenti strappati dal paradiso; resi incantevoli dalla musica, dalla bellezza, dall’eleganza, dalla moda, dalle buone maniere. E soprattutto, dall’assenza dei commercianti, che sono assolutamente incompatibili con il paradiso. E che ogni quindici giorni si riuniscono alla Guildhall, il che, per dirlo poco, è davvero notevole. Addio, addio!” E protestando lungo tutto il tragitto verso il basso per quanto fosse estremamente soddisfatto, felice, lusingato, l’onorabile Angelo Cyrus Bantam salì su una carrozza molto elegante che lo aspettava alla porta e partì.

All’ora stabilita, il signor Pickwick e i suoi amici, scortati da Dowler, si recarono nelle sale dell’assemblea e registrarono i loro nomi nel libro degli iscritti: un esempio di condiscendenza che fece sì che Angelo Bantam si sentisse ancora più sopraffatto del solito. I biglietti d’ingresso per quell’incontro serale erano stati preparati per l’intero gruppo, ma poiché non erano pronti, il signor Pickwick decise, nonostante le proteste di Angelo Bantam, di mandare Sam a prenderli alle quattro del pomeriggio presso la residenza dell’M.C. in Queen Square. Dopo aver fatto una breve passeggiata per la città e giunto alla conclusione che Park Street assomigliasse molto alle strade perpendicolari che un uomo vede nei sogni, ma di cui non riesce mai a raggiungere l’estremità, tornarono al White Hart e incaricarono Sam dell’incarico affidatogli dal loro padrone.

Sam Weller si mise il cappello in modo molto disinvolto e aggraziato, poi, infilando le mani nelle tasche del gilet, si diresse con grande calma verso Queen Square, fischiettando lungo la strada alcune delle melodie più popolari dell’epoca, adattate con movimenti completamente nuovi per quell’organo nobile che è l’organo a canne. Arrivato al numero indicatogli in Queen Square, smise di fischiettare e bussò allegramente; la porta fu immediatamente aperta da un valletto con i capelli impomatati, vestito in abiti eleganti e di statura snella.

“È questo il posto del signor Bantam, vecchio mio?”, chiese Sam Weller, senza mostrare alcun imbarazzo di fronte all’imponenza e al lusso che gli si presentavano davanti sotto le sembianze di quel valletto con la testa incipriata e l’uniforme sfarzosa.

“Perché, giovane signore?”, fu la domanda arrogante del valletto con i capelli impomatati.

“E se fosse così, basta che tu entri da lui con quella ‘carta speciale’ e dici che il signor Veller lo sta aspettando, va bene?” disse Sam. E detto questo, entrò molto tranquillamente nell’atrio e si sedette.

Il valletto con la testa rasata sbatté la porta con molta forza e fece una faccia molto arrabbiata; ma sia lo sbattere della porta che quell’espressione arrabbiata passarono inosservati da Sam, il quale stava osservando un portasole di mogano con ogni segno apparente di approvazione critica.

A quanto pare, il modo in cui il suo padrone aveva ricevuto quella lettera aveva impressionato quel servitore dai capelli arruffati a favore di Sam; infatti, quando tornò dopo averla consegnata, sorrise in modo amichevole e disse che la risposta sarebbe stata pronta immediatamente.

“Molto bene,” disse Sam. “Dì al vecchio generale di non mettersi in affanno. Non c’è fretta, ho già cenato.”

“Voi cenate presto, signore,” disse il valletto con la testa coperta di polvere.

“Scopro che mi va meglio a cena quando lo faccio,” rispose Sam.

“Siete stato a Bath per molto tempo, signore?”, chiese il valletto con la testa piena di polvere.
“Non ho avuto il piacere di conoscervi prima.”

“Finora non ho creato alcuna vera e propria sensazione di sorpresa qui,” rispose Sam, “perché io e gli altri arriviamo solo la prossima notte.”

“Bel posto, signore,” disse il valletto con i capelli impolverati.

“Sembra proprio così,” osservò Sam.

“Una società piacevole, signore,” osservò il valletto con la testa piena di polvere. “Servitori davvero molto gentili, signore.”

“Credo di sì,” rispose Sam. “Tipi amabili, spontanei, che non dicono mai nulla a nessuno, ”

“Oh, sì, certamente, signore,” disse il valletto con la testa coperta di polvere, interpretando le parole di Sam come un grande complimento. “Certamente, signore. Voi fate anche voi qualcosa del genere, signore?” chiese il valletto alto, estraendo una piccola scatola da naso sulla cui sommità c’era la testa di una volpe.

“Non senza starnutire,” rispose Sam.

“Beh, è davvero difficile, signore, lo confesso,” disse il alto valletto. “Forse si può fare gradualmente, signore. Il caffè è l’ideale per iniziare. Ho portato caffè per molto tempo, signore. Sembra proprio rappee, signore.”

Qui, un suono acuto della campana costrinse quel servitore con la testa rasata ad infilare la testa del volpe nella tasca e ad andare, con un’espressione umile, nello “studio” del signor Bantam. A proposito, chi mai ha conosciuto una persona che non sappia né leggere né scrivere, e che non abbia nemmeno un piccolo studio nel retrocucina che lei stessa definisca “studio”?

“Ecco la risposta, signore,” disse il valletto con i capelli impolverati. “Temo che vi sembri un po’ troppo grande, ”

“Non c’è di che,” disse Sam, prendendo una lettera accompagnata da un piccolo allegato. “È solo possibile, chissà se una natura così esausta riesca a sopravvivere.”

“Spero che ci rivedremo ancora, signore,” disse il valletto con i capelli impolverati, strofinandosi le mani e seguendo Sam fino al gradino d’ingresso.

“Siete davvero molto gentile, signore,” rispose Sam. “Ora, però, non lasciatevi stancare oltre le vostre forze; c’è ancora molto da fare. Pensate a ciò che dovete alla società e non permettete che il lavoro eccessivo vi danneggi. Per il bene delle altre creature umane, cercate di stare il più tranquilli possibile. Pensate solo a quale perdita sareste per tutti!” Con queste parole commoventi, Sam Weller se ne andò.

“Un giovane davvero singolare,” disse il valletto con la testa piena di polvere, prendendosi cura del signor Weller con un’espressione che chiaramente mostrava quanto poco lo capisse.

Sam non disse assolutamente nulla. Fece l’occhiolino, scosse la testa, sorrise, fece di nuovo l’occhiolino; e, con un’espressione sul viso che sembrava indicare che fosse molto divertito da qualcosa, se ne andò felicemente.

At precisely twenty minutes before eight o’clock that night, Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esq., the Master of the Ceremonies, emerged from his chariot at the door of the Assembly Rooms in the same wig, the same teeth, the same eye-glass, the same watch and seals, the same rings, the same shirt-pin, and the same cane. The only observable alterations in his appearance were, that he wore a brighter blue coat, with a white silk lining, black tights, black silk stockings, and pumps, and a white waistcoat, and was, if possible, just a thought more scented.

Thus attired, the Master of the Ceremonies, in strict discharge of the important duties of his all-important office, planted himself in the room to receive the company.

Bath being full, the company, and the sixpences for tea, poured in, in shoals. In the ballroom, the long card-room, the octagonal card-room, the staircases, and the passages, the hum of many voices, and the sound of many feet, were perfectly bewildering. Dresses rustled, feathers waved, lights shone, and jewels sparkled. There was the music—not of the quadrille band, for it had not yet commenced; but the music of soft, tiny footsteps, with now and then a clear, merry laugh—low and gentle, but very pleasant to hear in a female voice, whether in Bath or elsewhere. Brilliant eyes, lighted up with pleasurable expectation, gleamed from every side; and, look where you would, some exquisite form glided gracefully through the throng, and was no sooner lost, than it was replaced by another as dainty and bewitching.

In the tea-room, and hovering round the card-tables, were a vast number of queer old ladies, and decrepit old gentlemen, discussing all the small talk and scandal of the day, with a relish and gusto which sufficiently bespoke the intensity of the pleasure they derived from the occupation. Mingled with these groups, were three or four match-making mammas, appearing to be wholly absorbed by the conversation in which they were taking part, but failing not from time to time to cast an anxious sidelong glance upon their daughters, who, remembering the maternal injunction to make the best use of their youth, had already commenced incipient flirtations in the mislaying scarves, putting on gloves, setting down cups, and so forth; slight matters apparently, but which may be turned to surprisingly good account by expert practitioners.

Lounging near the doors, and in remote corners, were various knots of silly young men, displaying various varieties of puppyism and stupidity; amusing all sensible people near them with their folly and conceit; and happily thinking themselves the objects of general admiration—a wise and merciful dispensation which no good man will quarrel with.

And lastly, seated on some of the back benches, where they had already taken up their positions for the evening, were divers unmarried ladies past their grand climacteric, who, not dancing because there were no partners for them, and not playing cards lest they should be set down as irretrievably single, were in the favourable situation of being able to abuse everybody without reflecting on themselves. In short, they could abuse everybody, because everybody was there. It was a scene of gaiety, glitter, and show; of richly-dressed people, handsome mirrors, chalked floors, girandoles and wax-candles; and in all parts of the scene, gliding from spot to spot in silent softness, bowing obsequiously to this party, nodding familiarly to that, and smiling complacently on all, was the sprucely-attired person of Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esquire, the Master of the Ceremonies.

‘Stop in the tea-room. Take your sixpenn’orth. Then lay on hot water, and call it tea. Drink it,’ said Mr. Dowler, in a loud voice, directing Mr. Pickwick, who advanced at the head of the little party, with Mrs. Dowler on his arm. Into the tea-room Mr. Pickwick turned; and catching sight of him, Mr. Bantam corkscrewed his way through the crowd and welcomed him with ecstasy.

‘My dear Sir, I am highly honoured. Ba—ath is favoured. Mrs. Dowler, you embellish the rooms. I congratulate you on your feathers. Re- markable!’

‘Anybody here?’ inquired Dowler suspiciously.

‘Anybody! The _elite _of Ba—ath. Mr. Pickwick, do you see the old lady in the gauze turban?’

‘The fat old lady?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick innocently.

‘Hush, my dear sir—nobody’s fat or old in Ba—ath. That’s the Dowager Lady Snuphanuph.’

‘Is it, indeed?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘No less a person, I assure you,’ said the Master of the Ceremonies. ‘Hush. Draw a little nearer, Mr. Pickwick. You see the splendidly- dressed young man coming this way?’

‘The one with the long hair, and the particularly small forehead?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘The same. The richest young man in Ba—ath at this moment. Young Lord Mutanhed.’

‘You don’t say so?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes. You’ll hear his voice in a moment, Mr. Pickwick. He’ll speak to me. The other gentleman with him, in the red under-waistcoat and dark moustache, is the Honourable Mr. Crushton, his bosom friend. How do you do, my Lord?’

‘Veway hot, Bantam,’ said his Lordship.

‘It is very warm, my Lord,’ replied the M.C.

‘Confounded,’ assented the Honourable Mr. Crushton.

‘Have you seen his Lordship’s mail-cart, Bantam?’ inquired the Honourable Mr. Crushton, after a short pause, during which young Lord Mutanhed had been endeavouring to stare Mr. Pickwick out of countenance, and Mr. Crushton had been reflecting what subject his Lordship could talk about best.

‘Dear me, no,’ replied the M.C. ‘A mail-cart! What an excellent idea. Re-markable!’

‘Gwacious heavens!’ said his Lordship, ‘I thought evewebody had seen the new mail-cart; it’s the neatest, pwettiest, gwacefullest thing that ever wan upon wheels. Painted wed, with a cweam piebald.’

‘With a real box for the letters, and all complete,’ said the Honourable Mr. Crushton.

‘And a little seat in fwont, with an iwon wail, for the dwiver,’ added his Lordship. ‘I dwove it over to Bwistol the other morning, in a cwimson coat, with two servants widing a quarter of a mile behind; and confound me if the people didn’t wush out of their cottages, and awest my pwogwess, to know if I wasn’t the post. Glorwious—glorwious!’

Esattamente venti minuti prima delle otto di quella notte, Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esq., il Maestro di Cerimonie, uscì dalla sua carrozza davanti all’ingresso della Sala dell’Assemblea, indossando sempre la stessa parrucca, gli stessi denti falsi, lo stesso occhialino, lo stesso orologio e le stesse insegne, gli stessi anelli, lo stesso fermaglio per camicia e lo stesso bastone. L’unica differenza visibile nel suo aspetto era che ora indossava un mantello di colore blu più scuro, con fodera di seta bianca; calzoni neri, calze di seta nera e scarpe con tacco alto, oltre a una camicia bianca. Sembrava, ancora più profumato, se possibile.

Con quell’abbigliamento, il Maestro di Cerimonie, nel rispetto rigoroso dei doveri importanti della sua altissima carica, si sistemò nella stanza per accogliere gli ospiti.

Il bagno era pieno; le persone e i soldi necessari per il tè affluivano in gran numero. Nella sala da ballo, nella lunga sala da gioco, nell’ottagonale sala da gioco, sulle scale e nei corridoi, il rumore di molte voci e il suono di molti passi creavano un ambiente davvero confuso e caotico. Gli abiti frusciavano, le piume sventolavano, le luci brillavano e i gioielli scintillavano. C’era anche la musica, non quella dell’orchestra, poiché ancora non aveva iniziato a suonare; ma il suono di passi leggeri e delicati, accompagnati di tanto in tanto da una risata chiara e allegra, bassa e gentile, ma davvero piacevole da ascoltare, soprattutto se proveniva da una voce femminile, sia a Bath che altrove. Occhi splendenti, illuminati da un’atmosfera di gioiosa attesa, brillavano da tutte le parti; e ovunque si guardasse, qualche figura incantevole scivolava con grazia tra la folla, per poi essere subito sostituita da un’altra, altrettanto delicata e affascinante.

Nella sala da tè, intorno ai tavoli da gioco, c’era un gran numero di strane vecchie signore e anziani signori decrepiti che discutevano di tutte le chiacchiere e gli scandali del giorno con grande entusiasmo, il che dimostrava chiaramente quanto godessero di quell’attività. Tra questi gruppi c’erano anche tre o quattro “madri procacciatrici di matrimoni” che sembravano completamente immerse nella conversazione a cui partecipavano, ma non mancavano mai l’occasione per lanciare occhiate ansiose alle loro figlie. Queste ultime, ricordando gli insegnamenti materne di sfruttare al meglio la propria giovinezza, avevano già iniziato a intraprendere piccoli flirt: sistemavano sciarpe, indossavano guanti, posizionavano tazze, e così via. Cose apparentemente insignificanti, ma che, nelle mani di esperte, potevano rivelarsi estremamente utili.

Distesi vicino alle porte o in angoli remoti, c’erano vari gruppi di giovani sciocchi che dimostravano ogni sorta di comportamento infantile e stupidità; con la loro follia e presunzione divertivano tutte le persone sensate intorno a loro, pensando felicemente di essere oggetto dell’ammirazione generale. Una decisione saggia e misericordiosa contro cui nessun uomo onesto potrebbe obiettare.

E infine, sedute su alcuni dei banchi posteriori, dove avevano già preso posto per la serata, c’erano diverse signore single che avevano superato l’apice della loro vita fertile. Poiché non ballavano perché non avevano partner e non giocavano a carte per non essere etichettate come irrimediabilmente zitelle, si trovavano in una posizione ideale: potevano insultare tutti senza rimorsi. In breve, potevano insultare chiunque, perché c’erano tutti lì. Era una scena di allegria, splendore e sfarzo: persone ben vestite, specchi eleganti, pavimenti rivestiti di gesso, girandole e candele di cera; e in ogni angolo di quella scena, muovendosi silenziosamente da un posto all’altro con aria ossequiosa, inchinandosi davanti a questo gruppo, salutando con familiarità quell’altro e sorridendo compiaciuta a tutti, c’era la figura ben vestita di Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esquire, il Maestro di Cerimonie.

“Fermatevi nel salotto da tè. Prendete i vostri sei penny e poi metteteli in acqua calda. E chiamatelo tè. Bevetelo,” disse il signor Dowler ad alta voce, indicando al signor Pickwick, che avanzava alla testa del piccolo gruppo con la signora Dowler al suo braccio, di entrare nel salotto da tè. Il signor Pickwick vi entrò e, non appena lo vide, il signor Bantam si fece strada tra la folla per accoglierlo con entusiasmo.

“Mio caro Signore, sono profondamente onorato. Il Ba–ath è favorito. Signora Dowler, avete reso le stanze ancora più belle. Vi congratulo per il vostro successo. Notevole davvero!”

“C’è qualcuno qui?” chiese Dowler con sospetto.

“Qualcuno! L’élite del Ba’th. Signor Pickwick, vede quella signora anziana con il turbante di garza?”

“Quella vecchia signora grassa?” chiese innocentemente il signor Pickwick.

“Zitto, mio caro signore. A Ba’ath nessuno è grasso o vecchio. Quella è la Dama Vedova Snuphanuph.”

“Davvero è così?” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Una persona tutt’altro che insignificante, vi assicuro,” disse il Maestro di Cerimonie.
“Zitto. Avvicinatevi un po’, signor Pickwick. Vedete quel giovane vestito con tanta eleganza che sta venendo da questa parte?”

“Quella con i capelli lunghi e la fronte particolarmente piccola?” chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Lo stesso. In questo momento, il giovane più ricco di Ba’ath. Il giovane Lord Mutanhed.”

“Non dici così?” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Sì. Tra un momento sentirà la sua voce, signor Pickwick. Lui parlerà con me. L’altro gentiluomo che è con lui, quello con il gilet rosso e la barba scura, è l’onorevole signor Crushton, suo caro amico. Come sta, mio signore?”

“Fa molto caldo, Bantam,” disse Sua Signoria.

“Fa molto caldo, mio Signore,” rispose il M.C.

“Confuso,” concordò l’onorevole signor Crushton.

“Avete visto il carro postale del suo Signore, Bantam?” chiese l’onorevole signor Crushton, dopo una breve pausa durante la quale il giovane lord Mutanhed cercava disperatamente di non guardare il signor Pickwick in faccia, mentre il signor Crushton rifletteva su quale argomento il suo Signore potesse parlare meglio.

“Mio Dio, no,” rispose il direttore. “Un carrello per la posta! Che idea eccellente, davvero notevole!”

“Mio Dio!” esclamò il suo Signore, “Pensavo che tutti avessero visto il nuovo carretto postale; è la cosa più bella, più elegante e più graziosa che sia mai apparsa su ruote. È dipinto a strisce bianche e nere.”

“Con una scatola vera per le lettere, e tutto completamente attrezzato,” disse l’onorevole signor Crushton.

‘E anche un piccolo sedile davanti, con un cappello rosso, per il viaggiatore,’ aggiunse Sua Signoria. ‘L’ho portato a Bristol la mattina scorsa, avvolto in un mantello rosso, con due servitori che mi seguivano per un quarto di miglio; e credetemi, la gente usciva dalle proprie case per vedere se fossi davvero il postino. Meraviglioso!’

At this anecdote his Lordship laughed very heartily, as did the listeners, of course. Then, drawing his arm through that of the obsequious Mr. Crushton, Lord Mutanhed walked away.

‘Delightful young man, his Lordship,’ said the Master of the Ceremonies.

‘So I should think,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick drily.

The dancing having commenced, the necessary introductions having been made, and all preliminaries arranged, Angelo Bantam rejoined Mr. Pickwick, and led him into the card-room.

Just at the very moment of their entrance, the Dowager Lady Snuphanuph and two other ladies of an ancient and whist-like appearance, were hovering over an unoccupied card-table; and they no sooner set eyes upon Mr. Pickwick under the convoy of Angelo Bantam, than they exchanged glances with each other, seeing that he was precisely the very person they wanted, to make up the rubber.

‘My dear Bantam,’ said the Dowager Lady Snuphanuph coaxingly, ‘find us some nice creature to make up this table; there’s a good soul.’ Mr. Pickwick happened to be looking another way at the moment, so her Ladyship nodded her head towards him, and frowned expressively.

‘My friend Mr. Pickwick, my Lady, will be most happy, I am sure, remarkably so,’ said the M.C., taking the hint. ‘Mr. Pickwick, Lady Snuphanuph—Mrs. Colonel Wugsby—Miss Bolo.’

Mr. Pickwick bowed to each of the ladies, and, finding escape impossible, cut. Mr. Pickwick and Miss Bolo against Lady Snuphanuph and Mrs. Colonel Wugsby.

As the trump card was turned up, at the commencement of the second deal, two young ladies hurried into the room, and took their stations on either side of Mrs. Colonel Wugsby’s chair, where they waited patiently until the hand was over.

‘Now, Jane,’ said Mrs. Colonel Wugsby, turning to one of the girls, ‘what is it?’

I came to ask, ma, whether I might dance with the youngest Mr. Crawley,’ whispered the prettier and younger of the two.

‘Good God, Jane, how can you think of such things?’ replied the mamma indignantly. ‘Haven’t you repeatedly heard that his father has eight hundred a year, which dies with him? I am ashamed of you. Not on any account.’

‘Ma,’ whispered the other, who was much older than her sister, and very insipid and artificial, ‘Lord Mutanhed has been introduced to me. I said I thought I wasn’t engaged, ma.’

‘You’re a sweet pet, my love,’ replied Mrs. Colonel Wugsby, tapping her daughter’s cheek with her fan, ‘and are always to be trusted. He’s immensely rich, my dear. Bless you!’ With these words Mrs. Colonel Wugsby kissed her eldest daughter most affectionately, and frowning in a warning manner upon the other, sorted her cards.

Poor Mr. Pickwick! he had never played with three thorough-paced female card-players before. They were so desperately sharp, that they quite frightened him. If he played a wrong card, Miss Bolo looked a small armoury of daggers; if he stopped to consider which was the right one, Lady Snuphanuph would throw herself back in her chair, and smile with a mingled glance of impatience and pity to Mrs. Colonel Wugsby, at which Mrs. Colonel Wugsby would shrug up her shoulders, and cough, as much as to say she wondered whether he ever would begin. Then, at the end of every hand, Miss Bolo would inquire with a dismal countenance and reproachful sigh, why Mr. Pickwick had not returned that diamond, or led the club, or roughed the spade, or finessed the heart, or led through the honour, or brought out the ace, or played up to the king, or some such thing; and in reply to all these grave charges, Mr. Pickwick would be wholly unable to plead any justification whatever, having by this time forgotten all about the game. People came and looked on, too, which made Mr. Pickwick nervous. Besides all this, there was a great deal of distracting conversation near the table, between Angelo Bantam and the two Misses Matinter, who, being single and singular, paid great court to the Master of the Ceremonies, in the hope of getting a stray partner now and then. All these things, combined with the noises and interruptions of constant comings in and goings out, made Mr. Pickwick play rather badly; the cards were against him, also; and when they left off at ten minutes past eleven, Miss Bolo rose from the table considerably agitated, and went straight home, in a flood of tears and a sedan-chair.

Being joined by his friends, who one and all protested that they had scarcely ever spent a more pleasant evening, Mr. Pickwick accompanied them to the White Hart, and having soothed his feelings with something hot, went to bed, and to sleep, almost simultaneously.

Alla racconto di questa aneddota, Sua Signoria rise molto di cuore, così come naturalmente fecero anche gli ascoltatori. Poi, prendendo sottobraccio il servile signor Crushton, Lord Mutanhed se ne andò.

“Un giovane davvero delizioso, Vostra Signoria,” disse il Maestro di Cerimonie.

“Dovrei pensarci, suppongo,” ribatté il signor Pickwick in tono asciutto.

Dopo che la danza era iniziata, le presentazioni necessarie erano state fatte e tutti i preparativi erano stati completati, Angelo Bantam si riunì al signor Pickwick e lo accompagnò nella sala da gioco.

Proprio nel momento del loro ingresso, la Vedova Lady Snuphanuph e altre due signore dall’aspetto antico e maestoso stavano osservando un tavolo da gioco vuoto; non appena videro il signor Pickwick accompagnato da Angelo Bantam, si scambiarono uno sguardo, rendendosi conto che era proprio la persona che cercavano per completare il loro gruppo.

“Mio caro Bantam,” disse la Duchessa Snuphanuph con tono dolce, “trova per noi qualche creatura adatta da mettere a tavola; c’è davvero un’anima gentile, ” In quel momento, il signor Pickwick stava guardando in un’altra direzione, così la duchessa gli fece cenno con la testa e aggrottò la fronte in modo significativo.

“Mio caro amico il signor Pickwick, mia signora, sarà molto felice, ne sono certo, anzi, estremamente felice,” disse l’organizzatore, cogliendo al volo il suggerimento. “Il signor Pickwick, Lady Snuphanuph, la signora colonnello Wugsby. Miss Bolo.”

Il signor Pickwick fece un inchino a ciascuna delle signore e, rendendosi conto che era impossibile fuggire, tagliò la corda. Il signor Pickwick e la signorina Bolo si trovarono così contrapposti a Lady Snuphanuph e alla signora colonnello Wugsby.

Quando fu giocata la carta trionfale, all’inizio della seconda partita, due giovani signore entrarono di fretta nella stanza e si posizionarono ai lati della sedia della colonnella Wugsby, aspettando pazientemente che la partita terminasse.

“Ora, Jane,” disse la signora colonnello Wugsby, rivolgendosi a una delle ragazze, “di cosa si tratta?”

Sono venuta a chiedere, se potessi )danzare con il più giovane dei signori Crawley, sussurrò quella delle due più bella e più giovane.

“Mio Dio, Jane, come puoi anche solo pensare a cose del genere?” rispose la madre indignata. “Non hai forse sentito più volte che suo padre guadagna ottocento sterline all’anno e che quelle saranno tutte sue al momento della sua morte? Mi vergogno di te. Assolutamente no.”

“Ma, ”, sussurrò l’altra, che era molto più anziana di sua sorella e molto insipida e artificiosa, “mi è stato presentato Lord Mutanhed. Ho detto che pensavo di non essere fidanzata, ma, ”

“Sei un adorabile animaletto domestico, mio caro amore,” rispose la colonnella Wugsby, dandole una pacca sulla guancia con il ventaglio, “e si può sempre fidare di te. È estremamente ricco, cara. Che Dio ti benedica!” Con queste parole, la colonnella baciò affettuosamente sua figlia maggiore e, aggrottando la fronte in segno di avvertimento verso l’altra, iniziò a mettere in ordine le sue carte.

Povero signor Pickwick! Non aveva mai giocato prima con tre donne giocatrici di carte estremamente abili e rapide. Erano così esperte che lo spaventavano davvero. Se giocava una carta sbagliata, la signorina Bolo sembrava pronta a usare un intero arsenale di pugnali; se si fermava per decidere quale carta fosse quella giusta, lady Snuphanuph si appoggiava allo schienale della sedia e sorrideva con uno sguardo misto di impazienza e compassione verso la signora colonnello Wugsby. La quale, a sua volta, alzava le spalle e tossiva, come per dire che non sapeva proprio quando avrebbe iniziato a giocare. Alla fine di ogni mano, la signorina Bolo chiedeva con un’espressione cupa e un sospiro di rimprovero perché il signor Pickwick non aveva restituito quella carta di diamante, né guidato il gioco nel modo corretto. In risposta a tutte queste accuse, il signor Pickwick non riusciva assolutamente a fornire alcuna spiegazione, perché ormai aveva completamente dimenticato le regole del gioco. C’erano anche molte persone che venivano a guardare. Il che rendeva il signor Pickwick ancora più nervoso. Inoltre, vicino al tavolo c’era un sacco di conversazioni distragenti tra Angelo Bantam e le due signorine Matinter. Essendo entrambe single, cercavano in ogni modo di attirare l’attenzione del “Maestro delle Cerimonie”, nella speranza di trovare un compagno di gioco. Tutti questi fattori, uniti ai rumori e alle continue interruzioni causate dalle persone che entravano e uscivano continuamente, facevano sì che il signor Pickwick giocasse piuttosto male. Le carte sembravano essere contro di lui. Quando finirono di giocare, alle undici e dieci minuti, la signorina Bolo si alzò dal tavolo visibilmente agitata e se ne andò direttamente a casa, in un fiume di lacrime.

Accompagnato dai suoi amici, i quali tutti protestarono dicendo di non aver mai trascorso una serata più piacevole, il signor Pickwick li portò al White Hart; dopo essersi rassicurato con qualcosa di caldo, andò a letto e si addormentò quasi immediatamente.

CHAPTER XXXVI. THE CHIEF FEATURES OF WHICH WILL BE FOUND TO BE AN AUTHENTIC VERSION OF THE LEGEND OF PRINCE BLADUD, AND A MOST EXTRAORDINARY CALAMITY THAT BEFELL MR. WINKLE

As Mr. Pickwick contemplated a stay of at least two months in Bath, he deemed it advisable to take private lodgings for himself and friends for that period; and as a favourable opportunity offered for their securing, on moderate terms, the upper portion of a house in the Royal Crescent, which was larger than they required, Mr. and Mrs. Dowler offered to relieve them of a bedroom and sitting-room. This proposition was at once accepted, and in three days’ time they were all located in their new abode, when Mr. Pickwick began to drink the waters with the utmost assiduity. Mr. Pickwick took them systematically. He drank a quarter of a pint before breakfast, and then walked up a hill; and another quarter of a pint after breakfast, and then walked down a hill; and, after every fresh quarter of a pint, Mr. Pickwick declared, in the most solemn and emphatic terms, that he felt a great deal better; whereat his friends were very much delighted, though they had not been previously aware that there was anything the matter with him.

The Great Pump Room is a spacious saloon, ornamented with Corinthian pillars, and a music-gallery, and a Tompion clock, and a statue of Nash, and a golden inscription, to which all the water-drinkers should attend, for it appeals to them in the cause of a deserving charity. There is a large bar with a marble vase, out of which the pumper gets the water; and there are a number of yellow-looking tumblers, out of which the company get it; and it is a most edifying and satisfactory sight to behold the perseverance and gravity with which they swallow it. There are baths near at hand, in which a part of the company wash themselves; and a band plays afterwards, to congratulate the remainder on their having done so. There is another pump room, into which infirm ladies and gentlemen are wheeled, in such an astonishing variety of chairs and chaises, that any adventurous individual who goes in with the regular number of toes, is in imminent danger of coming out without them; and there is a third, into which the quiet people go, for it is less noisy than either. There is an immensity of promenading, on crutches and off, with sticks and without, and a great deal of conversation, and liveliness, and pleasantry.

Every morning, the regular water-drinkers, Mr. Pickwick among the number, met each other in the pump room, took their quarter of a pint, and walked constitutionally. At the afternoon’s promenade, Lord Mutanhed, and the Honourable Mr. Crushton, the Dowager Lady Snuphanuph, Mrs. Colonel Wugsby, and all the great people, and all the morning water-drinkers, met in grand assemblage. After this, they walked out, or drove out, or were pushed out in bath-chairs, and met one another again. After this, the gentlemen went to the reading-rooms, and met divisions of the mass. After this, they went home. If it were theatre-night, perhaps they met at the theatre; if it were assembly-night, they met at the rooms; and if it were neither, they met the next day. A very pleasant routine, with perhaps a slight tinge of sameness.

Mr. Pickwick was sitting up by himself, after a day spent in this manner, making entries in his journal, his friends having retired to bed, when he was roused by a gentle tap at the room door.

‘Beg your pardon, Sir,’ said Mrs. Craddock, the landlady, peeping in; ‘but did you want anything more, sir?’

‘Nothing more, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘My young girl is gone to bed, Sir,’ said Mrs. Craddock; ‘and Mr. Dowler is good enough to say that he’ll sit up for Mrs. Dowler, as the party isn’t expected to be over till late; so I was thinking that if you wanted nothing more, Mr. Pickwick, I would go to bed.’

‘By all means, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Wish you good-night, Sir,’ said Mrs. Craddock.

‘Good-night, ma’am,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick.

Mrs. Craddock closed the door, and Mr. Pickwick resumed his writing.

In half an hour’s time the entries were concluded. Mr. Pickwick carefully rubbed the last page on the blotting-paper, shut up the book, wiped his pen on the bottom of the inside of his coat tail, and opened the drawer of the inkstand to put it carefully away. There were a couple of sheets of writing-paper, pretty closely written over, in the inkstand drawer, and they were folded so, that the title, which was in a good round hand, was fully disclosed to him. Seeing from this, that it was no private document; and as it seemed to relate to Bath, and was very short: Mr. Pick-wick unfolded it, lighted his bedroom candle that it might burn up well by the time he finished; and drawing his chair nearer the fire, read as follows—

THE TRUE LEGEND OF PRINCE BLADUD

‘Less than two hundred years ago, on one of the public baths in this city, there appeared an inscription in honour of its mighty founder, the renowned Prince Bladud. That inscription is now erased.

‘For many hundred years before that time, there had been handed down, from age to age, an old legend, that the illustrious prince being afflicted with leprosy, on his return from reaping a rich harvest of knowledge in Athens, shunned the court of his royal father, and consorted moodily with husbandman and pigs. Among the herd (so said the legend) was a pig of grave and solemn countenance, with whom the prince had a fellow-feeling—for he too was wise—a pig of thoughtful and reserved demeanour; an animal superior to his fellows, whose grunt was terrible, and whose bite was sharp. The young prince sighed deeply as he looked upon the countenance of the majestic swine; he thought of his royal father, and his eyes were bedewed with tears.

CAPITOLO XXXVI. Le principali caratteristiche che confermano l’autenticità della leggenda di Principe Bladud, nonché la calamità straordinaria che colpì il signor Winkle

Mentre il signor Pickwick considerava la possibilità di trascorrere almeno due mesi a Bath, ritenne opportuno prendere in affitto appartamenti privati per sé e i suoi amici per quel periodo; e poiché si presentò l’opportunità di acquistarli a condizioni moderate, nella parte superiore di una casa situata in Royal Crescent – che era più grande del necessario – il signor e la signora Dowler offrirono di cedergli una camera da letto e un salotto. Questa proposta fu accettata immediatamente, e in tre giorni tutti si trovarono sistemati nella loro nuova abitazione; a quel punto il signor Pickwick iniziò a bere le acque termali con estrema assiduità. Lo faceva in modo sistematico: beveva un quarto di pinta prima di colazione, poi saliva su una collina; dopo colazione ne beveva un altro quarto e scendeva giù dalla collina; e ogni volta, dopo aver bevuto quel quarto di pinta, dichiarava con estrema serietà e enfasi di sentirsi molto meglio. I suoi amici ne furono molto felici, anche se in precedenza non si erano resi conto che ci fosse qualche problema con lui.

La Grande Sala delle Pump Room è un ampio salone decorato con colonne corinzie, una galleria musicale, un orologio a molla di tipo Tompion, una statua di Nash e un’iscrizione in oro; tutti coloro che bevono acqua dovrebbero recarvisi, poiché tale iniziativa contribuisce a una nobile carità. C’è un grande bancone marmoreo da cui il personale preleva l’acqua; sono presenti anche numerosi bicchieri gialli attraverso i quali gli ospiti la ricevono. È davvero uno spettacolo edificante e soddisfacente osservare la perseveranza e la serietà con cui le persone bevono quell’acqua. Nelle vicinanze ci sono bagni dove parte degli ospiti si lava; in seguito suona una banda per congratularsi con gli altri per averlo fatto. C’è un’altra sala delle Pump Room nella quale signore e signori anziani vengono portati a spasso su sedia a rotelle, in una varietà incredibile di modelli; chiunque entri con il numero normale di dita è esposto al rischio di uscire senza, tutte le dita! Esiste anche una terza sala, meno rumorosa delle altre due; vi si passeggia molto, sia con che senza bastoni, e ci sono molte conversazioni, allegria e scherzi.

Ogni mattina, coloro che avevano l’abitudine di bere acqua regolarmente – tra questi c’era anche il signor Pickwick – si incontravano nella stanza delle pompe, bevevano la loro quarta di pinta d’acqua e poi proseguivano la loro routine quotidiana. Durante la passeggiata pomeridiana, Lord Mutanhed, l’onorevole signor Crushton, la vedova Lady Snuphanuph, la signora colonnello Wugsby e tutte le altre persone importanti si riunivano di nuovo in gran numero. Dopo questo, uscivano a piedi, venivano portati fuori in carrozzina o venivano spinti fuori con le sedie a rotelle, per poi incontrarsi ancora una volta. Successivamente, i signori andavano nelle sale di lettura, dove si riunivano con altri gruppi della stessa comunità; infine tornavano a casa. Se fosse stata la sera del teatro, forse si sarebbero incontrati lì; se fosse stata una serata di riunioni sociali, li avrebbero visti nelle rispettive sale; e in caso contrario, si sarebbero rivisti il giorno dopo. Una routine molto piacevole, anche se forse un po’ monotona.

Il signor Pickwick era seduto da solo; dopo una giornata trascorsa in questo modo, a scrivere nel suo diario mentre i suoi amici si erano ritirati a letto, fu svegliato da un leggero bussare alla porta della stanza.

“Scusi, signore,” disse la signora Craddock, la padrona di casa, sporgendosi dentro; “ma desiderava qualcos’altro, signore?”

“Nient’altro, signora,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

“Mia figlia è andata a letto, signore,” disse la signora Craddock; “e il signor Dowler si è offerto gentilmente di restare sveglio ad aspettare la signora Dowler, poiché la festa non dovrebbe finire prima di tardi; quindi stavo pensando che, se non desiderate nulla altro, signor Pickwick, io potrei andare a letto.”

“Certamente, signora,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

“Buona notte, signore,” disse la signora Craddock.

“Buona notte, signora,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

La signora Craddock chiuse la porta, e il signor Pickwick riprese a scrivere.

In mezz’ora tutto fu pronto. Il signor Pickwick strofinò con cura l’ultima pagina sul foglio assorbente, chiuse il libro, pulì la penna sulla parte interna della tasca del suo mantello e aprì il cassetto dell’inchiostro per riporlo con attenzione. Nel cassetto c’erano alcune pagine di carta da scrivere, piene di scritti fitti; queste erano piegate in modo che il titolo, scritto con una bella calligrafia rotonda, fosse completamente visibile. Notando che non si trattava di un documento privato e che sembrava riguardare Bath, inoltre essendo molto breve, il signor Pickwick lo aprì, accese la candela della sua camera affinché bruciasse bene entro il momento in cui avrebbe finito di leggerlo; poi si avvicinò al fuoco e lesse quanto segue.

La vera leggenda del principe Bladud

“Meno di duecento anni fa, in uno dei bagni pubblici di questa >città, apparve un’iscrizione in onore del suo potente fondatore, il famoso Principe Bladud. Quell’iscrizione è ora stata cancellata.”

“Per centinaia di anni prima di quel tempo, si tramandava di generazione in generazione un’antica leggenda: secondo essa, l’illustre principe, affetto dalla lebbra, al suo ritorno da Atene, dove aveva raccolto una ricca messe di conoscenze, evitò la >corte di suo padre reale e preferì trascorrere il tempo in compagnia di contadini e maiali. Tra quel branco (così recitava la leggenda) c’era un maiale dal volto grave e solenne; il principe provava per lui una sorta di affinità, poiché anche lui era saggio. Un animale superiore ai suoi simili: il suo grugnito era terribile, e il suo morso letale. Il giovane principe sospirò profondamente osservando quel maiale maestoso; pensò a suo padre reale e le sue lacrime iniziarono a scorrere.”

‘This sagacious pig was fond of bathing in rich, moist mud. Not in summer, as common pigs do now, to cool themselves, and did even in those distant ages (which is a proof that the light of civilisation had already begun to dawn, though feebly), but in the cold, sharp days of winter. His coat was ever so sleek, and his complexion so clear, that the prince resolved to essay the purifying qualities of the same water that his friend resorted to. He made the trial. Beneath that black mud, bubbled the hot springs of Bath. He washed, and was cured. Hastening to his father’s court, he paid his best respects, and returning quickly hither, founded this city and its famous baths.

‘He sought the pig with all the ardour of their early friendship—but, alas! the waters had been his death. He had imprudently taken a bath at too high a temperature, and the natural philosopher was no more! He was succeeded by Pliny, who also fell a victim to his thirst for knowledge.

‘This was the legend. Listen to the true one.

‘A great many centuries since, there flourished, in great state, the famous and renowned Lud Hudibras, king of Britain. He was a mighty monarch. The earth shook when he walked—he was so very stout. His people basked in the light of his countenance—it was so red and glowing. He was, indeed, every inch a king. And there were a good many inches of him, too, for although he was not very tall, he was a remarkable size round, and the inches that he wanted in height, he made up in circumference. If any degenerate monarch of modern times could be in any way compared with him, I should say the venerable King Cole would be that illustrious potentate.

‘This good king had a queen, who eighteen years before, had had a son, who was called Bladud. He was sent to a preparatory seminary in his father’s dominions until he was ten years old, and was then despatched, in charge of a trusty messenger, to a finishing school at Athens; and as there was no extra charge for remaining during the holidays, and no notice required previous to the removal of a pupil, there he remained for eight long years, at the expiration of which time, the king his father sent the lord chamberlain over, to settle the bill, and to bring him home; which, the lord chamberlain doing, was received with shouts, and pensioned immediately.

‘When King Lud saw the prince his son, and found he had grown up such a fine young man, he perceived what a grand thing it would be to have him married without delay, so that his children might be the means of perpetuating the glorious race of Lud, down to the very latest ages of the world. With this view, he sent a special embassy, composed of great noblemen who had nothing particular to do, and wanted lucrative employment, to a neighbouring king, and demanded his fair daughter in marriage for his son; stating at the same time that he was anxious to be on the most affectionate terms with his brother and friend, but that if they couldn’t agree in arranging this marriage, he should be under the unpleasant necessity of invading his kingdom and putting his eyes out. To this, the other king (who was the weaker of the two) replied that he was very much obliged to his friend and brother for all his goodness and magnanimity, and that his daughter was quite ready to be married, whenever Prince Bladud liked to come and fetch her.

‘This answer no sooner reached Britain, than the whole nation was transported with joy. Nothing was heard, on all sides, but the sounds of feasting and revelry—except the chinking of money as it was paid in by the people to the collector of the royal treasures, to defray the expenses of the happy ceremony. It was upon this occasion that King Lud, seated on the top of his throne in full council, rose, in the exuberance of his feelings, and commanded the lord chief justice to order in the richest wines and the court minstrels—an act of graciousness which has been, through the ignorance of traditionary historians, attributed to King Cole, in those celebrated lines in which his Majesty is represented as

Calling for his pipe, and calling for his pot, And calling for his fiddlers three.

Which is an obvious injustice to the memory of King Lud, and a dishonest exaltation of the virtues of King Cole.

‘But, in the midst of all this festivity and rejoicing, there was one individual present, who tasted not when the sparkling wines were poured forth, and who danced not, when the minstrels played. This was no other than Prince Bladud himself, in honour of whose happiness a whole people were, at that very moment, straining alike their throats and purse- strings. The truth was, that the prince, forgetting the undoubted right of the minister for foreign affairs to fall in love on his behalf, had, contrary to every precedent of policy and diplomacy, already fallen in love on his own account, and privately contracted himself unto the fair daughter of a noble Athenian.

‘Here we have a striking example of one of the manifold advantages of civilisation and refinement. If the prince had lived in later days, he might at once have married the object of his father’s choice, and then set himself seriously to work, to relieve himself of the burden which rested heavily upon him. He might have endeavoured to break her heart by a systematic course of insult and neglect; or, if the spirit of her sex, and a proud consciousness of her many wrongs had upheld her under this ill-treatment, he might have sought to take her life, and so get rid of her effectually. But neither mode of relief suggested itself to Prince Bladud; so he solicited a private audience, and told his father.

‘It is an old prerogative of kings to govern everything but their passions. King Lud flew into a frightful rage, tossed his crown up to the ceiling, and caught it again—for in those days kings kept their crowns on their heads, and not in the Tower—stamped the ground, rapped his forehead, wondered why his own flesh and blood rebelled against him, and, finally, calling in his guards, ordered the prince away to instant Confinement in a lofty turret; a course of treatment which the kings of old very generally pursued towards their sons, when their matrimonial inclinations did not happen to point to the same quarter as their own.

Questo saggio maiale amava immergersi in fango denso e umido. Non d’estate, come fanno oggi i maiali comuni per rinfrescarsi, né tantomeno in quei tempi lontani (il che dimostra che la luce della civiltà aveva già iniziato ad apparire, sebbene debolmente), ma nei freddi e rigidi giorni d’inverno. Il suo mantello era sempre lucido e la sua pelle chiara; per questo il principe decise di sperimentare le proprietà purificatrici di quell’acqua stessa a cui faceva ricorso il suo amico. La provò: sotto quel fango nero sgorgavano le sorgenti termali di Bath. Si lavò e guarì. Tornato rapidamente alla corte di suo padre, gli resse omaggio con tutto il dovuto rispetto; successivamente tornò qui e fondò questa città e le sue famose terme.

Cercò il maiale con tutto l’entusiasmo della loro antica amicizia, ma, ahimè, le acque divennero la sua morte. Si era bagnato imprudentemente in acqua troppo calda, e quel naturalista non c’era più! Gli succedette Plinio, che a sua volta cadde vittima della sua sete di conoscenza.

“Questa era solo una leggenda. Ascoltate la verità.”

“Molti secoli fa, fiorì in grande splendore il famoso e rinomato Lud Hudibras, re di Britannia. Era un monarca potente; la terra tremava quando camminava, tanto era robusto. Il suo popolo si riscaldava alla luce del suo volto, così rosso e splendente. Era davvero tutto ciò che un re dovrebbe essere. E aveva anche una notevole stazza: sebbene non fosse molto alto, era di corporatura robusta; gli “inchi” che gli mancavano in altezza li compensava con la circonferenza. Se mai un monarca degenerato dei tempi moderni potesse essere paragonato a lui, direi che il venerabile Re Cole sarebbe senz’altro quel sovrano illustre.”

Questo buon re aveva una regina, la quale, diciotto anni prima, aveva avuto un figlio chiamato Bladud. Questi fu mandato in un seminario preparatorio nei domini di suo padre fino all’età di dieci anni; successivamente fu inviato, accompagnato da un messaggero fidato, in una scuola superiore ad Atene. Poiché non venivano addebitati costi aggiuntivi per il soggiorno durante le vacanze e non era necessario alcun preavviso prima del trasferimento di uno studente, Bladud rimase lì per otto lunghi anni. Al termine di questo periodo, il re suo padre inviò il ciambellano reale per saldare le spese e riportarlo a casa; al suo arrivo, fu accolto con grida di gioia e immediatamente gli venne assegnata una pensione.

Quando Re Lud vide suo figlio, il principe, e si rese conto che era cresciuto diventando un giovane davvero nobile, capì quanto fosse importante farlo sposare al più presto, affinché i suoi figli potessero perpetuare la gloriosa dinastia dei Lud fino alle ultime epoche del mondo. Per questo motivo inviò una delegazione speciale, composta da nobili senza incarichi particolari ma desiderosi di ottenere un guadagno, presso il re vicino e chiese in matrimonio la sua bella figlia per suo figlio; aggiunse inoltre che era molto desideroso di mantenere rapporti cordiali con il proprio fratello e amico, ma che, se non fossero riusciti a concordare su questo matrimonio, sarebbe stato costretto ad invadere il suo regno e a fargli strappare gli occhi. A questa richiesta, l’altro re (che era il più debole dei due) rispose che era molto grato al proprio amico e fratello per tutta la sua gentilezza e magnanimità, e che sua figlia era pronta a sposarsi non appena Principe Bladud fosse venuto a prenderla.

Non appena questa risposta arrivò in Britannia, l’intera nazione fu invasa dalla gioia. Da tutte le parti si udivano solo suoni di banchetti e festeggiamenti; si sentiva soltanto il tintinnio delle monete che la gente pagava al responsabile dei tesori reali per finanziare questa felice cerimonia. Fu in quell’occasione che Re Lud, seduto sul suo trono durante una riunione plenaria, si alzò, travolto dall’emozione, e ordinò al primo giudice di far preparare i vini più pregiati e di chiamare i menestrelli di corte. Un atto di generosità che, a causa dell’ignoranza degli storici tradizionali, è stato attribuito a Re Cole, nelle celebri righe in cui Sua Maestà viene descritto come.

Chiamava la sua pipa, chiamava il suo boccale, E chiamava anche i suoi tre violinisti.

Si tratta di una palese ingiustizia nei confronti della memoria di Re Lud, e al contempo di un’insincera esaltazione delle virtù di Re Cole.

‘Ma, nonostante tutta questa festività e gioia, c’era una persona presente che non assaggiò i vini spumeggianti versati durante la celebrazione, né danzò quando gli menestrelli suonarono. Quella persona non era altri che il principe Bladud stesso; in onore della sua felicità, un intero popolo, in quel momento, si sforzava tanto quanto poteva, sia di esprimere la propria gioia che di spendere i propri soldi. La verità era che il principe, dimenticando il diritto indiscutibile del ministro degli Affari Esteri di innamorarsi per suo conto, aveva, contro ogni principio di politica e diplomazia, già innamorato di sua spontanea volontà, e si era segretamente fidanzato con la bella figlia di un nobile ateniese.’

‘Ecco qui un esempio evidente di uno dei numerosi vantaggi della civiltà e della raffinatezza. Se il principe fosse vissuto in tempi più recenti, avrebbe potuto immediatamente sposare la donna scelta da suo padre e poi dedicarsi seriamente al compito di liberarsi del peso che lo opprimeva. Avrebbe potuto cercare di spezzarle il cuore con un insieme sistematico di insulti e trascuramenti; oppure, se lo spirito tipico del suo sesso e la consapevolezza dei numerosi torti subiti le avessero permesso di resistere a tale trattamento crudele, avrebbe potuto cercare di ucciderla per sbarazzarsi definitivamente di lei. Ma nessuno di questi metodi gli venne in mente; così chiese un colloquio privato con suo padre e gli raccontò tutto.’

“È un’antica prerogativa dei re governare tutto tranne le proprie passioni. Il Re Lud andò su tutte le furie, scagliò la sua corona verso il soffitto e la riprese subito dopo: in quei tempi i re tenevano le loro corone in testa, e non nella Torre. Picchiò il piede a terra, si prese la fronte tra le mani, si chiese perché la sua stessa carne e il suo sangue gli si ribellassero contro. E infine, chiamando le sue guardie, ordinò che il principe venisse immediatamente rinchiuso in una torre alta; una misura che i re del passato applicavano molto spesso ai loro figli, quando le loro preferenze matrimoniali non coincidevano con quelle dei genitori.”

‘When Prince Bladud had been shut up in the lofty turret for the greater part of a year, with no better prospect before his bodily eyes than a stone wall, or before his mental vision than prolonged imprisonment, he naturally began to ruminate on a plan of escape, which, after months of preparation, he managed to accomplish; considerately leaving his dinner- knife in the heart of his jailer, lest the poor fellow (who had a family) should be considered privy to his flight, and punished accordingly by the infuriated king.

‘The monarch was frantic at the loss of his son. He knew not on whom to vent his grief and wrath, until fortunately bethinking himself of the lord chamberlain who had brought him home, he struck off his pension and his head together.

‘Meanwhile, the young prince, effectually disguised, wandered on foot through his father’s dominions, cheered and supported in all his hardships by sweet thoughts of the Athenian maid, who was the innocent cause of his weary trials. One day he stopped to rest in a country village; and seeing that there were gay dances going forward on the green, and gay faces passing to and fro, ventured to inquire of a reveller who stood near him, the reason for this rejoicing.

‘“Know you not, O stranger,” was the reply, “of the recent proclamation of our gracious king?”

‘“Proclamation! No. What proclamation?” rejoined the prince—for he had travelled along the by and little-frequented ways, and knew nothing of what had passed upon the public roads, such as they were.

‘“Why,” replied the peasant, “the foreign lady that our prince wished to wed, is married to a foreign noble of her own country, and the king proclaims the fact, and a great public festival besides; for now, of course, Prince Bladud will come back and marry the lady his father chose, who they say is as beautiful as the noonday sun. Your health, sir. God save the king!”

‘The prince remained to hear no more. He fled from the spot, and plunged into the thickest recesses of a neighbouring wood. On, on, he wandered, night and day; beneath the blazing sun, and the cold pale moon; through the dry heat of noon, and the damp cold of night; in the gray light of morn, and the red glare of eve. So heedless was he of time or object, that being bound for Athens, he wandered as far out of his way as Bath.

‘There was no city where Bath stands, then. There was no vestige of human habitation, or sign of man’s resort, to bear the name; but there was the same noble country, the same broad expanse of hill and dale, the same beautiful channel stealing on, far away, the same lofty mountains which, like the troubles of life, viewed at a distance, and partially obscured by the bright mist of its morning, lose their ruggedness and asperity, and seem all ease and softness. Moved by the gentle beauty of the scene, the prince sank upon the green turf, and bathed his swollen feet in his tears.

‘“Oh!” said the unhappy Bladud, clasping his hands, and mournfully raising his eyes towards the sky, “would that my wanderings might end here! Would that these grateful tears with which I now mourn hope misplaced, and love despised, might flow in peace for ever!”

‘The wish was heard. It was in the time of the heathen deities, who used occasionally to take people at their words, with a promptness, in some cases, extremely awkward. The ground opened beneath the prince’s feet; he sank into the chasm; and instantaneously it closed upon his head for ever, save where his hot tears welled up through the earth, and where they have continued to gush forth ever since.

‘It is observable that, to this day, large numbers of elderly ladies and gentlemen who have been disappointed in procuring partners, and almost as many young ones who are anxious to obtain them, repair annually to Bath to drink the waters, from which they derive much strength and comfort. This is most complimentary to the virtue of Prince Bladud’s tears, and strongly corroborative of the veracity of this legend.’

Mr. Pickwick yawned several times when he had arrived at the end of this little manuscript, carefully refolded, and replaced it in the inkstand drawer, and then, with a countenance expressive of the utmost weariness, lighted his chamber candle, and went upstairs to bed.

He stopped at Mr. Dowler’s door, according to custom, and knocked to say good-night.

‘Ah!’ said Dowler, ‘going to bed? I wish I was. Dismal night. Windy; isn’t it?’

‘Very,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Good-night.’

‘Good-night.’

Mr. Pickwick went to his bedchamber, and Mr. Dowler resumed his seat before the fire, in fulfilment of his rash promise to sit up till his wife came home.

There are few things more worrying than sitting up for somebody, especially if that somebody be at a party. You cannot help thinking how quickly the time passes with them, which drags so heavily with you; and the more you think of this, the more your hopes of their speedy arrival decline. Clocks tick so loud, too, when you are sitting up alone, and you seem as if you had an under-garment of cobwebs on. First, something tickles your right knee, and then the same sensation irritates your left. You have no sooner changed your position, than it comes again in the arms; when you have fidgeted your limbs into all sorts of queer shapes, you have a sudden relapse in the nose, which you rub as if to rub it off—as there is no doubt you would, if you could. Eyes, too, are mere personal inconveniences; and the wick of one candle gets an inch and a half long, while you are snuffing the other. These, and various other little nervous annoyances, render sitting up for a length of time after everybody else has gone to bed, anything but a cheerful amusement.

Quando il principe Bladud fu rinchiuso nella torre alta per la maggior parte di un anno, senza alcuna prospettiva davanti ai suoi occhi se non un muro di pietra, e senza altro futuro che una lunga prigionia, iniziò naturalmente a elaborare un piano di fuga. Dopo mesi di preparativi, riuscì a realizzarlo; per evitare che il povero carceriere (che aveva una famiglia) venisse accusato di averlo aiutato a scappare e quindi punito dall’irato re, lasciò intenzionalmente il proprio coltello da pranzo nel cuore della sua cella.

Il monarca era nel panico per la perdita di suo figlio. Non sapeva su chi sfogare il proprio dolore e la propria rabbia, fino a quando, fortunatamente, si ricordò del ciambellano che lo aveva riportato a casa; allora decise di tagliargli sia la pensione che la testa.

Nel frattempo, il giovane principe, efficacemente camuffato, viaggiava a piedi attraverso i domini di suo padre; in tutte le sue difficoltà veniva incoraggiato e sostenuto dal pensiero della dolce fanciulla ateniese, che era la causa innocente delle sue sofferenze. Un giorno si fermò per riposare in un villaggio di campagna; vedendo che si tenevano danze gioiose sul prato e che molte persone andavano avanti e indietro felici, osò chiedere a uno dei partecipanti alla festa il motivo di tutta quella allegria.

“Non lo sai forse, o straniero?” fu la risposta, “della recente proclamazione del nostro nobile re?”

“Proclamazione! No. Che proclamazione?” ribatté il principe; poiché aveva viaggiato lungo strade secondarie e poco frequentate, non sapeva nulla di ciò che era accaduto sulle strade principali.

“Perché,” rispose il contadino, “la signora straniera che nostro principe voleva sposare è già sposata con un nobile straniero del suo stesso paese; inoltre, il re ha proclamato ufficialmente questa notizia e si terrà anche una grande festa pubblica. Per ora, naturalmente, Principe Bladud tornerà a sposare la signora scelta da suo padre. Si dice che sia bellissima, quanto il sole di mezzogiorno. Salute a voi, signore. Che Dio salvi il re!”

Il principe non volle ascoltare oltre. Fuggì immediatamente dal luogo e si addentrò nelle parti più fitte di un bosco vicino. Continuò a vagabondare, giorno e notte; sotto il sole ardente e la fredda luce della luna pallida; nel caldo secco del mezzogiorno e nel freddo umido della notte; nella luce grigia dell’alba e nel bagliore rosso del tramonto. Era così indifferente sia al tempo che agli ostacoli presenti sul suo cammino, che, pur essendo diretto ad Atene, finì per allontanarsi molto dalla sua destinazione, arrivando fino a Bath.

‘Allora non esisteva alcuna >città dove sorge oggi Bath. Non c’era traccia di insediamenti umani, né segno di attività umane che potesse portare quel nome; ma c’era la stessa nobile campagna, lo stesso vasto paesaggio di colline e valli, lo stesso bellissimo corso d’acqua che si snodava lontano, le stesse alte montagne che, come le difficoltà della vita, viste da lontano e parzialmente oscurate dalla nebbia mattutina, perdevano la loro asperità e sembravano piene di dolcezza e morbidezza. Commosso dalla gentile bellezza di quel paesaggio, il principe si sedette sull’erba verde e bagnò i suoi piedi gonfi con le sue lacrime.’

“‘Oh!’ esclamò il sfortunato Bladud, stringendo le mani e alzando tristemente lo sguardo verso il cielo, ‘Se solo le mie peregrinazioni potessero finire qui! Se solo queste lacrime di gratitudine, con cui ora piango per una speranza perduta e un amore disprezzato, potessero scorrere in pace per sempre, ’”

Il desiderio fu ascoltato. Era nell’epoca delle divinità pagane, che talvolta prendevano sul serio le parole delle persone, con una prontezza in alcuni casi estremamente imbarazzante. Il terreno si aprì sotto i piedi del principe; egli cadde nel baratro e immediatamente esso si richiuse sopra di lui per sempre, tranne dove le sue lacrime calde continuavano a sgorgare dalla terra, e da allora stillano ancora.

È evidente che, ancora oggi, un gran numero di signore e signori anziani che hanno avuto difficoltà a trovare partner, così come molti giovani desiderosi di trovarne, si recano ogni anno a Bath per bere le sue acque, dalle quali traggono grande forza e conforto. Ciò rappresenta un grande complimento alla virtù delle lacrime del Principe Bladud e conferma in modo decisivo la veridicità di questa leggenda.

Il signor Pickwick sbadigliò più volte quando arrivò alla fine di questo piccolo manoscritto; lo ripiegò con cura e lo rimise nel cassetto dello stilo d’inchiostro. Poi, con un’espressione che denotava estrema stanchezza, accese la candela della sua camera e andò a letto.

Si fermò davanti alla porta del signor Dowler, come era consuetudine, e bussò per salutarlo con un buon notte.

“Ah!” disse Dowler, “Vai a letto? Vorrei anch’io farlo. Che triste notte. C’è vento, vero?”

“Molto bene,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Buona notte.”

“Buona notte.”

Il signor Pickwick andò nella sua camera da letto, mentre il signor Dowler riprese il suo posto davanti al focolare, mantenendo la sua imprudente promessa di restare sveglio fino al ritorno a casa di sua moglie.

Ci sono poche cose più preoccupanti che dover aspettare qualcuno, soprattutto se quella persona si trova a una festa. Non puoi fare a meno di pensare a quanto velocemente passi il tempo in loro compagnia, mentre per te sembra trascorrere molto più lentamente; e più ci pensi, più diminuiscono le tue speranze che arrivino presto. I orologi ticchettano così forte quando sei seduto da solo, e ti sembra di avere addosso una sorta di “tela di ragnatele”. Prima qualcosa ti solletica il ginocchio destro, poi lo stesso fastidio si ripresenta sul sinistro. Appena cambi posizione, il problema ricompare nelle braccia; dopo aver tormentato le membra in mille modi strani, all’improvviso ti viene il prurito al naso e cominci a strofinarlo, come se potessi davvero eliminarlo! Anche gli occhi rappresentano una vera seccatura: mentre spegni una candela, l’altra ne cresce di un pollice e mezzo. Tutti questi piccoli fastidi nervosi rendono davvero poco piacevole dover aspettare a lungo dopo che tutti gli altri sono andati a letto.

This was just Mr. Dowler’s opinion, as he sat before the fire, and felt honestly indignant with all the inhuman people at the party who were keeping him up. He was not put into better humour either, by the reflection that he had taken it into his head, early in the evening, to think he had got an ache there, and so stopped at home. At length, after several droppings asleep, and fallings forward towards the bars, and catchings backward soon enough to prevent being branded in the face, Mr. Dowler made up his mind that he would throw himself on the bed in the back room and think—not sleep, of course.

‘I’m a heavy sleeper,’ said Mr. Dowler, as he flung himself on the bed. ‘I must keep awake. I suppose I shall hear a knock here. Yes. I thought so. I can hear the watchman. There he goes. Fainter now, though. A little fainter. He’s turning the corner. Ah!’ When Mr. Dowler arrived at this point, he turned the corner at which he had been long hesitating, and fell fast asleep.

Just as the clock struck three, there was blown into the crescent a sedan-chair with Mrs. Dowler inside, borne by one short, fat chairman, and one long, thin one, who had had much ado to keep their bodies perpendicular: to say nothing of the chair. But on that high ground, and in the crescent, which the wind swept round and round as if it were going to tear the paving stones up, its fury was tremendous. They were very glad to set the chair down, and give a good round loud double-knock at the street door.

They waited some time, but nobody came.

‘Servants is in the arms o’ Porpus, I think,’ said the short chairman, warming his hands at the attendant link-boy’s torch.

‘I wish he’d give ‘em a squeeze and wake ‘em,’ observed the long one.

‘Knock again, will you, if you please,’ cried Mrs. Dowler from the chair. ‘Knock two or three times, if you please.’

The short man was quite willing to get the job over, as soon as possible; so he stood on the step, and gave four or five most startling double-knocks, of eight or ten knocks a-piece, while the long man went into the road, and looked up at the windows for a light.

Nobody came. It was all as silent and dark as ever.

‘Dear me!’ said Mrs. Dowler. ‘You must knock again, if you please.’

There ain’t a bell, is there, ma’am?’ said the short chairman.

‘Yes, there is,’ interposed the link-boy, ‘I’ve been a-ringing at it ever so long.’

‘It’s only a handle,’ said Mrs. Dowler, ‘the wire’s broken.’

‘I wish the servants’ heads wos,’ growled the long man.

‘I must trouble you to knock again, if you please,’ said Mrs. Dowler, with the utmost politeness.

The short man did knock again several times, without producing the smallest effect. The tall man, growing very impatient, then relieved him, and kept on perpetually knocking double-knocks of two loud knocks each, like an insane postman.

At length Mr. Winkle began to dream that he was at a club, and that the members being very refractory, the chairman was obliged to hammer the table a good deal to preserve order; then he had a confused notion of an auction room where there were no bidders, and the auctioneer was buying everything in; and ultimately he began to think it just within the bounds of possibility that somebody might be knocking at the street door. To make quite certain, however, he remained quiet in bed for ten minutes or so, and listened; and when he had counted two or three-and- thirty knocks, he felt quite satisfied, and gave himself a great deal of credit for being so wakeful.

‘Rap rap-rap rap-rap rap-ra, ra, ra, ra, ra, rap!’ went the knocker.

Mr. Winkle jumped out of bed, wondering very much what could possibly be the matter, and hastily putting on his stockings and slippers, folded his dressing-gown round him, lighted a flat candle from the rush-light that was burning in the fireplace, and hurried downstairs.

‘Here’s somebody comin’ at last, ma’am,’ said the short chairman.

‘I wish I wos behind him vith a bradawl,’ muttered the long one.

‘Who’s there?’ cried Mr. Winkle, undoing the chain.

‘Don’t stop to ask questions, cast-iron head,’ replied the long man, with great disgust, taking it for granted that the inquirer was a footman; ‘but open the door.’

‘Come, look sharp, timber eyelids,’ added the other encouragingly.

Mr. Winkle, being half asleep, obeyed the command mechanically, opened the door a little, and peeped out. The first thing he saw, was the red glare of the link-boy’s torch. Startled by the sudden fear that the house might be on fire, he hastily threw the door wide open, and holding the candle above his head, stared eagerly before him, not quite certain whether what he saw was a sedan-chair or a fire-engine. At this instant there came a violent gust of wind; the light was blown out; Mr. Winkle felt himself irresistibly impelled on to the steps; and the door blew to, with a loud crash.

‘Well, young man, now you _have _done it!’ said the short chairman.

Mr. Winkle, catching sight of a lady’s face at the window of the sedan, turned hastily round, plied the knocker with all his might and main, and called frantically upon the chairman to take the chair away again.

‘Take it away, take it away,’ cried Mr. Winkle. ‘Here’s somebody coming out of another house; put me into the chair. Hide me! Do something with me!’

All this time he was shivering with cold; and every time he raised his hand to the knocker, the wind took the dressing-gown in a most unpleasant manner.

‘The people are coming down the crescent now. There are ladies with ‘em; cover me up with something. Stand before me!’ roared Mr. Winkle. But the chairmen were too much exhausted with laughing to afford him the slightest assistance, and the ladies were every moment approaching nearer and nearer.

Mr. Winkle gave a last hopeless knock; the ladies were only a few doors off. He threw away the extinguished candle, which, all this time he had held above his head, and fairly bolted into the sedan-chair where Mrs. Dowler was.

Now, Mrs. Craddock had heard the knocking and the voices at last; and, only waiting to put something smarter on her head than her nightcap, ran down into the front drawing-room to make sure that it was the right party. Throwing up the window-sash as Mr. Winkle was rushing into the chair, she no sooner caught sight of what was going forward below, than she raised a vehement and dismal shriek, and implored Mr. Dowler to get up directly, for his wife was running away with another gentleman.

Upon this, Mr. Dowler bounced off the bed as abruptly as an India-rubber ball, and rushing into the front room, arrived at one window just as Mr. Pickwick threw up the other, when the first object that met the gaze of both, was Mr. Winkle bolting into the sedan-chair.

‘Watchman,’ shouted Dowler furiously, ‘stop him—hold him—keep him tight—shut him in, till I come down. I’ll cut his throat—give me a knife—from ear to ear, Mrs. Craddock—I will!’ And breaking from the shrieking landlady, and from Mr. Pickwick, the indignant husband seized a small supper-knife, and tore into the street.

But Mr. Winkle didn’t wait for him. He no sooner heard the horrible threat of the valorous Dowler, than he bounced out of the sedan, quite as quickly as he had bounced in, and throwing off his slippers into the road, took to his heels and tore round the crescent, hotly pursued by Dowler and the watchman. He kept ahead; the door was open as he came round the second time; he rushed in, slammed it in Dowler’s face, mounted to his bedroom, locked the door, piled a wash-hand-stand, chest of drawers, and a table against it, and packed up a few necessaries ready for flight with the first ray of morning.

Dowler came up to the outside of the door; avowed, through the keyhole, his steadfast determination of cutting Mr. Winkle’s throat next day; and, after a great confusion of voices in the drawing-room, amidst which that of Mr. Pickwick was distinctly heard endeavouring to make peace, the inmates dispersed to their several bed-chambers, and all was quiet once more.

It is not unlikely that the inquiry may be made, where Mr. Weller was, all this time? We will state where he was, in the next chapter.

Questa era soltanto l’opinione del signor Dowler, mentre sedeva davanti al focolare e si sentiva sinceramente indignato da tutte quelle persone disumane presenti alla festa che lo tenevano sveglio. La riflessione che aveva fatto all’inizio della serata, ovvero che gli dolesse in quella zona del corpo, non lo aveva certo messo di umore migliore; per questo si era fermato a >casa. Dopo aver dormicchiato un po’, essersi appoggiato contro le sbarre del letto e poi essere tornato immediatamente in posizione eretta per evitare di ferirsi il viso, il signor Dowler decise finalmente di andare a sdraiarsi nella stanza sul retro e, pensare, ovviamente, non dormire.

“Sono un sonnolento,” disse il signor Dowler, gettandosi a letto. “Devo restare sveglio. Probabilmente sentirò bussare qui. Sì, esatto. Ora sento il guardiano di notte. Sta andando via. Ora i colpi sono più deboli. Si sta allontanando. Ah!” Quando il signor Dowler arrivò a questo punto, superò finalmente l’esitazione e si addormentò profondamente.

Proprio quando l’orologio suonò le tre, fu portata dentro il vicolo una poltrona a rotelle con la signora Dowler a bordo; la trasportavano un uomo basso e grasso e uno alto e magro, i quali faticavano molto per mantenere l’equilibrio. Per non parlare della stessa poltrona. Ma su quel terreno elevato, nel vicolo che il >vento soffiava intorno come se volesse strappare via le pietre del selciato, la sua furia era terribile. Furono molto sollevati quando riuscirono a posizionare la poltrona e bussarono forte alla porta di casa.

Aspettarono per un po’, ma nessuno arrivò.

“Penso che i servitori siano nelle braccia di Porpus,” disse il presidente basso, scaldandosi le mani alla torcia del ragazzo che lo assisteva.

“Vorrei che gli dicesse di stringerle un po’ per svegliarle,” osservò quello più alto.

“Bussate di nuovo, per favore,” gridò la signora Dowler dalla sedia. “Bussate due o tre volte, se vi è possibile.”

L’uomo basso era molto desideroso di finire il lavoro il prima possibile; quindi si mise sul gradino e bussò quattro o cinque volte in modo molto forte, con otto o dieci colpi ciascuna volta, mentre l’uomo alto andava per la strada e guardava verso le finestre alla ricerca di una luce.

Nessuno venne. Tutto era silenzioso e buio come sempre.

“Mio Dio!”, esclamò la signora Dowler. “Per favore, bussate di nuovo.”

“Non c’è nessuna campanella, vero, signora?”, disse il presidente basso di statura.

“Sì, c’è,” intervenne il ragazzo incaricato di suonare il campanello, “sto cercando di farlo da un bel po’.”

“È solo una maniglia,” disse la signora Dowler, “il filo è rotto.”

“Vorrei che le teste dei servitori fossero, ”, ringhiò l’uomo alto.

“Devo chiederle di bussare di nuovo, se le è possibile,” disse la signora Dowler con estrema cortesia.

L’uomo basso bussò ancora diverse volte, senza ottenere il minimo risultato. L’uomo alto, diventando sempre più impaziente, allora lo sostituì e continuò a bussare incessantemente, con due colpi forti ciascuno, come un postino pazzo.

Alla fine, il signor Winkle iniziò a sognare di essere in un club; poiché i membri erano molto ribelli, il presidente fu costretto a battere forte sul tavolo per mantenere l’ordine. Poi ebbe una sensazione confusa riguardo a una sala d’asta dove non c’erano offerenti, e l’astaio comprava tutto ciò che veniva messo in vendita. Infine, cominciò a pensare che fosse del tutto possibile che qualcuno stesse bussando alla porta di casa. Tuttavia, per esserne sicuro, rimase immobile a letto per circa dieci minuti ad ascoltare; quando contò due, trenta colpi, si ritenne assolutamente certo e si complimentò molto per la propria attenzione.

“Rap rap-rap rap-rap rap-ra, ra, ra, ra, ra, rap!” fece il battitore di nocche.

Il signor Winkle saltò giù dal letto, chiedendosi molto cosa potesse essere successo, si infilò in fretta le calze e le pantofole, avvolse il proprio pigiama intorno a sé, accese una candela dalla lampada a olio che ardeva nel caminetto e scese di corsa al piano di sotto.

“Finalmente arriva qualcuno, signora,” disse il presidente basso di statura.

“Vorrei essere dietro di lui con un chiodo pungente,” mormorò quello alto.

“Chi c’è là?” gridò il signor Winkle, mentre slacciava la catena.

“Non fermarti a fare domande, testa di ferro,” rispose l’uomo alto, con grande disgusto, dando per scontato che chi chiedeva fosse un servitore; “apri semplicemente la porta.”

“Ehi, fai attenzione, palpebre di legno,” aggiunse l’altro incoraggiandolo.

Il signor Winkle, essendo semiaddormentato, obbedì meccanicamente all’ordine: aprì leggermente la porta e sbirciò fuori. La prima cosa che vide fu il bagliore rosso della torcia del ragazzo incaricato di accendere le lanterne. Spaventato da un improvviso timore che la casa potesse essere in fiamme, aprì rapidamente la porta del tutto e, tenendo la candela sopra la testa, fissò con ansia ciò che gli appariva davanti, senza essere del tutto sicuro se si trattasse di una portantina o di un carro a vapore per spegnere gli incendi. In quel momento soffiò una violenta raffica di vento; la candela si spense; il signor Winkle si sentì irresistibilmente spinto verso le scale, e la porta si richiuse con un forte tonfo.

“Beh, giovane uomo, ora l’hai fatto!” disse il presidente basso di statura.

Il signor Winkle, avendo visto il viso di una signora alla finestra della carrozza, si girò immediatamente, bussò con tutte le sue forze e chiamò disperatamente il presidente perché rimuovesse di nuovo la sedia.

“Portatelo via, portatelo via,” gridava il signor Winkle. “Sta arrivando qualcuno da un’altra casa; mettetemi nella sedia. Nascondetemi! Fatemi qualcosa!”

In tutto questo tempo tremava dal freddo; e ogni volta che alzava la mano per bussare, il vento strappava via l’abito da camera in modo molto sgradevole.

“La gente sta scendendo lungo il sentiero a mezza luna. Ci sono anche delle signore con loro; copritemi con qualcosa. Sta’ davanti a me!” gridò il signor Winkle. Ma i presidenti erano troppo esausti dal ridere per potergli prestare la minima aiuto, e le signore si avvicinavano sempre di più.

Il signor Winkle bussò un’ultima volta, disperatamente; le signore si trovavano solo a poche porte di distanza. Gettò via la candela ormai spenta, che per tutto quel tempo aveva tenuta sopra la testa, e si precipitò dentro la portantina dove si trovava la signora Dowler.

Finalmente, la signora Craddock aveva sentito i colpi e le voci; così, dopo essersi messa qualcosa di più adatto in testa che il suo berretto da notte, corse nel salotto principale per verificare se si trattasse davvero della persona giusta. Mentre il signor Winkle stava entrando di corsa nella stanza, lei sollevò la tendina della finestra e, non appena vide ciò che stava accadendo sotto, emise un grido straziante e implorò il signor Dowler di alzarsi immediatamente, perché sua moglie stava scappando con un altro uomo.

A questo punto, il signor Dowler saltò giù dal letto con la stessa rapidità di una palla di gomma indiana; corse nella sala principale e si affacciò a una finestra proprio nel momento in cui il signor Pickwick si affacciava all’altra. La prima cosa che attirò l’attenzione di entrambi fu il signor Winkle che stava salendo sul palanchino.

“Guardiano!” gridò Dowler furiosamente, “fermalo, trattienilo, chiudetelo dentro, finché non scendo io. Gli taglierò la gola, datemi un coltello, da un orecchio all’altro, signora Craddock. Lo farò!” E, liberandosi dalla urlante padrona di casa e dal signor Pickwick, l’indignato marito afferrò un piccolo coltello da cucina e si precipitò in strada.

Ma il signor Winkle non lo aspettò. Non appena sentì la terribile minaccia del valoroso Dowler, saltò fuori dalla carrozza con la stessa rapidità con cui vi era entrato, gettò via le pantofole per strada e prese a correre lungo il vicolo, inseguito da Dowler e dal custode. Riuscì ad arrivare prima di loro; la porta era aperta al suo secondo passaggio. Entrò di corsa, la chiuse sbattendola in faccia a Dowler, salì nella sua camera da letto, la chiuse a chiave, e vi ammucchiò davanti una toeletta, un comodino e un tavolo, preparando tutto il necessario per fuggire non appena fosse sorto l’alba.

Dowler si avvicinò alla porta esterna; attraverso la fessura della serratura dichiarò apertamente la sua ferma determinazione di tagliare la gola al signor Winkle il giorno dopo; e dopo un gran clamore di voci nel salotto, tra cui si sentiva chiaramente quella del signor Pickwick che cercava di mediare, tutti tornarono nelle loro camere da letto e finalmente tornò la calma.

Non è improbabile che venga fatta questa domanda: dove si trovava il signor Weller in tutto questo tempo? Indicheremo dove si trovava nel prossimo capitolo.

CHAPTER XXXVII. HONOURABLY ACCOUNTS FOR MR. WELLER’S ABSENCE, BY DESCRIBING A SOIREE TO WHICH HE WAS INVITED AND WENT; ALSO RELATES HOW HE WAS ENTRUSTED BY MR. PICKWICK WITH A PRIVATE MISSION OF DELICACY AND IMPORTANCE

Mr. Weller,’ said Mrs. Craddock, upon the morning of this very eventful day, ‘here’s a letter for you.’

‘Wery odd that,’ said Sam; ‘I’m afeerd there must be somethin’ the matter, for I don’t recollect any gen’l’m’n in my circle of acquaintance as is capable o’ writin’ one.’

‘Perhaps something uncommon has taken place,’ observed Mrs. Craddock.

‘It must be somethin’ wery uncommon indeed, as could perduce a letter out o’ any friend o’ mine,’ replied Sam, shaking his head dubiously; ‘nothin’ less than a nat’ral conwulsion, as the young gen’l’m’n observed ven he wos took with fits. It can’t be from the gov’ner,’ said Sam, looking at the direction. ‘He always prints, I know, ‘cos he learnt writin’ from the large bills in the booking-offices. It’s a wery strange thing now, where this here letter can ha’ come from.’

As Sam said this, he did what a great many people do when they are uncertain about the writer of a note—looked at the seal, and then at the front, and then at the back, and then at the sides, and then at the superscription; and, as a last resource, thought perhaps he might as well look at the inside, and try to find out from that.

‘It’s wrote on gilt-edged paper,’ said Sam, as he unfolded it, ‘and sealed in bronze vax vith the top of a door key. Now for it.’ And, with a very grave face, Mr. Weller slowly read as follows—

‘A select company of the Bath footmen presents their compliments to Mr. Weller, and requests the pleasure of his company this evening, to a friendly swarry, consisting of a boiled leg of mutton with the usual trimmings. The swarry to be on table at half-past nine o’clock punctually.’

This was inclosed in another note, which ran thus—

‘Mr. John Smauker, the gentleman who had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Weller at the house of their mutual acquaintance, Mr. Bantam, a few days since, begs to inclose Mr. Weller the herewith invitation. If Mr. Weller will call on Mr. John Smauker at nine o’clock, Mr. John Smauker will have the pleasure of introducing Mr. Weller.

(Signed) ‘John Smauker.’

The envelope was directed to blank Weller, Esq., at Mr. Pickwick’s; and in a parenthesis, in the left hand corner, were the words ‘airy bell,’ as an instruction to the bearer.

‘Vell,’ said Sam, ‘this is comin’ it rayther powerful, this is. I never heerd a biled leg o’ mutton called a swarry afore. I wonder wot they’d call a roast one.’

However, without waiting to debate the point, Sam at once betook himself into the presence of Mr. Pickwick, and requested leave of absence for that evening, which was readily granted. With this permission and the street-door key, Sam Weller issued forth a little before the appointed time, and strolled leisurely towards Queen Square, which he no sooner gained than he had the satisfaction of beholding Mr. John Smauker leaning his powdered head against a lamp-post at a short distance off, smoking a cigar through an amber tube.

‘How do you do, Mr. Weller?’ said Mr. John Smauker, raising his hat gracefully with one hand, while he gently waved the other in a condescending manner. ‘How do you do, Sir?’

‘Why, reasonably conwalessent,’ replied Sam. ‘How do _you _find yourself, my dear feller?’

‘Only so so,’ said Mr. John Smauker.

‘Ah, you’ve been a-workin’ too hard,’ observed Sam. ‘I was fearful you would; it won’t do, you know; you must not give way to that ‘ere uncompromisin’ spirit o’ yourn.’

‘It’s not so much that, Mr. Weller,’ replied Mr. John Smauker, ‘as bad wine; I’m afraid I’ve been dissipating.’

‘Oh! that’s it, is it?’ said Sam; ‘that’s a wery bad complaint, that.’

‘And yet the temptation, you see, Mr. Weller,’ observed Mr. John Smauker.

‘Ah, to be sure,’ said Sam.

‘Plunged into the very vortex of society, you know, Mr. Weller,’ said Mr. John Smauker, with a sigh.

‘Dreadful, indeed!’ rejoined Sam.

‘But it’s always the way,’ said Mr. John Smauker; ‘if your destiny leads you into public life, and public station, you must expect to be subjected to temptations which other people is free from, Mr. Weller.’

‘Precisely what my uncle said, ven he vent into the public line,’ remarked Sam, ‘and wery right the old gen’l’m’n wos, for he drank hisself to death in somethin’ less than a quarter.’

Mr. John Smauker looked deeply indignant at any parallel being drawn between himself and the deceased gentleman in question; but, as Sam’s face was in the most immovable state of calmness, he thought better of it, and looked affable again.

‘Perhaps we had better be walking,’ said Mr. Smauker, consulting a copper timepiece which dwelt at the bottom of a deep watch-pocket, and was raised to the surface by means of a black string, with a copper key at the other end.

‘P’raps we had,’ replied Sam, ‘or they’ll overdo the swarry, and that’ll spile it.’

‘Have you drank the waters, Mr. Weller?’ inquired his companion, as they walked towards High Street.

‘Once,’ replied Sam.

‘What did you think of ‘em, Sir?’

‘I thought they was particklery unpleasant,’ replied Sam.

‘Ah,’ said Mr. John Smauker, ‘you disliked the killibeate taste, perhaps?’

‘I don’t know much about that ‘ere,’ said Sam. ‘I thought they’d a wery strong flavour o’ warm flat irons.’

‘That is the killibeate, Mr. Weller,’ observed Mr. John Smauker contemptuously.

‘Well, if it is, it’s a wery inexpressive word, that’s all,’ said Sam. ‘It may be, but I ain’t much in the chimical line myself, so I can’t say.’ And here, to the great horror of Mr. John Smauker, Sam Weller began to whistle.

‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Weller,’ said Mr. John Smauker, agonised at the exceeding ungenteel sound, ‘will you take my arm?’

‘Thank’ee, you’re wery good, but I won’t deprive you of it,’ replied Sam. ‘I’ve rayther a way o’ putting my hands in my pockets, if it’s all the same to you.’ As Sam said this, he suited the action to the word, and whistled far louder than before.

CAPITOLO XXXVII. Spiegazioni onorevoli sull’assenza del signor Weller, attraverso la descrizione di una serata a cui fu invitato e alla quale partecipò; inoltre si racconta come il signor Pickwick gli affidò una missione privata di grande delicatezza e importanza.

“Signor Weller,” disse la signora Craddock, nella mattina di questo giorno così importante, “ecco una lettera per voi.”

“È davvero strano,” disse Sam; “ho paura che ci debba essere qualcosa dietro, perché non ricordo nessuno nel mio giro di conoscenti in grado di scrivere una cosa del genere.”

“Forse è accaduto qualcosa di insolito,” osservò la signora Craddock.

“Deve essere davvero qualcosa di molto insolito, per spingere un mio amico a scrivere una lettera del genere,” rispose Sam scuotendo la testa con esitazione; “niente di meno che un attacco naturale, visto che il giovane generale soffriva di crisi. Non può certo essere stato il governatore. Lui stampa sempre le sue lettere, lo so bene: ha imparato a scrivere osservando i grandi cartelli presenti negli uffici di registrazione. È davvero strano da dove possa essere venuta questa lettera, ”

Mentre Sam diceva queste cose, fece ciò che fanno molte persone quando non sono sicure dell’autore di un biglietto: guardò prima il sigillo, poi la parte anteriore, poi quella posteriore, i lati e infine l’intestazione; e, come ultima risorsa, pensò che forse avrebbe fatto meglio a dare un’occhiata anche all’interno del biglietto, per cercare di capire qualcosa da lì.

“È scritto su carta dorata,” disse Sam mentre lo apriva, “e sigillato con cera di bronzo, insieme alla parte superiore di una chiave di porta. Ora vediamo, ” Con un’espressione molto seria, il signor Weller lesse lentamente quanto segue:

“Un gruppo selezionato di servitori di Bath invia i suoi saluti al signor Weller e chiede il piacere della sua compagnia stasera, per una cena amichevole che consiste in una gamba di montone bollita con gli accompagnamenti abituali. La cena sarà servita puntualmente alle nove e mezza.”

Questo era incluso in un’altra nota, la quale recitava così:

‘Il signor John Smauker, il gentiluomo che ha avuto l’onore di incontrare il signor Weller nella casa del loro conoscente comune, il signor Bantam, alcuni giorni fa, chiede di inviare al signor Weller questa invitazione. Se il signor Weller vorrà far visita al signor John Smauker alle nove in ora, il signor John Smauker avrà l’onore di presentarglielo.’

‘John Smauker’

La busta era indirizzata a “Blank Weller, Esq.”, presso l’abitazione di Mr. Pickwick; e, in un parentesi nel angolo sinistro, erano scritte le parole “airy bell”, come istruzione per il destinatario.

“Vell,” disse Sam, “questo sta diventando davvero troppo forte. Non ho mai sentito prima chiamare una gamba di montone bollita ‘swarry’. Mi chiedo come chiameranno quella arrostita, ”

Tuttavia, senza aspettare di discutere la questione, Sam si recò immediatamente dal signor Pickwick e chiese il permesso di assentarsi per quella sera, che gli fu concesso senza esitazione. Con questo permesso e la chiave dell’ingresso, Sam Weller uscì poco prima dell’ora stabilita e si incamminò tranquillamente verso Queen Square. Non appena vi arrivò, ebbe la soddisfazione di vedere il signor John Smauker appoggiato a un lampione, a poca distanza da lui, che fumava una sigara attraverso un tubicino color ambra.

“Come state, signor Weller?” disse il signor John Smauker, sollevando elegantemente il cappello con una mano, mentre con l’altra faceva un gesto di condiscendenza. “Come state, signore?”

“Beh, abbastanza in forma, direi,” rispose Sam. “E tu, amico mio, come te la stai passando?”

“Solo passabile,” disse il signor John Smauker.

“Ah, devi aver lavorato troppo sodo,” osservò Sam. “Temevo che lo facessi; non va bene, sai. Non devi cedere a quel tuo spirito di ‘intransigenza’.”

“Non è tanto il vino cattivo, signor Weller,” rispose il signor John Smauker, “temo di aver sprecato troppo tempo in cose inutili.”

“Ah, è così, vero?”, disse Sam; “È davvero una lamentela molto stupida”.

“Eppure, la tentazione, capisce, signor Weller,” osservò il signor John Smoker.

“Ah, sicuramente,” disse Sam.

“Immerso nel cuore stesso del vortice sociale, sa, ”, disse il signor John Smauker, sospirando.

“Terribile davvero!” esclamò Sam.

“Ma è sempre così,” disse il signor John Smauker; “se il tuo destino ti conduce nella vita pubblica e in una posizione di rilievo, devi essere consapevole che sarai esposto a tentazioni di cui altre persone sono libere, signor Weller.”

“Esattamente quello che diceva mio zio, ”, osservò Sam, “e aveva assolutamente ragione quel vecchio generale: è morto per eccesso di alcol in meno di un quarto d’ora.”

Il signor John Smauker sembrava profondamente offeso dall’idea che qualcuno potesse stabilire un paragone tra lui e il defunto gentiluomo in questione; tuttavia, poiché il viso di Sam rimaneva estremamente calmo e sereno, decise di non insistere e tornò ad apparire cordiale.

“Forse sarebbe meglio che camminassimo,” disse il signor Smauker, consultando un orologio di rame che si trovava nella parte inferiore di una profonda tasca dell’orologio; l’orologio veniva fatto emergere in superficie tramite un filo nero, con una chiave di rame all’altro capo.

“Forse l’abbiamo già,” rispose Sam, “oppure faranno troppo baccano e rovineranno tutto.”

“Ha bevuto quelle acque, signor Weller?”, chiese il suo compagno mentre camminavano verso High Street.

“Una volta,” rispose Sam.

“Che ne pensa di loro, signore?”

“Pensavo fossero particolarmente sgradevoli,” rispose Sam.

“Ah,” disse il signor John Smauker, “forse non vi è piaciuto il sapore del killibeate, ”

“Non so molto su quella ‘roba’,” disse Sam. “Pensavo che avesse un sapore molto forte, simile a quello delle ferri da stiro calde.”

“Quello è proprio il Killibeate, signor Weller,” osservò con disprezzo il signor John Smauker.

“Beh, se lo è, allora è una parola davvero poco espressiva, nient’altro,” disse Sam.
“Forse sì, ma io non ho molta dimestichezza con la chimica, quindi non posso dirlo con certezza.” E qui, per grande orrore del signor John Smauker, Sam Weller iniziò a suonare il flauto.

“Perdonatemi, signor Weller,” disse il signor John Smauker, angosciato da quel suono estremamente scortese, “potreste prendere il mio braccio?”

“Grazie,” rispose Sam, “sei davvero molto gentile, ma non ti priverò di questo piacere. Ho un altro modo per mettermi le mani in tasca, se per te fa lo stesso.” Mentre parlava, fece anche il gesto corrispondente e iniziò a fischiare ancora più forte di prima.

‘This way,’ said his new friend, apparently much relieved as they turned down a by-street; ‘we shall soon be there.’

‘Shall we?’ said Sam, quite unmoved by the announcement of his close vicinity to the select footmen of Bath.

‘Yes,’ said Mr. John Smauker. ‘Don’t be alarmed, Mr. Weller.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Sam.

‘You’ll see some very handsome uniforms, Mr. Weller,’ continued Mr. John Smauker; ‘and perhaps you’ll find some of the gentlemen rather high at first, you know, but they’ll soon come round.’

‘That’s wery kind on ‘em,’ replied Sam.

‘And you know,’ resumed Mr. John Smauker, with an air of sublime protection—‘you know, as you’re a stranger, perhaps, they’ll be rather hard upon you at first.’

‘They won’t be wery cruel, though, will they?’ inquired Sam.

‘No, no,’ replied Mr. John Smauker, pulling forth the fox’s head, and taking a gentlemanly pinch. ‘There are some funny dogs among us, and they will have their joke, you know; but you mustn’t mind ‘em, you mustn’t mind ‘em.’

‘I’ll try and bear up agin such a reg’lar knock down o’ talent,’ replied Sam.

‘That’s right,’ said Mr. John Smauker, putting forth his fox’s head, and elevating his own; ‘I’ll stand by you.’

By this time they had reached a small greengrocer’s shop, which Mr. John Smauker entered, followed by Sam, who, the moment he got behind him, relapsed into a series of the very broadest and most unmitigated grins, and manifested other demonstrations of being in a highly enviable state of inward merriment.

Crossing the greengrocer’s shop, and putting their hats on the stairs in the little passage behind it, they walked into a small parlour; and here the full splendour of the scene burst upon Mr. Weller’s view.

A couple of tables were put together in the middle of the parlour, covered with three or four cloths of different ages and dates of washing, arranged to look as much like one as the circumstances of the case would allow. Upon these were laid knives and forks for six or eight people. Some of the knife handles were green, others red, and a few yellow; and as all the forks were black, the combination of colours was exceedingly striking. Plates for a corresponding number of guests were warming behind the fender; and the guests themselves were warming before it: the chief and most important of whom appeared to be a stoutish gentleman in a bright crimson coat with long tails, vividly red breeches, and a cocked hat, who was standing with his back to the fire, and had apparently just entered, for besides retaining his cocked hat on his head, he carried in his hand a high stick, such as gentlemen of his profession usually elevate in a sloping position over the roofs of carriages.

‘Smauker, my lad, your fin,’ said the gentleman with the cocked hat.

Mr. Smauker dovetailed the top joint of his right-hand little finger into that of the gentleman with the cocked hat, and said he was charmed to see him looking so well.

‘Well, they tell me I am looking pretty blooming,’ said the man with the cocked hat, ‘and it’s a wonder, too. I’ve been following our old woman about, two hours a day, for the last fortnight; and if a constant contemplation of the manner in which she hooks-and-eyes that infernal lavender-coloured old gown of hers behind, isn’t enough to throw anybody into a low state of despondency for life, stop my quarter’s salary.’

At this, the assembled selections laughed very heartily; and one gentleman in a yellow waistcoat, with a coach-trimming border, whispered a neighbour in green-foil smalls, that Tuckle was in spirits to-night.

‘By the bye,’ said Mr. Tuckle, ‘Smauker, my boy, you—’ The remainder of the sentence was forwarded into Mr. John Smauker’s ear, by whisper.

‘Oh, dear me, I quite forgot,’ said Mr. John Smauker. ‘Gentlemen, my friend Mr. Weller.’

‘Sorry to keep the fire off you, Weller,’ said Mr. Tuckle, with a familiar nod. ‘Hope you’re not cold, Weller.’

‘Not by no means, Blazes,’ replied Sam. ‘It ‘ud be a wery chilly subject as felt cold wen you stood opposite. You’d save coals if they put you behind the fender in the waitin’-room at a public office, you would.’

As this retort appeared to convey rather a personal allusion to Mr. Tuckle’s crimson livery, that gentleman looked majestic for a few seconds, but gradually edging away from the fire, broke into a forced smile, and said it wasn’t bad.

‘Wery much obliged for your good opinion, sir,’ replied Sam. ‘We shall get on by degrees, I des-say. We’ll try a better one by and bye.’

At this point the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a gentleman in orange-coloured plush, accompanied by another selection in purple cloth, with a great extent of stocking. The new-comers having been welcomed by the old ones, Mr. Tuckle put the question that supper be ordered in, which was carried unanimously.

The greengrocer and his wife then arranged upon the table a boiled leg of mutton, hot, with caper sauce, turnips, and potatoes. Mr. Tuckle took the chair, and was supported at the other end of the board by the gentleman in orange plush. The greengrocer put on a pair of wash-leather gloves to hand the plates with, and stationed himself behind Mr. Tuckle’s chair.

‘Harris,’ said Mr. Tuckle, in a commanding tone.

‘Sir,’ said the greengrocer.

‘Have you got your gloves on?’

Yes, Sir.’

‘Then take the kiver off.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

The greengrocer did as he was told, with a show of great humility, and obsequiously handed Mr. Tuckle the carving-knife; in doing which, he accidentally gaped.

‘What do you mean by that, Sir?’ said Mr. Tuckle, with great asperity.

‘I beg your pardon, Sir,’ replied the crestfallen greengrocer, ‘I didn’t mean to do it, Sir; I was up very late last night, Sir.’

‘I tell you what my opinion of you is, Harris,’ said Mr. Tuckle, with a most impressive air, ‘you’re a wulgar beast.’

‘I hope, gentlemen,’ said Harris, ‘that you won’t be severe with me, gentlemen. I am very much obliged to you indeed, gentlemen, for your patronage, and also for your recommendations, gentlemen, whenever additional assistance in waiting is required. I hope, gentlemen, I give satisfaction.’

“Da questa parte,” disse il suo nuovo amico, visibilmente sollevato, mentre svoltavano in una strada secondaria; “arriveremo presto.”

“Andiamo?” disse Sam, del tutto indifferente all’annuncio che lo avvicinava molto ai servitori selezionati di Bath.

“Sì,” disse il signor John Smauker. “Non allarmatevi, signor Weller.”

“Oh, no,” disse Sam.

“Vedrà delle uniformi davvero molto belle, signor Weller,” continuò il signor John Smoker; “e forse all’inizio le sembreranno un po’ alte, sa, ma presto si abituerà.”

“È davvero molto gentile da parte loro,” rispose Sam.

“E sai,” riprese il signor John Smauker con un tono di suprema protezione, “visto che sei uno straniero, forse all’inizio ti tratteranno in modo piuttosto duro.”

“Però non saranno troppo crudeli, vero?”, chiese Sam.

“No, no,” rispose il signor John Smauker, estraendo la testa della volpe e dandole un leggero pizzico con gentilezza. “Tra di noi ci sono alcuni >cani strani, e vogliono semplicemente scherzare, capite? Ma non dovete prendervela sul serio.”

“Cercherò di resistere ancora a un tale continuo annientamento del mio talento,” rispose Sam.

“Esatto,” disse il signor John Smauker, sporgendo la sua testa da volpe e sollevando anche la propria; “ti starò accanto.”

A quell’ora, avevano raggiunto un piccolo negozio di verdure; il signor John Smauker vi entrò, seguito da Sam, che non appena gli fu alle spalle ricominciò a sorridere ampiamente e senza ritegno, dimostrando chiaramente di essere in uno stato di grande gioia interiore.

Attraversando il negozio dell’ortolano e mettendo i cappelli sulle scale del piccolo corridoio dietro di esso, entrarono in una piccola sala; ed è qui che tutto lo splendore della scena si aprì davanti agli occhi di Mr. Weller.

Un paio di tavoli furono messi insieme al centro del salotto; erano coperti da tre o quattro tovaglie di età e data di lavaggio diverse, disposte in modo da sembrare un unico pezzo, nella misura consentita dalle circostanze. Su di esse erano posizionati coltelli e forchette per sei o otto persone: alcune impugnature dei coltelli erano verdi, altre rosse, e alcune gialle; poiché tutte le forchette erano nere, la combinazione dei colori risultava estremamente vivida. Piatti per un numero equivalente di ospiti si stavano riscaldando dietro il camino; gli stessi ospiti si trovavano davanti ad esso: il più importante tra loro sembrava essere un uomo robusto, vestito con un abito scarlatto brillante con lunghe code, pantaloni rossi vivaci e un cappello a punta; stava in piedi di spalle al camino ed evidentemente era appena entrato, poiché continuava a tenersi il cappello in testa e teneva in mano un bastone alto, come quelli che i gentiluomini della sua professione solitamente utilizzano per sorreggersi sul tetto delle carrozze.

“Smauker, mio caro, la tua pinna, ”, disse il gentiluomo con il cappello inclinato.

Il signor Smauker fece incastrare la parte superiore del mignolo destro nel dito corrispondente dell’uomo con il cappello inclinato, e disse di essere molto felice di vederlo così bene in salute.

“Beh,” disse l’uomo con il cappello inclinato, “dicono che abbia un aspetto davvero piacevole. E in effetti è sorprendente. Negli ultimi quindici giorni seguo quella nostra vecchia donna per due ore al giorno; e se non bastasse osservare costantemente il modo in cui si sistema quel maledetto vestito color lavanda dietro la schiena, per far cadere chiunque in uno stato di disperazione permanente, beh, allora mi manca solo un altro motivo per essere sconsolato.”

A questo punto, tutti i presenti risero molto di cuore; e un gentiluomo con una giacca gialla bordata di pelliccia sussurrò a un vicino vestito con pantaloni verdi che Tuckle era di ottimo umore, per quella notte.

“Arrivederci,” disse il signor Tuckle, “Smauker, mio ragazzo, tu, ” Il resto della frase fu sussurrato all’orecchio del signor John Smauker.

“Oh, mio Dio, me ne sono completamente dimenticato,” disse il signor John Smauker. “Signori, il mio amico il signor Weller.”

“Mi dispiace di tenerti lontano dal fuoco, Weller,” disse il signor Tuckle, facendo un cenno familiare con la testa. “Spero che tu non abbia freddo, Weller.”

“Assolutamente no, Blazes,” rispose Sam. “Sarebbe un argomento davvero freddo. Mi sono sentito gelato quando ti ho visto lì di fronte a me. Risparmierei dei carboni se mi mettessero dietro il paravento nell’atrio di un ufficio pubblico, te lo assicuro.”

Poiché questa risposta sembrava contenere un’allusione personale alla livrea color cremisi del signor Tuckle, quel gentiluomo apparve maestoso per qualche secondo; poi, allontanandosi gradualmente dal fuoco, abbozzò un sorriso forzato e disse che non era affatto male.

“Grazie mille per la sua buona opinione, signore,” rispose Sam. “Penso che andrà tutto bene poco a poco. Proveremo qualcosa di meglio in futuro.”

A questo punto la conversazione fu interrotta dall’arrivo di un gentiluomo vestito di velluto arancione, accompagnato da un altro individuo in abiti di seta viola con calze molto lunghe. Dopo essere stati accolti dagli altri presenti, il signor Tuckle propose di ordinare la cena, e l’idea fu approvata all’unanimità.

Il verduriere e sua moglie disposero quindi sul tavolo una gamba di montone bollita, calda, con salsa di capperi, rape e patate. Il signor Tuckle si sedette sulla sedia, mentre dall’altra estremità del tavolo lo sosteneva il gentiluomo in velluto arancione. Il verduriere indossò un paio di guanti di pelle per servire i piatti e si posizionò dietro la sedia del signor Tuckle.

“Harris,” disse il signor Tuckle con tono autoritario.

“Signore,” disse il verduriere.

“Hai messo i guanti?”

“Sì, signore.”

“Allora togli il mantello.”

“Sì, signore.”

Il verduriere fece ciò che gli era stato detto, dimostrando grande umiltà, e consegnò obbedientemente al signor Tuckle il coltello da taglio; nel farlo, però, aprì involontariamente la bocca per lo stupore.

“Cosa intende dire con questo, signore?”, chiese il signor Tuckle con grande asprezza.

“Perdonatemi, signore,” rispose il verduriere sconsolato, “non volevo farlo, signore; sono stato sveglio fino a molto tardi la scorsa notte, signore.”

“Vi dico quale è la mia opinione su di voi, Harris,” disse il signor Tuckle con un tono molto imponente, “siete una bestia volgare.”

“Spero, signori,” disse Harris, “che non siate troppo severi con me. Sono davvero molto grato a voi per il vostro sostegno e anche per le vostre raccomandazioni, ogni volta che sia necessario ulteriore aiuto nel servizio. Vi assicuro, signori, di essere all’altezza delle aspettative.”

‘No, you don’t, Sir,’ said Mr. Tuckle. ‘Very far from it, Sir.’

‘We consider you an inattentive reskel,’ said the gentleman in the orange plush.

‘And a low thief,’ added the gentleman in the green-foil smalls.

‘And an unreclaimable blaygaird,’ added the gentleman in purple.

The poor greengrocer bowed very humbly while these little epithets were bestowed upon him, in the true spirit of the very smallest tyranny; and when everybody had said something to show his superiority, Mr. Tuckle proceeded to carve the leg of mutton, and to help the company.

This important business of the evening had hardly commenced, when the door was thrown briskly open, and another gentleman in a light-blue suit, and leaden buttons, made his appearance.

‘Against the rules,’ said Mr. Tuckle. ‘Too late, too late.’

‘No, no; positively I couldn’t help it,’ said the gentleman in blue. ‘I appeal to the company. An affair of gallantry now, an appointment at the theayter.’

‘Oh, that indeed,’ said the gentleman in the orange plush.

‘Yes; raly now, honour bright,’ said the man in blue. ‘I made a promese to fetch our youngest daughter at half-past ten, and she is such an uncauminly fine gal, that I raly hadn’t the ‘art to disappint her. No offence to the present company, Sir, but a petticut, sir—a petticut, Sir, is irrevokeable.’

‘I begin to suspect there’s something in that quarter,’ said Tuckle, as the new-comer took his seat next Sam, ‘I’ve remarked, once or twice, that she leans very heavy on your shoulder when she gets in and out of the carriage.’

‘Oh, raly, raly, Tuckle, you shouldn’t,’ said the man in blue. ‘It’s not fair. I may have said to one or two friends that she wos a very divine creechure, and had refused one or two offers without any hobvus cause, but—no, no, no, indeed, Tuckle—before strangers, too—it’s not right— you shouldn’t. Delicacy, my dear friend, delicacy!’ And the man in blue, pulling up his neckerchief, and adjusting his coat cuffs, nodded and frowned as if there were more behind, which he could say if he liked, but was bound in honour to suppress.

The man in blue being a light-haired, stiff-necked, free and easy sort of footman, with a swaggering air and pert face, had attracted Mr. Weller’s special attention at first, but when he began to come out in this way, Sam felt more than ever disposed to cultivate his acquaintance; so he launched himself into the conversation at once, with characteristic independence.

‘Your health, Sir,’ said Sam. ‘I like your conversation much. I think it’s wery pretty.’

At this the man in blue smiled, as if it were a compliment he was well used to; but looked approvingly on Sam at the same time, and said he hoped he should be better acquainted with him, for without any flattery at all he seemed to have the makings of a very nice fellow about him, and to be just the man after his own heart.

‘You’re wery good, sir,’ said Sam. ‘What a lucky feller you are!’

‘How do you mean?’ inquired the gentleman in blue.

‘That ‘ere young lady,’ replied Sam. ‘She knows wot’s wot, she does. Ah! I see.’ Mr. Weller closed one eye, and shook his head from side to side, in a manner which was highly gratifying to the personal vanity of the gentleman in blue.

‘I’m afraid you’re a cunning fellow, Mr. Weller,’ said that individual.

‘No, no,’ said Sam. ‘I leave all that ‘ere to you. It’s a great deal more in your way than mine, as the gen’l’m’n on the right side o’ the garden vall said to the man on the wrong un, ven the mad bull vos a- comin’ up the lane.’

‘Well, well, Mr. Weller,’ said the gentleman in blue, ‘I think she has remarked my air and manner, Mr. Weller.’

‘I should think she couldn’t wery well be off o’ that,’ said Sam.

‘Have you any little thing of that kind in hand, sir?’ inquired the favoured gentleman in blue, drawing a toothpick from his waistcoat pocket.

‘Not exactly,’ said Sam. ‘There’s no daughters at my place, else o’ course I should ha’ made up to vun on ‘em. As it is, I don’t think I can do with anythin’ under a female markis. I might keep up with a young ‘ooman o’ large property as hadn’t a title, if she made wery fierce love to me. Not else.’

‘Of course not, Mr. Weller,’ said the gentleman in blue, ‘one can’t be troubled, you know; and we know, Mr. Weller—we, who are men of the world—that a good uniform must work its way with the women, sooner or later. In fact, that’s the only thing, between you and me, that makes the service worth entering into.’

‘Just so,’ said Sam. ‘That’s it, o’ course.’

When this confidential dialogue had gone thus far, glasses were placed round, and every gentleman ordered what he liked best, before the public-house shut up. The gentleman in blue, and the man in orange, who were the chief exquisites of the party, ordered ‘cold shrub and water,’ but with the others, gin-and-water, sweet, appeared to be the favourite beverage. Sam called the greengrocer a ‘desp’rate willin,’ and ordered a large bowl of punch—two circumstances which seemed to raise him very much in the opinion of the selections.

‘Gentlemen,’ said the man in blue, with an air of the most consummate dandyism, ‘I’ll give you the ladies; come.’

‘Hear, hear!’ said Sam. ‘The young mississes.’

Here there was a loud cry of ‘Order,’ and Mr. John Smauker, as the gentleman who had introduced Mr. Weller into that company, begged to inform him that the word he had just made use of, was unparliamentary.

‘Which word was that ‘ere, Sir?’ inquired Sam.

‘Mississes, Sir,’ replied Mr. John Smauker, with an alarming frown. ‘We don’t recognise such distinctions here.’

‘Oh, wery good,’ said Sam; ‘then I’ll amend the obserwation and call ‘em the dear creeturs, if Blazes vill allow me.’

Some doubt appeared to exist in the mind of the gentleman in the green- foil smalls, whether the chairman could be legally appealed to, as ‘Blazes,’ but as the company seemed more disposed to stand upon their own rights than his, the question was not raised. The man with the cocked hat breathed short, and looked long at Sam, but apparently thought it as well to say nothing, in case he should get the worst of it. After a short silence, a gentleman in an embroidered coat reaching down to his heels, and a waistcoat of the same which kept one half of his legs warm, stirred his gin-and-water with great energy, and putting himself upon his feet, all at once by a violent effort, said he was desirous of offering a few remarks to the company, whereupon the person in the cocked hat had no doubt that the company would be very happy to hear any remarks that the man in the long coat might wish to offer.

“No, non è affatto così, signore,” disse il signor Tuckle. “Molto lontano da ciò, signore.”

“Vi consideriamo un modello riqualificato negligente,” disse il signore vestito di velluto arancione.

“E anche un ladro meschino,” aggiunse il gentiluomo con i pantaloni di carta verde.

“E un blaygaird irrecuperabile,” aggiunse il gentiluomo vestito di viola.

Il povero verdureggiere si inchinò molto umilmente mentre gli venivano rivolti questi piccoli epiteti, nel vero spirito della più meschina tirannia; e quando tutti ebbero detto qualcosa per dimostrare la propria superiorità, il signor Tuckle iniziò a tagliare la coscia di montone e ad aiutare gli altri a mangiare.

Questo importante incontro serale era appena iniziato, quando la porta si aprì bruscamente e comparve un altro signore vestito con un abito di colore blu chiaro e bottoni di piombo.

“Contrario alle regole”, disse il signor Tuckle. “È troppo tardi, troppo tardi.”

“No, no; davvero non ho potuto farci nulla,” disse il gentiluomo in blu. “Appello alla compagnia. Si tratta di una questione di galanteria, un appuntamento per stasera.”

“Ah, davvero,” disse il gentiluomo vestito di velluto arancione.

“Sì; davvero, ora devo mantenere la mia promessa,” disse l’uomo in blu. “Ho promesso di venire a prendere nostra figlia minore alle dieci e mezza, e lei è una ragazza così incantevole che davvero non avrei il coraggio di deluderla. Nessuna offesa per voi presenti, signori, ma, un piccolo impegno, signori, un piccolo impegno che non può essere revocato.”

“Comincio a sospettare che ci sia qualcosa di strano in quella zona,” disse Tuckle mentre il nuovo arrivato si sedeva accanto a Sam. “Ho notato, una o due volte, che lei si appoggia molto pesantemente sulla tua spalla quando sale e scende dalla carrozza.”

“Oh, davvero, davvero, Tuckle, non dovresti farlo,” disse l’uomo in blu. “Non è giusto. Forse ho detto a uno o due amici che era una creatura davvero incantevole, e che aveva rifiutato alcune offerte senza alcun motivo evidente. Ma no, assolutamente no. Anche di fronte agli sconosciuti. Non è corretto. Non dovresti farlo. Decoro, mio caro amico, decoro!” E l’uomo in blu, tirandosi su il fazzoletto e sistemando i polsini del cappotto, annuì e aggrottò la fronte, come se ci fosse ancora qualcosa da aggiungere. Qualcosa che avrebbe potuto dire se avesse voluto. Ma che, per motivi di onore, preferiva trattenere.

L’uomo in blu, con i capelli biondi, il collo rigido e un atteggiamento disinvolto, aveva immediatamente attirato l’attenzione di Mr. Weller; ma quando iniziò a comportarsi in questo modo, Sam sentì ancora di più il desiderio di approfondire la sua conoscenza con lui, quindi entrò subito nella conversazione con la tipica indipendenza che lo caratterizzava.

“La sua salute, signore,” disse Sam. “Mi piace molto la sua conversazione. Penso sia davvero bella.”

A questo punto l’uomo in blu sorrise, come se si trattasse di un complimento a cui era ben abituato; ma allo stesso tempo guardò Sam con approvazione e disse di sperare di poterlo conoscere meglio, perché, senza alcun complimento, sembrava davvero avere tutte le qualità per essere una persona molto simpatica, proprio il tipo che cercava.

“Siete davvero bravo, signore,” disse Sam. “Che fortunato siete!”

“Cosa intendi dire?”, chiese il gentiluomo in blu.

“Quella giovane signora, ”, rispose Sam. “Lei sa bene cosa significa tutto questo, davvero. Ah! Ora capisco.” Il signor Weller chiuse un occhio e scosse la testa avanti e indietro, in modo che soddisfacesse molto l’vanità personale di quel gentiluomo in blu.

“Temo che lei sia un uomo astuto, signor Weller,” disse quell’individuo.

“No, no,” disse Sam. “Lascio tutta questa roba a te. Per te rappresenta molto di più che per me. Come ha detto il generale dall’estremità giusta del giardino all’uomo dall’estremità sbagliata, quando quel toro pazzo stava arrivando lungo il sentiero, ”

“Beh, beh, signor Weller,” disse il gentiluomo in blu, “penso che lei abbia notato il mio aspetto e il mio modo di comportarmi, signor Weller.”

“Dovrei pensare che non possa stare davvero bene lontano da lì,” disse Sam.

“Avete qualcosa del genere a portata di mano, signore?”, chiese il gentiluomo dal gilet blu, estraendo un bastoncino da denti dalla tasca del suo gilet.

“Non esattamente,” disse Sam. “A casa mia non ci sono figlie femmine, altrimenti ovviamente ne avrei scelta una. Comunque, non credo di essere interessato a nessuna donna con il titolo di marchesa. Forse accetterei una giovane donna con un’ampia proprietà, purché non avesse alcun titolo nobiliare. Se solo mi dimostrasse un amore davvero profondo. Ma nient’altro.”

“Certo che no, signor Weller,” disse il gentiluomo in blu, “non si può certo permettersi di essere disturbati, capisce? E noi, signor Weller, noi che conosciamo bene la vita, sappiamo che una bella uniforme, prima o poi, riesce sempre ad attirare l’attenzione delle donne. Anzi, è proprio questo l’unico motivo per cui vale la pena entrare in questa professione.”

“Esatto,” disse Sam. “È proprio così, naturalmente.”

Quando questo dialogo confidenziale era giunto a questo punto, tutti si misero gli occhiali e ognun signore ordinò ciò che preferiva, prima che il ristorante pubblico chiudesse. Il signore in blu e l’uomo in arancione, che erano i principali esigenti della compagnia, ordinarono “arbusti freddi e acqua”, ma tra gli altri, il gin con acqua zuccherata sembrava essere la bevanda preferita. Sam chiamò il verduriere un “disperato” e ordinò una grande ciotola di punch. Due circostanze che, a quanto pare, lo fecero salire molto nella stima degli altri presenti.

“Signori,” disse l’uomo in blu, con un tono tipico del più raffinato dandismo, “vi lascio le signore; venite.”

“Sentite, sentite!” disse Sam. “Le giovani signorine, ”

Si udì allora un forte grido che chiedeva “Ordine”, e il signor John Smauker, essendo l’uomo che aveva presentato il signor Weller in quella compagnia, pregò di informarlo che la parola appena usata da lui era inappropriata per un ambiente parlamentare.

“Quale parola era quella, ‘ere’, signore?”, chiese Sam.

“Signore, signore,” rispose il signor John Smauker con un cipiglio allarmante. “Qui non riconosciamo simili distinzioni.”

“Oh, molto bene,” disse Sam; “allora modificherò la mia osservazione e li chiamerò ‘quegli adorabili esseri’, se a Blaze piacerà.”

Sembrava esistere qualche >dubbio nella mente del gentiluomo vestito con quel gilet di carta verde: se fosse possibile ricorrere legalmente al presidente, chiamandolo “Blazes”. Tuttavia, poiché l’azienda sembrava più propensa a difendere i propri diritti che quelli di lui, la questione non fu sollevata. L’uomo con il cappello a cilindro respirava affannosamente e guardò a lungo Sam, ma evidentemente decise di non dire nulla, nel caso in cui ne risultasse danneggiato. Dopo un breve silenzio, un gentiluomo vestito con un cappotto ricamato che gli arrivava fino ai talloni e una cravatta dello stesso tessuto che gli teneva calde le gambe, agitò con forza il proprio gin e acqua, si alzò in piedi di scatto e dichiarò di voler fare alcune osservazioni all’assemblea. L’uomo con il cappello a cilindro non ebbe alcun >dubbio che l’assemblea sarebbe stata molto felice di ascoltare qualsiasi cosa volesse dire quel gentiluomo dal lungo cappotto.

‘I feel a great delicacy, gentlemen, in coming for’ard,’ said the man in the long coat, ‘having the misforchune to be a coachman, and being only admitted as a honorary member of these agreeable swarrys, but I do feel myself bound, gentlemen—drove into a corner, if I may use the expression—to make known an afflicting circumstance which has come to my knowledge; which has happened I may say within the soap of my everyday contemplation. Gentlemen, our friend Mr. Whiffers (everybody looked at the individual in orange), our friend Mr. Whiffers has resigned.’

Universal astonishment fell upon the hearers. Each gentleman looked in his neighbour’s face, and then transferred his glance to the upstanding coachman.

‘You may well be sapparised, gentlemen,’ said the coachman. ‘I will not wenchure to state the reasons of this irrepairabel loss to the service, but I will beg Mr. Whiffers to state them himself, for the improvement and imitation of his admiring friends.’

The suggestion being loudly approved of, Mr. Whiffers explained. He said he certainly could have wished to have continued to hold the appointment he had just resigned. The uniform was extremely rich and expensive, the females of the family was most agreeable, and the duties of the situation was not, he was bound to say, too heavy; the principal service that was required of him, being, that he should look out of the hall window as much as possible, in company with another gentleman, who had also resigned. He could have wished to have spared that company the painful and disgusting detail on which he was about to enter, but as the explanation had been demanded of him, he had no alternative but to state, boldly and distinctly, that he had been required to eat cold meat.

It is impossible to conceive the disgust which this avowal awakened in the bosoms of the hearers. Loud cries of ‘Shame,’ mingled with groans and hisses, prevailed for a quarter of an hour.

Mr. Whiffers then added that he feared a portion of this outrage might be traced to his own forbearing and accommodating disposition. He had a distinct recollection of having once consented to eat salt butter, and he had, moreover, on an occasion of sudden sickness in the house, so far forgotten himself as to carry a coal-scuttle up to the second floor. He trusted he had not lowered himself in the good opinion of his friends by this frank confession of his faults; and he hoped the promptness with which he had resented the last unmanly outrage on his feelings, to which he had referred, would reinstate him in their good opinion, if he had.

Mr. Whiffers’s address was responded to, with a shout of admiration, and the health of the interesting martyr was drunk in a most enthusiastic manner; for this, the martyr returned thanks, and proposed their visitor, Mr. Weller—a gentleman whom he had not the pleasure of an intimate acquaintance with, but who was the friend of Mr. John Smauker, which was a sufficient letter of recommendation to any society of gentlemen whatever, or wherever. On this account, he should have been disposed to have given Mr. Weller’s health with all the honours, if his friends had been drinking wine; but as they were taking spirits by way of a change, and as it might be inconvenient to empty a tumbler at every toast, he should propose that the honours be understood.

At the conclusion of this speech, everybody took a sip in honour of Sam; and Sam having ladled out, and drunk, two full glasses of punch in honour of himself, returned thanks in a neat speech.

‘Wery much obliged to you, old fellers,’ said Sam, ladling away at the punch in the most unembarrassed manner possible, ‘for this here compliment; which, comin’ from sich a quarter, is wery overvelmin’. I’ve heered a good deal on you as a body, but I will say, that I never thought you was sich uncommon nice men as I find you air. I only hope you’ll take care o’ yourselves, and not compromise nothin’ o’ your dignity, which is a wery charmin’ thing to see, when one’s out a- walkin’, and has always made me wery happy to look at, ever since I was a boy about half as high as the brass-headed stick o’ my wery respectable friend, Blazes, there. As to the wictim of oppression in the suit o’ brimstone, all I can say of him, is, that I hope he’ll get jist as good a berth as he deserves; in vitch case it’s wery little cold swarry as ever he’ll be troubled with agin.’

Here Sam sat down with a pleasant smile, and his speech having been vociferously applauded, the company broke up.

‘Wy, you don’t mean to say you’re a-goin’ old feller?’ said Sam Weller to his friend, Mr. John Smauker.

‘I must, indeed,’ said Mr. Smauker; ‘I promised Bantam.’

‘Oh, wery well,’ said Sam; ‘that’s another thing. P’raps he’d resign if you disappinted him. You ain’t a-goin’, Blazes?’

‘Yes, I am,’ said the man with the cocked hat.

‘Wot, and leave three-quarters of a bowl of punch behind you!’ said Sam; ‘nonsense, set down agin.’

Mr. Tuckle was not proof against this invitation. He laid aside the cocked hat and stick which he had just taken up, and said he would have one glass, for good fellowship’s sake.

As the gentleman in blue went home the same way as Mr. Tuckle, he was prevailed upon to stop too. When the punch was about half gone, Sam ordered in some oysters from the green-grocer’s shop; and the effect of both was so extremely exhilarating, that Mr. Tuckle, dressed out with the cocked hat and stick, danced the frog hornpipe among the shells on the table, while the gentleman in blue played an accompaniment upon an ingenious musical instrument formed of a hair-comb upon a curl-paper. At last, when the punch was all gone, and the night nearly so, they sallied forth to see each other home. Mr. Tuckle no sooner got into the open air, than he was seized with a sudden desire to lie on the curbstone; Sam thought it would be a pity to contradict him, and so let him have his own way. As the cocked hat would have been spoiled if left there, Sam very considerately flattened it down on the head of the gentleman in blue, and putting the big stick in his hand, propped him up against his own street-door, rang the bell, and walked quietly home.

“Signori, provo una grande delicatezza nell’intervenire in questa situazione”, disse l’uomo con il lungo cappotto, “poiché sfortunatamente sono solo un cocchiere e sono stato ammesso qui soltanto come membro onorario di queste piacevoli riunioni. Tuttavia, mi sento in dovere, signori – per usare un’espressione metaforica – di farvi conoscere una circostanza dolorosa di cui sono venuto a sapere; una situazione che, potrei dire, si è verificata proprio sotto i miei occhi, nella mia vita quotidiana. Signori, il nostro amico Mr. Whiffers, (tutti guardarono l’uomo in arancione). Mr. Whiffers ha rassegnato le dimissioni.”

Un’indignazione universale si diffuse tra gli ascoltatori. Ogni gentiluomo guardò il volto del suo vicino, poi spostò lo sguardo sul cocchiere in piedi davanti a loro.

“Potreste anche essere stati rapiti, signori,” disse il cocchiere. “Non mi addentrerò nei motivi di questa irreparabile perdita per i nostri servizi, ma chiederò al signor Whiffers di spiegarli lui stesso, affinché i suoi ammiratori possano trarne insegnamenti e imitarne l’esempio.”

La proposta fu approvata con entusiasmo, spiegò il signor Whiffers. Disse che sicuramente avrebbe voluto continuare a ricoprire la carica che aveva appena rassegnato. L’uniforme era estremamente elegante e costosa, le donne della famiglia erano molto piacevoli da frequentare, e i compiti richiesti non erano, doveva ammetterlo, troppo onerosi; il compito principale che gli veniva chiesto consisteva nel guardare fuori dalla finestra del salone il più possibile, in compagnia di un altro gentiluomo che aveva anch’egli rassegnato le dimissioni. Avrebbe voluto risparmiare a quel compagno i dettagli dolorosi e disgustosi di cui stava per parlare, ma poiché gli era stato chiesto di spiegare, non gli restò altra scelta se non quella di dichiarare apertamente e chiaramente che gli era stato richiesto di mangiare carne fredda.

È impossibile immaginare lo disgusto che questa confessione suscitò nei cuori degli ascoltatori. Grida di “Disgusto”, mescolate a gemiti e sibili, dominarono per un quarto d’ora.

Il signor Whiffers aggiunse quindi che temeva che una parte di questa offesa potesse essere attribuita alla sua stessa tolleranza e disponibilità. Ricordava chiaramente di aver acconsentito una volta a mangiare burro salato, e in un’occasione in cui si era improvvisamente ammalato in casa, aveva persino dimenticato completamente se stesso al punto da portare su per il secondo piano una scatola per il carbone. Sperava che questa sincera confessione dei suoi difetti non gli avesse diminuito l’affetto degli amici; e confidava che la prontezza con cui aveva reagito all’ultima offesa ingiusta nei suoi confronti potesse ristabilire la loro stima per lui, qualora ciò fosse ancora possibile.

All’indirizzo di Mr. Whiffers risuonò un grido di ammirazione; la salute di questo interessante “martire” fu brindata con grande entusiasmo. Per questo, il “martire” ringraziò e presentò il loro visitatore: Mr. Weller, un gentiluomo che non aveva l’onore di conoscere personalmente, ma che era amico di Mr. John Smauker. Il che rappresentava una referenza più che sufficiente in qualsiasi società di gentiluomini, ovunque si trovasse. Per questo motivo, avrebbe voluto brindare alla salute di Mr. Weller con tutti gli onori dovuti, se i suoi amici avessero bevuto vino; ma poiché preferivano gli alcolici e non sarebbe stato pratico svuotare un bicchiere ad ogni brindisi, propose che tali onori venissero intesi in modo implicito.

Al termine di questo discorso, tutti bevvero un sorso in onore di Sam; e dopo che Sam aveva versato e bevuto due bicchieri pieni di punch in onore proprio suo, rispose ringraziando con un discorso ben congegnato.

“Sono davvero molto grato a voi, vecchi amici,” disse Sam, mangiando con grande appetito il punch, “per questo complimento, che, venendo da persone del vostro calibro, è davvero inaspettato. Ho sentito parlare molto bene di voi come persone, ma devo dire che non avrei mai immaginato foste così gentili e premurosi. Spero solo che vi prendiate cura di voi stessi e che non mettiate a rischio la vostra dignità, una qualità davvero incantevole da vedere, soprattutto quando si è fuori casa. E mi ha sempre fatto molto piacere osservarla, fin da quando ero un ragazzo, alto circa la metà del bastone di rame del mio molto rispettabile amico Blazes.” Per quanto riguarda la vittima di oppressione in questione, beh, tutto quello che posso dire è che spero davvero che riceva esattamente ciò che merita; in ogni caso, non credo che debba più affrontare alcun problema.

Qui Sam si sedette con un sorriso piacevole; dopo che il suo discorso fu accolto da calorosi applausi, la compagnia si sciolse.

“Ma non vorrai dire che stai invecchiando, amico mio?”, disse Sam Weller al suo amico, il signor John Smauker.

“Devo proprio farlo,” disse il signor Smauker; “l’ho promesso a Bantam.”

“Ah, davvero bene,” disse Sam; “questo è un altro discorso. Forse si dimetterebbe se lo deludessi. Non andrai mica via, vero, Blazes?”

“Sì, lo sono,” disse l’uomo con il cappello inclinato.

“Ma che fai, lasciando indietro tre quarti di una ciotola di punch!” disse Sam;
“Sciocchezze, mettilo giù di nuovo.”

Il signor Tuckle non fu immune a questa invitazione. Lasciò da parte il cappello a cilindro e il bastone che aveva appena preso in mano, e disse che avrebbe bevuto un bicchiere, per il bene della buona compagnia.

Mentre il gentiluomo in blu tornava a casa nello stesso modo di Mr. Tuckle, anche lui fu convinto ad fermarsi. Quando la bevanda era quasi finita, Sam ordinò delle ostriche dal negozio del verduriere; l’effetto combinato di entrambe le cose fu così estremamente eccitante che Mr. Tuckle, vestito con il cappello a punta e il bastone, iniziò a ballare tra le conchiglie sul tavolo, mentre il gentiluomo in blu suonava un accompagnamento utilizzando uno strumento musicale ingegnoso fatto di una pettine posizionata su della carta ondulata. Alla fine, quando la bevanda fu completamente finita e la notte era ormai quasi trascorsa, uscirono insieme per salutarsi a casa. Non appena Mr. Tuckle si trovò all’aperto, provò un improvviso desiderio di sdraiarsi sul marciapiede; Sam pensò che sarebbe stato un peccato contraddirlo, quindi gli permise di fare come voleva. Poiché il cappello a punta avrebbe potuto rovinarsi se lasciato lì, Sam lo appiattì con cura sulla testa del gentiluomo in blu, gli diede il grande bastone e lo aiutò ad appoggiarsi alla sua stessa porta di casa; poi suonò il campanello e se ne andò silenziosamente a casa.

At a much earlier hour next morning than his usual time of rising, Mr. Pickwick walked downstairs completely dressed, and rang the bell.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, when Mr. Weller appeared in reply to the summons, ‘shut the door.’

Mr. Weller did so.

‘There was an unfortunate occurrence here, last night, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘which gave Mr. Winkle some cause to apprehend violence from Mr. Dowler.’

‘So I’ve heerd from the old lady downstairs, Sir,’ replied Sam.

‘And I’m sorry to say, Sam,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, with a most perplexed countenance, ‘that in dread of this violence, Mr. Winkle has gone away.’

‘Gone avay!’ said Sam.

‘Left the house early this morning, without the slightest previous communication with me,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘And is gone, I know not where.’

‘He should ha’ stopped and fought it out, Sir,’ replied Sam contemptuously. ‘It wouldn’t take much to settle that ‘ere Dowler, Sir.’

‘Well, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I may have my doubts of his great bravery and determination also. But however that may be, Mr. Winkle is gone. He must be found, Sam. Found and brought back to me.’

And s’pose he won’t come back, Sir?’ said Sam.

‘He must be made, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Who’s to do it, Sir?’ inquired Sam, with a smile.

‘You,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Wery good, Sir.’

With these words Mr. Weller left the room, and immediately afterwards was heard to shut the street door. In two hours’ time he returned with so much coolness as if he had been despatched on the most ordinary message possible, and brought the information that an individual, in every respect answering Mr. Winkle’s description, had gone over to Bristol that morning, by the branch coach from the Royal Hotel.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, grasping his hand, ‘you’re a capital fellow; an invaluable fellow. You must follow him, Sam.’

‘Cert’nly, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘The instant you discover him, write to me immediately, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘If he attempts to run away from you, knock him down, or lock him up. You have my full authority, Sam.’

‘I’ll be wery careful, sir,’ rejoined Sam.

‘You’ll tell him,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘that I am highly excited, highly displeased, and naturally indignant, at the very extraordinary course he has thought proper to pursue.’

‘I will, Sir,’ replied Sam.

‘You’ll tell him,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘that if he does not come back to this very house, with you, he will come back with me, for I will come and fetch him.’

‘I’ll mention that ‘ere, Sir,’ rejoined Sam.

‘You think you can find him, Sam?’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking earnestly in his face.

‘Oh, I’ll find him if he’s anyvere,’ rejoined Sam, with great confidence.

‘Very well,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Then the sooner you go the better.’

With these instructions, Mr. Pickwick placed a sum of money in the hands of his faithful servitor, and ordered him to start for Bristol immediately, in pursuit of the fugitive.

Sam put a few necessaries in a carpet-bag, and was ready for starting. He stopped when he had got to the end of the passage, and walking quietly back, thrust his head in at the parlour door.

‘Sir,’ whispered Sam.

‘Well, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘I fully understands my instructions, do I, Sir?’ inquired Sam.

‘I hope so,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘It’s reg’larly understood about the knockin’ down, is it, Sir?’ inquired Sam.

‘Perfectly,’ replied Pickwick. ‘Thoroughly. Do what you think necessary. You have my orders.’

Sam gave a nod of intelligence, and withdrawing his head from the door, set forth on his pilgrimage with a light heart.

Molto prima dell’ora solita in cui si alzava, il signor Pickwick scese le scale completamente vestito e suonò il campanello.

“Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick quando il signor Weller apparve in risposta alla chiamata, “chiudi la porta.”

Il signor Weller lo fece.

“È accaduto un incidente sfortunato qui, ieri notte, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick, “il che ha fatto sì che il signor Winkle temesse qualche atto di violenza da parte del signor Dowler.”

“So che l’ho sentito dire dalla vecchia signora di sotto, signore,” rispose Sam.

“E mi dispiace dirlo, Sam,” continuò il signor Pickwick con un’espressione molto perplessa, “ma per paura di questa violenza, il signor Winkle se n’è andato.”

“Via!” disse Sam.

“È uscito di casa stamattina presto, senza nemmeno comunicarmelo in anticipo,” rispose il signor Pickwick. “E ora è sparito, chissà dove.”

“Avrebbe dovuto fermarsi e affrontarlo, signore,” rispose Sam con disprezzo. “Non sarebbe servito molto per risolvere quella questione, quel Dowler, signore.”

“Beh, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick, “forse anch’io ho dei dubbi sulla sua grande coraggio e determinazione. Ma in ogni caso, il signor Winkle è scomparso. Dobbiamo trovarlo, Sam. Trovarlo e riportarlo da me.”

“E si presume che non tornerà, signore?” disse Sam.

“Deve essere creato,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Chi lo farà, signore?”, chiese Sam sorridendo.

“Tu,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

“Molto bene, signore.”

Con queste parole, il signor Weller lasciò la stanza; subito dopo si sentì chiudere la porta d’ingresso. Dopo due ore tornò con estrema calma, come se fosse stato mandato a portare un messaggio del tutto ordinario, e riferì che una persona che corrispondeva in ogni dettaglio alla descrizione fatta dal signor Winkle era partita quella mattina per Bristol con il treno locale che partiva dall’Hotel Royal.

“Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick, stringendogli la mano, “sei un uomo davvero eccezionale; un uomo inestimabile. Devi seguirlo, Sam.”

“Certo, signore,” rispose il signor Weller.

“Non appena lo trovi, scrivimi immediatamente, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Se cerca di scappare da te, buttaglialo a terra o rinchiudilo. Hai tutta la mia autorità, Sam.”

“Farò molta attenzione, signore,” rispose Sam.

“Glielo dirai tu,” disse il signor Pickwick, “che sono profondamente eccitato, molto scontento e naturalmente indignato per il comportamento assolutamente inappropriato che ha ritenuto opportuno seguire.”

“Lo farò, signore,” rispose Sam.

“Glielo dirai tu,” disse il signor Pickwick, “che se non torna proprio in questa casa con te, tornerà con me, perché verrò a prenderlo io stesso.”

“Lo menzionerò, signore,” ribatté Sam.

“Pensi davvero di riuscire a trovarlo, Sam?” disse il signor Pickwick, guardandolo seriamente negli occhi.

“Ah, lo troverò se esiste davvero,” rispose Sam con grande fiducia.

“Molto bene,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Allora, più presto parti e meglio sarà.”

Con queste istruzioni, il signor Pickwick consegnò una somma di denaro al suo fedele servitore, ordinandogli di partire immediatamente per Bristol alla ricerca del fuggitivo.

Sam mise alcune cose essenziali in una borsa di stoffa e si preparò ad partire. Si fermò quando arrivò alla fine del corridoio e, tornando indietro silenziosamente, infilò la testa dentro la porta del salotto.

“Signore,” sussurrò Sam.

“Beh, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Capisco perfettamente le istruzioni che mi sono state date, vero, Signore?” chiese Sam.

“Spero proprio di sì,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Si capisce abbastanza bene cosa significhi demolire, vero, Signore?” chiese Sam.

“Perfettamente,” rispose Pickwick. “Assolutamente. Fai ciò che ritieni necessario. Hai i miei ordini.”

Sam annuì con aria intelligente, poi ritirò la testa dalla porta e partì per il suo viaggio con il cuore leggero.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. HOW MR. WINKLE, WHEN HE STEPPED OUT OF THE FRYING-PAN, WALKED GENTLY AND COMFORTABLY INTO THE FIRE

The ill-starred gentleman who had been the unfortunate cause of the unusual noise and disturbance which alarmed the inhabitants of the Royal Crescent in manner and form already described, after passing a night of great confusion and anxiety, left the roof beneath which his friends still slumbered, bound he knew not whither. The excellent and considerate feelings which prompted Mr. Winkle to take this step can never be too highly appreciated or too warmly extolled. ‘If,’ reasoned Mr. Winkle with himself—‘if this Dowler attempts (as I have no doubt he will) to carry into execution his threat of personal violence against myself, it will be incumbent on me to call him out. He has a wife; that wife is attached to, and dependent on him. Heavens! If I should kill him in the blindness of my wrath, what would be my feelings ever afterwards!’ This painful consideration operated so powerfully on the feelings of the humane young man, as to cause his knees to knock together, and his countenance to exhibit alarming manifestations of inward emotion. Impelled by such reflections, he grasped his carpet-bag, and creeping stealthily downstairs, shut the detestable street door with as little noise as possible, and walked off. Bending his steps towards the Royal Hotel, he found a coach on the point of starting for Bristol, and, thinking Bristol as good a place for his purpose as any other he could go to, he mounted the box, and reached his place of destination in such time as the pair of horses, who went the whole stage and back again, twice a day or more, could be reasonably supposed to arrive there.

He took up his quarters at the Bush, and designing to postpone any communication by letter with Mr. Pickwick until it was probable that Mr. Dowler’s wrath might have in some degree evaporated, walked forth to view the city, which struck him as being a shade more dirty than any place he had ever seen. Having inspected the docks and shipping, and viewed the cathedral, he inquired his way to Clifton, and being directed thither, took the route which was pointed out to him. But as the pavements of Bristol are not the widest or cleanest upon earth, so its streets are not altogether the straightest or least intricate; and Mr. Winkle, being greatly puzzled by their manifold windings and twistings, looked about him for a decent shop in which he could apply afresh for counsel and instruction.

His eye fell upon a newly-painted tenement which had been recently converted into something between a shop and a private house, and which a red lamp, projecting over the fanlight of the street door, would have sufficiently announced as the residence of a medical practitioner, even if the word ‘Surgery’ had not been inscribed in golden characters on a wainscot ground, above the window of what, in times bygone, had been the front parlour. Thinking this an eligible place wherein to make his inquiries, Mr. Winkle stepped into the little shop where the gilt- labelled drawers and bottles were; and finding nobody there, knocked with a half-crown on the counter, to attract the attention of anybody who might happen to be in the back parlour, which he judged to be the innermost and peculiar sanctum of the establishment, from the repetition of the word surgery on the door—painted in white letters this time, by way of taking off the monotony.

At the first knock, a sound, as of persons fencing with fire-irons, which had until now been very audible, suddenly ceased; at the second, a studious-looking young gentleman in green spectacles, with a very large book in his hand, glided quietly into the shop, and stepping behind the counter, requested to know the visitor’s pleasure.

‘I am sorry to trouble you, Sir,’ said Mr. Winkle, ‘but will you have the goodness to direct me to—’

‘Ha! ha! ha!’ roared the studious young gentleman, throwing the large book up into the air, and catching it with great dexterity at the very moment when it threatened to smash to atoms all the bottles on the counter. ‘Here’s a start!’

There was, without doubt; for Mr. Winkle was so very much astonished at the extraordinary behaviour of the medical gentleman, that he involuntarily retreated towards the door, and looked very much disturbed at his strange reception.

‘What, don’t you know me?’ said the medical gentleman.

Mr. Winkle murmured, in reply, that he had not that pleasure.

‘Why, then,’ said the medical gentleman, ‘there are hopes for me yet; I may attend half the old women in Bristol, if I’ve decent luck. Get out, you mouldy old villain, get out!’ With this adjuration, which was addressed to the large book, the medical gentleman kicked the volume with remarkable agility to the farther end of the shop, and, pulling off his green spectacles, grinned the identical grin of Robert Sawyer, Esquire, formerly of Guy’s Hospital in the Borough, with a private residence in Lant Street.

‘You don’t mean to say you weren’t down upon me?’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer, shaking Mr. Winkle’s hand with friendly warmth.

‘Upon my word I was not,’ replied Mr. Winkle, returning his pressure.

‘I wonder you didn’t see the name,’ said Bob Sawyer, calling his friend’s attention to the outer door, on which, in the same white paint, were traced the words ‘Sawyer, late Nockemorf.’

‘It never caught my eye,’ returned Mr. Winkle.

‘Lord, if I had known who you were, I should have rushed out, and caught you in my arms,’ said Bob Sawyer; ‘but upon my life, I thought you were the King’s-taxes.’

‘No!’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘I did, indeed,’ responded Bob Sawyer, ‘and I was just going to say that I wasn’t at home, but if you’d leave a message I’d be sure to give it to myself; for he don’t know me; no more does the Lighting and Paving. I think the Church-rates guesses who I am, and I know the Water-works does, because I drew a tooth of his when I first came down here. But come in, come in!’ Chattering in this way, Mr. Bob Sawyer pushed Mr. Winkle into the back room, where, amusing himself by boring little circular caverns in the chimney-piece with a red-hot poker, sat no less a person than Mr. Benjamin Allen.

CAPITOLO XXXVIII. COME IL SIGNOR WINKLE, USCITO DALLA PADELLA PER FRIGgere, Entrò Dolcemente e Con Comodità NEL FUOCO

Il sfortunato gentiluomo che aveva causato quel rumore insolito e quei disturbi che avevano allarmato gli abitanti di Royal Crescent, dopo aver trascorso una notte piena di confusione e ansia, lasciò il tetto sotto cui i suoi amici ancora dormivano, senza sapere dove stesse andando. I nobili sentimenti che spinsero il signor Winkle a compiere questo gesto non possono mai essere abbastanza apprezzati o lodati con calore. “Se”, ragionò tra sé il signor Winkle, “se questo Dowler dovesse tentare (e non ho alcun dubbio che lo farà) di mettere in atto la sua minaccia di violenza personale contro di me, sarà mio dovere affrontarlo. Lui ha una moglie; quella moglie è legata a lui e dipende da lui. Oh cielo! Se lo uccidessi nella furia del mio impeto, quali sentimenti avrei in seguito?” Questo pensiero doloroso influenzò profondamente il giovane e compassionevole signor Winkle al punto che le sue ginocchia iniziarono a tremare e il suo volto mostrò evidenti segni di emozione intensa. Spinto da queste riflessioni, prese la sua borsa da viaggio, scese silenziosamente le scale, chiuse con il minor rumore possibile la porta della casa e se ne andò. Dirigendosi verso l’Hotel Royal, trovò una carrozza pronta a partire per Bristol; pensando che quella fosse un luogo altrettanto adatto ai suoi scopi quanto qualsiasi altro, salì sulla vettura e raggiunse la sua destinazione nel tempo necessario affinché i cavalli, che percorrevano quella strada avanti e indietro due volte al giorno o più, potessero arrivare lì.

Si sistemò presso l’albergo Bush, e decise di rimandare qualsiasi comunicazione epistolare con il signor Pickwick fino a quando non si fosse probabilmente placata la rabbia del signor Dowler. Uscì quindi per esplorare la >città, che gli sembrò un po’ più sporca di qualsiasi altro posto avesse mai visto. Dopo aver ispezionato i moli e le navi, nonché la >cattedrale, chiese indicazioni per raggiungere Clifton e seguì il percorso che gli fu indicato. Tuttavia, poiché le strade di Bristol non sono certo le più larghe o pulite del mondo, nemmeno le sue vie sono sempre le più dritte o meno tortuose; il signor Winkle, confuso dalle numerose svolte e deviazioni, cercò intorno a sé un negozio decente in cui poter chiedere nuovamente consigli e indicazioni.

Il suo sguardo cadde su un appartamento appena ristrutturato, trasformato in qualcosa a metà tra un negozio e una casa privata; una lampada rossa, posizionata sopra il portone d’ingresso, era sufficiente per indicare che si trattava dell’abitazione di un medico, anche senza che la parola “Chirurgia” fosse scritta in caratteri dorati sulla parete sopra la finestra, quella che un tempo doveva essere stata l’atrio d’ingresso. Ritenendo che quel luogo fosse adatto per le sue indagini, il signor Winkle entrò nel piccolo negozio, dove si trovavano cassetti e bottiglie con etichette dorate; non vedendo nessuno, bussò sul bancone con una moneta da mezzo corona per attirare l’attenzione di chiunque potesse trovarsi nella stanza posteriore, che lui immaginava essere il sancta sanctorum dell’intero locale, a giudicare dalla ripetizione della parola “Chirurgia” sulla porta – scritta questa volta in caratteri bianchi, per rompere la monotonia.

Al primo colpo, si udì un rumore simile a quello di persone che combattevano con delle mazze da fuoco; quel rumore, fino ad allora molto chiaro, cessò improvvisamente. Al secondo colpo, un giovane gentiluomo dall’aspetto studioso, con occhiali verdi e un libro molto grande in mano, entrò silenziosamente nel negozio, si mise dietro al bancone e chiese chi fosse il visitatore.

“Mi dispiace disturbarvi, signore,” disse il signor Winkle, “ma potreste avere la gentilezza di indicarmi dove, ”

“Ahahah!” gridò il giovane gentiluomo studioso, lanciando il grosso libro in aria e riuscendo ad afferrarlo con grande abilità proprio nel momento in cui stava per frantumare tutte le bottiglie sul bancone. “Ecco un buon inizio!”

Non c’era alcun >dubbio; infatti il signor Winkle era così profondamente sorpreso dal comportamento insolito di quel dottore che, involontariamente, si allontanò verso la porta, apparendo molto turbato da quell’accoglienza strana.

“Che cosa? Non mi riconosci?” disse il dottore.

Il signor Winkle mormorò in risposta che non aveva quel piacere.

“Allora,” disse il dottore, “ci sono ancora speranze per me; potrei curare metà delle vecchie donne di Bristol, se ho un po’ di fortuna. Vattene, tu vecchio malvivente puzzolente, vattene!” Con queste parole, rivolte al grosso libro, il dottore lo calciò con notevole agilità verso l’estremità opposta del negozio; poi si tolse gli occhiali verdi e sorrise con lo stesso sorriso di Robert Sawyer, gentiluomo che un tempo lavorava all’ospedale Guy’s Hospital nel Borough e aveva una residenza privata in Lant Street.

“Non vuoi dire che non eri contrario a me, vero?”, disse il signor Bob Sawyer, stringendo la mano del signor Winkle con calore e cordialità.

“Per la mia parola, non lo ero,” rispose il signor Winkle, ricambiando la pressione.

“Mi chiedo come tu non abbia visto quel nome,” disse Bob Sawyer, attirando l’attenzione del suo amico sulla porta esterna, su cui, con lo stesso colore bianco, erano scritte le parole “Sawyer, late Nockemorf”.

“Non mi è mai saltato all’occhio,” rispose il signor Winkle.

“Signore, se avessi saputo chi eravate, sarei corso fuori ad abbracciarvi,” disse Bob Sawyer; “ma giuro sulla mia vita, pensavo che foste i funzionari incaricati di riscuotere le tasse del Re.”

“No!”, disse il signor Winkle.

“Sì, infatti,” rispose Bob Sawyer, “e stavo proprio per dire che non ero a casa, ma se aveste lasciato un messaggio, me ne sarei assicurato di farlo arrivare a me; perché lui non mi conosce, e nemmeno la ditta ‘Luminarie e Pavimentazioni’. Penso che sia solo la parrocchia a indovinare chi sono, e so che anche le officine idriche lo sanno, perché quando sono arrivato qui per la prima volta ho disegnato il loro simbolo su un foglio.” Mentre parlava in questo modo, Bob Sawyer spinse Mr. Winkle nella stanza sul retro, dove, impegnato a scavare piccole cavità circolari nel camino con un attizzatoio rovente, si trovava proprio Mr. Benjamin Allen.

‘Well!’ said Mr. Winkle. ‘This is indeed a pleasure I did not expect. What a very nice place you have here!’

‘Pretty well, pretty well,’ replied Bob Sawyer. ‘I passed, soon after that precious party, and my friends came down with the needful for this business; so I put on a black suit of clothes, and a pair of spectacles, and came here to look as solemn as I could.’

‘And a very snug little business you have, no doubt?’ said Mr. Winkle knowingly.

‘Very,’ replied Bob Sawyer. ‘So snug, that at the end of a few years you might put all the profits in a wine-glass, and cover ‘em over with a gooseberry leaf.’

You cannot surely mean that?’ said Mr. Winkle. ‘The stock itself—’

Dummies, my dear boy,’ said Bob Sawyer; ‘half the drawers have nothing in ‘em, and the other half don’t open.’

‘Nonsense!’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘Fact—honour!’ returned Bob Sawyer, stepping out into the shop, and demonstrating the veracity of the assertion by divers hard pulls at the little gilt knobs on the counterfeit drawers. ‘Hardly anything real in the shop but the leeches, and _they _are second-hand.’

‘I shouldn’t have thought it!’ exclaimed Mr. Winkle, much surprised.

‘I hope not,’ replied Bob Sawyer, ‘else where’s the use of appearances, eh? But what will you take? Do as we do? That’s right. Ben, my fine fellow, put your hand into the cupboard, and bring out the patent digester.’

Mr. Benjamin Allen smiled his readiness, and produced from the closet at his elbow a black bottle half full of brandy.

‘You don’t take water, of course?’ said Bob Sawyer.

‘Thank you,’ replied Mr. Winkle. ‘It’s rather early. I should like to qualify it, if you have no objection.’

‘None in the least, if you can reconcile it to your conscience,’ replied Bob Sawyer, tossing off, as he spoke, a glass of the liquor with great relish. ‘Ben, the pipkin!’

Mr. Benjamin Allen drew forth, from the same hiding-place, a small brass pipkin, which Bob Sawyer observed he prided himself upon, particularly because it looked so business-like. The water in the professional pipkin having been made to boil, in course of time, by various little shovelfuls of coal, which Mr. Bob Sawyer took out of a practicable window-seat, labelled ‘Soda Water,’ Mr. Winkle adulterated his brandy; and the conversation was becoming general, when it was interrupted by the entrance into the shop of a boy, in a sober gray livery and a gold- laced hat, with a small covered basket under his arm, whom Mr. Bob Sawyer immediately hailed with, ‘Tom, you vagabond, come here.’

The boy presented himself accordingly.

‘You’ve been stopping to “over” all the posts in Bristol, you idle young scamp!’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer.

‘No, sir, I haven’t,’ replied the boy.

‘You had better not!’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer, with a threatening aspect. ‘Who do you suppose will ever employ a professional man, when they see his boy playing at marbles in the gutter, or flying the garter in the horse-road? Have you no feeling for your profession, you groveller? Did you leave all the medicine?’

Yes, Sir.’

‘The powders for the child, at the large house with the new family, and the pills to be taken four times a day at the ill-tempered old gentleman’s with the gouty leg?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then shut the door, and mind the shop.’

‘Come,’ said Mr. Winkle, as the boy retired, ‘things are not quite so bad as you would have me believe, either. There is _some _medicine to be sent out.’

Mr. Bob Sawyer peeped into the shop to see that no stranger was within hearing, and leaning forward to Mr. Winkle, said, in a low tone—

‘He leaves it all at the wrong houses.’

Mr. Winkle looked perplexed, and Bob Sawyer and his friend laughed.

‘Don’t you see?’ said Bob. ‘He goes up to a house, rings the area bell, pokes a packet of medicine without a direction into the servant’s hand, and walks off. Servant takes it into the dining-parlour; master opens it, and reads the label: “Draught to be taken at bedtime—pills as before—lotion as usual—the powder. From Sawyer’s, late Nockemorf’s. Physicians’ prescriptions carefully prepared,” and all the rest of it. Shows it to his wife—she reads the label; it goes down to the servants- -they read the label. Next day, boy calls: “Very sorry—his mistake— immense business—great many parcels to deliver—Mr. Sawyer’s compliments—late Nockemorf.” The name gets known, and that’s the thing, my boy, in the medical way. Bless your heart, old fellow, it’s better than all the advertising in the world. We have got one four-ounce bottle that’s been to half the houses in Bristol, and hasn’t done yet.’

‘Dear me, I see,’ observed Mr. Winkle; ‘what an excellent plan!’

‘Oh, Ben and I have hit upon a dozen such,’ replied Bob Sawyer, with great glee. ‘The lamplighter has eighteenpence a week to pull the night- bell for ten minutes every time he comes round; and my boy always rushes into the church just before the psalms, when the people have got nothing to do but look about ‘em, and calls me out, with horror and dismay depicted on his countenance. “Bless my soul,” everybody says, “somebody taken suddenly ill! Sawyer, late Nockemorf, sent for. What a business that young man has!”’

At the termination of this disclosure of some of the mysteries of medicine, Mr. Bob Sawyer and his friend, Ben Allen, threw themselves back in their respective chairs, and laughed boisterously. When they had enjoyed the joke to their heart’s content, the discourse changed to topics in which Mr. Winkle was more immediately interested.

We think we have hinted elsewhere, that Mr. Benjamin Allen had a way of becoming sentimental after brandy. The case is not a peculiar one, as we ourself can testify, having, on a few occasions, had to deal with patients who have been afflicted in a similar manner. At this precise period of his existence, Mr. Benjamin Allen had perhaps a greater predisposition to maudlinism than he had ever known before; the cause of which malady was briefly this. He had been staying nearly three weeks with Mr. Bob Sawyer; Mr. Bob Sawyer was not remarkable for temperance, nor was Mr. Benjamin Allen for the ownership of a very strong head; the consequence was that, during the whole space of time just mentioned, Mr. Benjamin Allen had been wavering between intoxication partial, and intoxication complete.

“Che bel posto!” disse il signor Winkle. “È davvero una gioia inaspettata. Che meraviglioso ambiente avete qui!”

“Abbastanza bene, abbastanza bene,” rispose Bob Sawyer. “Subito dopo quella preziosa festa, i miei amici arrivarono con tutto ciò che era necessario per questa faccenda; così mi misi un abito nero e un paio di occhiali, e sono venuto qui per sembrare il più solenne possibile.”

“E davvero un’attività molto redditizia, non c’è >dubbio”, disse il signor Winkle in tono allusivo.

“Molto bene,” rispose Bob Sawyer. “È davvero comodo; dopo alcuni anni si potrebbero mettere tutti i profitti in un bicchiere da vino e coprirli con una foglia di ribes.”

“Non può davvero intendere questo”, disse il signor Winkle. “La stessa azione, ”

“Imbecilli,” disse Bob Sawyer, “metà degli armadietti non contengono nulla, e l’altra metà non si apre nemmeno.”

“Sciocchezze!”, disse il signor Winkle.

“Onestà!” rispose Bob Sawyer entrando nel negozio e dimostrando la veridicità di quelle parole con diversi forti strattoni ai piccoli pomelli dorati presenti sui cassetti falsi. “Nel negozio non c’è quasi nulla di autentico, tranne quegli strumenti. E anche quelli sono di seconda mano.”

“Non avrei mai dovuto pensarci!”, esclamò il signor Winkle, molto sorpreso.

“Non lo spero affatto,” rispose Bob Sawyer, “altrimenti a che servono le apparenze, eh? Ma cosa vorresti prendere? Fai come facciamo noi. Esatto. Ben, mio caro amico, metti la mano nel mobile e tira fuori il digestore a patente.”

Il signor Benjamin Allen sorrise, mostrando di essere pronto, e tirò fuori dall’armadio accanto a lui una bottiglia nera mezza piena di brandy.

“Ovviamente non bevi acqua, vero?” disse Bob Sawyer.

“Grazie,” rispose il signor Winkle. “È ancora presto. Vorrei precisare di più, se non avete obiezioni.”

“Assolutamente no, purché tu riesca a conciliarlo con la tua coscienza”, rispose Bob Sawyer, buttando giù con grande piacere un bicchiere di liquore mentre parlava. “Benissimo, il pipkin!”

Il signor Benjamin Allen tirò fuori, dallo stesso nascondiglio, un piccolo vaso di ottone; Bob Sawyer notò che ne andava molto fiero, soprattutto perché aveva un aspetto molto professionale. L’acqua contenuta in quel vaso era stata fatta bollire, nel corso del tempo, grazie a diverse manciate di carbone che il signor Bob Sawyer aveva preso da una comoda finestra contrassegnata con la scritta “Acqua gassata”. Il signor Winkle utilizzò quell’acqua per adulterare il suo brandy; la conversazione stava diventando più animata quando fu interrotta dall’ingresso nel negozio di un ragazzo, vestito con abiti grigi sobri e un cappello ornato di nastri dorati, che portava sotto il braccio un piccolo cestino coperto. Il signor Bob Sawyer lo chiamò immediatamente: “Tom, tu vagabondo, vieni qui.”

Il ragazzo si presentò come richiesto.

“Ti sei fermato a leggere tutti i post di Bristol. Che giovane scansafatiche pigro!” disse il signor Bob Sawyer.

“No, signore, non l’ho fatto,” rispose il ragazzo.

“Meglio che non lo facciate!” disse il signor Bob Sawyer con un tono minaccioso.
“Chi pensate che assuma mai un professionista, quando vede suo figlio giocare con le biglie nel canale di scolo o lanciare nastri per cavalli lungo la strada? Non avete alcun rispetto per la vostra professione, voi ignoranti. Avete lasciato tutta la medicina?”

“Sì, signore.”

“I polveri per il >bambino, nella grande >casa con la nuova famiglia, e le pillole da prendere quattro volte al giorno nel caso di quel vecchio signore irascibile con la gamba gonfia?”

“Sì, signore.”

“Allora chiudi la porta e tieni d’occhio il negozio.”

“Come,” disse il signor Winkle quando il ragazzo si allontanò, “le cose non sono poi così gravi come vorresti farmi credere. C’è comunque della medicina da spedire.”

Il signor Bob Sawyer sbirciò all’interno del negozio per assicurarsi che non ci fossero estranei nelle vicinanze; poi si avvicinò al signor Winkle e disse, a bassa voce:

“Lui lascia tutto nelle case sbagliate.”

Il signor Winkle sembrava perplesso, mentre Bob Sawyer e il suo amico ridevano.

“Non capisci?” disse Bob. “Va in una casa, suona il campanello, dà a un servitore un pacchetto di medicine senza alcuna istruzione e se ne va. Il servitore lo porta nel salone da pranzo; il padrone lo apre e legge l’etichetta: ‘Decotto da assumere prima di dormire – pillole come al solito – lozioni come sempre – la polvere. Prodotto di Sawyer, del defunto Nockemorf. Prescrizioni mediche preparate con cura’, e via dicendo. Lo mostra a sua moglie; lei legge l’etichetta; poi il pacchetto arriva ai servitori, anch’essi leggono l’etichetta. Il giorno dopo, il ragazzo chiama: ‘Mi dispiace molto, è stato un errore suo, c’è un sacco di lavoro da fare, molti pacchi da consegnare. I complimenti del signor Sawyer, il defunto Nockemorf’. Il nome diventa noto, ed è proprio questo, amico mio, che conta nel campo medico. Perbacco, vecchio mio, è meglio di tutta la pubblicità esistente! Abbiamo una bottiglia da quattro once che è già stata consegnata in metà delle case di Bristol, eppure non ha ancora avuto successo.”

“Mio Dio, capisco,” osservò il signor Winkle; “che piano eccellente!”

“Oh, Ben ed io ne abbiamo trovati una dozzina,” rispose Bob Sawyer con grande gioia. “Il lampionaio riceve diciotto penny a settimana per suonare la campanella di notte per dieci minuti ogni volta che passa; e mio figlio corre sempre in chiesa proprio prima dei salmi, quando la gente non ha nient’altro da fare se non guardarsi intorno, e mi chiama fuori con un’espressione di terrore e preoccupazione sul viso. ‘Che disgrazia!’ dicono tutti. ‘Qualcuno si è ammalato all’improvviso! Chiamate il signor Sawyer. Che situazione imbarazzante per quel giovane!’”

Al termine di questa spiegazione di alcuni dei misteri della medicina, il signor Bob Sawyer e suo amico Ben Allen si risedettero nelle rispettive sedie e risero fragorosamente. Dopo essersi divertiti a sazietà con quella battuta, la conversazione passò a argomenti che interessavano di più al signor Winkle.

Pensiamo di aver già accennato in altri contesti che il signor Benjamin Allen aveva la tendenza a diventare sentimentale dopo aver bevuto brandy. Questo non è un caso particolare, poiché anche noi stessi possiamo testimoniarlo, avendo in alcune occasioni dovuto affrontare pazienti affetti in modo simile. In quel preciso periodo della sua vita, il signor Benjamin Allen sembrava avere una maggiore propensione al sentimentalismo di quanto avesse mai avuto prima; la causa di questo stato era semplice: aveva trascorso quasi tre settimane con il signor Bob Sawyer, il quale non era certo noto per la sua sobrietà, e nemmeno il signor Benjamin Allen possedeva una forte capacità di autocontrollo. Di conseguenza, durante tutto quel periodo, il signor Benjamin Allen oscillava continuamente tra uno stato di ubriachezza lieve e uno completo.

‘My dear friend,’ said Mr. Ben Allen, taking advantage of Mr. Bob Sawyer’s temporary absence behind the counter, whither he had retired to dispense some of the second-hand leeches, previously referred to; ‘my dear friend, I am very miserable.’

Mr. Winkle professed his heartfelt regret to hear it, and begged to know whether he could do anything to alleviate the sorrows of the suffering student.

‘Nothing, my dear boy, nothing,’ said Ben. ‘You recollect Arabella, Winkle? My sister Arabella—a little girl, Winkle, with black eyes—when we were down at Wardle’s? I don’t know whether you happened to notice her—a nice little girl, Winkle. Perhaps my features may recall her countenance to your recollection?’

Mr. Winkle required nothing to recall the charming Arabella to his mind; and it was rather fortunate he did not, for the features of her brother Benjamin would unquestionably have proved but an indifferent refresher to his memory. He answered, with as much calmness as he could assume, that he perfectly remembered the young lady referred to, and sincerely trusted she was in good health.

‘Our friend Bob is a delightful fellow, Winkle,’ was the only reply of Mr. Ben Allen.

‘Very,’ said Mr. Winkle, not much relishing this close connection of the two names.

‘I designed ‘em for each other; they were made for each other, sent into the world for each other, born for each other, Winkle,’ said Mr. Ben Allen, setting down his glass with emphasis. ‘There’s a special destiny in the matter, my dear sir; there’s only five years’ difference between ‘em, and both their birthdays are in August.’

Mr. Winkle was too anxious to hear what was to follow to express much wonderment at this extraordinary coincidence, marvellous as it was; so Mr. Ben Allen, after a tear or two, went on to say that, notwithstanding all his esteem and respect and veneration for his friend, Arabella had unaccountably and undutifully evinced the most determined antipathy to his person.

‘And I think,’ said Mr. Ben Allen, in conclusion. ‘I think there’s a prior attachment.’

‘Have you any idea who the object of it might be?’ asked Mr. Winkle, with great trepidation.

Mr. Ben Allen seized the poker, flourished it in a warlike manner above his head, inflicted a savage blow on an imaginary skull, and wound up by saying, in a very expressive manner, that he only wished he could guess; that was all.

‘I’d show him what I thought of him,’ said Mr. Ben Allen. And round went the poker again, more fiercely than before.

All this was, of course, very soothing to the feelings of Mr. Winkle, who remained silent for a few minutes; but at length mustered up resolution to inquire whether Miss Allen was in Kent.

‘No, no,’ said Mr. Ben Allen, laying aside the poker, and looking very cunning; ‘I didn’t think Wardle’s exactly the place for a headstrong girl; so, as I am her natural protector and guardian, our parents being dead, I have brought her down into this part of the country to spend a few months at an old aunt’s, in a nice, dull, close place. I think that will cure her, my boy. If it doesn’t, I’ll take her abroad for a little while, and see what that’ll do.’

‘Oh, the aunt’s is in Bristol, is it?’ faltered Mr. Winkle.

‘No, no, not in Bristol,’ replied Mr. Ben Allen, jerking his thumb over his right shoulder; ‘over that way—down there. But, hush, here’s Bob. Not a word, my dear friend, not a word.’

Short as this conversation was, it roused in Mr. Winkle the highest degree of excitement and anxiety. The suspected prior attachment rankled in his heart. Could he be the object of it? Could it be for him that the fair Arabella had looked scornfully on the sprightly Bob Sawyer, or had he a successful rival? He determined to see her, cost what it might; but here an insurmountable objection presented itself, for whether the explanatory ‘over that way,’ and ‘down there,’ of Mr. Ben Allen, meant three miles off, or thirty, or three hundred, he could in no wise guess.

But he had no opportunity of pondering over his love just then, for Bob Sawyer’s return was the immediate precursor of the arrival of a meat-pie from the baker’s, of which that gentleman insisted on his staying to partake. The cloth was laid by an occasional charwoman, who officiated in the capacity of Mr. Bob Sawyer’s housekeeper; and a third knife and fork having been borrowed from the mother of the boy in the gray livery (for Mr. Sawyer’s domestic arrangements were as yet conducted on a limited scale), they sat down to dinner; the beer being served up, as Mr. Sawyer remarked, ‘in its native pewter.’

After dinner, Mr. Bob Sawyer ordered in the largest mortar in the shop, and proceeded to brew a reeking jorum of rum-punch therein, stirring up and amalgamating the materials with a pestle in a very creditable and apothecary-like manner. Mr. Sawyer, being a bachelor, had only one tumbler in the house, which was assigned to Mr. Winkle as a compliment to the visitor, Mr. Ben Allen being accommodated with a funnel with a cork in the narrow end, and Bob Sawyer contented himself with one of those wide-lipped crystal vessels inscribed with a variety of cabalistic characters, in which chemists are wont to measure out their liquid drugs in compounding prescriptions. These preliminaries adjusted, the punch was tasted, and pronounced excellent; and it having been arranged that Bob Sawyer and Ben Allen should be considered at liberty to fill twice to Mr. Winkle’s once, they started fair, with great satisfaction and good-fellowship.

There was no singing, because Mr. Bob Sawyer said it wouldn’t look professional; but to make amends for this deprivation there was so much talking and laughing that it might have been heard, and very likely was, at the end of the street. Which conversation materially lightened the hours and improved the mind of Mr. Bob Sawyer’s boy, who, instead of devoting the evening to his ordinary occupation of writing his name on the counter, and rubbing it out again, peeped through the glass door, and thus listened and looked on at the same time.

“Mio caro amico,” disse il signor Ben Allen, approfittando dell’assenza temporanea del signor Bob Sawyer dietro al bancone – dove si era ritirato per distribuire alcune di quelle lische di seconda mano di cui si era parlato in precedenza – “mio caro amico, sono molto infelice.”

Il signor Winkle esprimeva il suo sincero rammarico nell’apprenderlo e chiedeva disperatamente se potesse fare qualcosa per alleviare le sofferenze dello studente che stava soffrendo.

“Niente, mio caro ragazzo, niente,” disse Ben. “Ricordi Arabella, Winkle? Mia sorella Arabella, una bambina piccola, con gli occhi neri, quando eravamo a Wardle’s. Non so se tu l’abbia notata, una bambina molto carina, Winkle. Forse i miei tratti potrebbero farti ricordare il suo viso, ”

A Mr. Winkle non serviva nulla per ricordare quella incantevole Arabella; anzi, fu una fortuna che non lo facesse, perché i tratti del fratello di lei, Benjamin, senza dubbio avrebbero rappresentato soltanto un vago stimolo alla sua memoria. Rispose, con tutta la calma possibile, di ricordare perfettamente quella giovane signora e di credere sinceramente che fosse in buona salute.

“Il nostro amico Bob è davvero un tipo delizioso, Winkle,” fu l’unica risposta di Mr. Ben Allen.

“Molto bene,” disse il signor Winkle, non molto gradendo questo stretto legame tra i due nomi.

“Le ho progettate l’una per l’altra; sono state create una per l’altra, mandate nel mondo una per l’altra, nate una per l’altra. Winkle,” disse il signor Ben Allen, posando con forza il suo bicchiere. “C’è un destino speciale in tutto questo, mio caro signore: hanno soltanto cinque anni di differenza e entrambe le loro feste di compleanno sono ad agosto.”

Il signor Winkle era troppo ansioso di sapere cosa sarebbe successo dopo per poter esprimere grande meraviglia di fronte a questa straordinaria coincidenza, per quanto meravigliosa fosse; così il signor Ben Allen, dopo aver versato una o due lacrime, continuò dicendo che, nonostante tutto il suo rispetto e ammirazione per il suo amico, Arabella aveva dimostrato in modo inspiegabile e ingiusto la massima avversione verso di lui.

“E penso,” concluse il signor Ben Allen, “che esista un legame preesistente.”

“Ha qualche idea di chi possa essere il destinatario di questo oggetto?” chiese il signor Winkle, con grande trepidazione.

Il signor Ben Allen afferrò il poker, lo agitò minacciosamente sopra la testa, sferrò un colpo violento contro una “testa immaginaria” e concluse dicendo, in modo molto espressivo, che avrebbe voluto solo riuscire a indovinare. Nient’altro.

“Gli mostrerei cosa penso di lui,” disse il signor Ben Allen. E così la partita a poker ricominciò, ancora più accanitamente di prima.

Tutto ciò fu, naturalmente, molto rassicurante per i sentimenti del signor Winkle, il quale rimase in silenzio per alcuni minuti; ma alla fine raccolse il coraggio necessario per chiedere se la signorina Allen si trovasse nel Kent.

“No, no,” disse il signor Ben Allen, mettendo da parte il poker e guardando in modo molto astuto; “Non pensavo che Wardle fosse proprio il posto adatto per una ragazza testarda; quindi, essendo io il suo protettore naturale e tutore, dato che i suoi genitori sono morti, l’ho portata in questa parte del paese per trascorrere alcuni mesi da un’anziana zia, in un posto tranquillo e isolato. Penso che questo la curerà, ragazzo mio. Se non dovesse funzionare, la porterò all’estero per un po’, a vedere cosa succederà.”

“Ah, allora zia vive a Bristol, giusto?” balbettò il signor Winkle.

“No, no, non a Bristol,” rispose il signor Ben Allen, indicando con il pollice sopra la spalla destra; “da quella parte, laggiù. Ma silenzio, ecco Bob. Niente parole, caro amico, niente parole.”

Nonostante questa conversazione fosse breve, suscitò in Mr. Winkle il massimo grado di eccitazione e ansia. Il sospetto che lei avesse avuto un interesse precedente per qualcun altro gli bruciava nel cuore: poteva forse essere lui l’oggetto di quel sentimento? Forse era a causa sua che la bella Arabella aveva ignorato con disprezzo il vivace Bob Sawyer. O forse esisteva già un rivale vincente? Decise di vederla a tutti i costi; ma si presentò subito un ostacolo insormontabile: non riusciva assolutamente a capire se le indicazioni di Mr. Ben Allen, “da quella parte” o “laggiù”, significassero tre miglia, trenta o addirittura trecento miglia di distanza.

Ma in quel momento non ebbe alcuna opportunità di riflettere sulla sua amore, perché il ritorno di Bob Sawyer fu l’anticipo immediato dell’arrivo di una torta di carne dal panettiere, della quale quell’uomo insistette affinché partecipasse anche lui al pasto. La tovaglia veniva sistemata occasionalmente da una donna che svolgeva il ruolo di domestica per Mr. Bob Sawyer; e dopo aver preso in prestito un terzo coltello e forchetta dalla madre del ragazzo con l’uniforme grigia (poiché le faccende domestiche di Mr. Sawyer erano ancora gestite su scala limitata), si misero a tavola per cena; la birra venne servita, come osservò Mr. Sawyer, “nel suo contenitore originale in piombo”.

Dopo cena, il signor Bob Sawyer ordinò il mortaio più grande del negozio e iniziò a preparare un rum-punch dall’odore forte, mescolando attentamente tutti gli ingredienti con un pestello, in modo davvero professionale, da vero farmacista. Il signor Sawyer, essendo scapolo, aveva in casa solo un bicchiere, che fu offerto al signor Winkle in segno di ospitalità; il signor Ben Allen, invece, dovette accontentarsi di un imbuto con la parte stretta chiusa da un tappo di sughero. Bob Sawyer, per parte sua, si accontentò di uno di quei vasi di cristallo dal bordo largo, sui quali erano incisi vari simboli cabalistici: sono proprio questi vasi che i chimici utilizzano per misurare le sostanze liquide nelle loro ricette. Una volta completati tutti questi preparativi, il rum-punch fu assaggiato e dichiarato eccellente; inoltre, fu deciso che Bob Sawyer e Ben Allen potessero servire il signor Winkle con una dose doppia rispetto alla sua, quindi iniziarono a servire con grande soddisfazione e buon umore.

Non ci fu alcuna canzone, perché il signor Bob Sawyer disse che non sarebbe sembrato professionale; ma per compensare questa mancanza, ci furono così tante chiacchiere e risate che probabilmente si potevano sentire, e molto probabilmente lo erano, anche all’altro capo della strada. Queste conversazioni resero le ore molto più piacevoli e migliorarono l’intelligenza del ragazzo del signor Bob Sawyer, il quale, invece di dedicare la serata al suo solito passatempo – scrivere il proprio nome sul bancone per poi cancellarlo subito dopo – spiava attraverso la porta di vetro, ascoltando e osservando tutto contemporaneamente.

The mirth of Mr. Bob Sawyer was rapidly ripening into the furious, Mr. Ben Allen was fast relapsing into the sentimental, and the punch had well-nigh disappeared altogether, when the boy hastily running in, announced that a young woman had just come over, to say that Sawyer late Nockemorf was wanted directly, a couple of streets off. This broke up the party. Mr. Bob Sawyer, understanding the message, after some twenty repetitions, tied a wet cloth round his head to sober himself, and, having partially succeeded, put on his green spectacles and issued forth. Resisting all entreaties to stay till he came back, and finding it quite impossible to engage Mr. Ben Allen in any intelligible conversation on the subject nearest his heart, or indeed on any other, Mr. Winkle took his departure, and returned to the Bush.

The anxiety of his mind, and the numerous meditations which Arabella had awakened, prevented his share of the mortar of punch producing that effect upon him which it would have had under other circumstances. So, after taking a glass of soda-water and brandy at the bar, he turned into the coffee-room, dispirited rather than elevated by the occurrences of the evening.

Sitting in front of the fire, with his back towards him, was a tallish gentleman in a greatcoat: the only other occupant of the room. It was rather a cool evening for the season of the year, and the gentleman drew his chair aside to afford the new-comer a sight of the fire. What were Mr. Winkle’s feelings when, in doing so, he disclosed to view the face and figure of the vindictive and sanguinary Dowler!

Mr. Winkle’s first impulse was to give a violent pull at the nearest bell-handle, but that unfortunately happened to be immediately behind Mr. Dowler’s head. He had made one step towards it, before he checked himself. As he did so, Mr. Dowler very hastily drew back.

‘Mr. Winkle, Sir. Be calm. Don’t strike me. I won’t bear it. A blow! Never!’ said Mr. Dowler, looking meeker than Mr. Winkle had expected in a gentleman of his ferocity.

‘A blow, Sir?’ stammered Mr. Winkle.

‘A blow, Sir,’ replied Dowler. ‘Compose your feelings. Sit down. Hear me.’

‘Sir,’ said Mr. Winkle, trembling from head to foot, ‘before I consent to sit down beside, or opposite you, without the presence of a waiter, I must be secured by some further understanding. You used a threat against me last night, Sir, a dreadful threat, Sir.’ Here Mr. Winkle turned very pale indeed, and stopped short.

‘I did,’ said Dowler, with a countenance almost as white as Mr. Winkle’s. ‘Circumstances were suspicious. They have been explained. I respect your bravery. Your feeling is upright. Conscious innocence. There’s my hand. Grasp it.’

‘Really, Sir,’ said Mr. Winkle, hesitating whether to give his hand or not, and almost fearing that it was demanded in order that he might be taken at an advantage, ‘really, Sir, I—’

‘I know what you mean,’ interposed Dowler. ‘You feel aggrieved. Very natural. So should I. I was wrong. I beg your pardon. Be friendly. Forgive me.’ With this, Dowler fairly forced his hand upon Mr. Winkle, and shaking it with the utmost vehemence, declared he was a fellow of extreme spirit, and he had a higher opinion of him than ever.

‘Now,’ said Dowler, ‘sit down. Relate it all. How did you find me? When did you follow? Be frank. Tell me.’

‘It’s quite accidental,’ replied Mr. Winkle, greatly perplexed by the curious and unexpected nature of the interview. ‘Quite.’

‘Glad of it,’ said Dowler. ‘I woke this morning. I had forgotten my threat. I laughed at the accident. I felt friendly. I said so.’

‘To whom?’ inquired Mr. Winkle.

‘To Mrs. Dowler. “You made a vow,” said she. “I did,” said I. “It was a rash one,” said she. “It was,” said I. “I’ll apologise. Where is he?”’

‘Who?’ inquired Mr. Winkle.

‘You,’ replied Dowler. ‘I went downstairs. You were not to be found. Pickwick looked gloomy. Shook his head. Hoped no violence would be committed. I saw it all. You felt yourself insulted. You had gone, for a friend perhaps. Possibly for pistols. “High spirit,” said I. “I admire him.”’

Mr. Winkle coughed, and beginning to see how the land lay, assumed a look of importance.

‘I left a note for you,’ resumed Dowler. ‘I said I was sorry. So I was. Pressing business called me here. You were not satisfied. You followed. You required a verbal explanation. You were right. It’s all over now. My business is finished. I go back to-morrow. Join me.’

As Dowler progressed in his explanation, Mr. Winkle’s countenance grew more and more dignified. The mysterious nature of the commencement of their conversation was explained; Mr. Dowler had as great an objection to duelling as himself; in short, this blustering and awful personage was one of the most egregious cowards in existence, and interpreting Mr. Winkle’s absence through the medium of his own fears, had taken the same step as himself, and prudently retired until all excitement of feeling should have subsided.

As the real state of the case dawned upon Mr. Winkle’s mind, he looked very terrible, and said he was perfectly satisfied; but at the same time, said so with an air that left Mr. Dowler no alternative but to infer that if he had not been, something most horrible and destructive must inevitably have occurred. Mr. Dowler appeared to be impressed with a becoming sense of Mr. Winkle’s magnanimity and condescension; and the two belligerents parted for the night, with many protestations of eternal friendship.

About half-past twelve o’clock, when Mr. Winkle had been revelling some twenty minutes in the full luxury of his first sleep, he was suddenly awakened by a loud knocking at his chamber door, which, being repeated with increased vehemence, caused him to start up in bed, and inquire who was there, and what the matter was.

‘Please, Sir, here’s a young man which says he must see you directly,’ responded the voice of the chambermaid.

La gioia di Mr. Bob Sawyer stava rapidamente trasformandosi in furia; Mr. Ben Allen, invece, stava nuovamente cadendo preda della sentimentalità, e i punch erano ormai quasi completamente scomparsi quando un ragazzo entrò di corsa annunciando che una giovane donna era appena arrivata per dire che cercavano urgentemente Sawyer in Nockemorf, a poche strade di distanza. Questo annuncio pose fine alla festa. Mr. Bob Sawyer, dopo aver compreso il messaggio, si legò un panno umido intorno alla testa per riprendersi e, una volta riuscito in parte nel suo intento, indossò gli occhiali verdi e uscì. Rifiutando con fermezza tutte le suppliche di restare fino al suo ritorno, e non riuscendo a far sì che Mr. Ben Allen intrattenesse una conversazione comprensibile su argomenti che gli stavano a cuore – o su qualsiasi altro argomento, del resto – Mr. Winkle se ne andò, tornando nel “Bush”.

L’ansia nella sua mente, e le numerose riflessioni che Arabella aveva suscitato in lui, impedirono che il punch avesse su di lui l’effetto che avrebbe avuto in altre circostanze. Così, dopo aver bevuto un bicchiere d’acqua tonica e brandy al bar, si recò nella sala da caffè, piuttosto depresso che sollevato dagli eventi della serata.

Seduto di fronte al focolare, con le spalle rivolte verso esso, c’era un gentiluomo piuttosto alto, avvolto in un grande cappotto: l’unica altra persona nella stanza. Era una serata abbastanza fresca per quella stagione dell’anno, e il gentiluomo spostò la sua sedia di lato per permettere al nuovo arrivato di vedere il focolare. Quali furono i sentimenti del signor Winkle quando, facendo ciò, rivelò alla vista il volto e la figura del vendicativo e sanguinario Dowler!

Il primo impulso di Mr. Winkle fu di tirare con forza la maniglia della campanella più vicina, ma sfortunatamente essa si trovava proprio dietro la testa di Mr. Dowler. Aveva fatto un passo verso di essa, prima di fermarsi. Nel frattempo, Mr. Dowler si ritirò rapidamente indietro.

“Signor Winkle, per favore. Calmiarsi. Non colpitemi, non lo sopporterei. Un pugno? Mai!” disse il signor Dowler, con un tono più umile di quanto il signor Winkle si aspettasse da un gentiluomo della sua ferocia.

“Un colpo, signore?”, balbettò il signor Winkle.

“Un colpo, signore,” rispose Dowler. “Calmatevi, sedetevi e ascoltatemi.”

“Signore,” disse il signor Winkle, tremando dalla testa ai piedi, “prima di acconsentire a sedermi accanto a voi o di fronte a voi, in assenza di un cameriere, devo essere garantito da qualche ulteriore accordo. L’altra notte, signore, avete minacciato me, una terribile minaccia, signore.” A questo punto il signor Winkle divenne davvero molto pallido e si fermò di colpo.

“Lo ho fatto,” disse Dowler, con un viso quasi altrettanto pallido di quello del signor Winkle. “Le circostanze erano sospette. Ora sono state spiegate. Rispetto il vostro coraggio; i vostri sentimenti sono onesti. Avete una coscienza pulita. Ecco la mia mano: stringetela.”

“Davvero, signore,” disse il signor Winkle, esitando se offrire la mano o meno, e quasi temendo che ciò venisse richiesto per approfittare della sua situazione, “davvero, signore, io, ”

“Capisco cosa intendi,” intervenne Dowler. “Ti senti offeso. Molto naturale. Anch’io dovrei sentirmi così. Ho sbagliato. Ti chiedo scusa. Sii gentile. Perdona me.” Detto questo, Dowler mise con forza la sua mano su quella di Mr. Winkle e, stringendola con grande enfasi, dichiarò che lui era un uomo dallo spirito eccezionale e che ora lo stimava ancora di più di prima.

“Ora,” disse Dowler, “siediti e raccontami tutto. Come mi hai trovato? Da quando mi stavi seguendo? Sii franco. Dimmelo.”

“È stato puramente casuale,” rispose il signor Winkle, profondamente perplesso dalla natura curiosa e inaspettata di quell’intervista. “Assolutamente.”

“Ne sono felice,” disse Dowler. “Mi sono svegliato stamattina. Avevo dimenticato la mia minaccia. Ho riso dell’incidente. Mi sentivo cordiale. E l’ho detto.”

“Di chi?” chiese il signor Winkle.

“A Madame Dowler. ‘Avete fatto un voto,’ disse lei. ‘Lo ho fatto,’ risposi io. ‘Era un voto avventato,’ aggiunse lei. ‘Lo era,’ confermai io. ‘Mi scuserò. Dove si trova?’”

“Chi?” chiese il signor Winkle.

“Tu,” rispose Dowler. “Sono sceso al piano di sotto. Non ti ho trovato.
Pickwick sembrava cupo; scosse la testa, sperando che non si commettesse violenza. Ho visto tutto: ti sei sentito insultato. Forse eri andato da un amico. O forse a prendere delle pistole. ‘Coraggio,’ pensai, ‘Lo ammiro.’”

Il signor Winkle tossì e, iniziando a capire la situazione, assunse un’aria molto seria.

“Ho lasciato un biglietto per te,” continuò Dowler. “Ho scritto che mi dispiaceva. E infatti mi dispiaceva davvero.
Un impegno di lavoro mi ha costretto ad arrivare qui. Tu non eri soddisfatta, quindi hai deciso di seguirmi. Volevi una spiegazione verbale. Avevi ragione. Ora tutto è finito. Il mio lavoro è terminato; tornerò domani. Vieni con me.”

Man mano che Dowler proseguiva nella sua spiegazione, l’espressione del viso di Mr. Winkle diventava sempre più dignitosa. La misteriosa >natura dell’inizio della loro conversazione venne chiarita: anche Mr. Dowler aveva la stessa avversione per i duelli; in breve, quest’uomo minaccioso e spaventoso era uno dei codardi più flagranti che esistessero. Interpretando l’assenza di Mr. Winkle attraverso le proprie paure, aveva fatto lo stesso che lui, ritirandosi saggiamente finché tutta quell’eccitazione non fosse passata.

Quando il vero stato delle cose divenne chiaro nella mente del signor Winkle, sembrò molto preoccupato e disse di essere assolutamente soddisfatto; ma lo fece con un tono che non lasciava al signor Dowler altra scelta se non quella di dedurre che, se non fosse stato così, sarebbe inevitabilmente accaduto qualcosa di terribile e distruttivo. Il signor Dowler sembrò essere profondamente colpito dalla magnanimità e dalla generosità del signor Winkle; e i due “belligeranti” si separarono per la notte, con molte promesse di eterna amicizia.

Intorno alle dodici e mezza, mentre il signor Winkle si godeva appena venti minuti del primo vero sonno della sua vita, fu improvvisamente svegliato da dei forti colpi alla porta della sua stanza. I colpi continuarono, sempre più intensi, costringendolo ad alzarsi dal letto e a chiedere chi fosse e cosa stesse succedendo.

“Per favore, signore, c’è un giovane che insiste nel voler parlare con voi personalmente,” rispose la voce della cameriera.

‘A young man!’ exclaimed Mr. Winkle.

‘No mistake about that ‘ere, Sir,’ replied another voice through the keyhole; ‘and if that wery same interestin’ young creetur ain’t let in vithout delay, it’s wery possible as his legs vill enter afore his countenance.’ The young man gave a gentle kick at one of the lower panels of the door, after he had given utterance to this hint, as if to add force and point to the remark.

‘Is that you, Sam?’ inquired Mr. Winkle, springing out of bed.

‘Quite unpossible to identify any gen’l’m’n vith any degree o’ mental satisfaction, vithout lookin’ at him, Sir,’ replied the voice dogmatically.

Mr. Winkle, not much doubting who the young man was, unlocked the door; which he had no sooner done than Mr. Samuel Weller entered with great precipitation, and carefully relocking it on the inside, deliberately put the key in his waistcoat pocket; and, after surveying Mr. Winkle from head to foot, said—

‘You’re a wery humorous young gen’l’m’n, you air, Sir!’

‘What do you mean by this conduct, Sam?’ inquired Mr. Winkle indignantly. ‘Get out, sir, this instant. What do you mean, Sir?’

‘What do I mean,’ retorted Sam; ‘come, Sir, this is rayther too rich, as the young lady said when she remonstrated with the pastry-cook, arter he’d sold her a pork pie as had got nothin’ but fat inside. What do I mean! Well, that ain’t a bad ‘un, that ain’t.’

‘Unlock that door, and leave this room immediately, Sir,’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘I shall leave this here room, sir, just precisely at the wery same moment as you leaves it,’ responded Sam, speaking in a forcible manner, and seating himself with perfect gravity. ‘If I find it necessary to carry you away, pick-a-back, o’ course I shall leave it the least bit o’ time possible afore you; but allow me to express a hope as you won’t reduce me to extremities; in saying wich, I merely quote wot the nobleman said to the fractious pennywinkle, ven he vouldn’t come out of his shell by means of a pin, and he conseqvently began to be afeered that he should be obliged to crack him in the parlour door.’ At the end of this address, which was unusually lengthy for him, Mr. Weller planted his hands on his knees, and looked full in Mr. Winkle’s face, with an expression of countenance which showed that he had not the remotest intention of being trifled with.

‘You’re a amiably-disposed young man, Sir, I don’t think,’ resumed Mr. Weller, in a tone of moral reproof, ‘to go inwolving our precious governor in all sorts o’ fanteegs, wen he’s made up his mind to go through everythink for principle. You’re far worse nor Dodson, Sir; and as for Fogg, I consider him a born angel to you!’ Mr. Weller having accompanied this last sentiment with an emphatic slap on each knee, folded his arms with a look of great disgust, and threw himself back in his chair, as if awaiting the criminal’s defence.

‘My good fellow,’ said Mr. Winkle, extending his hand—his teeth chattering all the time he spoke, for he had been standing, during the whole of Mr. Weller’s lecture, in his night-gear—‘my good fellow, I respect your attachment to my excellent friend, and I am very sorry indeed to have added to his causes for disquiet. There, Sam, there!’

‘Well,’ said Sam, rather sulkily, but giving the proffered hand a respectful shake at the same time—‘well, so you ought to be, and I am very glad to find you air; for, if I can help it, I won’t have him put upon by nobody, and that’s all about it.’

‘Certainly not, Sam,’ said Mr. Winkle. ‘There! Now go to bed, Sam, and we’ll talk further about this in the morning.’

‘I’m wery sorry,’ said Sam, ‘but I can’t go to bed.’

‘Not go to bed!’ repeated Mr. Winkle.

‘No,’ said Sam, shaking his head. ‘Can’t be done.’

‘You don’t mean to say you’re going back to-night, Sam?’ urged Mr. Winkle, greatly surprised.

‘Not unless you particklerly wish it,’ replied Sam; ‘but I mustn’t leave this here room. The governor’s orders wos peremptory.’

‘Nonsense, Sam,’ said Mr. Winkle, ‘I must stop here two or three days; and more than that, Sam, you must stop here too, to assist me in gaining an interview with a young lady—Miss Allen, Sam; you remember her—whom I must and will see before I leave Bristol.’

But in reply to each of these positions, Sam shook his head with great firmness, and energetically replied, ‘It can’t be done.’

After a great deal of argument and representation on the part of Mr. Winkle, however, and a full disclosure of what had passed in the interview with Dowler, Sam began to waver; and at length a compromise was effected, of which the following were the main and principal conditions:—

That Sam should retire, and leave Mr. Winkle in the undisturbed possession of his apartment, on the condition that he had permission to lock the door on the outside, and carry off the key; provided always, that in the event of an alarm of fire, or other dangerous contingency, the door should be instantly unlocked. That a letter should be written to Mr. Pickwick early next morning, and forwarded per Dowler, requesting his consent to Sam and Mr. Winkle’s remaining at Bristol, for the purpose and with the object already assigned, and begging an answer by the next coach—, if favourable, the aforesaid parties to remain accordingly, and if not, to return to Bath immediately on the receipt thereof. And, lastly, that Mr. Winkle should be understood as distinctly pledging himself not to resort to the window, fireplace, or other surreptitious mode of escape in the meanwhile. These stipulations having been concluded, Sam locked the door and departed.

He had nearly got downstairs, when he stopped, and drew the key from his pocket.

‘I quite forgot about the knockin’ down,’ said Sam, half turning back. ‘The governor distinctly said it was to be done. Amazin’ stupid o’ me, that ‘ere! Never mind,’ said Sam, brightening up, ‘it’s easily done to- morrow, anyvays.’

Apparently much consoled by this reflection, Mr. Weller once more deposited the key in his pocket, and descending the remainder of the stairs without any fresh visitations of conscience, was soon, in common with the other inmates of the house, buried in profound repose.

“Un giovane uomo!”, esclamò il signor Winkle.

“Non c’è dubbio su questo, signore,” rispose un’altra voce attraverso la fessura della serratura; “e se quel giovane e interessante individuo non viene fatto entrare immediatamente, è molto probabile che le sue gambe arrivino prima del suo viso, ” Dopo aver espresso questo commento, il giovane diede un leggero calcio a uno dei pannelli inferiori della porta, come per dare maggiore forza e chiarezza alle sue parole.

“Sei tu, Sam?”, chiese il signor Winkle, saltando giù dal letto.

“È del tutto impossibile identificare qualsiasi generale che possa provare anche solo un minimo di soddisfazione mentale, senza guardarlo, signore,” rispose la voce in modo dogmatico.

Il signor Winkle, non avendo alcun dubbio su chi fosse quel giovane, aprì la porta; appena lo fece, il signor Samuel Weller entrò con grande fretta, richiuse accuratamente la porta dall’interno e mise deliberatamente la chiave nella tasca del suo gilet; dopo aver esaminato il signor Winkle dalla testa ai piedi, disse.

“Sei davvero un giovane ufficiale molto umoristico, sai?”

“Cosa intendi con questo comportamento, Sam?”, chiese indignato il signor Winkle. “Vattene immediatamente, signore. Cosa significa tutto ciò?”

“Cosa intendo dire?”, ribatté Sam; “Voglio dire, signore, questa torta è davvero troppo ricca. Come ha detto la giovane signora quando si è lamentata con il pasticcere dopo che le aveva venduto una torta di maiale contenente soltanto grasso. Cosa intendo dire! Beh, comunque non è affatto una cattiva torta, ”

“Apra quella porta e lasci immediatamente questa stanza, signore,” disse il signor Winkle.

“Lascierò questa stanza esattamente nel momento stesso in cui voi la lascerete, signore,” rispose Sam con tono deciso, sedendosi poi con estrema gravità. “Se dovesse risultare necessario portarvi via, naturalmente lo farò il prima possibile; ma permettetemi di sperare che non mi costringerete a ricorrere a tali misure. Intanto, vi cito semplicemente ciò che quel nobile disse al testardo Winkle, quando questi rifiutava di uscire dalla sua ‘guscio’ nemmeno con l’aiuto di un ago. E temeva addirittura di doverlo rompere contro la porta del salotto.” Alla fine di questo discorso, insolitamente lungo per lui, il signor Weller appoggiò le mani sulle ginocchia e fissò il signor Winkle con un’espressione che chiaramente indicava quanto non avesse intenzione di essere preso in giro.

“Non credo che lei sia un giovane di buone intenzioni, signore,” riprese il signor Weller con tono di rimprovero morale. “Perché coinvolgere il nostro prezioso governatore in tutte queste sciocchezze, quando lui ha deciso di agire sempre per principio? Lei è molto peggio di Dodson, signore. E quanto a Fogg, lo considero davvero un angelo per lei!” Dopo aver espresso questo ultimo pensiero con due sonori schiaffi sulle ginocchia, il signor Weller incrociò le braccia con aria disgustata e si appoggiò allo schienale della sedia, come se aspettasse la difesa del “criminale”.

“Mio caro amico,” disse il signor Winkle, tendendogli la mano; i suoi denti tremavano continuamente mentre parlava, perché per tutta la durata del discorso del signor Weller era rimasto in abiti da notte. “Mio caro amico, rispetto molto il suo affetto per il mio eccellente amico, e sono davvero dispiaciuto di aver contribuito alle sue preoccupazioni. Ecco, Sam, ecco!”

“Beh,” disse Sam, con un po’ di malumore, ma stringendo la mano che gli veniva offerta con rispetto – “beh, dovresti esserlo. E sono molto contento di rivederti; perché, se posso aiutare, non permetterò a nessuno di farglielo indossare, e basta.”

“Certo che no, Sam,” disse il signor Winkle. “Ecco! Ora vai a letto, Sam, e ne parleremo ancora domani mattina.”

“Mi dispiace molto,” disse Sam, “ma non riesco ad andare a letto.”

“Non andare a letto!”, ripeté il signor Winkle.

“No,” disse Sam, scuotendo la testa. “È impossibile.”

“Non vuoi dire che stai tornando indietro, di notte, Sam?”, chiese il signor Winkle, molto sorpreso.

“Solo se proprio lo desideri,” rispose Sam; “ma non posso lasciare questa stanza. Le ordini del governatore sono categorici.”

“Sciocchezze, Sam,” disse il signor Winkle, “devo fermarmi qui per due o tre giorni; e anzi, Sam, anche tu devi fermarti qui per aiutarmi a ottenere un incontro con una giovane signora, la signorina Allen, Sam; te la ricordi, vero? Devo assolutamente vederla prima di lasciare Bristol.”

Ma di fronte a ciascuna di queste argomentazioni, Sam scosse la testa con grande fermezza e rispose con energia: “Non è possibile farlo.”

Dopo molte discussioni e interventi da parte del signor Winkle, nonché dopo una completa rivelazione di ciò che era accaduto durante l’intervista con Dowler, Sam iniziò a vacillare; alla fine fu raggiunto un compromesso, le cui condizioni principali erano le seguenti:

Che Sam si ritirasse e lasciasse il signor Winkle in possesso indisturbato del suo appartamento, a condizione che gli fosse permesso di chiudere la porta dall’esterno e di portare via la chiave; sempre però che, in caso di allarme per un incendio o altra situazione pericolosa, la porta venisse immediatamente aperta. Che una lettera venisse scritta al signor Pickwick la mattina seguente e inviata tramite Dowler, chiedendo il suo consenso affinché Sam e il signor Winkle potessero rimanere a Bristol per lo scopo già definito, e pregandolo di rispondere entro il prossimo treno; in caso di approvazione, i suddetti avrebbero dovuto rimanere, altrimenti sarebbero dovuti tornare immediatamente a Bath non appena ricevuta la risposta. Infine, che si intendesse chiaramente che il signor Winkle si impegnasse a non ricorrere alla finestra, al caminetto o ad altri metodi segreti per fuggire nel frattempo. Dopo aver concordato su queste condizioni, Sam chiuse la porta e se ne andò.

Stava per scendere le scale quando si fermò e tirò fuori la chiave dalla tasca.

“Me n’ero completamente dimenticato,” disse Sam, girandosi parzialmente indietro.
“Il governatore aveva detto chiaramente che doveva essere fatto. Che stupido da parte mia. Comunque, non importa,” aggiunse Sam, illuminandosi in volto. “Si può fare facilmente domani.”

A quanto pare molto consolato da questa riflessione, il signor Weller ripose nuovamente la chiave in tasca e, scendendo il resto delle scale senza ulteriori rimorsi di coscienza, presto si addormentò profondamente, proprio come gli altri abitanti di quella casa.

CHAPTER XXXIX. MR. SAMUEL WELLER, BEING INTRUSTED WITH A MISSION OF LOVE, PROCEEDS TO EXECUTE IT; WITH WHAT SUCCESS WILL HEREINAFTER APPEAR

During the whole of next day, Sam kept Mr. Winkle steadily in sight, fully determined not to take his eyes off him for one instant, until he should receive express instructions from the fountain-head. However disagreeable Sam’s very close watch and great vigilance were to Mr. Winkle, he thought it better to bear with them, than, by any act of violent opposition, to hazard being carried away by force, which Mr. Weller more than once strongly hinted was the line of conduct that a strict sense of duty prompted him to pursue. There is little reason to doubt that Sam would very speedily have quieted his scruples, by bearing Mr. Winkle back to Bath, bound hand and foot, had not Mr. Pickwick’s prompt attention to the note, which Dowler had undertaken to deliver, forestalled any such proceeding. In short, at eight o’clock in the evening, Mr. Pickwick himself walked into the coffee-room of the Bush Tavern, and told Sam with a smile, to his very great relief, that he had done quite right, and it was unnecessary for him to mount guard any longer.

‘I thought it better to come myself,’ said Mr. Pickwick, addressing Mr. Winkle, as Sam disencumbered him of his great-coat and travelling-shawl, ‘to ascertain, before I gave my consent to Sam’s employment in this matter, that you are quite in earnest and serious, with respect to this young lady.’

‘Serious, from my heart—from my soul!’ returned Mr. Winkle, with great energy.

‘Remember,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with beaming eyes, ‘we met her at our excellent and hospitable friend’s, Winkle. It would be an ill return to tamper lightly, and without due consideration, with this young lady’s affections. I’ll not allow that, sir. I’ll not allow it.’

‘I have no such intention, indeed,’ exclaimed Mr. Winkle warmly. ‘I have considered the matter well, for a long time, and I feel that my happiness is bound up in her.’

‘That’s wot we call tying it up in a small parcel, sir,’ interposed Mr. Weller, with an agreeable smile.

Mr. Winkle looked somewhat stern at this interruption, and Mr. Pickwick angrily requested his attendant not to jest with one of the best feelings of our nature; to which Sam replied, ‘That he wouldn’t, if he was aware on it; but there were so many on ‘em, that he hardly know’d which was the best ones wen he heerd ‘em mentioned.’

Mr. Winkle then recounted what had passed between himself and Mr. Ben Allen, relative to Arabella; stated that his object was to gain an interview with the young lady, and make a formal disclosure of his passion; and declared his conviction, founded on certain dark hints and mutterings of the aforesaid Ben, that, wherever she was at present immured, it was somewhere near the Downs. And this was his whole stock of knowledge or suspicion on the subject.

With this very slight clue to guide him, it was determined that Mr. Weller should start next morning on an expedition of discovery; it was also arranged that Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Winkle, who were less confident of their powers, should parade the town meanwhile, and accidentally drop in upon Mr. Bob Sawyer in the course of the day, in the hope of seeing or hearing something of the young lady’s whereabouts.

Accordingly, next morning, Sam Weller issued forth upon his quest, in no way daunted by the very discouraging prospect before him; and away he walked, up one street and down another—we were going to say, up one hill and down another, only it’s all uphill at Clifton—without meeting with anything or anybody that tended to throw the faintest light on the matter in hand. Many were the colloquies into which Sam entered with grooms who were airing horses on roads, and nursemaids who were airing children in lanes; but nothing could Sam elicit from either the first- mentioned or the last, which bore the slightest reference to the object of his artfully-prosecuted inquiries. There were a great many young ladies in a great many houses, the greater part whereof were shrewdly suspected by the male and female domestics to be deeply attached to somebody, or perfectly ready to become so, if opportunity afforded. But as none among these young ladies was Miss Arabella Allen, the information left Sam at exactly the old point of wisdom at which he had stood before.

Sam struggled across the Downs against a good high wind, wondering whether it was always necessary to hold your hat on with both hands in that part of the country, and came to a shady by-place, about which were sprinkled several little villas of quiet and secluded appearance. Outside a stable door at the bottom of a long back lane without a thoroughfare, a groom in undress was idling about, apparently persuading himself that he was doing something with a spade and a wheel-barrow. We may remark, in this place, that we have scarcely ever seen a groom near a stable, in his lazy moments, who has not been, to a greater or less extent, the victim of this singular delusion.

Sam thought he might as well talk to this groom as to any one else, especially as he was very tired with walking, and there was a good large stone just opposite the wheel-barrow; so he strolled down the lane, and, seating himself on the stone, opened a conversation with the ease and freedom for which he was remarkable.

‘Mornin’, old friend,’ said Sam.

‘Arternoon, you mean,’ replied the groom, casting a surly look at Sam.

‘You’re wery right, old friend,’ said Sam; ‘I do mean arternoon. How are you?’

‘Why, I don’t find myself much the better for seeing of you,’ replied the ill-tempered groom.

‘That’s wery odd—that is,’ said Sam, ‘for you look so uncommon cheerful, and seem altogether so lively, that it does vun’s heart good to see you.’

CAPITOLO XXXIX. IL SIGNOR SAMUEL WELLER, INCARICATO DI UNA MISSione D’AMORE, LA ATTUA CON Successo; I DETTAGLI DI QUESTO SUCCESSO SARANNO RIVELATI IN SEGUITE.

Per tutta la giornata seguente, Sam tenne costantemente d’occhio il signor Winkle, deciso a non staccargli lo sguardo nemmeno per un istante, fino a quando non avesse ricevuto istruzioni esplicite da parte di chi aveva iniziato tutta questa storia. Per quanto sgradevole potesse risultare la costante sorveglianza di Sam, il signor Winkle ritenne che fosse meglio sopportarla, piuttosto che correre il rischio di essere portato via con la forza, come aveva più volte accennato chiaramente il signor Weller che era proprio questo l’atteggiamento da adottare per senso del dovere. Non c’è motivo di dubitare che Sam avrebbe molto presto risolto i suoi scrupoli, portando il signor Winkle indietro a Bath, legato mani e piedi, se solo l’attenzione pronta del signor Pickwick alla nota che Dowler si era incaricato di consegnare non avesse ostacolato tale piano. Insomma, alle otto di sera, il signor Pickwick stesso entrò nel salotto da caffè della Bush Tavern e, con un sorriso, disse a Sam che aveva fatto esattamente ciò che era giusto e che non c’era più bisogno che continuasse a fare la guardia. Per Sam fu un grande sollievo.

“Ho pensato fosse meglio venire di persona,” disse il signor Pickwick rivolgendosi al signor Winkle, mentre Sam gli toglieva il cappotto pesante e lo scialle da viaggio. “Voglio assicurarmi, prima di dare il mio consenso all’impiego di Sam in questa faccenda, che lei sia davvero serio e deciso riguardo a questa giovane signora.”

“Sul serio, dal profondo del mio cuore, dalla mia ‘anima!” rispose il signor Winkle con grande enfasi.

“Ricordate,” disse il signor Pickwick con gli occhi luminosi, “l’abbiamo incontrata a casa del nostro eccellente e ospitale amico, Winkle. Sarebbe davvero scortese interferire in modo superficiale e senza alcuna considerazione nei confronti dei sentimenti di questa giovane signora. Non lo permetterò, signori. Assolutamente no.”

“Non ho affatto tale intenzione, davvero,” esclamò calorosamente il signor Winkle. “Ho riflettuto a lungo su questa questione e sento che la mia felicità dipenda da lei.”

“Questo è ciò che chiamiamo ‘impacchettare tutto in un piccolo pacchetto’, signore,” intervenne il signor Weller, con un sorriso piacevole.

Il signor Winkle sembrò piuttosto seccato da questa interruzione, e il signor Pickwick chiese con rabbia al suo servitore di non scherzare su uno dei più nobili sentimenti della nostra >natura; a cui Sam rispose: “Non lo farebbe, se ne fosse consapevole; ma ce n’erano così tanti che quasi non sapeva quale fosse il migliore quando ne sentiva parlare.”

Il signor Winkle raccontò quindi ciò che era accaduto tra lui e il signor Ben Allen riguardo ad Arabella; dichiarò che il suo scopo era ottenere un incontro con la giovane donna per confessarle apertamente i propri sentimenti; e affermò, basandosi su alcune allusioni e mormorii del suddetto Ben Allen, di essere convinto che lei si trovasse in qualche luogo vicino alle Downs. Questo era tutto ciò che sapeva o sospettava al riguardo.

Con questa semplice indicazione come guida, si decise che il signor Weller dovesse partire la mattina seguente per un’impresa di scoperta; fu anche concordato che il signor Pickwick e il signor Winkle, i quali erano meno sicuri delle proprie capacità, intanto girovagassero per la città e, per caso, incontrassero il signor Bob Sawyer durante la giornata, nella speranza di scoprire qualcosa riguardo al luogo in cui si trovava la giovane donna.

Pertanto, la mattina seguente, Sam Weller intraprese la sua ricerca, del tutto indifferente alla prospettiva scoraggiante che gli si presentava davanti; camminò su e giù per strade diverse. Avremmo potuto dire su e giù per colline, ma a Clifton tutte le strade sono in salita. Senza riuscire a incontrare nulla o nessuno che potesse fornire anche solo la minima informazione riguardo all’oggetto delle sue indagini. Sam ebbe molte conversazioni con stallieri che facevano prendere aria ai cavalli per le strade e con tate che facevano fare prendere aria ai bambini nei vicoli; ma né gli uni né le altre riuscirono a fornirgli alcuna informazione utile. C’erano molte giovani signore in molte case. La maggior parte di queste, come sospettavano con astuzia i domestici, erano profondamente innamorate di qualcuno, o pronte a diventarlo non appena ne avessero avuto l’opportunità. Ma poiché nessuna di queste giovani signore era la signorina Arabella Allen, le informazioni ottenute lasciarono Sam esattamente allo stesso punto di ignoranza in cui si trovava prima.

Sam faticava ad attraversare le colline sotto il forte vento di quella notte, chiedendosi se fosse davvero necessario tenere il cappello con entrambe le mani in quella parte della campagna. Arrivò poi in un angolo ombreggiato, dove si trovavano alcune piccole ville dall’aspetto tranquillo e isolato. Fuori da una stalla, in fondo a un lungo vicolo senza uscita, un garzone si aggirava pigramente, apparentemente convinto di stare facendo qualcosa con una pala e un carretto a ruote. A dire il vero, in quel luogo non avevamo mai visto un garzone vicino a una stalla, nei suoi momenti di ozio, che non fosse più o meno vittima di questa strana illusione.

Sam pensò che tanto valeva parlare con questo sposo quanto con chiunque altro; soprattutto perché era molto stanco per la camminata, e c’era una grossa pietra proprio di fronte al carretto a ruote. Così si avviò lungo il sentiero, si sedette sulla pietra e iniziò a conversare con naturalezza e disinvoltura, caratteristiche sue innate.

“Buongiorno, vecchio amico,” disse Sam.

“Intendi ‘metà pomeriggio’, vero?”, rispose lo sposo, lanciando uno sguardo torvo a Sam.

“Hai perfettamente ragione, vecchio amico,” disse Sam; “intendo davvero il pomeriggio. Come stai?”

“Beh, non credo di essere affatto migliorato dopo averti visto,” rispose lo sposo di cattivo umore.

“È davvero strano, ”, disse Sam, “perché sembri così insolitamente felice e pieno di vita che vedere te fa davvero bene al cuore.”

The surly groom looked surlier still at this, but not sufficiently so to produce any effect upon Sam, who immediately inquired, with a countenance of great anxiety, whether his master’s name was not Walker.

‘No, it ain’t,’ said the groom.

‘Nor Brown, I s’pose?’ said Sam.

‘No, it ain’t.’

‘Nor Vilson?’

‘No; nor that either,’ said the groom.

‘Vell,’ replied Sam, ‘then I’m mistaken, and he hasn’t got the honour o’ my acquaintance, which I thought he had. Don’t wait here out o’ compliment to me,’ said Sam, as the groom wheeled in the barrow, and prepared to shut the gate. ‘Ease afore ceremony, old boy; I’ll excuse you.’

‘I’d knock your head off for half-a-crown,’ said the surly groom, bolting one half of the gate.

‘Couldn’t afford to have it done on those terms,’ rejoined Sam. ‘It ‘ud be worth a life’s board wages at least, to you, and ‘ud be cheap at that. Make my compliments indoors. Tell ‘em not to vait dinner for me, and say they needn’t mind puttin’ any by, for it’ll be cold afore I come in.’

In reply to this, the groom waxing very wroth, muttered a desire to damage somebody’s person; but disappeared without carrying it into execution, slamming the door angrily after him, and wholly unheeding Sam’s affectionate request, that he would leave him a lock of his hair before he went.

Sam continued to sit on the large stone, meditating upon what was best to be done, and revolving in his mind a plan for knocking at all the doors within five miles of Bristol, taking them at a hundred and fifty or two hundred a day, and endeavouring to find Miss Arabella by that expedient, when accident all of a sudden threw in his way what he might have sat there for a twelvemonth and yet not found without it.

Into the lane where he sat, there opened three or four garden gates, belonging to as many houses, which though detached from each other, were only separated by their gardens. As these were large and long, and well planted with trees, the houses were not only at some distance off, but the greater part of them were nearly concealed from view. Sam was sitting with his eyes fixed upon the dust-heap outside the next gate to that by which the groom had disappeared, profoundly turning over in his mind the difficulties of his present undertaking, when the gate opened, and a female servant came out into the lane to shake some bedside carpets.

Sam was so very busy with his own thoughts, that it is probable he would have taken no more notice of the young woman than just raising his head and remarking that she had a very neat and pretty figure, if his feelings of gallantry had not been most strongly roused by observing that she had no one to help her, and that the carpets seemed too heavy for her single strength. Mr. Weller was a gentleman of great gallantry in his own way, and he no sooner remarked this circumstance than he hastily rose from the large stone, and advanced towards her.

‘My dear,’ said Sam, sliding up with an air of great respect, ‘you’ll spile that wery pretty figure out o’ all perportion if you shake them carpets by yourself. Let me help you.’

The young lady, who had been coyly affecting not to know that a gentleman was so near, turned round as Sam spoke—no doubt (indeed she said so, afterwards) to decline this offer from a perfect stranger—when instead of speaking, she started back, and uttered a half-suppressed scream. Sam was scarcely less staggered, for in the countenance of the well-shaped female servant, he beheld the very features of his valentine, the pretty housemaid from Mr. Nupkins’s.

‘Wy, Mary, my dear!’ said Sam.

‘Lauk, Mr. Weller,’ said Mary, ‘how you do frighten one!’

Sam made no verbal answer to this complaint, nor can we precisely say what reply he did make. We merely know that after a short pause Mary said, ‘Lor, do adun, Mr. Weller!’ and that his hat had fallen off a few moments before—from both of which tokens we should be disposed to infer that one kiss, or more, had passed between the parties.

‘Why, how did you come here?’ said Mary, when the conversation to which this interruption had been offered, was resumed.

‘O’ course I came to look arter you, my darlin’,’ replied Mr. Weller; for once permitting his passion to get the better of his veracity.

‘And how did you know I was here?’ inquired Mary. ‘Who could have told you that I took another service at Ipswich, and that they afterwards moved all the way here? Who _could _have told you that, Mr. Weller?’

‘Ah, to be sure,’ said Sam, with a cunning look, ‘that’s the pint. Who could ha’ told me?’

‘It wasn’t Mr. Muzzle, was it?’ inquired Mary.

‘Oh, no.’ replied Sam, with a solemn shake of the head, ‘it warn’t him.’

‘It must have been the cook,’ said Mary.

‘O’ course it must,’ said Sam.

‘Well, I never heard the like of that!’ exclaimed Mary.

‘No more did I,’ said Sam. ‘But Mary, my dear’—here Sam’s manner grew extremely affectionate—‘Mary, my dear, I’ve got another affair in hand as is wery pressin’. There’s one o’ my governor’s friends—Mr. Winkle, you remember him?’

‘Him in the green coat?’ said Mary. ‘Oh, yes, I remember him.’

‘Well,’ said Sam, ‘he’s in a horrid state o’ love; reg’larly comfoozled, and done over vith it.’

‘Lor!’ interposed Mary.

‘Yes,’ said Sam; ‘but that’s nothin’ if we could find out the young ‘ooman;’ and here Sam, with many digressions upon the personal beauty of Mary, and the unspeakable tortures he had experienced since he last saw her, gave a faithful account of Mr. Winkle’s present predicament.

‘Well,’ said Mary, ‘I never did!’

‘O’ course not,’ said Sam, ‘and nobody never did, nor never vill neither; and here am I a-walkin’ about like the wandering Jew—a sportin’ character you have perhaps heerd on Mary, my dear, as vos alvays doin’ a match agin’ time, and never vent to sleep—looking arter this here Miss Arabella Allen.’

Lo sposo scuro in volto sembrò ancora più cupo di fronte a questo, ma non abbastanza da influenzare Sam, il quale immediatamente chiese, con un’espressione di grande ansia, se il nome del suo padrone fosse davvero Walker.

“No, non è così,” disse lo sposo.

“Né Brown, immagino?” disse Sam.

“No, non è così.”

“Né Vilson?”

“No; nemmeno quello,” disse lo sposo.

“Beh,” rispose Sam, “allora mi sbaglio: lui non possiede l’‘onore che attribuivo alla mia conoscenza. Non aspettare qui per i miei complimenti,” aggiunse mentre lo sposo portava dentro il carretto e si preparava a chiudere il cancello. “Aspetta la fine della cerimonia, vecchio mio; ti scuserò.”

“Ti spaccerei la testa per mezza corona”, disse lo sposo scontroso, aprendo metà del cancello di scatto.

“Non avrei potuto permettermi di farlo a quei termini,” ribatté Sam. “Per te valerebbe almeno l’equivalente di un anno di stipendio. E per loro sarebbe anche poco costoso. Porta i miei complimenti dentro casa. Dì loro di non aspettarmi per cena, e che possono anche prepararne in abbondanza: farà freddo prima che io arrivi.”

In risposta a questo, lo sposo, diventando molto arrabbiato, mormorò di voler fare del male a qualcuno; ma poi scomparve senza mettere in atto quel desiderio, chiudendo la porta con rabbia alle sue spalle, e ignorando completamente la gentile richiesta di Sam di lasciargli una ciocca dei suoi capelli prima di andarsene.

Sam continuò a sedere su quella grande pietra, riflettendo su ciò che fosse meglio fare, e elaborando un piano per bussare a tutte le porte entro cinque miglia da Bristol, lavorando centocinquanta o duecento porte al giorno, nel tentativo di trovare la signorina Arabella con quel metodo. Ma all’improvviso, per caso, gli si presentò qualcosa che, senza di esso, avrebbe potuto cercare per dodici mesi senza riuscirci.

Nel vialetto dove sedeva, si aprirono tre o quattro porte di giardino, appartenenti a diverse case che, sebbene separate l’una dall’altra, erano divise soltanto dai loro giardini. Poiché questi erano ampi e lunghi, e ben piantati di alberi, le case non solo si trovavano a una certa distanza l’una dall’altra, ma la maggior parte di esse era quasi completamente nascosta alla vista. Sam stava seduto, con lo sguardo fisso sul mucchio di polvere fuori dalla porta successiva a quella da cui il giovane sposo era scomparso; rifletteva profondamente sulle difficoltà della sua impresa quando la porta si aprì e una domestica uscì nel vialetto per stendere alcuni tappeti da letto.

Sam era così immerso nei suoi pensieri che probabilmente non avrebbe prestato alcuna attenzione a quella giovane donna, se non fosse stato per il fatto che aveva notato che lei non aveva nessuno ad aiutarla e che i tappeti sembravano troppo pesanti per le sue forze. Il signor Weller era un gentiluomo dal grande senso dell’onore, e non appena si rese conto di questa situazione, si alzò rapidamente dal grosso sasso e si avvicinò a lei.

“Mia cara,” disse Sam, avvicinandosi con grande rispetto, “rovinerai completamente quella bellissima figura se provi a pulire i tappeti da sola. Lasciami aiutarti.”

La giovane signorina, che fino ad allora aveva finto di non sapere che un gentiluomo si trovava così vicino, si girò quando Sam parlò, senza alcun >dubbio (infatti, in seguito lo disse anche lei) di rifiutare questa proposta da parte di uno sconosciuto perfetto. Invece di rispondere, fece un balzo indietro e emise un grido soffocato. Sam rimase altrettanto sbalordito: nel volto di quella serva dai lineamenti graziosi, riconobbe infatti i tratti della sua innamorata, la bella cameriera di casa del signor Nupkins.

“Ehi, Mary, mia cara!” disse Sam.

“Lauk, signor Weller,” disse Mary, “come riesce a spaventare le persone!”

Sam non diede alcuna risposta verbale a questa lamentela, e nemmeno possiamo dire con precisione quale risposta abbia dato. Sappiamo soltanto che, dopo una breve pausa, Mary disse: “Oh, signor Weller, vi prego!” e che il suo cappello era caduto qualche momento prima. Da questi due indizi si potrebbe dedurre che tra loro sia stato scambiato un bacio, o più di uno.

“Ma come sei arrivato qui?” disse Mary quando la conversazione, interrotta da questo evento, riprese.

“Certo che sono venuto a cercarti, mia cara,” rispose il signor Weller; per una volta, infatti, lasciò che la sua passione prevalesse sulla sua onestà.

“E come facevi a sapere che ero qui?” chiese Mary. “Chi avrebbe potuto dirti che avevo accettato un altro incarico a Ipswich, e che poi loro si erano trasferiti proprio qui? Chi avrebbe potuto saperlo, signor Weller?”

“Ah, certo,” disse Sam, con uno sguardo astuto, “quella è proprio la pinta. Chi avrebbe potuto dirmelo?”

“Non era il signor Muzzle, vero?”, chiese Mary.

“Oh, no“, rispose Sam scuotendo la testa con gravità, “non era lui“.

“Deve essere stato il cuoco,” disse Mary.

“Certo che deve,” disse Sam.

“Beh, non ho mai sentito nulla del genere!” esclamò Mary.

“Nemmeno io più,” disse Sam. “Ma Mary, mia cara” – a questo punto il tono di Sam divenne estremamente affettuoso – “Mary, mia cara, ho un altro impegno molto urgente da gestire. C’è un amico del mio governatore, il signor Winkle, te lo ricordi?”

“Quello con il cappotto verde?”, disse Mary. “Oh sì, me lo ricordo.”

“Beh,” disse Sam, “è in uno stato terribile per amore; spesso si addormenta e ci pensa continuamente.”

“Lor!” intervenne Mary.

“Sì,” disse Sam; “ma niente in confronto se riuscissimo a trovare quella giovane donna, ”. E qui Sam, facendo molte digressioni sulla bellezza personale di Mary e sulle indicibili sofferenze che aveva provato da quando l’aveva vista l’ultima volta, fornì un resoconto dettagliato della difficile situazione in cui si trovava attualmente il signor Winkle.

“Beh,” disse Mary, “non l’avevo mai fatto!”

“Certo che no,” disse Sam, “e nessuno l’ha mai fatto, né mai lo farà; ed eccomi qui, a girovagare come quel Ebreo Errante, un tipo stravagante di cui forse avete sentito parlare, cara Mary, visto che voi sempre state facendo qualche “scommessa” contro il tempo, e senza mai riuscire a dormire, sempre in cerca di quella signorina Arabella Allen.”

‘Miss who?’ said Mary, in great astonishment.

‘Miss Arabella Allen,’ said Sam.

‘Goodness gracious!’ said Mary, pointing to the garden door which the sulky groom had locked after him. ‘Why, it’s that very house; she’s been living there these six weeks. Their upper house-maid, which is lady’s- maid too, told me all about it over the wash-house palin’s before the family was out of bed, one mornin’.’

‘Wot, the wery next door to you?’ said Sam.

‘The very next,’ replied Mary.

Mr. Weller was so deeply overcome on receiving this intelligence that he found it absolutely necessary to cling to his fair informant for support; and divers little love passages had passed between them, before he was sufficiently collected to return to the subject.

‘Vell,’ said Sam at length, ‘if this don’t beat cock-fightin’ nothin’ never vill, as the lord mayor said, ven the chief secretary o’ state proposed his missis’s health arter dinner. That wery next house! Wy, I’ve got a message to her as I’ve been a-trying all day to deliver.’

‘Ah,’ said Mary, ‘but you can’t deliver it now, because she only walks in the garden in the evening, and then only for a very little time; she never goes out, without the old lady.’

Sam ruminated for a few moments, and finally hit upon the following plan of operations; that he should return just at dusk—the time at which Arabella invariably took her walk—and, being admitted by Mary into the garden of the house to which she belonged, would contrive to scramble up the wall, beneath the overhanging boughs of a large pear-tree, which would effectually screen him from observation; would there deliver his message, and arrange, if possible, an interview on behalf of Mr. Winkle for the ensuing evening at the same hour. Having made this arrangement with great despatch, he assisted Mary in the long-deferred occupation of shaking the carpets.

It is not half as innocent a thing as it looks, that shaking little pieces of carpet—at least, there may be no great harm in the shaking, but the folding is a very insidious process. So long as the shaking lasts, and the two parties are kept the carpet’s length apart, it is as innocent an amusement as can well be devised; but when the folding begins, and the distance between them gets gradually lessened from one half its former length to a quarter, and then to an eighth, and then to a sixteenth, and then to a thirty-second, if the carpet be long enough, it becomes dangerous. We do not know, to a nicety, how many pieces of carpet were folded in this instance, but we can venture to state that as many pieces as there were, so many times did Sam kiss the pretty housemaid.

Mr. Weller regaled himself with moderation at the nearest tavern until it was nearly dusk, and then returned to the lane without the thoroughfare. Having been admitted into the garden by Mary, and having received from that lady sundry admonitions concerning the safety of his limbs and neck, Sam mounted into the pear-tree, to wait until Arabella should come into sight.

He waited so long without this anxiously-expected event occurring, that he began to think it was not going to take place at all, when he heard light footsteps upon the gravel, and immediately afterwards beheld Arabella walking pensively down the garden. As soon as she came nearly below the tree, Sam began, by way of gently indicating his presence, to make sundry diabolical noises similar to those which would probably be natural to a person of middle age who had been afflicted with a combination of inflammatory sore throat, croup, and whooping-cough, from his earliest infancy.

Upon this, the young lady cast a hurried glance towards the spot whence the dreadful sounds proceeded; and her previous alarm being not at all diminished when she saw a man among the branches, she would most certainly have decamped, and alarmed the house, had not fear fortunately deprived her of the power of moving, and caused her to sink down on a garden seat, which happened by good luck to be near at hand.

‘She’s a-goin’ off,’ soliloquised Sam in great perplexity. ‘Wot a thing it is, as these here young creeturs will go a-faintin’ avay just ven they oughtn’t to. Here, young ‘ooman, Miss Sawbones, Mrs. Vinkle, don’t!’

Whether it was the magic of Mr. Winkle’s name, or the coolness of the open air, or some recollection of Mr. Weller’s voice, that revived Arabella, matters not. She raised her head and languidly inquired, ‘Who’s that, and what do you want?’

‘Hush,’ said Sam, swinging himself on to the wall, and crouching there in as small a compass as he could reduce himself to, ‘only me, miss, only me.’

‘Mr. Pickwick’s servant!’ said Arabella earnestly.

‘The wery same, miss,’ replied Sam. ‘Here’s Mr. Vinkle reg’larly sewed up vith desperation, miss.’

‘Ah!’ said Arabella, drawing nearer the wall.

‘Ah, indeed,’ said Sam. ‘Ve thought ve should ha’ been obliged to strait-veskit him last night; he’s been a-ravin’ all day; and he says if he can’t see you afore to-morrow night’s over, he vishes he may be somethin’ unpleasanted if he don’t drownd hisself.’

‘Oh, no, no, Mr. Weller!’ said Arabella, clasping her hands.

‘That’s wot he says, miss,’ replied Sam coolly. ‘He’s a man of his word, and it’s my opinion he’ll do it, miss. He’s heerd all about you from the sawbones in barnacles.’

‘From my brother!’ said Arabella, having some faint recognition of Sam’s description.

‘I don’t rightly know which is your brother, miss,’ replied Sam. ‘Is it the dirtiest vun o’ the two?’

‘Yes, yes, Mr. Weller,’ returned Arabella, ‘go on. Make haste, pray.’

‘Well, miss,’ said Sam, ‘he’s heerd all about it from him; and it’s the gov’nor’s opinion that if you don’t see him wery quick, the sawbones as we’ve been a-speakin’ on, ‘ull get as much extra lead in his head as’ll rayther damage the dewelopment o’ the orgins if they ever put it in spirits artervards.’

“Miss chi?”, disse Mary, estremamente sorpresa.

“Signorina Arabella Allen,” disse Sam.

“Mio Dio!” esclamò Mary, indicando la porta del giardino che lo sposo scontroso aveva chiuso a chiave dietro di sé. “È proprio quella casa. Lei ci vive da sei settimane ormai. La loro cameriera personale, che fa anche da dama di compagnia, mi ha raccontato tutto mentre stavamo lavando i panni, una mattina, prima che tutta la famiglia si alzasse.”

“Che strano, proprio accanto a te?” disse Sam.

“Subito dopo,” rispose Mary.

Il signor Weller fu così profondamente colpito nell’apprendere questa notizia che ritenne assolutamente necessario aggrapparsi al proprio informatore per ricevere sostegno; inoltre, tra loro si erano scambiati diversi piccoli messaggi d’amore, prima che lui riuscisse a riprendersi abbastanza da tornare sull’argomento principale.

“Vell,” disse finalmente Sam, “se questo non batte di gran lunga le lotte tra galli. Non ci sarà mai niente di paragonabile, come ha detto il prefetto. Il segretario di stato ha proposto di brindare alla salute di sua moglie dopo cena. Quella è proprio la casa accanto. Ehi, ho un messaggio per lei che sto cercando di consegnarle tutto il giorno.”

“Ah,” disse Mary, “ma non puoi consegnargliela adesso, perché lei esce solo nel giardino la sera, e per un periodo di tempo molto breve; non esce mai senza la vecchia signora.”

Sam rifletté per qualche momento e alla fine ideò il seguente piano d’azione: avrebbe dovuto tornare proprio al tramonto – l’ora in cui Arabella faceva sempre la sua passeggiata – e, essendo stato fatto entrare da Mary nel giardino della casa a cui apparteneva, avrebbe cercato di arrampicarsi sul muro, sotto i rami sporgenti di un grande pero, che lo avrebbero efficacemente nascosto; lì avrebbe consegnato il suo messaggio e, se possibile, organizzato un incontro per conto del signor Winkle la sera seguente, alla stessa ora. Dopo aver fatto questi piani con grande rapidità, aiutò Mary a svolgere quell’occupazione tanto ritardata: scuotere i tappeti.

Non è affatto così innocente come sembra quel gioco di piegare quei piccoli pezzi di tappeto. Almeno, il semplice agitamento non comporta grandi pericoli, ma il processo di piegatura è davvero insidioso. Finché l’agitazione continua e le due persone mantengono una distanza adeguata lungo la lunghezza del tappeto, si tratta di un passatempo del tutto innocuo. Ma quando inizia la fase di piegatura e la distanza tra loro diminuisce gradualmente – da metà della lunghezza originale a un quarto, poi a un ottavo, a un sedicesimo, fino a un trentaduesimo –, se il tappeto è abbastanza lungo, diventa pericoloso. Non sappiamo con esattezza quanti pezzi di tappeto siano stati piegati in questo caso, ma possiamo affermare con certezza che, per ogni pezzo piegato, Sam ha baciato la bella cameriera, quante volte!

Il signor Weller si concesse qualche moderata bevanda nella taverna più vicina fino a quando non fu quasi buio, poi tornò nel vicolo senza usare la strada principale. Dopo essere stato fatto entrare nel giardino da Mary e aver ricevuto da quella signora diverse raccomandazioni riguardo alla sicurezza delle sue gambe e del suo collo, Sam salì sull’albero di pero, in attesa che Arabella comparisse in vista.

Aspettò così a lungo che quell’evento tanto atteso non si verificasse, da iniziare a pensare che forse non sarebbe mai accaduto; quando poi sentì dei passi leggeri sul ghiaietto, vide immediatamente Arabella camminare pensierosa per il giardino. Non appena si avvicinò all’albero, Sam iniziò, a mo’ di segnale gentile della sua presenza, a emettere vari suoni strani e dissonanti, simili a quelli che probabilmente avrebbe prodotto una persona di mezza età afflitta da un insieme di sintomi come faringite infiammatoria, cruppo e tosse convulsa, fin dalla sua più tenera infanzia.

A questo punto, la giovane signora gettò uno sguardo affrettato verso il luogo da dove provenivano quei terribili suoni; e poiché il suo precedente allarme non era affatto diminuito nel vedere un uomo tra i rami, sicuramente sarebbe fuggita, causando panico in tutta la >casa, se solo la >paura non le avesse impedito di muoversi, facendola cadere su una panchina del >jardino che, per fortuna, si trovava lì vicino.

“Sta per svenire, ”, mormorò Sam, profondamente perplesso. “Che cosa strana. Questi giovani esseri continuano a svenire non appena dovrebbero stare bene. Ehi, signora, Miss Sawbones, Mrs. Vinkle. Non fatelo!”

Che si trattasse della magia del nome del signor Winkle, della freschezza dell’aria aperta, o di qualche ricordo della voce del signor Weller, non importa. Arabella sollevò la testa e chiese con indifferenza: “Chi è e cosa vuole?”

“Zitta,” disse Sam, appoggiandosi al muro e accovacciandosi il più possibile, “solo io, signorina, solo io.”

“Il servitore del signor Pickwick!” disse Arabella con sincerità.

“Esattamente lo stesso, signorina,” rispose Sam. “Ecco il signor Vinkle, chiaramente cucito insieme con disperazione, ”

“Ah!”, disse Arabella, avvicinandosi al muro.

“Ah, davvero,” disse Sam. “Pensavo che avreste dovuto costringerlo a vestirsi seriamente ieri notte; ha fatto il diavolo tutto il giorno. E dice che se non vi vede prima che finisca la prossima notte, teme che possa succedergli qualcosa di spiacevole, se non si annega.”

“Oh, no, no, signor Weller!” disse Arabella, stringendo le mani.

“È proprio quello che dice, signorina,” rispose Sam con calma. “È un uomo di parola, e secondo me lo farà davvero. Ha sentito parlare molto di voi da quelle persone del porto.”

“Di mio fratello!” disse Arabella, riconoscendo vagamente la descrizione fatta da Sam.

“Non so proprio quale sia tuo fratello, signorina,” rispose Sam. “È forse il più sporco dei due?”

“Sì, sì, signor Weller,” rispose Arabella, “continui pure. Per favore, si sbrighi.”

“Beh, signorina,” disse Sam, “lui ne ha sentito parlare da lui stesso; e secondo il governatore, se non lo vedete al più presto, quei medici di cui abbiamo parlato potrebbero fargli inserire qualcosa nella testa che danneggerebbe seriamente il suo sviluppo mentale, se mai decidessero di procedere con l’intervento.”

‘Oh, what can I do to prevent these dreadful quarrels!’ exclaimed Arabella.

‘It’s the suspicion of a priory ‘tachment as is the cause of it all,’ replied Sam. ‘You’d better see him, miss.’

‘But how?—where?’ cried Arabella. ‘I dare not leave the house alone. My brother is so unkind, so unreasonable! I know how strange my talking thus to you may appear, Mr. Weller, but I am very, very unhappy—’ and here poor Arabella wept so bitterly that Sam grew chivalrous.

‘It may seem wery strange talkin’ to me about these here affairs, miss,’ said Sam, with great vehemence; ‘but all I can say is, that I’m not only ready but villin’ to do anythin’ as’ll make matters agreeable; and if chuckin’ either o’ them sawboneses out o’ winder ‘ull do it, I’m the man.’ As Sam Weller said this, he tucked up his wristbands, at the imminent hazard of falling off the wall in so doing, to intimate his readiness to set to work immediately.

Flattering as these professions of good feeling were, Arabella resolutely declined (most unaccountably, as Sam thought) to avail herself of them. For some time she strenuously refused to grant Mr. Winkle the interview Sam had so pathetically requested; but at length, when the conversation threatened to be interrupted by the unwelcome arrival of a third party, she hurriedly gave him to understand, with many professions of gratitude, that it was barely possible she might be in the garden an hour later, next evening. Sam understood this perfectly well; and Arabella, bestowing upon him one of her sweetest smiles, tripped gracefully away, leaving Mr. Weller in a state of very great admiration of her charms, both personal and mental.

Having descended in safety from the wall, and not forgotten to devote a few moments to his own particular business in the same department, Mr. Weller then made the best of his way back to the Bush, where his prolonged absence had occasioned much speculation and some alarm.

‘We must be careful,’ said Mr. Pickwick, after listening attentively to Sam’s tale, ‘not for our sakes, but for that of the young lady. We must be very cautious.’

‘We!’ said Mr. Winkle, with marked emphasis.

Mr. Pickwick’s momentary look of indignation at the tone of this remark, subsided into his characteristic expression of benevolence, as he replied—

‘We, Sir! I shall accompany you.’

‘You!’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘I,’ replied Mr. Pickwick mildly. ‘In affording you this interview, the young lady has taken a natural, perhaps, but still a very imprudent step. If I am present at the meeting—a mutual friend, who is old enough to be the father of both parties—the voice of calumny can never be raised against her hereafter.’

Mr. Pickwick’s eyes lightened with honest exultation at his own foresight, as he spoke thus. Mr. Winkle was touched by this little trait of his delicate respect for the young _protegee _of his friend, and took his hand with a feeling of regard, akin to veneration.

‘You _SHALL _ go,’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘I will,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Sam, have my greatcoat and shawl ready, and order a conveyance to be at the door to-morrow evening, rather earlier than is absolutely necessary, in order that we may be in good time.’

Mr. Weller touched his hat, as an earnest of his obedience, and withdrew to make all needful preparations for the expedition.

The coach was punctual to the time appointed; and Mr. Weller, after duly installing Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Winkle inside, took his seat on the box by the driver. They alighted, as had been agreed on, about a quarter of a mile from the place of rendezvous, and desiring the coachman to await their return, proceeded the remaining distance on foot.

It was at this stage of the undertaking that Mr. Pickwick, with many smiles and various other indications of great self-satisfaction, produced from one of his coat pockets a dark lantern, with which he had specially provided himself for the occasion, and the great mechanical beauty of which he proceeded to explain to Mr. Winkle, as they walked along, to the no small surprise of the few stragglers they met.

‘I should have been the better for something of this kind, in my last garden expedition, at night; eh, Sam?’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking good- humouredly round at his follower, who was trudging behind.

‘Wery nice things, if they’re managed properly, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘but wen you don’t want to be seen, I think they’re more useful arter the candle’s gone out, than wen it’s alight.’

Mr. Pickwick appeared struck by Sam’s remarks, for he put the lantern into his pocket again, and they walked on in silence.

‘Down here, Sir,’ said Sam. ‘Let me lead the way. This is the lane, Sir.’

Down the lane they went, and dark enough it was. Mr. Pickwick brought out the lantern, once or twice, as they groped their way along, and threw a very brilliant little tunnel of light before them, about a foot in diameter. It was very pretty to look at, but seemed to have the effect of rendering surrounding objects rather darker than before.

At length they arrived at the large stone. Here Sam recommended his master and Mr. Winkle to seat themselves, while he reconnoitred, and ascertained whether Mary was yet in waiting.

After an absence of five or ten minutes, Sam returned to say that the gate was opened, and all quiet. Following him with stealthy tread, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Winkle soon found themselves in the garden. Here everybody said, ‘Hush!’ a good many times; and that being done, no one seemed to have any very distinct apprehension of what was to be done next.

‘Is Miss Allen in the garden yet, Mary?’ inquired Mr. Winkle, much agitated.

‘I don’t know, sir,’ replied the pretty housemaid. ‘The best thing to be done, sir, will be for Mr. Weller to give you a hoist up into the tree, and perhaps Mr. Pickwick will have the goodness to see that nobody comes up the lane, while I watch at the other end of the garden. Goodness gracious, what’s that?’

“Oh, cosa posso fare per evitare queste terribili liti!” esclamò Arabella.

“È il sospetto di un legame con un priorato la causa di tutto questo,” rispose Sam. “È meglio che lo vediate, signorina.”

“Ma come?, dove?” gridò Arabella. “Non oso lasciare la casa da >sola. Mio fratello è così crudele, così irragionevole! So quanto possa sembrare strano il mio comportamento, signor Weller, ma sono davvero molto, molto infelice, ” E qui la povera Arabella pianse così amaramente che Sam si sentì in dovere di mostrarsi gentile con lei.

“Parlare di queste faccende potrebbe sembrarmi molto strano, signorina,” disse Sam con grande fervore; “ma tutto quello che posso dire è che non solo sono pronto, ma sono anche disposto a fare qualsiasi cosa sia necessaria per risolvere la situazione; e se buttare fuori uno di quei due individui bastasse per sistemare le cose, allora io sono l’uomo giusto.” Mentre diceva queste parole, Sam si arrotolò i polsini della camicia, rischiando addirittura di cadere dal muro nel farlo, per dimostrare la sua prontezza ad agire immediatamente.

Per quanto lusinghieri fossero questi manifesti di buone intenzioni, Arabella rifiutò decisamente (in modo del tutto inspiegabile, secondo Sam) di approfittarne. Per un certo periodo si rifiutò ostinatamente di concedere al signor Winkle l’incontro che Sam aveva così disperatamente chiesto; ma alla fine, quando la conversazione rischiava di essere interrotta dall’arrivo indesiderato di una terza persona, gli fece capire, con molte espressioni di gratitudine, che era quasi impossibile che potesse trovarsi nel giardino l’ora successiva, la sera seguente. Sam capì perfettamente; Arabella, regalandogli uno dei suoi sorrisi più dolci, se ne andò con grazia, lasciando il signor Weller in uno stato di grande ammirazione per i suoi fascini, sia fisici che intellettuali.

Dopo essere sceso sano e salvo dalla parete, e senza dimenticare di dedicare qualche minuto alle proprie faccende personali nello stesso dipartimento, il signor Weller si affrettò a tornare al “Bush”, dove la sua lunga assenza aveva suscitato molte speculazioni e anche un certo allarme.

“Dobbiamo essere cauti,” disse il signor Pickwick dopo aver ascoltato attentamente la storia di Sam, “non per noi stessi, ma per il bene della giovane signora. Dobbiamo essere molto prudenti.”

“Noi!”, disse il signor Winkle, ponendo particolare enfasi su quella parola.

Lo sguardo di indignazione momentaneo del signor Pickwick di fronte al tono di questa osservazione svanì, lasciando il posto al suo tipico espressione di benevolenza quando rispose.

“Noi, signore! Vi accompagnerò.”

“Tu!” disse il signor Winkle.

“Io,” rispose gentilmente il signor Pickwick. “Concedendovi questo incontro, la giovane signora ha compiuto un gesto naturale, forse, ma comunque molto imprudente. Se io fossi presente a questa riunione – un amico comune, abbastanza anziano da poter essere considerato il padre di entrambe le parti – nessuno oserebbe mai più levare su di lei accuse calunniose in futuro.”

Gli occhi di Mr. Pickwick si illuminarono di sincera gioia per la propria previdenza, mentre parlava in questo modo. Mr. Winkle fu commosso da questo piccolo segno del suo profondo rispetto per la giovane protetta dell’amico e gli strinse la mano con un sentimento di stima, quasi di venerazione.

“Devi andare,” disse il signor Winkle.

“Lo farò,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Sam, prepara il mio cappotto pesante e lo scialle, e fai preparare un mezzo di trasporto davanti alla porta domani sera, meglio prima del tempo necessario, in modo che possiamo arrivare in tempo.”

Il signor Weller si toccò il cappello in segno di rispetto e obbedienza, poi si ritirò per fare tutte le preparazioni necessarie per l’impresa.

Il cocchiere arrivò puntuale all’orario concordato; e dopo aver fatto salire adeguatamente a bordo il signor Pickwick e il signor Winkle, si sedette nel posto riservato ai passeggeri vicino al conducente. Scesero dal cocchio, come previsto, a circa un quarto di miglio dal luogo dell’incontro, e, chiedendo al cocchiere di aspettarli al loro ritorno, percorsero il resto della distanza a piedi.

Fu in questa fase dell’impresa che il signor Pickwick, con molti sorrisi e varie altre manifestazioni di grande auto-soddisfazione, tirò fuori da una delle tasche del suo cappotto una lanterna scura, che aveva preparato appositamente per l’occasione. Iniziò quindi a spiegare alla signorina Winkle la notevole bellezza meccanica di quell’oggetto, mentre camminavano insieme; ciò suscitò non poco stupore nei pochi passanti che incontrarono.

“Avrei dovuto essere più abile in una situazione del genere, durante la mia ultima spedizione nel giardino, di notte, eh, Sam?” disse il signor Pickwick, guardando con aria bonaria il suo seguace che lo stava seguendo a fatica.

“Cose davvero belle, se gestite nel modo giusto, signore,” rispose il signor Weller; “ma quando si vuole evitare di essere visti, penso che siano più utili dopo che la candela è spenta, piuttosto che quando è accesa.”

Il signor Pickwick sembrò essere colpito dalle parole di Sam, perché ripose la lanterna in tasca e continuarono a camminare in silenzio.

“Qui sotto, signore,” disse Sam. “Lasci che sia io a guidarla. Questo è il sentiero, signore.”

Scesero lungo il sentiero; era abbastanza buio. Il signor Pickwick accese la lanterna un paio di volte mentre procedevano a tentoni, creando davanti a loro un piccolo tunnel di luce molto intensa, con un diametro di circa un piede. Era molto bello da vedere, ma sembrava che facesse sì che gli oggetti circostanti apparissero ancora più scuri del solito.

Finalmente arrivarono davanti alla grande pietra. Lì Sam consigliò al suo padrone e a Mr. Winkle di sedersi, mentre lui andava a controllare se Mary fosse ancora lì ad aspettare.

Dopo un’assenza di cinque o dieci minuti, Sam tornò per dire che il cancello era stato aperto e che tutto era tranquillo. Seguendolo con passi furtivi, il signor Pickwick e il signor Winkle arrivarono presto nel >jardino. Lì, molte volte qualcuno disse “Silenzio!”, ma dopo questo, nessuno sembrava avere una chiara idea di cosa dovesse succedere successivamente.

“La signorina Allen è già nel giardino, Mary?”, chiese il signor Winkle, molto agitato.

“Non lo so, signore,” rispose la bella cameriera. “La cosa migliore da fare sarebbe che il signor Weller vi aiutasse a salire sull’albero, e forse il signor Pickwick avrebbe la gentilezza di assicurarsi che nessuno si avvicini lungo il sentiero, mentre io faccio la guardia dall’altro lato del giardino. Oddio mio, cos’è quello?”

‘That ‘ere blessed lantern ‘ull be the death on us all,’ exclaimed Sam peevishly. ‘Take care wot you’re a-doin’ on, sir; you’re a-sendin’ a blaze o’ light, right into the back parlour winder.’

‘Dear me!’ said Mr. Pickwick, turning hastily aside, ‘I didn’t mean to do that.’

‘Now, it’s in the next house, sir,’ remonstrated Sam.

‘Bless my heart!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, turning round again.

‘Now, it’s in the stable, and they’ll think the place is afire,’ said Sam. ‘Shut it up, sir, can’t you?’

‘It’s the most extraordinary lantern I ever met with, in all my life!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, greatly bewildered by the effects he had so unintentionally produced. ‘I never saw such a powerful reflector.’

‘It’ll be vun too powerful for us, if you keep blazin’ avay in that manner, sir,’ replied Sam, as Mr. Pickwick, after various unsuccessful efforts, managed to close the slide. ‘There’s the young lady’s footsteps. Now, Mr. Winkle, sir, up vith you.’

‘Stop, stop!’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I must speak to her first. Help me up, Sam.’

‘Gently, Sir,’ said Sam, planting his head against the wall, and making a platform of his back. ‘Step atop o’ that ‘ere flower-pot, Sir. Now then, up vith you.’

‘I’m afraid I shall hurt you, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Never mind me, Sir,’ replied Sam. ‘Lend him a hand, Mr. Winkle, sir. Steady, sir, steady! That’s the time o’ day!’

As Sam spoke, Mr. Pickwick, by exertions almost supernatural in a gentleman of his years and weight, contrived to get upon Sam’s back; and Sam gently raising himself up, and Mr. Pickwick holding on fast by the top of the wall, while Mr. Winkle clasped him tight by the legs, they contrived by these means to bring his spectacles just above the level of the coping.

‘My dear,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking over the wall, and catching sight of Arabella, on the other side, ‘don’t be frightened, my dear, it’s only me.’ ‘Oh, pray go away, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Arabella. ‘Tell them all to go away. I am so dreadfully frightened. Dear, dear Mr. Pickwick, don’t stop there. You’ll fall down and kill yourself, I know you will.’

‘Now, pray don’t alarm yourself, my dear,’ said Mr. Pickwick soothingly. ‘There is not the least cause for fear, I assure you. Stand firm, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking down.

‘All right, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Don’t be longer than you can conweniently help, sir. You’re rayther heavy.’

‘Only another moment, Sam,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘I merely wished you to know, my dear, that I should not have allowed my young friend to see you in this clandestine way, if the situation in which you are placed had left him any alternative; and, lest the impropriety of this step should cause you any uneasiness, my love, it may be a satisfaction to you, to know that I am present. That’s all, my dear.’

‘Indeed, Mr. Pickwick, I am very much obliged to you for your kindness and consideration,’ replied Arabella, drying her tears with her handkerchief. She would probably have said much more, had not Mr. Pickwick’s head disappeared with great swiftness, in consequence of a false step on Sam’s shoulder which brought him suddenly to the ground. He was up again in an instant however; and bidding Mr. Winkle make haste and get the interview over, ran out into the lane to keep watch, with all the courage and ardour of youth. Mr. Winkle himself, inspired by the occasion, was on the wall in a moment, merely pausing to request Sam to be careful of his master.

‘I’ll take care on him, sir,’ replied Sam. ‘Leave him to me.’

‘Where is he? What’s he doing, Sam?’ inquired Mr. Winkle.

‘Bless his old gaiters,’ rejoined Sam, looking out at the garden door. ‘He’s a-keepin’ guard in the lane vith that ‘ere dark lantern, like a amiable Guy Fawkes! I never see such a fine creetur in my days. Blessed if I don’t think his heart must ha’ been born five-and-twenty year arter his body, at least!’

Mr. Winkle stayed not to hear the encomium upon his friend. He had dropped from the wall; thrown himself at Arabella’s feet; and by this time was pleading the sincerity of his passion with an eloquence worthy even of Mr. Pickwick himself.

While these things were going on in the open air, an elderly gentleman of scientific attainments was seated in his library, two or three houses off, writing a philosophical treatise, and ever and anon moistening his clay and his labours with a glass of claret from a venerable-looking bottle which stood by his side. In the agonies of composition, the elderly gentleman looked sometimes at the carpet, sometimes at the ceiling, and sometimes at the wall; and when neither carpet, ceiling, nor wall afforded the requisite degree of inspiration, he looked out of the window.

In one of these pauses of invention, the scientific gentleman was gazing abstractedly on the thick darkness outside, when he was very much surprised by observing a most brilliant light glide through the air, at a short distance above the ground, and almost instantaneously vanish. After a short time the phenomenon was repeated, not once or twice, but several times; at last the scientific gentleman, laying down his pen, began to consider to what natural causes these appearances were to be assigned.

They were not meteors; they were too low. They were not glow-worms; they were too high. They were not will-o’-the-wisps; they were not fireflies; they were not fireworks. What could they be? Some extraordinary and wonderful phenomenon of nature, which no philosopher had ever seen before; something which it had been reserved for him alone to discover, and which he should immortalise his name by chronicling for the benefit of posterity. Full of this idea, the scientific gentleman seized his pen again, and committed to paper sundry notes of these unparalleled appearances, with the date, day, hour, minute, and precise second at which they were visible: all of which were to form the data of a voluminous treatise of great research and deep learning, which should astonish all the atmospherical wiseacres that ever drew breath in any part of the civilised globe.

“Quella maledetta lanterna diventerà la nostra morte”, esclamò Sam con rabbia. “State attenti a quello che state facendo, signore. State mandando una luce intensa proprio verso il salotto sul retro.”

“Mio Dio!”, disse il signor Pickwick, allontanandosi in fretta, “Non volevo farlo.”

“Ora si trova nella casa successiva, signore,” obiettò Sam.

“Mio Dio!” esclamò il signor Pickwick, girandosi di nuovo.

“Ora è nella stalla, e penseranno che il posto sia in fiamme,” disse Sam. “Stia zitto, per favore, non può smettere?”

“È la lanterna più straordinaria che abbia mai incontrato in tutta la mia vita!”, esclamò il signor Pickwick, profondamente perplesso dagli effetti che aveva prodotto in modo così involontario. “Non ho mai visto un riflettore così potente”.

“Sarà troppo potente per noi, se continuate a farlo in questo modo, signore,” rispose Sam, mentre il signor Pickwick, dopo vari tentativi falliti, riuscì finalmente a chiudere la slitta. “Ci sono le orme della giovane signora. Ora, signor Winkle, vi prego, alzate in piedi.”

“Fermati, fermati!”, disse il signor Pickwick, “Devo parlare con lei prima. Aiutami ad alzarmi, Sam.”

“Con delicatezza, signore,” disse Sam, appoggiando la testa al muro e utilizzandone la schiena come “piattaforma”. “Salga su quel vaso pieno di fiori, signore. Ora può salire.”

“Temo di farti male, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Non badate a me, signore,” rispose Sam. “Aiutatelo, per favore, signor Winkle. Fermo così, signore, fermo! È proprio il momento giusto!”

Mentre Sam parlava, il signor Pickwick, con sforzi quasi sovrannaturali per uno uomo della sua età e corporatura, riuscì a salire sulle spalle di Sam; Sam si alzò dolcemente, il signor Pickwick si tenne saldamente aggrappato alla sommità del muro, mentre il signor Winkle lo stringeva forte per le gambe. In questo modo riuscirono a portare gli occhiali di Pickwick appena al di sopra del livello della grondaia.

“Mia cara,” disse il signor Pickwick, guardando oltre il muro e scorgendo Arabella dall’altra parte, “non avere paura, mia cara, sono solo io.” “Oh, per favore vada via, signor Pickwick,” disse Arabella. “Dica a tutti di andarsene. Ho così tanta paura. Caro, caro signor Pickwick, non si fermi lì. Cadrebbe e si ucciderebbe, lo so.”

“Ora, per favore non allarmarti, mia cara,” disse il signor Pickwick con voce rassicurante.
“Non c’è assolutamente motivo di paura, te lo assicuro. Resta calma, Sam,” aggiunse il signor Pickwick, guardandola in basso.

“Va bene, signore,” rispose il signor Weller. “Non si trattenga più a lungo del tempo che le è possibile dedicare, signore. Lei è piuttosto pesante.”

“Solo un attimo ancora, Sam,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

“Volevo semplicemente che tu sapesse, mio caro, che non avrei permesso al mio giovane amico di incontrarti in questo modo segreto, se la situazione in cui ti trovi gli avesse lasciato qualche altra scelta; e affinché l’inappropriatità di questo gesto non ti causasse alcuna preoccupazione, mio amore, forse ti consolerà sapere che io sono qui. È tutto, mio caro.”

“Certamente, signor Pickwick, le sono molto grata per la sua gentilezza e considerazione,” rispose Arabella asciugandosi le lacrime con il fazzoletto. Probabilmente avrebbe detto molto di più, se non fosse stato che la testa del signor Pickwick scomparve all’improvviso a causa di un passo falso su una spalla di Sam, che lo fece cadere a terra. Tuttavia si rialzò subito e, esortando il signor Winkle ad affrettarsi per concludere l’incontro, corse fuori nel vicolo per tenere d’occhio la situazione, con tutto il coraggio e l’entusiasmo tipici della gioventù. Anche il signor Winkle, ispirato dall’occasione, si arrampicò sul muro in un attimo, fermandosi solo per chiedere a Sam di fare attenzione al suo padrone.

“Me ne occuperò io, signore,” rispose Sam. “Lasciatelo a me.”

“Dove è? Cosa sta facendo, Sam?” chiese il signor Winkle.

“Benedetti i suoi vecchi stivali,” esclamò Sam, guardando verso la porta del giardino. “Sta facendo la guardia nel vicolo con quella lanterna, proprio come il gentile Guy Fawkes! Non ho mai visto una persona così meravigliosa in vita mia. Sono davvero fortunato: penso che il suo cuore sia nato almeno venticinque anni dopo il suo corpo!”

Il signor Winkle non volle ascoltare gli elogi rivolti a suo amico. Si era gettato ai piedi di Arabella e, in quel momento, esprimeva con un’eloquenza degna persino del signor Pickwick stesso la sincerità dei suoi sentimenti.

Mentre queste cose avvenivano all’aperto, un anziano signore di notevoli conoscenze scientifiche sedeva nella sua biblioteca, situata a due o tre case di distanza, intento a scrivere un trattato filosofico. Di tanto in tanto umidificava la carta su cui scriveva con un bicchiere di vino rosso proveniente da una bottiglia dall’aspetto molto antico che aveva accanto a sé. Nel corso delle difficoltà legate alla stesura del suo lavoro, l’anziano signore guardava a volte il tappeto, a volte il soffitto e a volte il muro; e quando né il tappeto, né il soffitto, né il muro gli fornivano l’ispirazione necessaria, guardava fuori dalla finestra.

In uno di questi momenti di riflessione creativa, il gentiluomo scienziato fissava distrattamente l’oscurità densa all’esterno, quando fu molto sorpreso nel notare un bagliore intensissimo muoversi nell’aria, a breve distanza dal suolo, per poi scomparire quasi immediatamente. Dopo poco tempo, il fenomeno si ripeté, non una o due volte, ma più volte; alla fine, il gentiluomo scienziato posò la penna e iniziò a riflettere sulle possibili cause naturali di questi eventi.

Non erano meteori; erano troppo bassi nel cielo. Non erano lucciole; erano troppo alti. Non erano fuochi fatui; non erano lumache di luna. Che cosa potevano essere? Qualche fenomeno straordinario e meraviglioso della >natura, mai visto prima da alcun filosofo; qualcosa che era stato riservato soltanto a lui per scoprirlo, e che avrebbe reso immortale il suo nome se ne avesse raccontato i dettagli a beneficio delle generazioni future. Con questo pensiero in mente, il gentiluomo scienziato prese di nuovo la penna e trascrisse su carta tutte le osservazioni riguardanti questi fenomeni senza precedenti, indicando con precisione la data, l’ora, il minuto e il secondo esatto in cui si erano verificati. Tutti questi dati avrebbero poi costituito il materiale di un trattato voluminoso, frutto di approfondite ricerche e riflessioni scientifiche, che avrebbe stupito tutti gli esperti di fenomeni atmosferici esistenti in ogni angolo del mondo civile.

He threw himself back in his easy-chair, wrapped in contemplations of his future greatness. The mysterious light appeared more brilliantly than before, dancing, to all appearance, up and down the lane, crossing from side to side, and moving in an orbit as eccentric as comets themselves.

The scientific gentleman was a bachelor. He had no wife to call in and astonish, so he rang the bell for his servant.

‘Pruffle,’ said the scientific gentleman, ‘there is something very extraordinary in the air to-night? Did you see that?’ said the scientific gentleman, pointing out of the window, as the light again became visible.

‘Yes, I did, Sir.’

‘What do you think of it, Pruffle?’

‘Think of it, Sir?’

‘Yes. You have been bred up in this country. What should you say was the cause for those lights, now?’

The scientific gentleman smilingly anticipated Pruffle’s reply that he could assign no cause for them at all. Pruffle meditated.

‘I should say it was thieves, Sir,’ said Pruffle at length.

‘You’re a fool, and may go downstairs,’ said the scientific gentleman.

‘Thank you, Sir,’ said Pruffle. And down he went.

But the scientific gentleman could not rest under the idea of the ingenious treatise he had projected being lost to the world, which must inevitably be the case if the speculation of the ingenious Mr. Pruffle were not stifled in its birth. He put on his hat and walked quickly down the garden, determined to investigate the matter to the very bottom.

Now, shortly before the scientific gentleman walked out into the garden, Mr. Pickwick had run down the lane as fast as he could, to convey a false alarm that somebody was coming that way; occasionally drawing back the slide of the dark lantern to keep himself from the ditch. The alarm was no sooner given, than Mr. Winkle scrambled back over the wall, and Arabella ran into the house; the garden gate was shut, and the three adventurers were making the best of their way down the lane, when they were startled by the scientific gentleman unlocking his garden gate.

‘Hold hard,’ whispered Sam, who was, of course, the first of the party. ‘Show a light for just vun second, Sir.’

Mr. Pickwick did as he was desired, and Sam, seeing a man’s head peeping out very cautiously within half a yard of his own, gave it a gentle tap with his clenched fist, which knocked it, with a hollow sound, against the gate. Having performed this feat with great suddenness and dexterity, Mr. Weller caught Mr. Pickwick up on his back, and followed Mr. Winkle down the lane at a pace which, considering the burden he carried, was perfectly astonishing.

‘Have you got your vind back agin, Sir,’ inquired Sam, when they had reached the end.

‘Quite. Quite, now,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Then come along, Sir,’ said Sam, setting his master on his feet again. ‘Come betveen us, sir. Not half a mile to run. Think you’re vinnin’ a cup, sir. Now for it.’

Thus encouraged, Mr. Pickwick made the very best use of his legs. It may be confidently stated that a pair of black gaiters never got over the ground in better style than did those of Mr. Pickwick on this memorable occasion.

The coach was waiting, the horses were fresh, the roads were good, and the driver was willing. The whole party arrived in safety at the Bush before Mr. Pickwick had recovered his breath.

‘In with you at once, sir,’ said Sam, as he helped his master out. ‘Don’t stop a second in the street, arter that ‘ere exercise. Beg your pardon, sir,’ continued Sam, touching his hat as Mr. Winkle descended, ‘hope there warn’t a priory ‘tachment, sir?’

Mr. Winkle grasped his humble friend by the hand, and whispered in his ear, ‘It’s all right, Sam; quite right.’ Upon which Mr. Weller struck three distinct blows upon his nose in token of intelligence, smiled, winked, and proceeded to put the steps up, with a countenance expressive of lively satisfaction.

As to the scientific gentleman, he demonstrated, in a masterly treatise, that these wonderful lights were the effect of electricity; and clearly proved the same by detailing how a flash of fire danced before his eyes when he put his head out of the gate, and how he received a shock which stunned him for a quarter of an hour afterwards; which demonstration delighted all the scientific associations beyond measure, and caused him to be considered a light of science ever afterwards.

CHAPTER XL. INTRODUCES MR. PICKWICK TO A NEW AND NOT UNINTERESTING SCENE IN THE GREAT DRAMA OF LIFE

The remainder of the period which Mr. Pickwick had assigned as the duration of the stay at Bath passed over without the occurrence of anything material. Trinity term commenced. On the expiration of its first week, Mr. Pickwick and his friends returned to London; and the former gentleman, attended of course by Sam, straightway repaired to his old quarters at the George and Vulture.

On the third morning after their arrival, just as all the clocks in the city were striking nine individually, and somewhere about nine hundred and ninety-nine collectively, Sam was taking the air in George Yard, when a queer sort of fresh-painted vehicle drove up, out of which there jumped with great agility, throwing the reins to a stout man who sat beside him, a queer sort of gentleman, who seemed made for the vehicle, and the vehicle for him.

The vehicle was not exactly a gig, neither was it a stanhope. It was not what is currently denominated a dog-cart, neither was it a taxed cart, nor a chaise-cart, nor a guillotined cabriolet; and yet it had something of the character of each and every of these machines. It was painted a bright yellow, with the shafts and wheels picked out in black; and the driver sat in the orthodox sporting style, on cushions piled about two feet above the rail. The horse was a bay, a well-looking animal enough; but with something of a flash and dog-fighting air about him, nevertheless, which accorded both with the vehicle and his master.

Si lasciò cadere di nuovo nella sua poltrona, immerso nei pensieri sulla propria futura grandezza. La luce misteriosa appariva ancora più splendente del solito; sembrava danzare su e giù lungo il sentiero, attraversando da un lato all’altro, muovendosi in un’orbita altrettanto eccentrica di quella delle comete stesse.

Il gentiluomo scienziato era celibe; non aveva una moglie da chiamare e sorprendere, quindi suonò il campanello per chiamare il suo servitore.

“Pruffle,” disse il gentiluomo scienziato, “c’è qualcosa di davvero straordinario nell’aria stasera. L’hai visto?” chiese, indicando fuori dalla finestra, mentre la luce tornava a essere visibile.

“Sì, signore, l’ho fatto.”

“Che ne pensi, Pruffle?”

“Ci pensi un attimo, signore?”

“Sì. Siete stati cresciuti in questo paese. Allora, cosa dovreste dire riguardo alla causa di quelle luci?”

Il gentiluomo scienziato aspettava con un sorriso la risposta di Pruffle, che sicuramente avrebbe affermato di non essere in grado di trovare alcuna spiegazione per quei fenomeni. Pruffle rifletté a lungo.

“Dovrei dire che erano ladri, signore,” disse finalmente Pruffle.

“Sei un idiota; puoi anche scendere al piano di sotto,” disse il gentiluomo scienziato.

“Grazie, signore,” disse Pruffle. E poi scese giù.

Ma quel gentiluomo scienziato non riusciva a sopportare l’idea che il brillante trattato che aveva progettato potesse andare perduto per sempre, cosa che inevitabilmente sarebbe accaduta se le speculazioni del geniale signor Pruffle non fossero state fermate fin dal loro nascere. Si mise il cappello e si diresse rapidamente verso il giardino, deciso a indagare fino in fondo sulla questione.

Ora, poco prima che il gentiluomo scienziato uscisse nel giardino,
il signor Pickwick era corso giù per la stradina il più velocemente possibile per diffondere una falsa notizia: qualcuno stava arrivando da quella direzione; di tanto in tanto si fermava per tirare indietro la lampada a olio, evitando così di cadere nel fossato. Non appena la notizia fu diffusa, il signor Winkle risalì di corsa sul muro, e Arabella corse dentro la casa; il cancello del giardino era chiuso, e i tre avventurieri stavano cercando di allontanarsi il più in fretta possibile quando furono sorpresi dal gentiluomo scienziato che apriva il cancello del suo giardino.

“Tieniti forte,” sussurrò Sam, che naturalmente era il primo del gruppo.
“Mostratemi una luce solo per un secondo, signore.”

Il signor Pickwick fece ciò che gli era stato chiesto; Sam, vedendo una testa di uomo sporgersi con grande cautela a meno di mezzo metro da lui, la colpì delicatamente con il pugno chiuso, facendola sbattere contro la porta con un suono vuoto. Dopo aver compiuto questo gesto con grande rapidità e agilità, il signor Weller sollevò il signor Pickwick sulle sue spalle e lo seguì lungo il sentiero a una velocità davvero sorprendente, considerando il peso che portava.

“Avete ripreso il vostro ‘vind’, signore?”, chiese Sam quando arrivarono alla fine.

“Esatto. Esatto,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

“Allora andiamo, signore,” disse Sam, aiutando il suo padrone ad alzarsi in piedi.
“È solo un breve tratto da percorrere, signore. Non mezzo miglio. Pensate di vincere una coppa, vero? Ora è il momento.”

Così incoraggiato, il signor Pickwick fece del suo meglio per muoversi velocemente. Si può affermare con certezza che nessun paio di calzamaglie nere fu mai indossato in modo più elegante di quelle del signor Pickwick in quell’occasione memorabile.

Il cocchiere aspettava; i cavalli erano freschi, le strade in buone condizioni e il conducente era disponibile. L’intero gruppo arrivò sano e salvo a Bush prima ancora che il signor Pickwick riuscisse a riprendere fiato.

“Subito con lei, signore,” disse Sam mentre aiutava il suo padrone a scendere. “Non si fermi nemmeno un attimo in strada dopo quell’esercizio. Perdonatemi, signore,” continuò Sam toccandosi il cappello mentre il signor Winkle scendeva, “spero che non ci sia alcun legame con un convento, vero?”

Il signor Winkle prese per mano il suo umile amico e sussurrò all’orecchio: “Va tutto bene, Sam; davvero.” A queste parole, il signor Weller gli diede tre colpi distinti sul naso come segno di comprensione, sorrise, fece l’occhiolino e continuò a salire i gradini con un’espressione di profonda soddisfazione.

Per quanto riguarda quel gentiluomo scienziato, egli dimostrò, in un trattato magistrale, che queste meravigliose luci erano il risultato dell’elettricità; inoltre provò chiaramente questo concetto descrivendo in dettaglio come un lampo di fuoco apparisse davanti ai suoi occhi quando metteva la testa fuori dalla porta, e come ricevesse una scossa elettrica che lo lasciò stordito per un quarto d’ora; questa dimostrazione rese estremamente felici tutte le associazioni scientifiche e lo fece considerare da allora in poi una vera luce della scienza.

CAPITOLO XL. Presenta il signor Pickwick in una nuova e tutt’altro che noiosa scena
nel grande dramma della vita.

Il resto del periodo che il signor Pickwick aveva stabilito come durata della sua permanenza a Bath trascorse senza che accadesse nulla di rilevante. Iniziò il trimestre di Trinity. Al termine della prima settimana, il signor Pickwick e i suoi amici tornarono a Londra; il signor Pickwick, naturalmente accompagnato da Sam, si recò immediatamente nelle sue vecchie stanze al George and Vulture.

Al terzo mattino dopo il loro arrivo, proprio mentre tutti gli orologi della >città suonavano le nove uno per uno, e in qualche luogo circa novecentonovantanove insieme, Sam stava prendendo aria in George Yard quando arrivò un veicolo di strana fattura, appena verniciato; ne saltò fuori con grande agilità un gentiluomo piuttosto insolito, che gettò le redini a un uomo robusto seduto accanto a lui. Sembrava che quel gentiluomo fosse stato creato apposta per quel veicolo, e il veicolo per lui.

Il veicolo non era esattamente un “gig”, né uno “stanhope”. Non corrispondeva nemmeno a ciò che oggi viene definito un “dog-cart”, né a un carretto tassato, né a una chaise-car, né a un cabriolet; eppure possedeva alcune caratteristiche di ognuno di questi mezzi. Era dipinto di un giallo brillante, con i telai e le ruote evidenziati in nero; il conducente sedeva nel classico stile sportivo, su cuscini posizionati a circa due piedi sopra la ringhiera del veicolo. Il cavallo era di colore baio, un animale abbastanza ben curato; tuttavia, aveva un’aria un po’ aggressiva e combattiva, che si addiceva sia al veicolo che al suo padrone.

The master himself was a man of about forty, with black hair, and carefully combed whiskers. He was dressed in a particularly gorgeous manner, with plenty of articles of jewellery about him—all about three sizes larger than those which are usually worn by gentlemen—and a rough greatcoat to crown the whole. Into one pocket of this greatcoat, he thrust his left hand the moment he dismounted, while from the other he drew forth, with his right, a very bright and glaring silk handkerchief, with which he whisked a speck or two of dust from his boots, and then, crumpling it in his hand, swaggered up the court.

It had not escaped Sam’s attention that, when this person dismounted, a shabby-looking man in a brown greatcoat shorn of divers buttons, who had been previously slinking about, on the opposite side of the way, crossed over, and remained stationary close by. Having something more than a suspicion of the object of the gentleman’s visit, Sam preceded him to the George and Vulture, and, turning sharp round, planted himself in the centre of the doorway.

‘Now, my fine fellow!’ said the man in the rough coat, in an imperious tone, attempting at the same time to push his way past.

‘Now, Sir, wot’s the matter?’ replied Sam, returning the push with compound interest.

‘Come, none of this, my man; this won’t do with me,’ said the owner of the rough coat, raising his voice, and turning white. ‘Here, Smouch!’

‘Well, wot’s amiss here?’ growled the man in the brown coat, who had been gradually sneaking up the court during this short dialogue.

‘Only some insolence of this young man’s,’ said the principal, giving Sam another push.

‘Come, none o’ this gammon,’ growled Smouch, giving him another, and a harder one.

This last push had the effect which it was intended by the experienced Mr. Smouch to produce; for while Sam, anxious to return the compliment, was grinding that gentleman’s body against the door-post, the principal crept past, and made his way to the bar, whither Sam, after bandying a few epithetical remarks with Mr. Smouch, followed at once.

‘Good-morning, my dear,’ said the principal, addressing the young lady at the bar, with Botany Bay ease, and New South Wales gentility; ‘which is Mr. Pickwick’s room, my dear?’

‘Show him up,’ said the barmaid to a waiter, without deigning another look at the exquisite, in reply to his inquiry.

The waiter led the way upstairs as he was desired, and the man in the rough coat followed, with Sam behind him, who, in his progress up the staircase, indulged in sundry gestures indicative of supreme contempt and defiance, to the unspeakable gratification of the servants and other lookers-on. Mr. Smouch, who was troubled with a hoarse cough, remained below, and expectorated in the passage.

Mr. Pickwick was fast asleep in bed, when his early visitor, followed by Sam, entered the room. The noise they made, in so doing, awoke him.

‘Shaving-water, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, from within the curtains.

‘Shave you directly, Mr. Pickwick,’ said the visitor, drawing one of them back from the bed’s head. ‘I’ve got an execution against you, at the suit of Bardell.—Here’s the warrant.—Common Pleas.—Here’s my card. I suppose you’ll come over to my house.’ Giving Mr. Pickwick a friendly tap on the shoulder, the sheriff’s officer (for such he was) threw his card on the counterpane, and pulled a gold toothpick from his waistcoat pocket.

‘Namby’s the name,’ said the sheriff’s deputy, as Mr. Pickwick took his spectacles from under the pillow, and put them on, to read the card. ‘Namby, Bell Alley, Coleman Street.’

At this point, Sam Weller, who had had his eyes fixed hitherto on Mr. Namby’s shining beaver, interfered.

‘Are you a Quaker?’ said Sam.

‘I’ll let you know I am, before I’ve done with you,’ replied the indignant officer. ‘I’ll teach you manners, my fine fellow, one of these fine mornings.’

‘Thank’ee,’ said Sam. ‘I’ll do the same to you. Take your hat off.’ With this, Mr. Weller, in the most dexterous manner, knocked Mr. Namby’s hat to the other side of the room, with such violence, that he had very nearly caused him to swallow the gold toothpick into the bargain.

‘Observe this, Mr. Pickwick,’ said the disconcerted officer, gasping for breath. ‘I’ve been assaulted in the execution of my dooty by your servant in your chamber. I’m in bodily fear. I call you to witness this.’

‘Don’t witness nothin’, Sir,’ interposed Sam. ‘Shut your eyes up tight, Sir. I’d pitch him out o’ winder, only he couldn’t fall far enough, ‘cause o’ the leads outside.’

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, in an angry voice, as his attendant made various demonstrations of hostilities, ‘if you say another word, or offer the slightest interference with this person, I discharge you that instant.’

‘But, Sir!’ said Sam.

‘Hold your tongue,’ interposed Mr. Pickwick. ‘Take that hat up again.’

But this Sam flatly and positively refused to do; and, after he had been severely reprimanded by his master, the officer, being in a hurry, condescended to pick it up himself, venting a great variety of threats against Sam meanwhile, which that gentleman received with perfect composure, merely observing that if Mr. Namby would have the goodness to put his hat on again, he would knock it into the latter end of next week. Mr. Namby, perhaps thinking that such a process might be productive of inconvenience to himself, declined to offer the temptation, and, soon after, called up Smouch. Having informed him that the capture was made, and that he was to wait for the prisoner until he should have finished dressing, Namby then swaggered out, and drove away. Smouch, requesting Mr. Pickwick in a surly manner ‘to be as alive as he could, for it was a busy time,’ drew up a chair by the door and sat there, until he had finished dressing. Sam was then despatched for a hackney-coach, and in it the triumvirate proceeded to Coleman Street. It was fortunate the distance was short; for Mr. Smouch, besides possessing no very enchanting conversational powers, was rendered a decidedly unpleasant companion in a limited space, by the physical weakness to which we have elsewhere adverted.

Il maestro stesso era un uomo di circa quarant’anni, con i capelli neri e le basette accuratamente pettinate. Era vestito in modo particolarmente elegante, indossando numerosi gioielli – tutti di dimensioni circa tre volte superiori a quelli solitamente portati dai gentiluomini – e un grande cappotto che completava il tutto. Non appena scese da cavallo, infilò la mano sinistra in una tasca del cappotto, mentre con la destra ne tirò fuori un fazzoletto di seta molto luminoso e vistoso; con esso si pulì un paio di particelle di polvere dalle scarpe, poi lo strinse nel pugno e si avviò a passi maestosi verso il palazzo.

Non era sfuggito a Sam che, quando quell’uomo smontò da cavallo, un individuo dall’aspetto trasandato, vestito con un grande cappotto marrone privo di diversi bottoni, che fino ad allora si aggirava nell’altra parte della strada, attraversò e si fermò poco lontano. Avendo più di una semplice sospetta riguardo allo scopo della visita di quell’uomo, Sam lo precedette al locale “George and Vulture” e, girandosi bruscamente, si piazzò proprio nel centro dell’ingresso.

“Ora, mio caro amico!”, disse l’uomo con il cappotto ruvido, con tono autoritario, cercando nel contempo di farsi strada tra la folla.

“Ora, signore, qual è il problema?” rispose Sam, ricambiando la spinta con “interessi composti”.

“Ma no, niente di tutto questo. Non mi va affatto,” disse il proprietario del mantello ruvido, alzando la voce e impallidendo. “Ehi, Smouch!”

“Beh, cosa c’è che non va qui?” ringhiò l’uomo con il cappotto marrone, che durante quel breve dialogo si era lentamente avvicinato attraverso la corte.

“Solo un po’ di insolenza da parte di questo giovane,” disse il preside, spingendo di nuovo Sam.

“Che cosa? Nessuno di questi prosciutti?” ringhiò Smouch, dandogliene un altro, e uno ancora più duro.

Quest’ultimo sforzo ottenne esattamente l’effetto che l’esperto signor Smouch si era proposto di raggiungere; infatti, mentre Sam, desideroso di ricambiare il complimento ricevuto, spingeva il corpo di quel gentiluomo contro lo stipite della porta, l’altro individuo si intrufolò furtivamente e si diresse verso il bar, dove Sam, dopo aver scambiato alcune parole offensive con il signor Smouch, lo seguì immediatamente.

“Buongiorno, mia cara,” disse il preside, rivolgendosi alla giovane donna al bancone con l’aplomb tipico di Botany Bay e la cortesia propria del Nuovo Galles del Sud; “qual è la stanza di Mr. Pickwick, mia cara?”

“Fai venire qui lui,” disse la cameriera a un cameriere, senza degnarsi di guardare ancora quell’uomo elegante, in risposta alla sua domanda.

Il cameriere guidò verso il piano di sopra come richiesto; l’uomo con il cappotto ruvido lo seguì, insieme a Sam, che, salendo le scale, faceva vari gesti che esprimevano un profondo disprezzo e sfida, procurando grande soddisfazione ai servitori e agli spettatori presenti. Il signor Smouch, afflitto da una tosse roca, rimase al piano di sotto e sputò nel corridoio.

Il signor Pickwick dormiva profondamente a letto quando il suo visitatore mattutino, seguito da Sam, entrò nella stanza. Il rumore che fecero lo svegliò.

“Acqua per radersi, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick da dietro le tende.

“La rasierò direttamente, signor Pickwick,” disse il visitatore, tirando uno dei rasoi dal comodino. “Ho un mandato di arresto contro di voi, per causa del caso Bardell. Ecco il mandato. Tribunale della Corona. Ecco la mia carta. Immagino che verrà a casa mia, ” Dopo aver dato al signor Pickwick una pacca amichevole sulla spalla, l’ufficiale dello sceriffo (poiché tale era) gettò la sua carta sul copriletto e tirò fuori un portaciprie d’oro dalla tasca del gilet.

“Il nome è Namby,” disse l’assistente dello sceriffo, mentre il signor Pickwick tirava fuori gli occhiali da sotto il cuscino e se li metteva per leggere la cartolina. “Namby, Bell Alley, Coleman Street.”

A questo punto, Sam Weller, che fino ad allora aveva fissato con attenzione il brillante cappello di castoro del signor Namby, intervenne.

“Sei un Quaker?” chiese Sam.

“Ti farò sapere che lo sono, prima di aver finito con te,” rispose l’ufficiale indignato. “Ti insegnerò le buone maniere, mio caro amico, una di queste belle mattine.”

“Grazie,” disse Sam. “Farò lo stesso per te. Togli il cappello.” E così, con la massima abilità, il signor Weller scagliò il cappello del signor Namby dall’altra parte della stanza con tale forza che quasi lo fece ingoiare anche il bastoncino d’oro insieme al cappello.

“Guardi questo, signor Pickwick”, disse l’ufficiale sconcertato, ansimando. “Sono stato aggredito mentre svolgevo il mio dovere da parte del vostro servitore nella vostra stanza. Sono in preda al terrore. Vi chiedo di testimoniare a questo.”

“Non assistete a nulla, signore,” intervenne Sam. “Chiudete bene gli occhi, signore. Lo butterei giù dal tetto, ma non potrebbe cadere abbastanza in basso, a causa dei cavi là fuori.”

“Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick con voce arrabbiata, mentre il suo servitore mostrava varie intenzioni ostili, “se dici un’altra parola o interferisci anche solo minimamente con questa persona, ti licenzio all’istante.”

“Ma, signore!”, disse Sam.

“Tieni a bada la lingua,” intervenne il signor Pickwick. “Rimetti su quel cappello.”

Ma Sam rifiutò categoricamente di farlo; e dopo essere stato severamente rimproverato dal suo padrone, l’ufficiale, essendo di fretta, si degnò di prenderla lui stesso, pronunciando nel frattempo una serie di minacce contro Sam, che quest’ultimo accolse con perfetta calma, osservando soltanto che se il signor Namby avesse la gentilezza di mettersi di nuovo il cappello, lui lo avrebbe mandato a finire nell’altro capo della città entro la fine della settimana successiva. Il signor Namby, forse temendo che un simile comportamento potesse causargli dei problemi, rifiutò l’“invito” e, poco dopo, chiamò Smouch. Dopo avergli comunicato che la prigioniera era stata catturata e che doveva aspettare che si finisse di vestirla, Namby se ne andò con aria trionfale. Smouch, con tono burbero, pregò il signor Pickwick di “sforzarsi di stare attivo, visto che era un momento molto impegnativo”, poi tirò una sedia vicino alla porta e vi si sedette ad aspettare che Pickwick finisse di vestirsi. Successivamente, Sam fu mandato a chiamare una vettura, e i tre si recarono insieme in Coleman Street. Fu fortunatamente una distanza breve; perché il signor Smouch, oltre a non essere molto eloquente nel conversare, diventava un compagno decisamente sgradevole in uno spazio ristretto, a causa della debolezza fisica di cui abbiamo già parlato in precedenza.

The coach having turned into a very narrow and dark street, stopped before a house with iron bars to all the windows; the door-posts of which were graced by the name and title of ‘Namby, Officer to the Sheriffs of London’; the inner gate having been opened by a gentleman who might have passed for a neglected twin-brother of Mr. Smouch, and who was endowed with a large key for the purpose, Mr. Pickwick was shown into the ‘coffee-room.’

This coffee-room was a front parlour, the principal features of which were fresh sand and stale tobacco smoke. Mr. Pickwick bowed to the three persons who were seated in it when he entered; and having despatched Sam for Perker, withdrew into an obscure corner, and looked thence with some curiosity upon his new companions.

One of these was a mere boy of nineteen or twenty, who, though it was yet barely ten o’clock, was drinking gin-and-water, and smoking a cigar- -amusements to which, judging from his inflamed countenance, he had devoted himself pretty constantly for the last year or two of his life. Opposite him, engaged in stirring the fire with the toe of his right boot, was a coarse, vulgar young man of about thirty, with a sallow face and harsh voice; evidently possessed of that knowledge of the world, and captivating freedom of manner, which is to be acquired in public-house parlours, and at low billiard tables. The third tenant of the apartment was a middle-aged man in a very old suit of black, who looked pale and haggard, and paced up and down the room incessantly; stopping, now and then, to look with great anxiety out of the window as if he expected somebody, and then resuming his walk.

‘You’d better have the loan of my razor this morning, Mr. Ayresleigh,’ said the man who was stirring the fire, tipping the wink to his friend the boy.

‘Thank you, no, I shan’t want it; I expect I shall be out, in the course of an hour or so,’ replied the other in a hurried manner. Then, walking again up to the window, and once more returning disappointed, he sighed deeply, and left the room; upon which the other two burst into a loud laugh.

‘Well, I never saw such a game as that,’ said the gentleman who had offered the razor, whose name appeared to be Price. ‘Never!’ Mr. Price confirmed the assertion with an oath, and then laughed again, when of course the boy (who thought his companion one of the most dashing fellows alive) laughed also.

‘You’d hardly think, would you now,’ said Price, turning towards Mr. Pickwick, ‘that that chap’s been here a week yesterday, and never once shaved himself yet, because he feels so certain he’s going out in half an hour’s time, thinks he may as well put it off till he gets home?’

‘Poor man!’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Are his chances of getting out of his difficulties really so great?’

‘Chances be d----d,’ replied Price; ‘he hasn’t half the ghost of one. I wouldn’t give _that _for his chance of walking about the streets this time ten years.’ With this, Mr. Price snapped his fingers contemptuously, and rang the bell.

‘Give me a sheet of paper, Crookey,’ said Mr. Price to the attendant, who in dress and general appearance looked something between a bankrupt glazier, and a drover in a state of insolvency; ‘and a glass of brandy- and-water, Crookey, d’ye hear? I’m going to write to my father, and I must have a stimulant, or I shan’t be able to pitch it strong enough into the old boy.’ At this facetious speech, the young boy, it is almost needless to say, was fairly convulsed.

‘That’s right,’ said Mr. Price. ‘Never say die. All fun, ain’t it?’

‘Prime!’ said the young gentleman.

‘You’ve got some spirit about you, you have,’ said Price. ‘You’ve seen something of life.’

‘I rather think I have!’ replied the boy. He had looked at it through the dirty panes of glass in a bar door.

Mr. Pickwick, feeling not a little disgusted with this dialogue, as well as with the air and manner of the two beings by whom it had been carried on, was about to inquire whether he could not be accommodated with a private sitting-room, when two or three strangers of genteel appearance entered, at sight of whom the boy threw his cigar into the fire, and whispering to Mr. Price that they had come to ‘make it all right’ for him, joined them at a table in the farther end of the room.

It would appear, however, that matters were not going to be made all right quite so speedily as the young gentleman anticipated; for a very long conversation ensued, of which Mr. Pickwick could not avoid hearing certain angry fragments regarding dissolute conduct, and repeated forgiveness. At last, there were very distinct allusions made by the oldest gentleman of the party to one Whitecross Street, at which the young gentleman, notwithstanding his primeness and his spirit, and his knowledge of life into the bargain, reclined his head upon the table, and howled dismally.

Very much satisfied with this sudden bringing down of the youth’s valour, and this effectual lowering of his tone, Mr. Pickwick rang the bell, and was shown, at his own request, into a private room furnished with a carpet, table, chairs, sideboard and sofa, and ornamented with a looking-glass, and various old prints. Here he had the advantage of hearing Mrs. Namby’s performance on a square piano overhead, while the breakfast was getting ready; when it came, Mr. Perker came too.

‘Aha, my dear sir,’ said the little man, ‘nailed at last, eh? Come, come, I’m not sorry for it either, because now you’ll see the absurdity of this conduct. I’ve noted down the amount of the taxed costs and damages for which the ca-sa was issued, and we had better settle at once and lose no time. Namby is come home by this time, I dare say. What say you, my dear sir? Shall I draw a cheque, or will you?’ The little man rubbed his hands with affected cheerfulness as he said this, but glancing at Mr. Pickwick’s countenance, could not forbear at the same time casting a desponding look towards Sam Weller.

Il vicolo, ormai diventato molto stretto e buio, si fermava davanti a una casa le cui finestre erano tutte protette da sbarre di ferro; i battenti della porta recavano scritti il nome e la carica di “Namby, Ufficiale dei Sheriff di Londra”. La porta interna fu aperta da un signore che avrebbe potuto essere scambiato per un fratello gemello trascurato del signor Smouch; quel signore possedeva una chiave molto grande apposta a tale scopo. Il signor Pickwick fu quindi fatto entrare nella “sala da caffè”.

Questo salotto da caffè fungeva anche da sala d’attesa; le sue caratteristiche principali erano la sabbia fresca e il fumo di tabacco stantio. Quando entrò, il signor Pickwick fece un inchino alle tre persone sedute lì dentro; dopo aver mandato Sam da Perker, si ritirò in un angolo poco visibile e da lì osservò con curiosità i suoi nuovi compagni.

Uno di loro era soltanto un ragazzo di diciannove o vent’anni; nonostante fossero appena le dieci di sera, beveva gin e acqua e fumava sigari: divertimenti a cui, a giudicare dal suo viso arrossato, si dedicava con assiduità negli ultimi uno o due anni della sua vita. Di fronte a lui, intento a ravvivare il fuoco con la punta del tacco della scarpa destra, c’era un giovane rozzo e volgare, di circa trent’anni, con il viso giallastro e una voce ruvida; chiaramente possedeva quella sorta di conoscenza del mondo e quella disinvoltezza nel comportamento che si acquisiscono nei locali pubblici e ai tavoli da biliardo. Il terzo inquilino dell’appartamento era un uomo di mezza età, vestito con un abito nero molto vecchio; sembrava pallido e stanco, e camminava avanti e indietro nella stanza senza sosta, fermandosi di tanto in tanto per guardare fuori dalla finestra con grande ansia, come se aspettasse qualcuno, per poi riprendere a camminare.

“Questa mattina sarebbe meglio che prendeste in prestito la mia rasoietta, signor Ayresleigh,” disse l’uomo che stava ravvivando il fuoco, facendo l’occhiolino al suo amico, il ragazzo.

“Grazie, no, non lo voglio; penso che uscirò entro un’ora o giù di lì,” rispose l’altro in modo affrettato. Poi, avvicinandosi di nuovo alla finestra e tornando ancora una volta deluso, sospirò profondamente e lasciò la stanza; allora gli altri due scoppiarono in una forte risata.

“Beh, non ho mai visto un gioco del genere,” disse il signore che aveva offerto la lametta da rasoio; il suo nome sembrava essere Price. “Mai!” Il signor Price confermò quelle parole con un giuramento, e poi rise di nuovo, naturalmente anche il ragazzo (che considerava il proprio compagno uno dei più affascinanti individui al mondo) rise insieme a lui.

“Non ci si sarebbe mai aspettato, vero?”, disse Price, rivolgendosi al signor Pickwick. “Quel ragazzo è qui da una settimana e non si è ancora rasato nemmeno una volta, perché è così sicuro di dover partire tra mezz’ora che pensa di poter aspettare fino a quando non arriverà a casa.”

“Poveruomo!”, disse il signor Pickwick. “Sono davvero così grandi le sue possibilità di uscire da queste difficoltà?”

“Probabilmente no,” rispose Price; “non ne ha nemmeno l’ombra. Non gli darei quella possibilità nemmeno per dieci anni, rispetto a questa volta che può girovagare per le strade.” Detto ciò, il signor Price schioccò le dita con disprezzo e suonò il campanello.

“Dammi un foglio di carta, Crookey,” disse il signor Price all’attendente, che per abbigliamento e aspetto generale sembrava qualcosa a metà tra un vetriere fallito e un allevatore in stato di insolvenza; “e anche un bicchiere di brandy con acqua, Crookey, hai capito? Devo scrivere a mio padre e ho bisogno di qualcosa che mi aiuti a concentrarmi. Altrimenti non riuscirò a scrivere abbastanza chiaramente.” Di fronte a queste parole scherzose, il bambino, è quasi superfluo dirlo, scoppiò in una risata convulsa.

“Esatto,” disse il signor Price. “Mai dire mai. È tutto divertimento, no?”

“Primo!” disse il giovane gentiluomo.

“Hai davvero del coraggio, questo sì”, disse Price. “Hai vissuto molte cose nella vita.”

“Credo proprio di sì!”, rispose il ragazzo. L’aveva guardata attraverso i vetri sporchi della porta di un bar.

Il signor Pickwick, non poco disgustato da questo dialogo, così come dall’atmosfera e dal comportamento delle due persone che lo avevano condotto, stava per chiedere se gli fosse possibile disporre di una stanza privata quando entrarono due o tre sconosciuti dall’aspetto distinto. Alla loro vista, il ragazzo gettò il sigaro nel focolare e, sussurrando al signor Price che erano venuti per “risolvere tutto”, si unì a loro intorno a un tavolo nell’estremità opposta della stanza.

Sembra tuttavia che le cose non andassero a risolversi così rapidamente come il giovane signore si aspettava; infatti seguì una lunga conversazione, durante la quale il signor Pickwick non poté fare a meno di sentire alcune frasi arrabbiate riguardanti comportamenti dissoluti e ripetute richieste di perdono. Alla fine, l’uomo più anziano del gruppo fece allusioni molto chiare a una certa strada chiamata Whitecross Street; il giovane signore, nonostante la sua rigidezza, il suo spirito e la sua esperienza di vita, appoggiò la testa sul tavolo e scoppiò in un pianto disperato.

Molto soddisfatto di questa improvvisa riduzione del coraggio del giovane e di questo efficace abbassamento del suo tono, il signor Pickwick suonò il campanello e fu fatto entrare, su sua richiesta, in una stanza privata arredata con tappeti, tavolo, sedie, comodino e divano, e decorata con uno specchio e varie stampe antiche. Lì poté ascoltare la performance della signora Namby al pianoforte sopra di lui, mentre veniva preparato la colazione; quando questa fu pronta, arrivò anche il signor Perker.

“Ahah, mio caro signore,” disse il piccolo uomo, “finalmente sono riuscito a incastrarvi, eh? Beh, non mi dispiace affatto, perché ora vedrete l’assurdità di questo comportamento. Ho annotato l’importo delle spese e dei danni tassati per i quali è stata emessa quella carta, quindi sarebbe meglio risolvere la questione subito, senza perdere tempo. Scommetto che Namby sia già tornato a casa a quest’ora. Che ne dite, mio caro signore? Devo preparare un assegno, o preferite farlo voi?” Il piccolo uomo si strofinava le mani con falsa allegria mentre parlava, ma guardando l’espressione sul volto di Mr. Pickwick, non poté fare a meno di lanciare uno sguardo scoraggiato verso Sam Weller.

‘Perker,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘let me hear no more of this, I beg. I see no advantage in staying here, so I shall go to prison to-night.’

‘You can’t go to Whitecross Street, my dear Sir,’ said Perker. ‘Impossible! There are sixty beds in a ward; and the bolt’s on, sixteen hours out of the four-and-twenty.’

‘I would rather go to some other place of confinement if I can,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘If not, I must make the best I can of that.’

‘You can go to the Fleet, my dear Sir, if you’re determined to go somewhere,’ said Perker.

‘That’ll do,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘I’ll go there directly I have finished my breakfast.’

‘Stop, stop, my dear Sir; not the least occasion for being in such a violent hurry to get into a place that most other men are as eager to get out of,’ said the good-natured little attorney. ‘We must have a habeas-corpus. There’ll be no judge at chambers till four o’clock this afternoon. You must wait till then.’

‘Very good,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with unmoved patience. ‘Then we will have a chop here, at two. See about it, Sam, and tell them to be punctual.’

Mr. Pickwick remaining firm, despite all the remonstrances and arguments of Perker, the chops appeared and disappeared in due course; he was then put into another hackney coach, and carried off to Chancery Lane, after waiting half an hour or so for Mr. Namby, who had a select dinner-party and could on no account be disturbed before.

There were two judges in attendance at Serjeant’s Inn—one King’s Bench, and one Common Pleas—and a great deal of business appeared to be transacting before them, if the number of lawyer’s clerks who were hurrying in and out with bundles of papers, afforded any test. When they reached the low archway which forms the entrance to the inn, Perker was detained a few moments parlaying with the coachman about the fare and the change; and Mr. Pickwick, stepping to one side to be out of the way of the stream of people that were pouring in and out, looked about him with some curiosity.

The people that attracted his attention most, were three or four men of shabby-genteel appearance, who touched their hats to many of the attorneys who passed, and seemed to have some business there, the nature of which Mr. Pickwick could not divine. They were curious-looking fellows. One was a slim and rather lame man in rusty black, and a white neckerchief; another was a stout, burly person, dressed in the same apparel, with a great reddish-black cloth round his neck; a third was a little weazen, drunken-looking body, with a pimply face. They were loitering about, with their hands behind them, and now and then with an anxious countenance whispered something in the ear of some of the gentlemen with papers, as they hurried by. Mr. Pickwick remembered to have very often observed them lounging under the archway when he had been walking past; and his curiosity was quite excited to know to what branch of the profession these dingy-looking loungers could possibly belong.

He was about to propound the question to Namby, who kept close beside him, sucking a large gold ring on his little finger, when Perker bustled up, and observing that there was no time to lose, led the way into the inn. As Mr. Pickwick followed, the lame man stepped up to him, and civilly touching his hat, held out a written card, which Mr. Pickwick, not wishing to hurt the man’s feelings by refusing, courteously accepted and deposited in his waistcoat pocket.

‘Now,’ said Perker, turning round before he entered one of the offices, to see that his companions were close behind him. ‘In here, my dear sir. Hallo, what do you want?’

This last question was addressed to the lame man, who, unobserved by Mr. Pickwick, made one of the party. In reply to it, the lame man touched his hat again, with all imaginable politeness, and motioned towards Mr. Pickwick.

‘No, no,’ said Perker, with a smile. ‘We don’t want you, my dear friend, we don’t want you.’

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said the lame man. ‘The gentleman took my card. I hope you will employ me, sir. The gentleman nodded to me. I’ll be judged by the gentleman himself. You nodded to me, sir?’

‘Pooh, pooh, nonsense. You didn’t nod to anybody, Pickwick? A mistake, a mistake,’ said Perker.

‘The gentleman handed me his card,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, producing it from his waistcoat pocket. ‘I accepted it, as the gentleman seemed to wish it—in fact I had some curiosity to look at it when I should be at leisure. I—’

The little attorney burst into a loud laugh, and returning the card to the lame man, informing him it was all a mistake, whispered to Mr. Pickwick as the man turned away in dudgeon, that he was only a bail.

‘A what!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

‘A bail,’ replied Perker.

‘A bail!’

Yes, my dear sir—half a dozen of ‘em here. Bail you to any amount, and only charge half a crown. Curious trade, isn’t it?’ said Perker, regaling himself with a pinch of snuff.

‘What! Am I to understand that these men earn a livelihood by waiting about here, to perjure themselves before the judges of the land, at the rate of half a crown a crime?’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, quite aghast at the disclosure.

‘Why, I don’t exactly know about perjury, my dear sir,’ replied the little gentleman. ‘Harsh word, my dear sir, very harsh word indeed. It’s a legal fiction, my dear sir, nothing more.’ Saying which, the attorney shrugged his shoulders, smiled, took a second pinch of snuff, and led the way into the office of the judge’s clerk.

This was a room of specially dirty appearance, with a very low ceiling and old panelled walls; and so badly lighted, that although it was broad day outside, great tallow candles were burning on the desks. At one end, was a door leading to the judge’s private apartment, round which were congregated a crowd of attorneys and managing clerks, who were called in, in the order in which their respective appointments stood upon the file. Every time this door was opened to let a party out, the next party made a violent rush to get in; and, as in addition to the numerous dialogues which passed between the gentlemen who were waiting to see the judge, a variety of personal squabbles ensued between the greater part of those who had seen him, there was as much noise as could well be raised in an apartment of such confined dimensions.

“Perker,” disse il signor Pickwick, “per favore, non parliamone più. Non vedo alcun vantaggio nel rimanere qui, quindi andrò in prigione stasera stesso.”

“Non può andare in Whitecross Street, mio caro signore,” disse Perker.
“Impossibile! In un reparto ci sono sessanta letti. E la serratura è chiusa per sedici ore su ventiquattro.”

“Preferirei andare in qualche altro luogo di reclusione, se possibile,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Altrimenti, dovrò fare del mio meglio con quello che ho.”

“Può andare alla Flotta, mio caro Signore, se è davvero deciso ad andare da qualche parte,” disse Perker.

“Basterà così,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Andrò lì direttamente dopo aver finito la colazione.”

“Si fermi, si fermi, mio caro signore; non c’è alcuna ragione per essere così ansioso di arrivare in un posto da cui la maggior parte delle persone vorrebbe invece allontanarsi,” disse l’affabile piccolo avvocato. “Dobbiamo richiedere un ordine di habeas corpus. Non ci sarà nessun giudice nelle aule fino alle quattro di questo pomeriggio; dovrete aspettare fino ad allora.”

“Molto bene,” disse il signor Pickwick con imperturbabile pazienza. “Allora ci ritroveremo qui alle due per pranzare. Occupatene tu, Sam, e assicurati che siano puntuali.”

Il signor Pickwick, rimasto fermo nella sua decisione nonostante tutte le remore e gli argomenti di Perker, continuò il suo percorso; dopo circa mezz’ora d’attesa del signor Namby, che aveva organizzato una cena privata e non poteva essere disturbato in alcun modo, fu trasportato su un altro calesse fino a Chancery Lane.

C’erano due giudici presenti presso la Serjeant’s Inn: uno apparteneva alla Corte del Re e l’altro alla Corte dei Comuni; sembrava che vi fossero molte cause in corso davanti a loro, a giudicare dal numero di impiegati legali che andavano avanti e indietro con mucchi di documenti. Quando raggiunsero l’arco basso che funge da ingresso alla locanda, Perker fu trattenuto per qualche momento mentre discuteva con il cocchiere riguardo al prezzo del viaggio e al resto; intanto, il signor Pickwick, spostandosi di lato per non intralciare la folla che entrava ed usciva, si guardò intorno con curiosità.

Le persone che attirarono di più la sua attenzione erano tre o quattro uomini dall’aspetto vagamente distinto, che salutavano con il cappello molti degli avvocati che passavano e sembravano avere qualche affare da sbrigare lì; della natura di tale affare, però, il signor Pickwick non riusciva a intuire nulla. Erano individui dal aspetto curioso: uno era un uomo magro e zoppicante, vestito di nero arrugginito con un fazzoletto bianco al collo; un altro era una persona robusta e tozza, con lo stesso abbigliamento, ma con un grande pezzo di stoffa rossastro-nera intorno al collo; il terzo aveva un aspetto pallido e ubriaco, con il viso pieno di brufoli. Si aggiravano lì intorno, con le mani dietro la schiena, e di tanto in tanto, con espressione ansiosa, sussurravano qualcosa all’orecchio di alcuni gentiluomini che passavano di fretta. Il signor Pickwick si ricordava di averli spesso visti seduti sotto l’arco quando passava di lì; la sua curiosità era davvero molto stimolata nel tentativo di capire a quale branca della professione potessero appartenere questi individui dall’aspetto trasandato.

Stava per porre la domanda a Namby, che gli stava accanto, succhiando un grosso anello d’oro al mignolo, quando Perker arrivò di corsa e, osservando che non c’era tempo da perdere, lo precedette verso l’osteria. Mentre il signor Pickwick lo seguiva, l’uomo zoppo si avvicinò a lui, toccandogli cortesemente il cappello e porgendogli una carta scritta. Il signor Pickwick, non volendo ferire i sentimenti dell’uomo rifiutandola, la accettò con gentilezza e la mise nella tasca del suo gilet.

“Ora,” disse Perker, voltandosi prima di entrare in uno degli uffici, per assicurarsi che i suoi compagni lo seguissero da vicino. “Entrate qui, caro signore. Salve, cosa desidera?”

Questa ultima domanda fu rivolta all’uomo zoppo, il quale, inosservato dal signor Pickwick, faceva parte del gruppo. In risposta, l’uomo zoppo toccò di nuovo il proprio cappello con tutta la cortesia possibile e fece un gesto verso il signor Pickwick.

“No, no,” disse Perker sorridendo. “Non ti vogliamo, mio caro amico. Non ti vogliamo.”

“Perdonatemi, signore,” disse l’uomo zoppo. “Quel gentiluomo mi ha preso la carta. Spero che mi assumerete, signore. Il gentiluomo mi ha fatto un cenno con la testa. Sarò giudicato da lui stesso. Avete davvero fatto un cenno con la testa, signore?”

“Puf, puf, sciocchezze. Non hai fatto segno di assenso a nessuno, Pickwick? Un errore, solo un errore,” disse Perker.

“Il signore mi ha dato la sua carta,” rispose il signor Pickwick, estraendola dalla tasca del gilet. “L’ho accettata, poiché sembrava che il signore lo desiderasse. In realtà, avevo anche un po’ di curiosità di guardarla quando ne avessi avuto il tempo libero. Io, ”

Il piccolo avvocato scoppiò in una risata sonora; restituendo la carta all’uomo zoppo e informandolo che si trattava di un errore, sussurrò a Pickwick mentre quell’uomo se ne andava offeso, che in realtà si trattava soltanto di una cauzione.

“‘A cosa?’ esclamò il signor Pickwick.”

“In libertà su cauzione,” rispose Perker.

“Una cauzione!”

“Sì, mio caro signore – ne abbiamo mezza dozzina qui. Vi garantiamo il rilascio per qualsiasi somma richiesta, e addebitiamo soltanto metà di una corona. Un commercio davvero curioso, non è vero?” disse Perker, mentre si concedeva un pizzico di tabacco da fiuto.

“Che cosa! Devo intendere che questi uomini guadagnano da vivere aspettando qui intorno, mentendo sotto giuramento davanti ai giudici di questo paese, al ritmo di mezza corona a crimine?” esclamò il signor Pickwick, profondamente scioccato da questa rivelazione.

“Beh, non so esattamente cosa significhi mentire sotto giuramento, caro signore,” rispose il piccolo gentiluomo. “Parola dura, davvero molto dura. È soltanto una finzione legale, nient’altro.” Detto questo, l’avvocato alzò le spalle, sorrise, prese un altro pizzico di tabacco e guidò il visitatore nell’ufficio del cancelliere del giudice.

Era una stanza dall’aspetto particolarmente sporco, con soffitti molto bassi e pareti rivestite di pannelli vecchi; inoltre, l’illuminazione era così scarsa che, nonostante fosse pieno giorno fuori, grandi candele di sego ardevano sui banchi. All’estremità della stanza c’era una porta che conduceva all’appartamento privato del giudice; intorno ad essa si radunava un gruppo di avvocati e impiegati amministrativi, i quali venivano fatti entrare nell’ordine in cui le loro visite erano previste nell’elenco. Ogni volta che questa porta si apriva per far uscire qualcuno, il gruppo successivo si affrettava disperatamente ad entrare; e, oltre ai numerosi dialoghi tra coloro che aspettavano di essere ricevuti dal giudice, scoppiavano anche varie discussioni personali tra la maggior parte di quelli che erano già stati ricevuti. Il risultato era un rumore assordante, proprio come ci si potesse aspettare in una stanza di dimensioni così ristrette.

Nor were the conversations of these gentlemen the only sounds that broke upon the ear. Standing on a box behind a wooden bar at another end of the room was a clerk in spectacles who was ‘taking the affidavits’; large batches of which were, from time to time, carried into the private room by another clerk for the judge’s signature. There were a large number of attorneys’ clerks to be sworn, and it being a moral impossibility to swear them all at once, the struggles of these gentlemen to reach the clerk in spectacles, were like those of a crowd to get in at the pit door of a theatre when Gracious Majesty honours it with its presence. Another functionary, from time to time, exercised his lungs in calling over the names of those who had been sworn, for the purpose of restoring to them their affidavits after they had been signed by the judge, which gave rise to a few more scuffles; and all these things going on at the same time, occasioned as much bustle as the most active and excitable person could desire to behold. There were yet another class of persons—those who were waiting to attend summonses their employers had taken out, which it was optional to the attorney on the opposite side to attend or not—and whose business it was, from time to time, to cry out the opposite attorney’s name; to make certain that he was not in attendance without their knowledge.

For example. Leaning against the wall, close beside the seat Mr. Pickwick had taken, was an office-lad of fourteen, with a tenor voice; near him a common-law clerk with a bass one.

A clerk hurried in with a bundle of papers, and stared about him.

‘Sniggle and Blink,’ cried the tenor.

‘Porkin and Snob,’ growled the bass.

‘Stumpy and Deacon,’ said the new-comer.

Nobody answered; the next man who came in, was bailed by the whole three; and he in his turn shouted for another firm; and then somebody else roared in a loud voice for another; and so forth.

All this time, the man in the spectacles was hard at work, swearing the clerks; the oath being invariably administered, without any effort at punctuation, and usually in the following terms:—

‘Take the book in your right hand this is your name and hand-writing you swear that the contents of this your affidavit are true so help you God a shilling you must get change I haven’t got it.’

‘Well, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I suppose they are getting the Habeas- corpus ready?’

‘Yes,’ said Sam, ‘and I vish they’d bring out the have-his-carcase. It’s wery unpleasant keepin’ us vaitin’ here. I’d ha’ got half a dozen have- his-carcases ready, pack’d up and all, by this time.’

What sort of cumbrous and unmanageable machine, Sam Weller imagined a habeas-corpus to be, does not appear; for Perker, at that moment, walked up and took Mr. Pickwick away.

The usual forms having been gone through, the body of Samuel Pickwick was soon afterwards confided to the custody of the tipstaff, to be by him taken to the warden of the Fleet Prison, and there detained until the amount of the damages and costs in the action of Bardell against Pickwick was fully paid and satisfied.

‘And that,’ said Mr. Pickwick, laughing, ‘will be a very long time. Sam, call another hackney-coach. Perker, my dear friend, good-bye.’

‘I shall go with you, and see you safe there,’ said Perker.

‘Indeed,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘I would rather go without any other attendant than Sam. As soon as I get settled, I will write and let you know, and I shall expect you immediately. Until then, good-bye.’

As Mr. Pickwick said this, he got into the coach which had by this time arrived, followed by the tipstaff. Sam having stationed himself on the box, it rolled away.

‘A most extraordinary man that!’ said Perker, as he stopped to pull on his gloves.

‘What a bankrupt he’d make, Sir,’ observed Mr. Lowten, who was standing near. ‘How he would bother the commissioners! He’d set ‘em at defiance if they talked of committing him, Sir.’

The attorney did not appear very much delighted with his clerk’s professional estimate of Mr. Pickwick’s character, for he walked away without deigning any reply.

The hackney-coach jolted along Fleet Street, as hackney-coaches usually do. The horses ‘went better’, the driver said, when they had anything before them (they must have gone at a most extraordinary pace when there was nothing), and so the vehicle kept behind a cart; when the cart stopped, it stopped; and when the cart went on again, it did the same. Mr. Pickwick sat opposite the tipstaff; and the tipstaff sat with his hat between his knees, whistling a tune, and looking out of the coach window.

Time performs wonders. By the powerful old gentleman’s aid, even a hackney-coach gets over half a mile of ground. They stopped at length, and Mr. Pickwick alighted at the gate of the Fleet.

The tipstaff, just looking over his shoulder to see that his charge was following close at his heels, preceded Mr. Pickwick into the prison; turning to the left, after they had entered, they passed through an open door into a lobby, from which a heavy gate, opposite to that by which they had entered, and which was guarded by a stout turnkey with the key in his hand, led at once into the interior of the prison.

Here they stopped, while the tipstaff delivered his papers; and here Mr. Pickwick was apprised that he would remain, until he had undergone the ceremony, known to the initiated as ‘sitting for your portrait.’

‘Sitting for my portrait?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Having your likeness taken, sir,’ replied the stout turnkey.

‘We’re capital hands at likenesses here. Take ‘em in no time, and always exact. Walk in, sir, and make yourself at home.’

Mr. Pickwick complied with the invitation, and sat himself down; when Mr. Weller, who stationed himself at the back of the chair, whispered that the sitting was merely another term for undergoing an inspection by the different turnkeys, in order that they might know prisoners from visitors.

Le conversazioni di questi signori non erano gli unici suoni che si udivano nella stanza. In piedi su una scatola, dietro una barriera di legno all’altro capo della sala, c’era un impiegato con gli occhiali che “raccoglieva le dichiarazioni giurate”; grandi quantità di queste dichiarazioni venivano, di tanto in tanto, portate nella stanza privata da un altro impiegato affinché il giudice potesse firmarle. C’era un gran numero di impiegati legali che dovevano prestare giuramento; poiché era moralmente impossibile farlo tutti insieme, i tentativi di questi signori per raggiungere l’impiegato con gli occhiali assomigliavano a quelli di una folla che cerca di entrare dalla porta laterale di un teatro quando Sua Maestà Reale vi si reca. Un altro funzionario, di tanto in tanto, chiamava i nomi di coloro che avevano prestato giuramento, al fine di restituire loro le dichiarazioni firmate dal giudice; questo causava altre piccole baruffe. E tutte queste cose, avvenendo contemporaneamente, creavano un tale trambusto che solo la persona più vivace e eccitabile avrebbe potuto desiderare di assistervi. C’era ancora un’altra categoria di persone: quelle che aspettavano di essere chiamate per rispondere alle citazioni emesse dai loro datori di lavoro; era facoltativo, da parte dell’avvocato dall’altro lato della sala, assistere o meno a queste udienze. Il compito di queste persone consisteva nel gridare il nome dell’avvocato opposto, per assicurarsi che non si presentasse senza che loro lo sapessero.

Ad esempio. Appoggiato al muro, proprio accanto al posto a cui si era seduto il signor Pickwick, c’era un giovane impiegato di quattordici anni, con una voce tenore; vicino a lui, un impiegato di tipo comune, con una voce bassa.

Un impiegato entrò di fretta con un mazzo di documenti e si guardò intorno.

“Sniggle and Blink,” gridò il tenore.

“Porkin e Snob,” ringhiò il bassista.

“Stumpy e Deacon,” disse il nuovo arrivato.

Nessuno rispose; il successivo uomo che entrò fu rilasciato in cauzione dai tre presenti; e lui, a sua volta, chiamò un’altra agenzia; poi qualcun altro gridò ad alta voce per chiamarne un’altra ancora; e così via.

In tutto questo tempo, l’uomo con gli occhiali lavorava sodo, maledicendo i impiegati; le imprecazioni venivano sempre pronunciate allo stesso modo, senza alcun tentativo di utilizzare la punteggiatura, e di solito in questi termini:–

“Prendi il libro con la tua mano destra; questo è il tuo nome e la tua calligrafia. Giura che quanto contenuto in questa dichiarazione è vero. Che Dio ti aiuti. Devi ricevere il resto del denaro: non ce l’ho.”

“Beh, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick, “immagino che stiano preparando il Habeas corpus, vero?”

“Sì,” disse Sam, “e vorrei proprio che tirassero fuori quelle maledette cose. È davvero sgradevole dover aspettare qui. A quest’ora, avrei già preparato mezza dozzina di quelle cose, le avrei impacchettate e tutto, ”

Che tipo di macchina ingombrante e difficile da gestire dovesse essere il “habeas corpus”, secondo quanto immaginava Sam Weller, non si sa; perché in quel momento Perker si avvicinò e portò via il signor Pickwick.

Dopo aver esaminato le forme legali richieste, il corpo di Samuel Pickwick fu affidato al poliziotto incaricato del caso, affinché lo portasse presso il direttore della prigione di Fleet Prigione, dove sarebbe rimasto detenuto fino a quando l’importo delle danni e delle spese derivanti dalla causa intentata da Bardell contro Pickwick non fosse stato interamente pagato e saldato.

“E così,” disse il signor Pickwick ridendo, “passerà molto tempo. Sam, chiamiamo un altro calesse. Perker, mio caro amico, addio.”

“Verrò con te e mi assicurerò che tu arrivi sano e salvo”, disse Perker.

“Certamente,” rispose il signor Pickwick, “preferirei non avere nessun altro accompagnatore se non Sam. Non appena mi sarò sistemato, vi scriverò per informarvi e vi aspetterò immediatamente. Intanto, addio.”

Mentre il signor Pickwick diceva queste cose, salì sul carro che ormai era arrivato; lo seguì anche l’uomo incaricato di guidarlo. Dopo che Sam si fu sistemato sul sedile posteriore, il carro partì.

“Che uomo straordinario!” disse Perker, mentre si fermava per infilarsi i guanti.

“Che fallito sarebbe, signore,” osservò il signor Lowten, che stava lì vicino. “Come disturberebbe i commissari. Li sfiderebbe apertamente se provassero a farlo imprigionare, signore.”

L’avvocato non sembrava affatto soddisfatto della valutazione professionale fatta dal suo assistente riguardo al carattere del signor Pickwick, poiché se ne andò senza degnarsi di rispondere.

Il calesse si muoveva sobbalzando lungo Fleet Street, come fanno di solito questi veicoli. I cavalli “andavano meglio”, disse il conducente, quando avevano qualcosa davanti a loro (deve essersi spostato a una velocità incredibile quando non c’era nulla davanti); quindi il calesse seguiva sempre il passo del carretto: si fermava quando il carretto si fermava, e ripartiva quando il carretto riprendeva la marcia. Il signor Pickwick sedeva di fronte al conducente; quest’ultimo teneva il cappello tra le ginocchia, suonava una melodia e guardava fuori dal finestrino del calesse.

Il tempo compie miracoli. Con l’aiuto di quel potente vecchio signore, persino una vettura a cavalli riesce a percorrere più di mezzo miglio. Alla fine si fermarono, e il signor Pickwick scese alla porta del Fleet.

Il secondino, solo per assicurarsi che il suo prigioniero lo seguisse da vicino, precedette il signor Pickwick all’interno della prigione; dopo essere entrati, svoltarono a sinistra e passarono attraverso una porta aperta in un corridoio; da lì, una pesante porta, situata di fronte a quella d’ingresso e sorvegliata da un robusto carceriere con la chiave in mano, li condusse immediatamente all’interno della prigione.

Qui si fermarono, mentre il messaggero consegnava i suoi documenti; ed è qui che il signor Pickwick venne informato che avrebbe dovuto rimanere fino a quando non avesse sottoposto siché alla cerimonia conosciuta dagli iniziati come “farsi ritrarre”.

“Sto posando per il mio ritratto?”, disse il signor Pickwick.

“Mi stanno facendo il ritratto, signore,” rispose il robusto carceriere.

“Siamo molto abili nel creare delle somiglianze. Le realizziamo in poco tempo e sempre con precisione assoluta. Entrate pure, signore, e sentitevi come a casa vostra.”

Il signor Pickwick accettò l’invito e si sedette; quando il signor Weller, che si era sistemato dietro la sedia, gli sussurrò che quella riunione non era altro che un modo per far sottopassare i prigionieri ai controlli dei carcerieri, affinché potessero distinguerli dai visitatori.

‘Well, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘then I wish the artists would come. This is rather a public place.’

‘They von’t be long, Sir, I des-say,’ replied Sam. ‘There’s a Dutch clock, sir.’

‘So I see,’ observed Mr. Pickwick.

‘And a bird-cage, sir,’ says Sam. ‘Veels vithin veels, a prison in a prison. Ain’t it, Sir?’

As Mr. Weller made this philosophical remark, Mr. Pickwick was aware that his sitting had commenced. The stout turnkey having been relieved from the lock, sat down, and looked at him carelessly, from time to time, while a long thin man who had relieved him, thrust his hands beneath his coat tails, and planting himself opposite, took a good long view of him. A third rather surly-looking gentleman, who had apparently been disturbed at his tea, for he was disposing of the last remnant of a crust and butter when he came in, stationed himself close to Mr. Pickwick; and, resting his hands on his hips, inspected him narrowly; while two others mixed with the group, and studied his features with most intent and thoughtful faces. Mr. Pickwick winced a good deal under the operation, and appeared to sit very uneasily in his chair; but he made no remark to anybody while it was being performed, not even to Sam, who reclined upon the back of the chair, reflecting, partly on the situation of his master, and partly on the great satisfaction it would have afforded him to make a fierce assault upon all the turnkeys there assembled, one after the other, if it were lawful and peaceable so to do.

At length the likeness was completed, and Mr. Pickwick was informed that he might now proceed into the prison.

‘Where am I to sleep to-night?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Why, I don’t rightly know about to-night,’ replied the stout turnkey. ‘You’ll be chummed on somebody to-morrow, and then you’ll be all snug and comfortable. The first night’s generally rather unsettled, but you’ll be set all squares to-morrow.’

After some discussion, it was discovered that one of the turnkeys had a bed to let, which Mr. Pickwick could have for that night. He gladly agreed to hire it.

‘If you’ll come with me, I’ll show it you at once,’ said the man. ‘It ain’t a large ‘un; but it’s an out-and-outer to sleep in. This way, sir.’

They passed through the inner gate, and descended a short flight of steps. The key was turned after them; and Mr. Pickwick found himself, for the first time in his life, within the walls of a debtors’ prison.

CHAPTER XLI. WHAT BEFELL MR. PICKWICK WHEN HE GOT INTO THE FLEET; WHAT PRISONERS HE SAW THERE, AND HOW HE PASSED THE NIGHT

Mr. Tom Roker, the gentleman who had accompanied Mr. Pickwick into the prison, turned sharp round to the right when he got to the bottom of the little flight of steps, and led the way, through an iron gate which stood open, and up another short flight of steps, into a long narrow gallery, dirty and low, paved with stone, and very dimly lighted by a window at each remote end.

‘This,’ said the gentleman, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and looking carelessly over his shoulder to Mr. Pickwick—‘this here is the hall flight.’

‘Oh,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, looking down a dark and filthy staircase, which appeared to lead to a range of damp and gloomy stone vaults, beneath the ground, ‘and those, I suppose, are the little cellars where the prisoners keep their small quantities of coals. Unpleasant places to have to go down to; but very convenient, I dare say.’

‘Yes, I shouldn’t wonder if they was convenient,’ replied the gentleman, ‘seeing that a few people live there, pretty snug. That’s the Fair, that is.’

‘My friend,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘you don’t really mean to say that human beings live down in those wretched dungeons?’

‘Don’t I?’ replied Mr. Roker, with indignant astonishment; ‘why shouldn’t I?’

‘Live!—live down there!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

‘Live down there! Yes, and die down there, too, very often!’ replied Mr. Roker; ‘and what of that? Who’s got to say anything agin it? Live down there! Yes, and a wery good place it is to live in, ain’t it?’

As Roker turned somewhat fiercely upon Mr. Pickwick in saying this, and moreover muttered in an excited fashion certain unpleasant invocations concerning his own eyes, limbs, and circulating fluids, the latter gentleman deemed it advisable to pursue the discourse no further. Mr. Roker then proceeded to mount another staircase, as dirty as that which led to the place which has just been the subject of discussion, in which ascent he was closely followed by Mr. Pickwick and Sam.

‘There,’ said Mr. Roker, pausing for breath when they reached another gallery of the same dimensions as the one below, ‘this is the coffee- room flight; the one above’s the third, and the one above that’s the top; and the room where you’re a-going to sleep to-night is the warden’s room, and it’s this way—come on.’ Having said all this in a breath, Mr. Roker mounted another flight of stairs with Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller following at his heels.

These staircases received light from sundry windows placed at some little distance above the floor, and looking into a gravelled area bounded by a high brick wall, with iron chevaux-de-frise at the top. This area, it appeared from Mr. Roker’s statement, was the racket- ground; and it further appeared, on the testimony of the same gentleman, that there was a smaller area in that portion of the prison which was nearest Farringdon Street, denominated and called ‘the Painted Ground,’ from the fact of its walls having once displayed the semblance of various men-of-war in full sail, and other artistical effects achieved in bygone times by some imprisoned draughtsman in his leisure hours.

Having communicated this piece of information, apparently more for the purpose of discharging his bosom of an important fact, than with any specific view of enlightening Mr. Pickwick, the guide, having at length reached another gallery, led the way into a small passage at the extreme end, opened a door, and disclosed an apartment of an appearance by no means inviting, containing eight or nine iron bedsteads.

“Beh, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick, “allora vorrei che gli artisti venissero. Questo è un posto piuttosto pubblico.”

“Non tarderanno, signore, credo,” rispose Sam. “C’è un orologio olandese, signore.”

“Capisco,” osservò il signor Pickwick.

“E una gabbia per uccelli, signore,” dice Sam. “Strati su strati, una prigione all’interno di un’altra prigione. Non è vero, signore?”

Mentre il signor Weller faceva questa osservazione filosofica, il signor Pickwick si rese conto che la sua seduta era iniziata. Il robusto carceriere, una volta liberato dal compito di chiudere a chiave, si sedette e lo guardò distrattamente di tanto in tanto; un uomo alto e magro che gli aveva sostituito il ruolo di carceriere infilò le mani sotto la gonna del suo abito e si mise di fronte a lui per osservarlo attentamente. Un terzo signore, dall’aspetto piuttosto cupo – evidentemente disturbato durante la sua cena, poiché stava mangiando l’ultimo pezzo di pane con burro quando era entrato – si posizionò vicino al signor Pickwick, appoggiò le mani sui fianchi e lo esaminò attentamente; altri due uomini si mescolarono al gruppo e studiarono i suoi tratti con grande interesse. Il signor Pickwick sobbalzò più volte a causa di queste attenzioni e sembrava molto a disagio sulla sedia; tuttavia non fece alcuna osservazione, nemmeno con Sam, che si appoggiava allo schienale della sedia, riflettendo sia sulla situazione del suo padrone sia sul grande piacere che avrebbe provato attaccando uno dopo l’altro tutti quei carcerieri, se solo fosse stato possibile farlo in modo legale e pacifico.

Finalmente il ritratto fu completato, e al signor Pickwick fu detto che poteva ora entrare nella prigione.

“Dove dovrei dormire di notte?”, chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Beh, non so esattamente cosa succederà stanotte, ”, rispose il robusto custode.
“Domani troverai qualcuno con cui stare insieme, e poi tutto sarà tranquillo e confortevole. La prima notte di solito è un po’ agitata, ma domani andrà tutto per il meglio.”

Dopo alcune discussioni, si scoprì che uno dei custodi aveva una stanza da affittare, che il signor Pickwick poteva utilizzare per quella notte. Accettò volentieri di prenderla in affitto.

“Se vieni con me, te lo mostro subito,” disse l’uomo. “Non è molto grande, ma è abbastanza confortevole per dormirci dentro. Da questa parte, signore.”

Passarono attraverso il cancello interno e scesero pochi gradini. Dopo di loro fu chiusa a chiave la porta; e il signor Pickwick si trovò, per la prima volta in vita sua, all’interno delle mura di una prigione per debitori.

CAPITOLO XLI. CIÒ CHE ACCADDE AL SIGNOR PICKWICK QUANDO SI UNÍ ALLA FLOTTA; QUEI PRIGIONIERI CHE VI INCONTRÒ E COME TRASCORSERÌ LA NOTTE

Il signor Tom Roker, l’uomo che aveva accompagnato il signor Pickwick in prigione, svoltò bruscamente a destra quando arrivò in fondo alla piccola rampa di gradini e guidò la strada attraverso un cancello di ferro aperto, per poi salire su un’altra breve rampa di gradini che conduceva in una lunga e stretta galleria, sporca e bassa, lastricata di pietra e illuminata molto debolmente da una finestra all’estremità opposta.

“Questo,” disse il gentiluomo, infilando le mani in tasca e guardando distrattamente verso il signor Pickwick, “questo è il corridoio che conduce al piano di sopra.”

“Oh,” rispose il signor Pickwick, guardando in basso una scala buia e sporca che sembrava condurre a una serie di umide e tetre caverne di pietra, sottoterra, “e quelle, suppongo, siano le piccole cantine dove i prigionieri conservano le loro scarse riserve di carbone. Posti poco piacevoli in cui dover scendere, ma molto pratici, oserei dire.”

“Sì, non dovrei certo chiedermi se sia conveniente o meno,” rispose il gentiluomo, “visto che ci vivono alcune persone, e in modo abbastanza confortevole. Quella è la Fiera, appunto.”

“Mio caro amico,” disse il signor Pickwick, “non vorrai davvero dire che gli esseri umani vivano in quelle orribili prigioni, vero?”

“Non è forse così?”, rispose il signor Roker con indignazione e sorpresa; “perché non dovrebbe essere così?”

“Vivete!. Vivete laggiù!” esclamò il signor Pickwick.

“Vivi laggiù! Sì, e spesso anche muori laggiù!” rispose il signor Roker; “E allora? Chi ha il diritto di dire qualcosa al riguardo? Vivi laggiù. È davvero un ottimo posto dove vivere, non è vero?”

Mentre Roker si rivolgeva con notevole aggressività a Mr. Pickwick, mormorando inoltre in modo eccitato alcune parole sgradevoli riguardo ai propri occhi, alle proprie membra e ai propri fluidi corporei, quest’ultimo ritenne opportuno interrompere la conversazione. Roker proseguì quindi verso un’altra scala, altrettanto sporca di quella che aveva portato nel luogo appena menzionato; in quell’ascesa fu seguito da vicino da Mr. Pickwick e Sam.

“Ecco,” disse il signor Roker, prendendo fiato quando raggiunsero un’altra galleria delle stesse dimensioni di quella sottostante, “questa è la galleria riservata alla sala da caffè; quella sopra è la terza, e ancora più in alto c’è il piano superiore; mentre la stanza dove andrete a )dormire di notte è la stanza del direttore. Da questa parte, venite.” Dopo aver detto tutto questo d’un fiato, il signor Roker salì altri gradini, seguito dal signor Pickwick e da Sam Weller.

Queste scale ricevevano luce da diverse finestre posizionate a una certa distanza dal pavimento; queste finestre si affacciavano su un’area lastricata delimitata da un alto muro di mattoni, sul quale erano presenti delle decorazioni in ferro. Secondo quanto dichiarato dal signor Roker, quell’area costituiva il campo da gioco; inoltre, sempre secondo le sue parole, all’interno di quella stessa parte della prigione che era più vicina a Farringdon Street esisteva un’altra area più piccola, chiamata “l’Area dipinta”. Il nome derivava dal fatto che le sue pareti un tempo presentavano raffigurazioni di varie navi da guerra in pieno viaggio, nonché altri effetti artistici realizzati in passato da alcuni disegnatori imprigionati nei loro momenti liberi.

Dopo aver comunicato quest’informazione, apparentemente più per il desiderio di condividere un fatto importante che per qualsiasi intenzione specifica di illuminare il signor Pickwick, il guida, una volta raggiunta un’altra galleria, condusse il gruppo in un piccolo corridoio situato all’estremità; aprì una porta e rivelò un ambiente assolutamente poco accogliente, contenente otto o nove letti di ferro.

‘There,’ said Mr. Roker, holding the door open, and looking triumphantly round at Mr. Pickwick, ‘there’s a room!’

Mr. Pickwick’s face, however, betokened such a very trifling portion of satisfaction at the appearance of his lodging, that Mr. Roker looked, for a reciprocity of feeling, into the countenance of Samuel Weller, who, until now, had observed a dignified silence.

‘There’s a room, young man,’ observed Mr. Roker.

‘I see it,’ replied Sam, with a placid nod of the head.

‘You wouldn’t think to find such a room as this in the Farringdon Hotel, would you?’ said Mr. Roker, with a complacent smile.

To this Mr. Weller replied with an easy and unstudied closing of one eye; which might be considered to mean, either that he would have thought it, or that he would not have thought it, or that he had never thought anything at all about it, as the observer’s imagination suggested. Having executed this feat, and reopened his eye, Mr. Weller proceeded to inquire which was the individual bedstead that Mr. Roker had so flatteringly described as an out-and-outer to sleep in.

‘That’s it,’ replied Mr. Roker, pointing to a very rusty one in a corner. ‘It would make any one go to sleep, that bedstead would, whether they wanted to or not.’

‘I should think,’ said Sam, eyeing the piece of furniture in question with a look of excessive disgust—‘I should think poppies was nothing to it.’

‘Nothing at all,’ said Mr. Roker.

‘And I s’pose,’ said Sam, with a sidelong glance at his master, as if to see whether there were any symptoms of his determination being shaken by what passed, ‘I s’pose the other gen’l’men as sleeps here _are _gen’l’men.’

‘Nothing but it,’ said Mr. Roker. ‘One of ‘em takes his twelve pints of ale a day, and never leaves off smoking even at his meals.’

‘He must be a first-rater,’ said Sam.

‘A1,’ replied Mr. Roker.

Nothing daunted, even by this intelligence, Mr. Pickwick smilingly announced his determination to test the powers of the narcotic bedstead for that night; and Mr. Roker, after informing him that he could retire to rest at whatever hour he thought proper, without any further notice or formality, walked off, leaving him standing with Sam in the gallery.

It was getting dark; that is to say, a few gas jets were kindled in this place which was never light, by way of compliment to the evening, which had set in outside. As it was rather warm, some of the tenants of the numerous little rooms which opened into the gallery on either hand, had set their doors ajar. Mr. Pickwick peeped into them as he passed along, with great curiosity and interest. Here, four or five great hulking fellows, just visible through a cloud of tobacco smoke, were engaged in noisy and riotous conversation over half-emptied pots of beer, or playing at all-fours with a very greasy pack of cards. In the adjoining room, some solitary tenant might be seen poring, by the light of a feeble tallow candle, over a bundle of soiled and tattered papers, yellow with dust and dropping to pieces from age, writing, for the hundredth time, some lengthened statement of his grievances, for the perusal of some great man whose eyes it would never reach, or whose heart it would never touch. In a third, a man, with his wife and a whole crowd of children, might be seen making up a scanty bed on the ground, or upon a few chairs, for the younger ones to pass the night in. And in a fourth, and a fifth, and a sixth, and a seventh, the noise, and the beer, and the tobacco smoke, and the cards, all came over again in greater force than before.

In the galleries themselves, and more especially on the stair-cases, there lingered a great number of people, who came there, some because their rooms were empty and lonesome, others because their rooms were full and hot; the greater part because they were restless and uncomfortable, and not possessed of the secret of exactly knowing what to do with themselves. There were many classes of people here, from the labouring man in his fustian jacket, to the broken-down spendthrift in his shawl dressing-gown, most appropriately out at elbows; but there was the same air about them all—a kind of listless, jail-bird, careless swagger, a vagabondish who’s-afraid sort of bearing, which is wholly indescribable in words, but which any man can understand in one moment if he wish, by setting foot in the nearest debtors’ prison, and looking at the very first group of people he sees there, with the same interest as Mr. Pickwick did.

‘It strikes me, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, leaning over the iron rail at the stair-head, ‘it strikes me, Sam, that imprisonment for debt is scarcely any punishment at all.’

‘Think not, sir?’ inquired Mr. Weller.

‘You see how these fellows drink, and smoke, and roar,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘It’s quite impossible that they can mind it much.’

‘Ah, that’s just the wery thing, Sir,’ rejoined Sam, ‘they don’t mind it; it’s a reg’lar holiday to them—all porter and skittles. It’s the t’other vuns as gets done over vith this sort o’ thing; them down- hearted fellers as can’t svig avay at the beer, nor play at skittles neither; them as vould pay if they could, and gets low by being boxed up. I’ll tell you wot it is, sir; them as is always a-idlin’ in public- houses it don’t damage at all, and them as is alvays a-workin’ wen they can, it damages too much. “It’s unekal,” as my father used to say wen his grog worn’t made half-and-half: “it’s unekal, and that’s the fault on it.”’

‘I think you’re right, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, after a few moments’ reflection, ‘quite right.’

‘P’raps, now and then, there’s some honest people as likes it,’ observed Mr. Weller, in a ruminative tone, ‘but I never heerd o’ one as I can call to mind, ‘cept the little dirty-faced man in the brown coat; and that was force of habit.’

‘And who was he?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

“Ecco,” disse il signor Roker, tenendo la porta aperta e guardando con aria trionfale intorno al signor Pickwick, “ecco una stanza!”

Tuttavia, l’espressione sul volto di Mr. Pickwick indicava un’emozione molto lieve all’indomani del suo arrivo nella sua nuova dimora; perciò Mr. Roker cercò, nel volto di Samuel Weller, un segno simile di soddisfazione, ma quest’ultimo continuava a mantenere un dignitoso silenzio.

“C’è una stanza, giovane uomo,” osservò il signor Roker.

“Lo vedo,” rispose Sam, annuendo pacatamente con la testa.

“Non si direbbe che un hotel come il Farringdon possieda una stanza del genere, vero?” disse il signor Roker, con un sorriso compiaciuto.

A questo, il signor Weller rispose chiudendo un occhio con noncuranza e naturalezza; ciò poteva significare che avesse pensato a quella cosa, oppure che non l’avesse affatto pensata, o ancora che non avesse mai considerato la questione in alcun modo, come suggeriva l’immaginazione dell’osservatore. Dopo aver eseguito questo gesto, riaprì l’occhio e proseguì chiedendo quale fosse esattamente quel letto di cui il signor Roker aveva parlato con tanta lode, definendolo davvero ideale per dormire.

“Ecco,” rispose il signor Roker, indicando un letto molto arrugginito in un angolo. “Quel letto farebbe addormentare chiunque, che lo volesse o no.”

“Dovrei pensare, ”, disse Sam, osservando con un’espressione di profondo disgusto quel pezzo di mobilia in questione, “dovrei pensare che i papaveri non siano niente al confronto.”

“Niente affatto,” disse il signor Roker.

“E suppongo,” disse Sam, lanciando un’occhiata di sbieco al suo padrone, come per verificare se ci fossero segni che la sua determinazione fosse stata scossa da quanto accaduto, “che anche gli altri generali che dormono qui siano davvero generali.”

“Nient’altro che questo,” disse il signor Roker. “Uno di loro beve dodici pinte di birra al giorno e non smette mai di fumare nemmeno durante i pasti.”

“Deve essere davvero eccezionale,” disse Sam.

“‘A1’”, rispose il signor Roker.

Senza lasciarsi intimidire nemmeno da queste informazioni, il signor Pickwick annunciò con un sorriso la sua determinazione a mettere alla prova le capacità di quel letto narcotico quella notte; il signor Roker, dopo avergli detto che poteva andare a riposare all’ora che riteneva opportuna, senza alcun ulteriore avviso o formalità, se ne andò, lasciandolo da solo con Sam nella galleria.

Stava facendo buio; in altre parole, alcuni getti di gas furono accesi in quel luogo che mai era illuminato, come omaggio alla sera che era calata all’esterno. Poiché faceva abbastanza caldo, alcuni degli inquilini delle numerose piccole stanze che si affacciavano sulla galleria avevano lasciato le porte socchiuse. Il signor Pickwick le sbirciava mentre passava, con grande curiosità e interesse. Lì, quattro o cinque uomini robusti, appena visibili attraverso una nuvola di fumo di tabacco, erano impegnati in conversazioni rumorose e turbolente attorno a pentole di birra mezze vuote, oppure giocavano a carte con un mazzo molto unto. Nella stanza accanto, si poteva vedere qualche inquilino solitario che, alla luce di una debole candela di sego, studiava un mucchio di fogli sporchi e logori, ingialliti dal polvere e ormai strappati dall’uso continuo; scriveva, per la centesima volta, una lunga descrizione delle sue lamentele, destinata a essere letta da qualche grande uomo il cui sguardo non avrebbe mai raggiunto quei fogli, né il cui cuore ne sarebbe mai stato toccato. In un’altra stanza, un uomo con sua moglie e una folla di bambini preparavano un letto stentato sul pavimento o su alcune sedie, affinché i più piccoli potessero trascorrere la notte lì. E nelle altre stanze, il rumore, la birra, il fumo di tabacco e le carte erano ancora più intensi che prima.

Nelle stesse gallerie, e soprattutto sulle scale, si attardava un gran numero di persone: alcune perché le loro stanze erano vuote e desolate, altre perché erano piene e soffocanti; la maggior parte, semplicemente, perché erano irrequiete e a disagio, senza sapere esattamente cosa fare. C’erano persone di ogni estrazione sociale: dal lavoratore in giacca di fustana al dissipatore rovinato in vestaglia, con i gomiti sporgenti; ma tutti con lo stesso atteggiamento – una sorta di apatia, un’andatura disinvolta e trascurata, un comportamento da vagabondo timoroso. Un’atmosfera del tutto indescrivibile a parole, ma che chiunque può comprendere all’istante se solo decide di entrare nella più vicina prigione dei debitori e osservare il primo gruppo di persone che vi trova, con lo stesso interesse con cui lo fece il signor Pickwick.

“Mi sembra, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick, appoggiandosi alla ringhiera di ferro in cima alle scale, “mi sembra che l’carcere per debiti non sia affatto una punizione.”

“Non lo pensate anche voi, signore?”, chiese il signor Weller.

“Vedete come questi ragazzi bevono, fumano e urlano,” rispose il signor Pickwick. “È assolutamente impossibile che possano preoccuparsene davvero.”

“Ah, proprio questo è il problema, signore,” ribatté Sam, “a loro non dispiace affatto; per loro è addirittura una festività regolare, birra e giochi vari. Sono gli altri, invece, a soffrirne: quei poveretti che non riescono nemmeno a bere birra o giocare a dadi; quelli che vorrebbero pagare se potessero, ma finiscono per impoverirsi a causa di queste cose. Le dirò cosa penso io, signore. Quelli che passano tutto il tempo nei pub non ne risentono affatto, mentre quelli che lavorano sodo quando possono ne soffrono moltissimo. ‘È innaturale,’ diceva sempre mio padre quando la sua birra non era di qualità: ‘È innaturale, ed è proprio questo il problema.’”

“Penso che tu abbia ragione, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick dopo alcuni momenti di riflessione, “assolutamente ragione.”

“Forse, di tanto in tanto, ci sono persone oneste che lo fanno,” osservò il signor Weller con tono meditativo, “ma non ricordo mai di averne incontrata nessuna, a parte quel piccolo uomo dal viso sporco e il cappotto marrone. E anche quello era più un’abitudine che altro.”

“E chi era?” chiese il signor Pickwick.

‘Wy, that’s just the wery point as nobody never know’d,’ replied Sam.

‘But what did he do?’

‘Wy, he did wot many men as has been much better know’d has done in their time, Sir,’ replied Sam, ‘he run a match agin the constable, and vun it.’

‘In other words, I suppose,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘he got into debt.’

‘Just that, Sir,’ replied Sam, ‘and in course o’ time he come here in consekens. It warn’t much—execution for nine pound nothin’, multiplied by five for costs; but hows’ever here he stopped for seventeen year. If he got any wrinkles in his face, they were stopped up vith the dirt, for both the dirty face and the brown coat wos just the same at the end o’ that time as they wos at the beginnin’. He wos a wery peaceful, inoffendin’ little creetur, and wos alvays a-bustlin’ about for somebody, or playin’ rackets and never vinnin’; till at last the turnkeys they got quite fond on him, and he wos in the lodge ev’ry night, a-chattering vith ‘em, and tellin’ stories, and all that ‘ere. Vun night he wos in there as usual, along vith a wery old friend of his, as wos on the lock, ven he says all of a sudden, “I ain’t seen the market outside, Bill,” he says (Fleet Market wos there at that time)—“I ain’t seen the market outside, Bill,” he says, “for seventeen year.” “I know you ain’t,” says the turnkey, smoking his pipe. “I should like to see it for a minit, Bill,” he says. “Wery probable,” says the turnkey, smoking his pipe wery fierce, and making believe he warn’t up to wot the little man wanted. “Bill,” says the little man, more abrupt than afore, “I’ve got the fancy in my head. Let me see the public streets once more afore I die; and if I ain’t struck with apoplexy, I’ll be back in five minits by the clock.” “And wot ‘ud become o’ me if you _wos _struck with apoplexy?” said the turnkey. “Wy,” says the little creetur, “whoever found me, ‘ud bring me home, for I’ve got my card in my pocket, Bill,” he says, “No. 20, Coffee-room Flight”: and that wos true, sure enough, for wen he wanted to make the acquaintance of any new-comer, he used to pull out a little limp card vith them words on it and nothin’ else; in consideration of vich, he vos alvays called Number Tventy. The turnkey takes a fixed look at him, and at last he says in a solemn manner, “Tventy,” he says, “I’ll trust you; you Won’t get your old friend into trouble.” “No, my boy; I hope I’ve somethin’ better behind here,” says the little man; and as he said it he hit his little vesket wery hard, and then a tear started out o’ each eye, which wos wery extraordinary, for it wos supposed as water never touched his face. He shook the turnkey by the hand; out he vent—’

‘And never came back again,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Wrong for vunce, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, ‘for back he come, two minits afore the time, a-bilin’ with rage, sayin’ how he’d been nearly run over by a hackney-coach that he warn’t used to it; and he was blowed if he wouldn’t write to the lord mayor. They got him pacified at last; and for five years arter that, he never even so much as peeped out o’ the lodge gate.’

‘At the expiration of that time he died, I suppose,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘No, he didn’t, Sir,’ replied Sam. ‘He got a curiosity to go and taste the beer at a new public-house over the way, and it wos such a wery nice parlour, that he took it into his head to go there every night, which he did for a long time, always comin’ back reg’lar about a quarter of an hour afore the gate shut, which was all wery snug and comfortable. At last he began to get so precious jolly, that he used to forget how the time vent, or care nothin’ at all about it, and he went on gettin’ later and later, till vun night his old friend wos just a-shuttin’ the gate— had turned the key in fact—wen he come up. “Hold hard, Bill,” he says. “Wot, ain’t you come home yet, Tventy?” says the turnkey, “I thought you wos in, long ago.” “No, I wasn’t,” says the little man, with a smile. “Well, then, I’ll tell you wot it is, my friend,” says the turnkey, openin’ the gate wery slow and sulky, “it’s my ‘pinion as you’ve got into bad company o’ late, which I’m wery sorry to see. Now, I don’t wish to do nothing harsh,” he says, “but if you can’t confine yourself to steady circles, and find your vay back at reg’lar hours, as sure as you’re a-standin’ there, I’ll shut you out altogether!” The little man was seized vith a wiolent fit o’ tremblin’, and never vent outside the prison walls artervards!’

As Sam concluded, Mr. Pickwick slowly retraced his steps downstairs. After a few thoughtful turns in the Painted Ground, which, as it was now dark, was nearly deserted, he intimated to Mr. Weller that he thought it high time for him to withdraw for the night; requesting him to seek a bed in some adjacent public-house, and return early in the morning, to make arrangements for the removal of his master’s wardrobe from the George and Vulture. This request Mr. Samuel Weller prepared to obey, with as good a grace as he could assume, but with a very considerable show of reluctance nevertheless. He even went so far as to essay sundry ineffectual hints regarding the expediency of stretching himself on the gravel for that night; but finding Mr. Pickwick obstinately deaf to any such suggestions, finally withdrew.

There is no disguising the fact that Mr. Pickwick felt very low-spirited and uncomfortable—not for lack of society, for the prison was very full, and a bottle of wine would at once have purchased the utmost good- fellowship of a few choice spirits, without any more formal ceremony of introduction; but he was alone in the coarse, vulgar crowd, and felt the depression of spirits and sinking of heart, naturally consequent on the reflection that he was cooped and caged up, without a prospect of liberation. As to the idea of releasing himself by ministering to the sharpness of Dodson & Fogg, it never for an instant entered his thoughts.

“Esatto, è proprio questo il punto: nessuno lo sapeva mai,” rispose Sam.

“Ma cosa ha fatto?”

“Beh, ha fatto cose che molti uomini ben conosciuti hanno fatto nei loro tempi, signore,” rispose Sam, “ha sfidato di nuovo il poliziotto e l’ha battuto.”

“In altre parole, suppongo,” disse il signor Pickwick, “che abbia contratto dei debiti.”

“Solo questo, signore,” rispose Sam, “e naturalmente, col passare del tempo, è finito qui per questa ragione. Non era molto, una pena di morte per nove pence, più cinque per le spese. Ma comunque è rimasto qui per diciassette anni. Se gli fossero apparse delle rughe in faccia, sarebbero state nascoste dalla sporcizia. Perché sia il viso sporco che il cappotto marrone erano esattamente come all’inizio di quel periodo. Era un essere molto tranquillo, inoffensivo. Sempre impegnato a fare qualcosa per gli altri, o a giocare a racchette senza mai vincere. Alla fine, i custodi si sono affezionati molto a lui; ogni notte stava nella guardiola a chiacchierare con loro, a raccontare storie e così via. Una notte, come al solito, era lì dentro insieme a un suo vecchio amico. All’improvviso disse: ‘Non ho visto il mercato fuori, Bill. Non lo vedo da diciassette anni.’ ‘Lo so che non l’hai visto,’ rispose il custode, fumando la sua pipa. ‘Mi piacerebbe vederlo per un minuto, Bill, ’ ‘Certo,’ disse il custode, continuando a fumare e fingendo di non capire cosa volesse quel piccolo uomo. ‘Bill,’ disse lui, più bruscamente del solito, ‘mi è venuta questa voglia. Vorrei vedere le strade pubbliche un’ultima volta prima di morire. Se non mi viene un attacco di apoplessia, tornerò entro cinque minuti.’ ‘E cosa succederebbe a me se ti venisse un attacco di apoplessia?’ chiese il custode. ‘Beh, chiunque mi trovasse mi porterebbe a casa. Perché ho il mio biglietto in tasca, Bill, ’ disse lui. E infatti era vero: ogni volta che voleva conoscere qualcuno nuovo, tirava fuori quel piccolo biglietto con scritto sopra quel nome. Si faceva sempre chiamare “Numero Venti”. Il custode lo guardò attentamente. Alla fine disse seriamente: ‘Venti. Ti fido di te. Non farai certo mettere nei guai il tuo vecchio amico.’ ‘No, ragazzo mio. Spero di avere qualcosa di meglio qui dentro,’ disse lui. E mentre lo diceva, colpì forte la sua piccola tasca. Poi cominciarono a scendere lacrime dai suoi occhi. Il che era davvero strano. Perché si diceva che quella “acqua” non toccasse mai il suo viso. Strinse la mano al custode. E poi uscì, ”

“E non tornò mai più,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Mai successo prima, signore,” rispose il signor Weller. “È tornato indietro due minuti prima dell’ora prevista, furioso, dicendo di essere stato quasi investito da una carrozza a noleggio a cui non era abituato; e ha insistito per scrivere al lord mayor. Alla fine sono riusciti a calmarlo; per cinque anni successivi, non è mai nemmeno uscito dalla porta della locanda.”

“Al termine di quel periodo di tempo, immagino che sia morto,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“No, signore, non l’ha fatto,” rispose Sam. “Gli è venuta la curiosità di andare a provare la birra in un nuovo pub poco lontano da qui, e il locale era così accogliente che ha deciso di andarci ogni notte. Lo ha fatto per molto tempo, tornando sempre regolarmente circa quindici minuti prima che il cancello si chiudesse. Alla fine, però, ha iniziato ad arrivare sempre più tardi. Una notte, quando il suo vecchio amico stava appunto per chiudere il cancello – aveva già girato la chiave – lui è arrivato. ‘Aspetta un attimo, Bill,’ gli disse. ‘Ehi, non sei ancora tornato a casa, Tventy?’ chiese il custode. ‘Pensavo fossi già dentro da un pezzo.’ ‘No, non lo sono,’ rispose il piccolo uomo sorridendo. ‘Beh, allora ti dirò cosa sta succedendo, amico mio, ’ disse il custode, aprendo il cancello molto lentamente e con aria scontenta. ‘È perché hai iniziato a frequentare cattive compagnie. Mi dispiace davvero molto vederlo. Ora, non voglio essere duro con te. Ma se non riesci a mantenerti in ambienti decenti e a tornare a casa alle ore stabilite, giuro su Dio che ti chiuderò fuori del tutto!’ Il piccolo uomo iniziò a tremare violentemente. E da allora non uscì mai più dai muri della prigione, ”

Come Sam concluse, il signor Pickwick tornò lentamente al piano di sotto. Dopo aver percorso alcuni sentieri nel “Painted Ground”, ormai quasi deserto a causa dell’oscurità, suggerì al signor Weller che fosse giunto il momento di ritirarsi per la notte, chiedendogli di cercare un posto dove dormire in una delle case pubbliche vicine e di tornare presto la mattina seguente per organizzare il trasporto degli abiti del suo padrone dal “George and Vulture”. Il signor Samuel Weller acconsentì, con tutta la cortesia possibile, ma mostrando comunque notevole riluttanza. Arrivò persino a fare alcuni tentativi inutili per convincerlo ad accamparsi sul terreno accidentato quella notte; tuttavia, visto che il signor Pickwick rimase irremovibilmente sordo a tali suggerimenti, alla fine si ritirò.

Non si può nascondere il fatto che il signor Pickwick si sentisse molto depresso e a disagio: non per mancanza di compagnia, poiché la prigione era piuttosto affollata, e una bottiglia di vino avrebbe immediatamente potuto creare un’atmosfera cordiale tra alcune persone selezionate, senza bisogno di formalità; ma lui si trovava da solo in mezzo a quella folla rozza e volgare, e provava quel senso di depressione e scoraggiamento che deriva naturalmente dal rendersi conto di essere rinchiuso in una gabbia, senza alcuna prospettiva di liberazione. Quanto all’idea di liberarsi occupandosi personalmente delle faccende della ditta Dodson & Fogg, nemmeno per un istante gli passò per la mente.

In this frame of mind he turned again into the coffee-room gallery, and walked slowly to and fro. The place was intolerably dirty, and the smell of tobacco smoke perfectly suffocating. There was a perpetual slamming and banging of doors as the people went in and out; and the noise of their voices and footsteps echoed and re-echoed through the passages constantly. A young woman, with a child in her arms, who seemed scarcely able to crawl, from emaciation and misery, was walking up and down the passage in conversation with her husband, who had no other place to see her in. As they passed Mr. Pickwick, he could hear the female sob bitterly; and once she burst into such a passion of grief, that she was compelled to lean against the wall for support, while the man took the child in his arms, and tried to soothe her.

Mr. Pickwick’s heart was really too full to bear it, and he went upstairs to bed.

Now, although the warder’s room was a very uncomfortable one (being, in every point of decoration and convenience, several hundred degrees inferior to the common infirmary of a county jail), it had at present the merit of being wholly deserted save by Mr. Pickwick himself. So, he sat down at the foot of his little iron bedstead, and began to wonder how much a year the warder made out of the dirty room. Having satisfied himself, by mathematical calculation, that the apartment was about equal in annual value to the freehold of a small street in the suburbs of London, he took to wondering what possible temptation could have induced a dingy-looking fly that was crawling over his pantaloons, to come into a close prison, when he had the choice of so many airy situations—a course of meditation which led him to the irresistible conclusion that the insect was insane. After settling this point, he began to be conscious that he was getting sleepy; whereupon he took his nightcap out of the pocket in which he had had the precaution to stow it in the morning, and, leisurely undressing himself, got into bed and fell asleep.

‘Bravo! Heel over toe—cut and shuffle—pay away at it, Zephyr! I’m smothered if the opera house isn’t your proper hemisphere. Keep it up! Hooray!’ These expressions, delivered in a most boisterous tone, and accompanied with loud peals of laughter, roused Mr. Pickwick from one of those sound slumbers which, lasting in reality some half-hour, seem to the sleeper to have been protracted for three weeks or a month.

The voice had no sooner ceased than the room was shaken with such violence that the windows rattled in their frames, and the bedsteads trembled again. Mr. Pickwick started up, and remained for some minutes fixed in mute astonishment at the scene before him.

On the floor of the room, a man in a broad-skirted green coat, with corduroy knee-smalls and gray cotton stockings, was performing the most popular steps of a hornpipe, with a slang and burlesque caricature of grace and lightness, which, combined with the very appropriate character of his costume, was inexpressibly absurd. Another man, evidently very drunk, who had probably been tumbled into bed by his companions, was sitting up between the sheets, warbling as much as he could recollect of a comic song, with the most intensely sentimental feeling and expression; while a third, seated on one of the bedsteads, was applauding both performers with the air of a profound connoisseur, and encouraging them by such ebullitions of feeling as had already roused Mr. Pickwick from his sleep.

This last man was an admirable specimen of a class of gentry which never can be seen in full perfection but in such places—they may be met with, in an imperfect state, occasionally about stable-yards and Public- houses; but they never attain their full bloom except in these hot-beds, which would almost seem to be considerately provided by the legislature for the sole purpose of rearing them.

He was a tall fellow, with an olive complexion, long dark hair, and very thick bushy whiskers meeting under his chin. He wore no neckerchief, as he had been playing rackets all day, and his open shirt collar displayed their full luxuriance. On his head he wore one of the common eighteenpenny French skull-caps, with a gaudy tassel dangling therefrom, very happily in keeping with a common fustian coat. His legs, which, being long, were afflicted with weakness, graced a pair of Oxford- mixture trousers, made to show the full symmetry of those limbs. Being somewhat negligently braced, however, and, moreover, but imperfectly buttoned, they fell in a series of not the most graceful folds over a pair of shoes sufficiently down at heel to display a pair of very soiled white stockings. There was a rakish, vagabond smartness, and a kind of boastful rascality, about the whole man, that was worth a mine of gold.

This figure was the first to perceive that Mr. Pickwick was looking on; upon which he winked to the Zephyr, and entreated him, with mock gravity, not to wake the gentleman.

‘Why, bless the gentleman’s honest heart and soul!’ said the Zephyr, turning round and affecting the extremity of surprise; ‘the gentleman is awake. Hem, Shakespeare! How do you do, Sir? How is Mary and Sarah, sir? and the dear old lady at home, Sir? Will you have the kindness to put my compliments into the first little parcel you’re sending that way, sir, and say that I would have sent ‘em before, only I was afraid they might be broken in the wagon, sir?’

‘Don’t overwhelm the gentlemen with ordinary civilities when you see he’s anxious to have something to drink,’ said the gentleman with the whiskers, with a jocose air. ‘Why don’t you ask the gentleman what he’ll take?’

‘Dear me, I quite forgot,’ replied the other. ‘What will you take, sir? Will you take port wine, sir, or sherry wine, sir? I can recommend the ale, sir; or perhaps you’d like to taste the porter, sir? Allow me to have the felicity of hanging up your nightcap, Sir.’

Con questo stato d’animo, tornò di nuovo nella sala da caffè e camminò avanti e indietro lentamente. Il posto era incredibilmente sporco, e l’odore del fumo di tabacco era quasi soffocante. C’erano continui sbatteri e rumori di porte mentre le persone entravano ed uscivano; il suono delle loro voci e dei loro passi echeggiava continuamente nei corridoi. Una giovane donna, con un >bambino in braccio – che sembrava a malapena in grado di muoversi, a causa della magrezza e della sofferenza – camminava avanti e indietro nel corridoio, conversando con suo marito, il quale non aveva altro posto dove incontrarla. Mentre passavano accanto al signor Pickwick, questi sentì la donna singhiozzare amaramente; in un momento particolarmente difficile, lei fu costretta ad appoggiarsi al muro per riprendere fiato, mentre l’uomo prendeva il >bambino in braccio e cercava di consolarla.

Il cuore del signor Pickwick era davvero troppo pieno per poterlo sopportare; quindi salì al piano di sopra per andare a letto.

Ora, sebbene la stanza del guardiano fosse molto scomoda (in ogni aspetto di decorazione e comodità, inferiore di diverse centinaia di gradi rispetto all’ospedale di una prigione di contea), in quel momento era completamente deserta, tranne che per il signor Pickwick stesso. Così, si sedette ai piedi del suo piccolo letto di ferro e cominciò a chiedersi quanto guadagnasse ogni anno il guardiano con quella stanza sporca. Dopo aver calcolato matematicamente che il valore annuo di quell’appartamento fosse più o meno equivalente al possesso di una piccola strada nei sobborghi di Londra, iniziò a chiedersi quale possibile tentazione potesse aver spinto una mosca dall’aspetto trasandato, che si muoveva sui suoi pantaloni, ad entrare in una prigione angusta, quando aveva a disposizione tante stanze ariose. Questo ragionamento lo portò alla conclusione inevitabile che l’insetto fosse pazzo. Una volta chiarito questo punto, cominciò a sentirsi assonnato; allora prese il suo bicchiere di liquore dalla tasca in cui lo aveva messo la mattina precedente, si spogliò con calma, andò a letto e si addormentò.

“Bravo! In ginocchio, poi avanti e indietro, continua così, Zephyr! Sarei davvero felice se l’opera fosse proprio nel tuo “emisfero”! Continua così. Evviva!” Queste espressioni, pronunciate con un tono molto vivace e accompagnate da sonori scoppi di risate, svegliarono il signor Pickwick da uno di quei sonni profondi che, sebbene in realtà durassero solo mezz’ora, sembravano al dormiente protrarsi per tre settimane o un mese intero.

Non appena quella voce tacque, la stanza fu scossa con tale violenza che le finestre tremarono nei loro telai e i letti ripresero a oscillare. Il signor Pickwick si alzò di scatto e rimase per alcuni minuti immobile, in silenziosa meraviglia di fronte a quella scena.

A terra, nella stanza, un uomo in un mantello verde a gonna larga, con pantaloni di velluto a vita bassa e calze di cotone grigie, eseguiva i passi più popolari di una danza con flauto, con una caricatura volgare e burlesca di grazia e leggerezza; tutto ciò, unito al carattere assolutamente appropriato del suo abbigliamento, risultava incredibilmente assurdo. Un altro uomo, evidentemente molto ubriaco e probabilmente trascinato a letto dai suoi compagni, sedeva tra le lenzuola cantando con tutte le sue forze una canzone comica, con un tono e un’espressione estremamente sentimentali; mentre un terzo, seduto su uno dei piedi del letto, applaudiva entrambi gli artisti con l’aria di un vero intenditore, incoraggiandoli con esclamazioni così appassionate da essere riuscite a svegliare il signor Pickwick dal suo sonno.

Quest’ultimo uomo rappresentava un esempio ammirevole di quella classe di gentiluomini che non può mai essere vista nella sua piena perfezione, se non in luoghi del genere: occasionalmente si possono incontrare in uno stato imperfetto nei dintorni delle stalle o dei pub; ma raggiungono la loro piena maturità soltanto in questi “nidini caldi”, che sembrano essere stati creati appositamente dalla legislatura esclusivamente allo scopo di farli crescere.

Era un uomo alto, con una pelle olivastra, capelli lunghi e scuri, e baffi molto folti che si incontravano sotto il mento. Non indossava alcun fazzoletto al collo, poiché aveva giocato a racchette per tutto il giorno; il colletto aperto della sua camicia mostrava tutta la loro rigogliosità. In testa portava uno di quei comuni berretti francesi da diciotto penny, con una piuma vistosa che pendeva dal bordo, in perfetta armonia con il suo abito di fustano comune. Le sue gambe, lunghe ma un po’ deboli, erano avvolte in un paio di pantaloni di misto Oxford, progettati apposta per esaltare la simmetria di quelle membra. Tuttavia, essendo leggermente slacciati e non abbastanza abbottonati, formavano una serie di pieghe non proprio eleganti sopra un paio di scarpe con i tacchi abbastanza bassi da rivelare un paio di calze bianche molto sporche. L’intera sua figura emanava un’aria disinvolta, vagabonda e quasi sprezzante, una sorta di arrogante disonestà che, in realtà, valeva più di un intero tesoro d’oro.

Questa persona fu la prima a notare che il signor Pickwick stava osservando la scena; allora fece l’occhiolino al “Zephyr” e lo pregò, con un tono di finta gravità, di non svegliare quel gentiluomo.

“Ma che cuore onesto e sincero quello del gentiluomo!” esclamò il Zefiro, girandosi e fingendo grande sorpresa; “il gentiluomo è sveglio. Ehm, Shakespeare! Come state, signore? Come stanno Mary e Sarah, signore? E la cara vecchia signora a >casa, signore? Potreste avere la gentilezza di includere i miei saluti nel primo pacchetto che invierete in quella direzione, signore. Avrei voluto mandarli prima, ma temevo che potessero rompersi durante il viaggio, signore, ”

“Non sovraccaricare i signori con banali cortesie quando si vede che hanno voglia di bere qualcosa,” disse il gentiluomo con le basette, in tono scherzoso. “Perché non chiedete al signore cosa desidera?”

“Mio Dio, me ne sono completamente dimenticato,” rispose l’altro. “Cosa desidera bere, signore? Porto vino, sherry. O forse preferisce l’ale? Lasci che abbia il piacere di servirle il suo bicchiere per la notte, signore.”

With this, the speaker snatched that article of dress from Mr. Pickwick’s head, and fixed it in a twinkling on that of the drunken man, who, firmly impressed with the belief that he was delighting a numerous assembly, continued to hammer away at the comic song in the most melancholy strains imaginable.

Taking a man’s nightcap from his brow by violent means, and adjusting it on the head of an unknown gentleman, of dirty exterior, however ingenious a witticism in itself, is unquestionably one of those which come under the denomination of practical jokes. Viewing the matter precisely in this light, Mr. Pickwick, without the slightest intimation of his purpose, sprang vigorously out of bed, struck the Zephyr so smart a blow in the chest as to deprive him of a considerable portion of the commodity which sometimes bears his name, and then, recapturing his nightcap, boldly placed himself in an attitude of defence.

‘Now,’ said Mr. Pickwick, gasping no less from excitement than from the expenditure of so much energy, ‘come on—both of you—both of you!’ With this liberal invitation the worthy gentleman communicated a revolving motion to his clenched fists, by way of appalling his antagonists with a display of science.

It might have been Mr. Pickwick’s very unexpected gallantry, or it might have been the complicated manner in which he had got himself out of bed, and fallen all in a mass upon the hornpipe man, that touched his adversaries. Touched they were; for, instead of then and there making an attempt to commit man-slaughter, as Mr. Pickwick implicitly believed they would have done, they paused, stared at each other a short time, and finally laughed outright.

‘Well, you’re a trump, and I like you all the better for it,’ said the Zephyr. ‘Now jump into bed again, or you’ll catch the rheumatics. No malice, I hope?’ said the man, extending a hand the size of the yellow clump of fingers which sometimes swings over a glover’s door.

‘Certainly not,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with great alacrity; for, now that the excitement was over, he began to feel rather cool about the legs.

‘Allow me the H-onour,’ said the gentleman with the whiskers, presenting his dexter hand, and aspirating the h.

‘With much pleasure, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick; and having executed a very long and solemn shake, he got into bed again.

‘My name is Smangle, sir,’ said the man with the whiskers.

‘Oh,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Mine is Mivins,’ said the man in the stockings.

‘I am delighted to hear it, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Hem,’ coughed Mr. Smangle.

‘Did you speak, sir?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘No, I did not, sir,’ said Mr. Smangle.

All this was very genteel and pleasant; and, to make matters still more comfortable, Mr. Smangle assured Mr. Pickwick a great many more times that he entertained a very high respect for the feelings of a gentleman; which sentiment, indeed, did him infinite credit, as he could be in no wise supposed to understand them.

‘Are you going through the court, sir?’ inquired Mr. Smangle.

‘Through the what?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Through the court—Portugal Street—the Court for Relief of—you know.’

‘Oh, no,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘No, I am not.’

‘Going out, perhaps?’ suggested Mr. Mivins.

‘I fear not,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘I refuse to pay some damages, and am here in consequence.’

‘Ah,’ said Mr. Smangle, ‘paper has been my ruin.’

‘A stationer, I presume, Sir?’ said Mr. Pickwick innocently.

‘Stationer! No, no; confound and curse me! Not so low as that. No trade. When I say paper, I mean bills.’

‘Oh, you use the word in that sense. I see,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Damme! A gentleman must expect reverses,’ said Smangle. ‘What of that? Here am I in the Fleet Prison. Well; good. What then? I’m none the worse for that, am I?’

‘Not a bit,’ replied Mr. Mivins. And he was quite right; for, so far from Mr. Smangle being any the worse for it, he was something the better, inasmuch as to qualify himself for the place, he had attained gratuitous possession of certain articles of jewellery, which, long before that, had found their way to the pawnbroker’s.

‘Well; but come,’ said Mr. Smangle; ‘this is dry work. Let’s rinse our mouths with a drop of burnt sherry; the last-comer shall stand it, Mivins shall fetch it, and I’ll help to drink it. That’s a fair and gentlemanlike division of labour, anyhow. Curse me!’

Unwilling to hazard another quarrel, Mr. Pickwick gladly assented to the proposition, and consigned the money to Mr. Mivins, who, as it was nearly eleven o’clock, lost no time in repairing to the coffee-room on his errand.

‘I say,’ whispered Smangle, the moment his friend had left the room; ‘what did you give him?’

‘Half a sovereign,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘He’s a devilish pleasant gentlemanly dog,’ said Mr. Smangle;—‘infernal pleasant. I don’t know anybody more so; but—’ Here Mr. Smangle stopped short, and shook his head dubiously.

‘You don’t think there is any probability of his appropriating the money to his own use?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Oh, no! Mind, I don’t say that; I expressly say that he’s a devilish gentlemanly fellow,’ said Mr. Smangle. ‘But I think, perhaps, if somebody went down, just to see that he didn’t dip his beak into the jug by accident, or make some confounded mistake in losing the money as he came upstairs, it would be as well. Here, you sir, just run downstairs, and look after that gentleman, will you?’

This request was addressed to a little timid-looking, nervous man, whose appearance bespoke great poverty, and who had been crouching on his bedstead all this while, apparently stupefied by the novelty of his situation.

‘You know where the coffee-room is,’ said Smangle; ‘just run down, and tell that gentleman you’ve come to help him up with the jug. Or—stop— I’ll tell you what—I’ll tell you how we’ll do him,’ said Smangle, with a cunning look.

‘How?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Send down word that he’s to spend the change in cigars. Capital thought. Run and tell him that; d’ye hear? They shan’t be wasted,’ continued Smangle, turning to Mr. Pickwick. ‘I’ll smoke ‘em.’

This manoeuvring was so exceedingly ingenious and, withal, performed with such immovable composure and coolness, that Mr. Pickwick would have had no wish to disturb it, even if he had had the power. In a short time Mr. Mivins returned, bearing the sherry, which Mr. Smangle dispensed in two little cracked mugs; considerately remarking, with reference to himself, that a gentleman must not be particular under such circumstances, and that, for his part, he was not too proud to drink out of the jug. In which, to show his sincerity, he forthwith pledged the company in a draught which half emptied it.

An excellent understanding having been by these means promoted, Mr. Smangle proceeded to entertain his hearers with a relation of divers romantic adventures in which he had been from time to time engaged, involving various interesting anecdotes of a thoroughbred horse, and a magnificent Jewess, both of surpassing beauty, and much coveted by the nobility and gentry of these kingdoms.

Long before these elegant extracts from the biography of a gentleman were concluded, Mr. Mivins had betaken himself to bed, and had set in snoring for the night, leaving the timid stranger and Mr. Pickwick to the full benefit of Mr. Smangle’s experiences.

Nor were the two last-named gentlemen as much edified as they might have been by the moving passages narrated. Mr. Pickwick had been in a state of slumber for some time, when he had a faint perception of the drunken man bursting out afresh with the comic song, and receiving from Mr. Smangle a gentle intimation, through the medium of the water-jug, that his audience was not musically disposed. Mr. Pickwick then once again dropped off to sleep, with a confused consciousness that Mr. Smangle was still engaged in relating a long story, the chief point of which appeared to be that, on some occasion particularly stated and set forth, he had ‘done’ a bill and a gentleman at the same time.

Con questo gesto, il parlante strappò quel pezzo di abito dalla testa del signor Pickwick e lo fissò immediatamente sulla testa dell’uomo ubriaco, il quale, convinto fermamente di essere al centro dell’attenzione di un numeroso pubblico, continuò a cantare quella canzone comica con le note più melanconiche che si potessero immaginare.

Prendere con la forza il bicchiere da notte di un uomo e metterlo sulla testa di un gentiluomo sconosciuto, dall’aspetto sporco, per quanto ingegnoso possa essere questo scherzo di per sé, è senza dubbio uno di quei casi che rientrano nella categoria degli scherzi pratici. Considerando la cosa esattamente in questo modo, il signor Pickwick, senza dare alcuna indicazione del suo intento, saltò energicamente giù dal letto e diede al “Zephyr” un colpo così forte sul petto da fargli perdere una considerevole quantità di quella sostanza che a volte porta il suo nome; dopodiché, riprendendo il proprio bicchiere da notte, assunse immediatamente una posizione difensiva.

“Ora,” disse il signor Pickwick, ansimando tanto per l’emozione quanto per lo sforzo fisico compiuto, “venite pure, voi due, entrambi!” Con questo generoso invito, il nobile gentiluomo fece muovere i pugni stretti in un movimento rotatorio, nel tentativo di spaventare i suoi avversari dimostrando loro la propria “scienza”.

Forse fu proprio la straordinaria galanteria del signor Pickwick, o forse il modo complicato in cui si era alzato dal letto e aveva finito per cadere addosso all’uomo con la cornamusa, a commuovere i suoi avversari. Infatti, invece di tentare immediatamente di compiere un atto violento, come il signor Pickwick si aspettava che facessero, esitarono per un momento, si guardarono l’un l’altro e alla fine scoppiarono a ridere.

“Beh, sei davvero un brav’uomo, e per questo mi piaci ancora di più,” disse il Zefiro. “Ora torna a letto, altrimenti prenderai il raffreddore. Senza cattive intenzioni, spero, ” disse l’uomo, tendendo una mano grande quanto quel grappolo di dita gialle che a volte si dondola sopra la porta di un calzolaio.

“Certamente no,” disse il signor Pickwick con grande entusiasmo; perché, ora che l’emozione era passata, iniziava a sentire un po’ di freddo alle gambe.

“Permettetemi questa onorevole cortesia,” disse il gentiluomo con i baffi, porgendo la sua mano destra e pronunciando chiaramente la lettera “h”.

“Con grande piacere, signore,” disse il signor Pickwick; e dopo aver scambiato una stretta di mano molto lunga e solenne, si mise di nuovo a letto.

“Mi chiamo Smangle, signore,” disse l’uomo con le basette.

“Ah,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“La mia è Mivins,” disse l’uomo con le calze.

“Sono molto felice di saperlo, signore,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Ehm, ”, tossì il signor Smangle.

“Ha parlato, signore?”, chiese il signor Pickwick.

“No, non l’ho fatto, signore,” disse il signor Smangle.

Tutto ciò era molto raffinato e piacevole; e per rendere le cose ancora più confortevoli, il signor Smangle assicurò più volte al signor Pickwick che nutriva un grande rispetto per i sentimenti di un gentiluomo; un sentimento che, in effetti, gli conferiva grande credito, poiché non si poteva affatto pensare che li comprendesse.

“Sta per passare dal cortile, signore?”, chiese il signor Smangle.

“Attraverso cosa?”, disse il signor Pickwick.

“Attraverso il cortile, via Portegal Street, il Courtyard per l’assistenza sociale, insomma, capisci.”

“Oh, no,” rispose il signor Pickwick. “No, non lo sono.”

“Forse uscire, eh?” suggerì il signor Mivins.

“Non ho paura,” rispose il signor Pickwick. “Rifiuto di pagare alcuna compensazione e sono qui proprio per questo.”

“Ah,” disse il signor Smangle, “il cartaio è stata la mia rovina.”

“Un negoziante di articoli per la scrittura, immagino, signore?” chiese innocentemente il signor Pickwick.

“Stampatore! No, no. Maledizione! Non fino a quel punto. Nessun genere di commercio. Quando dico carta, intendo i conti.”

“Ah, quindi usate quella parola in quel senso. Capisco,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Dammelo! Un gentiluomo deve essere preparato alle sconfitte,” disse Smangle. “E allora? Ecco me, in prigione nella Flotta. Beh, va bene. E poi? Non sono certo peggiorato per questo, vero?”

“Nemmeno un po’,” rispose il signor Mivins. E aveva perfettamente ragione; perché, lontanamente dal peggiorare a causa di quella situazione, il signor Smangle era addirittura migliorato, in quanto, per essere idoneo a quel posto, aveva ottenuto gratuitamente alcuni oggetti di gioielleria che, molto tempo prima, erano finiti nel negozio del pegniatore.

“Beh, ma insomma,” disse il signor Smangle, “questo lavoro è davvero noioso. Lasciate che ci sciacquiamo la bocca con un goccio di sherry bruciato; chi arriva ultimo lo beve, Mivins andrà a prenderlo e io aiuterò a berlo. È una divisione del lavoro equa e gentiluomina, in ogni caso. Maledizione!”

Riluttante a rischiare un’altra lite, il signor Pickwick acconsentì volentieri alla proposta e affidò i soldi al signor Mivins, il quale, essendo quasi le undici di ore, non perse tempo ad andare nella sala da caffè per svolgere la sua commissione.

“Dico io, ”, sussurrò Smangle non appena il suo amico ebbe lasciato la stanza; “cosa gli hai dato?”

“Mezzo sovrano,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“È un cane davvero delizioso e gentiluomo,” disse il signor Smangle; “davvero infernally piacevole. Non conosco nessuno più così. Ma, ” A questo punto il signor Smangle si interruppe, scuotendo la testa con esitazione.

“Non pensate che ci sia alcuna possibilità che utilizzi quei soldi a proprio vantaggio?” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Oh, no! Ascoltate, non sto dicendo questo; anzi, dico esplicitamente che è un gentiluomo davvero diabolico,” disse il signor Smangle. “Ma penso che forse, se qualcuno andasse giù per assicurarsi che non intinga accidentalmente il suo becco nel barattolo, o non commetta qualche stupida errore mentre porta i soldi su per le scale, sarebbe molto meglio. Ehi, signore, vi prego, scendete subito e badate a quel gentiluomo, va bene?”

Questa richiesta fu rivolta a un uomo dall’aspetto timido e nervoso, il cui aspetto denotava grande povertà; per tutto quel tempo era rimasto accovacciato sul suo letto, apparentemente stordito dalla novità della sua situazione.

“Conosci dove si trova la sala da caffè,” disse Smangle; “vai giù e digli che sei venuto ad aiutarlo a portare su il giuggiole. O, aspetta, ti dirò io cosa faremo,” aggiunse Smangle, con uno sguardo astuto.

“Come?” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Mandate a dire che debba spendere quei soldi in sigari. Ottima idea. Andate subito a dirglielo; avete capito? Non devono andare sprecati,” continuò Smangle, rivolgendosi al signor Pickwick. “Li fumerò io stesso.”

Questa manovra era così estremamente ingegnosa e, al contempo, eseguita con tale compostezza e freddezza inalterabili, che il signor Pickwick non avrebbe voluto disturbarla nemmeno se ne fosse stato in grado. In poco tempo il signor Mivins tornò, portando lo sherry, che il signor Smangle versò in due piccole tazze crepate; osservò poi, con considerazione per sé stesso, che in circostanze del genere un gentiluomo non dovrebbe essere troppo schizzinoso e che, per quanto lo riguardava, lui non era così orgoglioso da rifiutarsi di bere direttamente dalla giara. Per dimostrare la sua sincerità, immediatamente offrì a tutti un bicchiere, svuotandone quasi metà in un sorso.

Dopo aver promosso così un eccellente reciproco comprensimento, il signor Smangle iniziò a raccontare ai suoi ascoltatori diverse avventure romantiche in cui si era impegnato in passato, narrando aneddoti interessanti riguardo a un cavallo di razza e a una magnifica ebrea, entrambi di straordinaria bellezza e molto desiderati dalla nobiltà e dalla gente benevolente di quei regni.

Molto prima che questi eleganti estratti dalla biografia di un gentiluomo terminassero, il signor Mivins si era già coricato e aveva iniziato a russare per tutta la notte, lasciando così lo timido straniero e il signor Pickwick a godere appieno delle esperienze raccontate dal signor Smangle.

Né i due gentiluomini menzionati ultimamente furono particolarmente commossi dalle storie commoventi che venivano raccontate. Il signor Pickwick era già addormentato da un po’ quando percepì vagamente il barbone che ricominciava a cantare quella canzone comica, e ricevette dal signor Smangle, attraverso la brocca d’acqua, un gentile suggerimento che il suo pubblico non fosse particolarmente interessato alla musica. Il signor Pickwick si addormentò di nuovo, con la vaga consapevolezza che il signor Smangle stesse ancora raccontando una lunga storia. La cui trama principale sembrava essere quella di aver, in un’occasione specificata, “risolto” un problema e allo stesso tempo aiutato un gentiluomo.

CHAPTER XLII. ILLUSTRATIVE, LIKE THE PRECEDING ONE, OF THE OLD PROVERB, THAT ADVERSITY BRINGS A MAN ACQUAINTED WITH STRANGE BEDFELLOWS— LIKEWISE CONTAINING MR. PICKWICK’S EXTRAORDINARY AND STARTLING ANNOUNCEMENT TO MR. SAMUEL WELLER

When Mr. Pickwick opened his eyes next morning, the first object upon which they rested was Samuel Weller, seated upon a small black portmanteau, intently regarding, apparently in a condition of profound abstraction, the stately figure of the dashing Mr. Smangle; while Mr. Smangle himself, who was already partially dressed, was seated on his bedstead, occupied in the desperately hopeless attempt of staring Mr. Weller out of countenance. We say desperately hopeless, because Sam, with a comprehensive gaze which took in Mr. Smangle’s cap, feet, head, face, legs, and whiskers, all at the same time, continued to look steadily on, with every demonstration of lively satisfaction, but with no more regard to Mr. Smangle’s personal sentiments on the subject than he would have displayed had he been inspecting a wooden statue, or a straw-embowelled Guy Fawkes.

‘Well; will you know me again?’ said Mr. Smangle, with a frown.

‘I’d svear to you anyveres, Sir,’ replied Sam cheerfully.

‘Don’t be impertinent to a gentleman, Sir,’ said Mr. Smangle.

‘Not on no account,’ replied Sam. ‘If you’ll tell me wen he wakes, I’ll be upon the wery best extra-super behaviour!’ This observation, having a remote tendency to imply that Mr. Smangle was no gentleman, kindled his ire.

‘Mivins!’ said Mr. Smangle, with a passionate air.

‘What’s the office?’ replied that gentleman from his couch.

‘Who the devil is this fellow?’

‘’Gad,’ said Mr. Mivins, looking lazily out from under the bed-clothes, ‘I ought to ask _you _that. Hasn’t he any business here?’

‘No,’ replied Mr. Smangle.

‘Then knock him downstairs, and tell him not to presume to get up till I come and kick him,’ rejoined Mr. Mivins; with this prompt advice that excellent gentleman again betook himself to slumber.

The conversation exhibiting these unequivocal symptoms of verging on the personal, Mr. Pickwick deemed it a fit point at which to interpose.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Sir,’ rejoined that gentleman.

‘Has anything new occurred since last night?’

‘Nothin’ partickler, sir,’ replied Sam, glancing at Mr. Smangle’s whiskers; ‘the late prewailance of a close and confined atmosphere has been rayther favourable to the growth of veeds, of an alarmin’ and sangvinary natur; but vith that ‘ere exception things is quiet enough.’

‘I shall get up,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘give me some clean things.’

Whatever hostile intentions Mr. Smangle might have entertained, his thoughts were speedily diverted by the unpacking of the portmanteau; the contents of which appeared to impress him at once with a most favourable opinion, not only of Mr. Pickwick, but of Sam also, who, he took an early opportunity of declaring in a tone of voice loud enough for that eccentric personage to overhear, was a regular thoroughbred original, and consequently the very man after his own heart. As to Mr. Pickwick, the affection he conceived for him knew no limits.

‘Now is there anything I can do for you, my dear Sir?’ said Smangle.

‘Nothing that I am aware of, I am obliged to you,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘No linen that you want sent to the washerwoman’s? I know a delightful washerwoman outside, that comes for my things twice a week; and, by Jove!—how devilish lucky!—this is the day she calls. Shall I put any of those little things up with mine? Don’t say anything about the trouble. Confound and curse it! if one gentleman under a cloud is not to put himself a little out of the way to assist another gentleman in the same condition, what’s human nature?’

Thus spake Mr. Smangle, edging himself meanwhile as near as possible to the portmanteau, and beaming forth looks of the most fervent and disinterested friendship.

‘There’s nothing you want to give out for the man to brush, my dear creature, is there?’ resumed Smangle.

‘Nothin’ whatever, my fine feller,’ rejoined Sam, taking the reply into his own mouth. ‘P’raps if vun of us wos to brush, without troubling the man, it ‘ud be more agreeable for all parties, as the schoolmaster said when the young gentleman objected to being flogged by the butler.’

‘And there’s nothing I can send in my little box to the washer-woman’s, is there?’ said Smangle, turning from Sam to Mr. Pickwick, with an air of some discomfiture.

‘Nothin’ whatever, Sir,’ retorted Sam; ‘I’m afeered the little box must be chock full o’ your own as it is.’

This speech was accompanied with such a very expressive look at that particular portion of Mr. Smangle’s attire, by the appearance of which the skill of laundresses in getting up gentlemen’s linen is generally tested, that he was fain to turn upon his heel, and, for the present at any rate, to give up all design on Mr. Pickwick’s purse and wardrobe. He accordingly retired in dudgeon to the racket-ground, where he made a light and whole-some breakfast on a couple of the cigars which had been purchased on the previous night.

Mr. Mivins, who was no smoker, and whose account for small articles of chandlery had also reached down to the bottom of the slate, and been ‘carried over’ to the other side, remained in bed, and, in his own words, ‘took it out in sleep.’

After breakfasting in a small closet attached to the coffee-room, which bore the imposing title of the Snuggery, the temporary inmate of which, in consideration of a small additional charge, had the unspeakable advantage of overhearing all the conversation in the coffee-room aforesaid; and, after despatching Mr. Weller on some necessary errands, Mr. Pickwick repaired to the lodge, to consult Mr. Roker concerning his future accommodation.

‘Accommodation, eh?’ said that gentleman, consulting a large book. ‘Plenty of that, Mr. Pickwick. Your chummage ticket will be on twenty- seven, in the third.’

CAPITOLO XLII. Altrettanto esemplificativo del precedente, questo capitolo illustra l’antico proverbio secondo cui le avversità fanno incontrare una persona con persone strane. Contiene inoltre l’annuncio straordinario e sorprendente fatto da Mr. Pickwick a Mr. Samuel Weller.

Quando il signor Pickwick aprì gli occhi la mattina seguente, la prima cosa che vide fu Samuel Weller, seduto su un piccolo borsone nero, intento a osservare, con evidente profonda concentrazione, l’imponente figura del disinvolto signor Smangle; mentre il signor Smangle stesso, già parzialmente vestito, era seduto sul suo letto, impegnato in un tentativo disperatamente vano di far perdere l’equilibrio a Sam Weller con i suoi sguardi. Diciamo “disperatamente vano”, perché Sam, con uno sguardo che abbracciava contemporaneamente il cappello, i piedi, la testa, il viso, le gambe e le basette del signor Smangle, continuò a fissarlo senza mostrare alcun interesse per i sentimenti personali di quest’ultimo riguardo alla situazione, proprio come se stesse esaminando una statua di legno o un Guy Fawkes riempito di paglia.

“Beh, mi riconoscerai ancora?” disse il signor Smangle, con un cipiglio.

“Mi sveglierei ovunque per voi, signore,” rispose Sam allegramente.

“Non essere irrispettoso con un gentiluomo, signore,” disse il signor Smangle.

“Assolutamente no,” rispose Sam. “Se mi dite quando si sveglierà, mi comporterò in modo estremamente corretto!” Questa osservazione, che aveva il vago sospetto di insinuare che il signor Smangle non fosse un gentiluomo, scatenò la sua ira.

“Mivins!”, disse il signor Smangle con tono appassionato.

“Che cos’è l’ufficio?” rispose quel signore dal suo divano.

“Chi diavolo è questo tizio?”

“Dio mio,” disse il signor Mivins, guardando con indolenza da sotto le coperte del letto, “dovrei chiederlo a te. Non ha forse nulla da fare qui?”

“No,” rispose il signor Smangle.

“Poi buttatelo giù dalle scale e ditegli di non osare alzarsi finché non verrò io a dargli un calcio,” ribatté il signor Mivins; con questo ottimo consiglio, quel gentiluomo eccellente si rimise a dormire.

La conversazione, che presentava questi inequivocabili segni di essere diventata troppo personale, fu considerata dal signor Pickwick un momento opportuno per intervenire.

“Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Signore,” rispose quel gentiluomo.

“È successo qualcosa di nuovo da quella notte scorsa?”

“Niente di particolare, signore,” rispose Sam, lanciando un’occhiata alle basette del signor Smangle; “l’atmosfera stagnante e chiusa degli ultimi tempi è stata abbastanza favorevole alla crescita di certe piante dal carattere allarmante e velenoso. Ma, a parte questo, tutto è abbastanza tranquillo.”

“Mi alzerò,” disse il signor Pickwick; “datemi qualcosa di pulito.”

Qualunque intenzione ostile il signor Smangle potesse aver nutrito, i suoi pensieri furono rapidamente deviati dall’apertura del baulo; il contenuto di esso sembrò immediatamente fargli formare un’opinione molto favorevole non solo del signor Pickwick, ma anche di Sam, il quale ebbe l’occasione di dichiarare ad alta voce, in modo che quel personaggio eccentrico potesse sentire, che Sam era davvero un originale autentico e, di conseguenza, l’uomo perfetto per i suoi gusti. Quanto al signor Pickwick, l’affetto che provava per lui non conosceva limiti.

“Ora, c’è qualcosa che posso fare per voi, mio caro Signore?” disse Smangle.

“Per quanto ne so, non sono in debito con voi,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

“Nessun bucato da mandare alla lavandaia? Conosco una lavandaia deliziosa che viene a prendere le mie cose due volte a settimana. E, per Giove, che fortuna incredibile! Oggi è proprio il giorno in cui viene. Devo mettere anche quelle piccole cose insieme alle mie? Non parlate nemmeno di disturbo. Maledizione! Se un gentiluomo in difficoltà non può aiutare un altro gentiluomo nella stessa situazione, che cos’è allora la vera natura umana?”

Ecco ciò che disse il signor Smangle, mentre nel frattempo si avvicinava il più possibile al borsone, emanando sguardi di una amicizia estremamente sincera e disinteressata.

“Non c’è niente che tu voglia dargli perché possa spazzolarsi, mia cara creatura, vero?” continuò Smangle.

“Niente di che, mio caro amico,” rispose Sam, interpretando a modo suo quella risposta. “Forse, se uno di noi si lavasse da solo, senza disturbare quell’uomo, sarebbe più conveniente per tutti, proprio come disse il maestro quando quel giovane signore si oppose all’idea di essere frustato dal maggiordomo.”

“E non c’è niente che io possa mettere nella mia piccola scatola e mandare alla lavandaia, vero?” disse Smangle, voltandosi da Sam verso il signor Pickwick con un’espressione di imbarazzo.

“Niente affatto, signore,” ribatté Sam; “temo che quella scatolina sia già piena zeppa delle vostre cose.”

Questo discorso fu accompagnato da uno sguardo estremamente espressivo verso quella particolare parte dell’abbigliamento del signor Smangle; lo stato di quell’abbigliamento, infatti, rappresenta solitamente un buon indicatore della abilità delle lavandaie nel preparare la biancheria dei gentiluomini. Per questo motivo, il signor Smangle preferì girarsi sui tacchi e, almeno per il momento, abbandonare ogni intenzione riguardo alla borsa e all’abbigliamento del signor Pickwick. Si ritirò quindi, con aria offesa, nel luogo dove si praticava il racquet; lì consumò una colazione leggera e sostanziosa con alcuni sigari acquistati la sera precedente.

Il signor Mivins, che non fumava, e il cui conto relativo ai piccoli articoli da negozio aveva anch’esso raggiunto la fine della lista e veniva quindi “trasferito” sull’altra pagina, rimase a letto e, per usare le sue stesse parole, “se ne andò nel sonno.”

Dopo aver fatto colazione in una piccola stanzetta annessa alla sala da caffè, che portava l’imponente nome di “Snuggery”, il temporaneo residente di quella stanza, previo pagamento di una piccola tariffa aggiuntiva, aveva il vantaggio inestimabile di poter ascoltare tutte le conversazioni che avvenivano nella suddetta sala da caffè; e dopo aver incaricato il signor Weller di svolgere alcune commissioni necessarie, il signor Pickwick si recò nella locanda per consultarsi con il signor Roker riguardo al proprio futuro alloggio.

“Alloggio, eh?”, disse quel signore consultando un grosso libro.
“Ne avremo in abbondanza, signor Pickwick. Il suo biglietto per l’alloggio sarà il ventisettesimo, nel terzo fascicolo.”

‘Oh,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘My what, did you say?’

‘Your chummage ticket,’ replied Mr. Roker; ‘you’re up to that?’

‘Not quite,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, with a smile.

‘Why,’ said Mr. Roker, ‘it’s as plain as Salisbury. You’ll have a chummage ticket upon twenty-seven in the third, and them as is in the room will be your chums.’

‘Are there many of them?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick dubiously.

‘Three,’ replied Mr. Roker.

Mr. Pickwick coughed.

‘One of ‘em’s a parson,’ said Mr. Roker, filling up a little piece of paper as he spoke; ‘another’s a butcher.’

‘Eh?’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

‘A butcher,’ repeated Mr. Roker, giving the nib of his pen a tap on the desk to cure it of a disinclination to mark. ‘What a thorough-paced goer he used to be sure-ly! You remember Tom Martin, Neddy?’ said Roker, appealing to another man in the lodge, who was paring the mud off his shoes with a five-and-twenty-bladed pocket-knife.

‘I should think so,’ replied the party addressed, with a strong emphasis on the personal pronoun.

‘Bless my dear eyes!’ said Mr. Roker, shaking his head slowly from side to side, and gazing abstractedly out of the grated windows before him, as if he were fondly recalling some peaceful scene of his early youth; ‘it seems but yesterday that he whopped the coal-heaver down Fox-under- the-Hill by the wharf there. I think I can see him now, a-coming up the Strand between the two street-keepers, a little sobered by the bruising, with a patch o’ winegar and brown paper over his right eyelid, and that ‘ere lovely bulldog, as pinned the little boy arterwards, a-following at his heels. What a rum thing time is, ain’t it, Neddy?’

The gentleman to whom these observations were addressed, who appeared of a taciturn and thoughtful cast, merely echoed the inquiry; Mr. Roker, shaking off the poetical and gloomy train of thought into which he had been betrayed, descended to the common business of life, and resumed his pen.

‘Do you know what the third gentlemen is?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, not very much gratified by this description of his future associates.

‘What is that Simpson, Neddy?’ said Mr. Roker, turning to his companion.

‘What Simpson?’ said Neddy.

‘Why, him in twenty-seven in the third, that this gentleman’s going to be chummed on.’

‘Oh, him!’ replied Neddy; ‘he’s nothing exactly. He _was _a horse chaunter: he’s a leg now.’

‘Ah, so I thought,’ rejoined Mr. Roker, closing the book, and placing the small piece of paper in Mr. Pickwick’s hands. ‘That’s the ticket, sir.’

Very much perplexed by this summary disposition of this person, Mr. Pickwick walked back into the prison, revolving in his mind what he had better do. Convinced, however, that before he took any other steps it would be advisable to see, and hold personal converse with, the three gentlemen with whom it was proposed to quarter him, he made the best of his way to the third flight.

After groping about in the gallery for some time, attempting in the dim light to decipher the numbers on the different doors, he at length appealed to a pot-boy, who happened to be pursuing his morning occupation of gleaning for pewter.

‘Which is twenty-seven, my good fellow?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Five doors farther on,’ replied the pot-boy. ‘There’s the likeness of a man being hung, and smoking the while, chalked outside the door.’

Guided by this direction, Mr. Pickwick proceeded slowly along the gallery until he encountered the ‘portrait of a gentleman,’ above described, upon whose countenance he tapped, with the knuckle of his forefinger—gently at first, and then audibly. After repeating this process several times without effect, he ventured to open the door and peep in.

There was only one man in the room, and he was leaning out of window as far as he could without overbalancing himself, endeavouring, with great perseverance, to spit upon the crown of the hat of a personal friend on the parade below. As neither speaking, coughing, sneezing, knocking, nor any other ordinary mode of attracting attention, made this person aware of the presence of a visitor, Mr. Pickwick, after some delay, stepped up to the window, and pulled him gently by the coat tail. The individual brought in his head and shoulders with great swiftness, and surveying Mr. Pickwick from head to foot, demanded in a surly tone what the— something beginning with a capital H—he wanted.

‘I believe,’ said Mr. Pickwick, consulting his ticket—‘I believe this is twenty-seven in the third?’

‘Well?’ replied the gentleman.

‘I have come here in consequence of receiving this bit of paper,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick.

‘Hand it over,’ said the gentleman.

Mr. Pickwick complied.

‘I think Roker might have chummed you somewhere else,’ said Mr. Simpson (for it was the leg), after a very discontented sort of a pause.

Mr. Pickwick thought so also; but, under all the circumstances, he considered it a matter of sound policy to be silent.

Mr. Simpson mused for a few moments after this, and then, thrusting his head out of the window, gave a shrill whistle, and pronounced some word aloud, several times. What the word was, Mr. Pickwick could not distinguish; but he rather inferred that it must be some nickname which distinguished Mr. Martin, from the fact of a great number of gentlemen on the ground below, immediately proceeding to cry ‘Butcher!’ in imitation of the tone in which that useful class of society are wont, diurnally, to make their presence known at area railings.

Subsequent occurrences confirmed the accuracy of Mr. Pickwick’s impression; for, in a few seconds, a gentleman, prematurely broad for his years, clothed in a professional blue jean frock and top-boots with circular toes, entered the room nearly out of breath, closely followed by another gentleman in very shabby black, and a sealskin cap. The latter gentleman, who fastened his coat all the way up to his chin by means of a pin and a button alternately, had a very coarse red face, and looked like a drunken chaplain; which, indeed, he was.

“Ah,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Mio, cosa hai detto?”

“La tua tessera di amicizia”, rispose il signor Roker; “sei davvero coinvolto in questa faccenda?”

“Non proprio,” rispose il signor Pickwick sorridendo.

“Perché,” disse il signor Roker, “è così ovvio come il cielo sopra Salisbury. Avrai un biglietto per partecipare alla festa il ventisette di marzo, e tutte le persone che si troveranno nella stanza in quel momento saranno i tuoi amici.”

“Ne ce ne sono molti?” chiese il signor Pickwick con esitazione.

“Tre,” rispose il signor Roker.

Il signor Pickwick tossì.

“Uno di loro è un prete,” disse il signor Roker, mentre riempiva un piccolo pezzo di carta; “un altro è un macellaio.”

“Eh?”, esclamò il signor Pickwick.

“Un macellaio,” ripeté il signor Roker, battendo leggermente la punta della sua penna sulla scrivania per farla smettere di non funzionare correttamente. “Che uomo sempre impegnato doveva essere. Vi ricordate di Tom Martin, Neddy?” chiese Roker, rivolgendosi a un altro uomo nella stanza, che stava pulendo il fango dalle sue scarpe con un coltello da tasca a cinquantadue lame.

“Certo che sì,” rispose la persona a cui si era rivolto l’interlocutore, ponendo particolare enfasi sul pronome personale.

“Mio Dio, che meraviglia!”, disse il signor Roker, scuotendo lentamente la testa da una parte all’altra e guardando distrattamente fuori dalle finestre a griglia davanti a lui, come se stesse ricordando con affetto qualche tranquilla scena della sua giovinezza; “Sembra che sia stato ieri che ha picchiato quel lavoratore addetto al carico del carbone vicino al molo, sotto la collina. Credo di poterlo ancora vedere ora: sta salendo lungo il Strand, tra i due agenti di polizia. Un po’ sobrio dopo quella rissa. Con un pezzo di aceto e carta marrone sopra l’occhio destro. E quel bellissimo bulldog che teneva prigioniero il bambino, seguendolo dappertutto. Che strano periodo è questo, vero, Neddy?”

Il gentiluomo a cui erano rivolte queste osservazioni, che sembrava di indole taciturna e pensierosa, si limitò a ripetere la domanda; il signor Roker, scacciando i pensieri poetici e cupi in cui era caduto, tornò alle normali occupazioni della vita quotidiana e riprese a scrivere.

“Sapete chi sia il terzo signore?” chiese il signor Pickwick, non molto soddisfatto di questa descrizione dei suoi futuri compagni.

“Cos’è quello, Simpson, Neddy?” chiese il signor Roker, rivolgendosi al suo compagno.

“Che Simpson?” disse Neddy.

“Ma lui, che ha ventisette anni e si trova al terzo posto. Questo signore andrà a fare amicizia con lui.”

“Ah, lui, ” rispose Neddy; “in realtà non è niente di che. Una volta era un esperto nel canto dei cavalli, ora è solo una gamba.”

“Ah, capisco,” riprese il signor Roker, chiudendo il libro e porgendo il piccolo pezzo di carta al signor Pickwick. “Ecco il biglietto, signore.”

Molto perplesso da questa sistemazione improvvisa di quella persona, il signor Pickwick tornò nella prigione, riflettendo su cosa fosse meglio fare. Tuttavia, convinto che prima di intraprendere qualsiasi altra mossa fosse opportuno incontrare e parlare personalmente con i tre gentiluomini con cui gli era stato proposto di condividere la cella, si diresse verso il terzo piano.

Dopo aver cercato per un po’ nella galleria, tentando nella luce fioca di decifrare i numeri presenti sulle varie porte, alla fine chiamò un ragazzo addetto al servizio in sala, che proprio in quel momento stava svolgendo il suo compito mattutino: raccogliere pezzi di piombo.

“Quindi sono ventisette, mio caro amico?” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Cinque porte più avanti,” rispose il ragazzo che portava i vassoi. “C’è un disegno di un uomo che viene impiccato e che fuma contemporaneamente, dipinto fuori dalla porta.”

Guidato da questa indicazione, il signor Pickwick proseguì lentamente lungo la galleria fino a quando non incontrò il “ritratto di un gentiluomo”, descritto sopra; batté quindi sul suo volto con l’artiglio del dito indice, dapprima delicatamente, poi in modo più sonoro. Dopo aver ripetuto questo gesto diverse volte senza ottenere alcun risultato, osò aprire la porta e dare un’occhiata all’interno.

C’era solo un uomo nella stanza; lui si sporgeva dalla finestra il più possibile senza rischiare di perdere l’equilibrio, cercando con grande perseveranza di sputare sulla >tacca del cappello di un suo amico che passava sotto in parata. Poiché né parlare, né tossire, né starnutire, né bussare, né alcun altro modo normale per attirare l’attenzione riusciva a far notare la presenza di quel visitatore, il signor Pickwick, dopo un po’, si avvicinò alla finestra e lo tirò dolcemente per la coda del soprabito. L’uomo ritirò rapidamente la testa e le spalle all’interno della stanza, osservò il signor Pickwick da capo a piedi e, con tono burbero, chiese cosa volesse, qualcosa che iniziava con una “H” maiuscola.

“Credo,” disse il signor Pickwick, consultando il suo biglietto, “credo che sia la ventisettesima, nella terza fila, ”

“‘Beh?’” rispose il gentiluomo.

“Sono venuto qui a seguito della ricezione di questo pezzo di carta,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

“Dammelo,” disse il gentiluomo.

Il signor Pickwick obbedì.

“Penso che Roker possa avervi fatto conoscere in un altro posto,” disse il signor Simpson, dopo una pausa piuttosto scontenta.

Anche il signor Pickwick la pensava allo stesso modo; ma, data tutta la situazione, riteneva che fosse una decisione saggia rimanere in silenzio.

Dopo qualche istante di riflessione, il signor Simpson sporse la testa fuori dalla finestra, emise un fischio acuto e pronunciò più volte una parola ad alta voce. Il signor Pickwick non riuscì a capire quale fosse quella parola; tuttavia, dedusse che dovesse trattarsi di un soprannome con cui il signor Martin veniva identificato, visto che molti gentiluomini presenti sul marciapiede sotto iniziarono immediatamente a gridare “Macellaio!”, imitando il tono tipico di quella categoria sociale quando desidera farsi notare vicino alle banchine ferroviarie.

Le successive occasioni confermarono l’accuratezza dell’impressione del signor Pickwick; infatti, in pochi secondi, un gentiluomo dall’aspetto prematuramente robusto per la sua età, vestito con un abito blu da lavoro e stivali con tomaie rotonde, entrò nella stanza quasi senza fiato, seguito immediatamente da un altro gentiluomo in abiti neri molto logori e con un cappello di pelle di foca. Quest’ultimo, che si chiudeva il cappotto fino al mento utilizzando alternativamente una spilla e un bottone, aveva un viso rosso e ruvido, e sembrava proprio un prete ubriaco; in effetti, lo era davvero.

These two gentlemen having by turns perused Mr. Pickwick’s billet, the one expressed his opinion that it was ‘a rig,’ and the other his conviction that it was ‘a go.’ Having recorded their feelings in these very intelligible terms, they looked at Mr. Pickwick and each other in awkward silence.

‘It’s an aggravating thing, just as we got the beds so snug,’ said the chaplain, looking at three dirty mattresses, each rolled up in a blanket; which occupied one corner of the room during the day, and formed a kind of slab, on which were placed an old cracked basin, ewer, and soap-dish, of common yellow earthenware, with a blue flower—‘very aggravating.’

Mr. Martin expressed the same opinion in rather stronger terms; Mr. Simpson, after having let a variety of expletive adjectives loose upon society without any substantive to accompany them, tucked up his sleeves, and began to wash the greens for dinner.

While this was going on, Mr. Pickwick had been eyeing the room, which was filthily dirty, and smelt intolerably close. There was no vestige of either carpet, curtain, or blind. There was not even a closet in it. Unquestionably there were but few things to put away, if there had been one; but, however few in number, or small in individual amount, still, remnants of loaves and pieces of cheese, and damp towels, and scrags of meat, and articles of wearing apparel, and mutilated crockery, and bellows without nozzles, and toasting-forks without prongs, do present somewhat of an uncomfortable appearance when they are scattered about the floor of a small apartment, which is the common sitting and sleeping room of three idle men.

‘I suppose this can be managed somehow,’ said the butcher, after a pretty long silence. ‘What will you take to go out?’

I beg your pardon,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘What did you say? I hardly understand you.’

‘What will you take to be paid out?’ said the butcher. ‘The regular chummage is two-and-six. Will you take three bob?’

‘And a bender,’ suggested the clerical gentleman.

‘Well, I don’t mind that; it’s only twopence a piece more,’ said Mr. Martin. ‘What do you say, now? We’ll pay you out for three-and-sixpence a week. Come!’

‘And stand a gallon of beer down,’ chimed in Mr. Simpson. ‘There!’

‘And drink it on the spot,’ said the chaplain. ‘Now!’

‘I really am so wholly ignorant of the rules of this place,’ returned Mr. Pickwick, ‘that I do not yet comprehend you. Can I live anywhere else? I thought I could not.’

At this inquiry Mr. Martin looked, with a countenance of excessive surprise, at his two friends, and then each gentleman pointed with his right thumb over his left shoulder. This action imperfectly described in words by the very feeble term of ‘over the left,’ when performed by any number of ladies or gentlemen who are accustomed to act in unison, has a very graceful and airy effect; its expression is one of light and playful sarcasm.

‘_Can _you!’ repeated Mr. Martin, with a smile of pity.

‘Well, if I knew as little of life as that, I’d eat my hat and swallow the buckle whole,’ said the clerical gentleman.

‘So would I,’ added the sporting one solemnly.

After this introductory preface, the three chums informed Mr. Pickwick, in a breath, that money was, in the Fleet, just what money was out of it; that it would instantly procure him almost anything he desired; and that, supposing he had it, and had no objection to spend it, if he only signified his wish to have a room to himself, he might take possession of one, furnished and fitted to boot, in half an hour’s time.

With this the parties separated, very much to their common satisfaction; Mr. Pickwick once more retracing his steps to the lodge, and the three companions adjourning to the coffee-room, there to spend the five shillings which the clerical gentleman had, with admirable prudence and foresight, borrowed of him for the purpose.

‘I knowed it!’ said Mr. Roker, with a chuckle, when Mr. Pickwick stated the object with which he had returned. ‘Didn’t I say so, Neddy?’

The philosophical owner of the universal penknife growled an affirmative.

‘I knowed you’d want a room for yourself, bless you!’ said Mr. Roker. ‘Let me see. You’ll want some furniture. You’ll hire that of me, I suppose? That’s the reg’lar thing.’

‘With great pleasure,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘There’s a capital room up in the coffee-room flight, that belongs to a Chancery prisoner,’ said Mr. Roker. ‘It’ll stand you in a pound a week. I suppose you don’t mind that?’

‘Not at all,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Just step there with me,’ said Roker, taking up his hat with great alacrity; ‘the matter’s settled in five minutes. Lord! why didn’t you say at first that you was willing to come down handsome?’

The matter was soon arranged, as the turnkey had foretold. The Chancery prisoner had been there long enough to have lost his friends, fortune, home, and happiness, and to have acquired the right of having a room to himself. As he laboured, however, under the inconvenience of often wanting a morsel of bread, he eagerly listened to Mr. Pickwick’s proposal to rent the apartment, and readily covenanted and agreed to yield him up the sole and undisturbed possession thereof, in consideration of the weekly payment of twenty shillings; from which fund he furthermore contracted to pay out any person or persons that might be chummed upon it.

As they struck the bargain, Mr. Pickwick surveyed him with a painful interest. He was a tall, gaunt, cadaverous man, in an old greatcoat and slippers, with sunken cheeks, and a restless, eager eye. His lips were bloodless, and his bones sharp and thin. God help him! the iron teeth of confinement and privation had been slowly filing him down for twenty years.

‘And where will you live meanwhile, Sir?’ said Mr. Pickwick, as he laid the amount of the first week’s rent, in advance, on the tottering table.

The man gathered up the money with a trembling hand, and replied that he didn’t know yet; he must go and see where he could move his bed to.

Dopo aver letto a turno la lettera del signor Pickwick, uno dei due gentiluomini esprimette l’opinione che si trattasse di una “frode”, mentre l’altro era convinto che fosse qualcosa di serio. Dopo aver espresso i loro sentimenti in termini così chiari, si guardarono l’un l’altro e il signor Pickwick in un imbarazzante silenzio.

“È davvero fastidioso. Proprio quando avevamo sistemato i letti in modo così comodo,” disse il cappellano, guardando tre materassi sporchi, ognuno avvolto in una coperta; durante il giorno occupavano un angolo della stanza e formavano una sorta di “lastra” su cui erano posizionati un vecchio lavandino crepato, un bacile e un piattello per il sapone, tutti fatti di semplice ceramica gialla con disegni a fiori blu, “Davvero molto fastidioso.”

Il signor Martin espresse la stessa opinione in termini ancora più decisi; il signor Simpson, dopo aver pronunciato una serie di aggettivi esclamativi senza alcun contenuto sostanziale che li accompagnasse, si arrotolò le maniche e iniziò a lavare le verdure per la cena.

Mentre tutto ciò accadeva, il signor Pickwick osservava la stanza: era sporca in modo disgustoso e puzzava terribilmente. Non c’era traccia di tappeti, tende o persiane; non c’era nemmeno un armadio. Senza dubbio, c’erano poche cose da riporre, se mai ne fosse esistite alcune. Tuttavia, per quanto scarse in numero e di piccola entità, i resti di pane, pezzi di formaggio, asciugamani umidi, brandelli di carne, indumenti, stoviglie rovinate, mantici senza beccucci e forchette da tostare senza punte, presentano un’immagine davvero sgradevole quando sono sparsi sul pavimento di un piccolo appartamento che funge da sala da pranzo e camera da letto per tre uomini oziosi.

“Suppongo che si possa trovare un modo per risolvere questa situazione,” disse il macellaio, dopo un lungo silenzio. “Cosa vorresti avere per andartene?”

“Perdonatemi,” rispose il signor Pickwick. “Cosa avete detto? Non vi capisco bene.”

“Quanto vorresti essere pagato?” chiese il macellaio. “Il compenso abituale sono due scellini e sei pence. Accetteresti tre penny?”

“E anche una bella sbornia,” suggerì il gentiluomo di chiesa.

“Beh, non mi dispiace; costa solo due penny in più a pezzo,” disse il signor Martin. “Che ne dici ora? Vi pagheremo tre scellini e sei pence a settimana. Vieni!”

“E aggiungete anche una gallona di birra!” intervenne il signor Simpson. “Ecco fatto!”

“E bevilo subito,” disse il cappellano. “Ora!”

“Sono davvero completamente ignorante riguardo alle regole di questo posto,” rispose il signor Pickwick, “al punto che non capisco ancora cosa intendiate. Posso vivere in un altro luogo? Pensavo di no.”

Durante questa indagine, il signor Martin guardò i suoi due amici con un’espressione di estrema sorpresa; poi ognuno dei due signori indicò con il pollice destro oltre la spalla sinistra. Questo gesto, descritto in modo imperfetto a parole con l’effimero termine “oltre la spalla sinistra”, quando eseguito da un numero qualsiasi di donne o uomini abituati ad agire all’unisono, produce un effetto molto grazioso e leggero; il suo significato è quello di uno sarcasmo giocoso e disinvolto.

“Puoi davvero farlo?”, ripeté il signor Martin con un sorriso di compassione.

“Beh,” disse il gentiluomo d’ufficio, “se conoscessi la vita solo la metà di quanto ne so ora, mi mangerei il cappello e ingoierei l’intera fibbia.”

“Anch’io lo farei,” aggiunse seriamente quello sportivo.

Dopo questo prefazione introduttivo, i tre amici riferirono all’istante al signor Pickwick che, nella Fleet, il denaro era esattamente ciò che ne mancava; che avrebbe potuto procurargli quasi qualsiasi cosa desiderasse; e che, se lo avesse avuto e non avesse obiezioni a spenderlo, bastava che manifestasse il proprio desiderio di avere una stanza tutta per sé perché ne avrebbe potuta prendere possesso in mezz’ora, con arredi e tutto il necessario già installati.

Con questo, le parti si separarono, molto a reciproca soddisfazione; il signor Pickwick tornò nuovamente al padiglione, mentre i tre compagni si recarono nella sala da caffè per spendere quei cinque scellini che il gentiluomo impiegato, con ammirevole prudenza e previdenza, gli aveva preso in prestito a tale scopo.

“Lo sapevo!” disse il signor Roker, ridacchiando, quando il signor Pickwick spiegò lo scopo della sua visita. “Non te l’avevo detto, Neddy?”

Il proprietario filosofico del coltello multiuso emise un suono affermativo.

“Sapevo che avresti voluto una stanza tutta tua. Che Dio ti benedica!” disse il signor Roker. “Diamoci un’occhiata: avrai bisogno di alcuni mobili, giusto? Immagino che li prenderai in affitto da me. È la prassi abituale.”

“Con grande piacere,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

“C’è una grande stanza al piano di sopra, nella sala da caffè, che appartiene a un prigioniero del Tribunale della Corona,” disse il signor Roker. “Ti costerebbe una sterlina a settimana. Immagino che non ti dispiaccia, vero?”

“Assolutamente no,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Vieni semplicemente con me,” disse Roker, prendendo il suo cappello con grande fretta; “la questione sarà risolta in cinque minuti. Signore, perché non hai detto subito che eri disposto a pagare una bella somma?”

La questione fu risolta rapidamente, proprio come il custode aveva previsto. Il prigioniero della Corte di Cassazione era rimasto lì abbastanza a lungo da aver perso amici, fortuna, >casa e felicità, ma aveva comunque ottenuto il diritto di disporre di una stanza tutta per sé. Tuttavia, poiché spesso si trovava nella difficoltà di non avere nemmeno un pezzo di pane, ascoltò con grande interesse la proposta del signor Pickwick di affittare l’appartamento e accettò immediatamente di cederne l’esclusiva e incondizionata proprietà in cambio del pagamento settimanale di venti scellini; con quei soldi si impegnò anche a pagare chiunque potesse cercare di rivendicarla.

Mentre concludevano l’accordo, il signor Pickwick lo osservò con un interesse quasi doloroso. Era un uomo alto, magro, dall’aspetto cadaverico, vestito con un vecchio cappotto e pantofole; aveva guance incavate e uno sguardo inquieto e avido. Le sue labbra erano prive di colore, le ossa affilate e sottili. Dio lo aiutasse! Per vent’anni, i denti d’acciaio della prigionia e della privazione lo avevano lentamente consumato.

“E dove intende vivere intanto, signore?” chiese il signor Pickwick mentre posava l’importo dell’affitto della prima settimana, in anticipo, sul tavolo traballante.

L’uomo raccolse i soldi con una mano tremante e rispose che non lo sapeva ancora; doveva andare a vedere dove potesse spostare il suo letto.

‘I am afraid, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, laying his hand gently and compassionately on his arm—‘I am afraid you will have to live in some noisy, crowded place. Now, pray, consider this room your own when you want quiet, or when any of your friends come to see you.’

‘Friends!’ interposed the man, in a voice which rattled in his throat. ‘if I lay dead at the bottom of the deepest mine in the world; tight screwed down and soldered in my coffin; rotting in the dark and filthy ditch that drags its slime along, beneath the foundations of this prison; I could not be more forgotten or unheeded than I am here. I am a dead man; dead to society, without the pity they bestow on those whose souls have passed to judgment. Friends to see me! My God! I have sunk, from the prime of life into old age, in this place, and there is not one to raise his hand above my bed when I lie dead upon it, and say, “It is a blessing he is gone!”’

The excitement, which had cast an unwonted light over the man’s face, while he spoke, subsided as he concluded; and pressing his withered hands together in a hasty and disordered manner, he shuffled from the room.

‘Rides rather rusty,’ said Mr. Roker, with a smile. ‘Ah! they’re like the elephants. They feel it now and then, and it makes ‘em wild!’

Having made this deeply-sympathising remark, Mr. Roker entered upon his arrangements with such expedition, that in a short time the room was furnished with a carpet, six chairs, a table, a sofa bedstead, a tea- kettle, and various small articles, on hire, at the very reasonable rate of seven-and-twenty shillings and sixpence per week.

‘Now, is there anything more we can do for you?’ inquired Mr. Roker, looking round with great satisfaction, and gaily chinking the first week’s hire in his closed fist.

‘Why, yes,’ said Mr. Pickwick, who had been musing deeply for some time. ‘Are there any people here who run on errands, and so forth?’

‘Outside, do you mean?’ inquired Mr. Roker.

‘Yes. I mean who are able to go outside. Not prisoners.’

‘Yes, there is,’ said Roker. ‘There’s an unfortunate devil, who has got a friend on the poor side, that’s glad to do anything of that sort. He’s been running odd jobs, and that, for the last two months. Shall I send him?’

‘If you please,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick. ‘Stay; no. The poor side, you say? I should like to see it. I’ll go to him myself.’

The poor side of a debtor’s prison is, as its name imports, that in which the most miserable and abject class of debtors are confined. A prisoner having declared upon the poor side, pays neither rent nor chummage. His fees, upon entering and leaving the jail, are reduced in amount, and he becomes entitled to a share of some small quantities of food: to provide which, a few charitable persons have, from time to time, left trifling legacies in their wills. Most of our readers will remember, that, until within a very few years past, there was a kind of iron cage in the wall of the Fleet Prison, within which was posted some man of hungry looks, who, from time to time, rattled a money-box, and exclaimed in a mournful voice, ‘Pray, remember the poor debtors; pray remember the poor debtors.’ The receipts of this box, when there were any, were divided among the poor prisoners; and the men on the poor side relieved each other in this degrading office.

Although this custom has been abolished, and the cage is now boarded up, the miserable and destitute condition of these unhappy persons remains the same. We no longer suffer them to appeal at the prison gates to the charity and compassion of the passersby; but we still leave unblotted the leaves of our statute book, for the reverence and admiration of succeeding ages, the just and wholesome law which declares that the sturdy felon shall be fed and clothed, and that the penniless debtor shall be left to die of starvation and nakedness. This is no fiction. Not a week passes over our head, but, in every one of our prisons for debt, some of these men must inevitably expire in the slow agonies of want, if they were not relieved by their fellow-prisoners.

Turning these things in his mind, as he mounted the narrow staircase at the foot of which Roker had left him, Mr. Pickwick gradually worked himself to the boiling-over point; and so excited was he with his reflections on this subject, that he had burst into the room to which he had been directed, before he had any distinct recollection, either of the place in which he was, or of the object of his visit.

The general aspect of the room recalled him to himself at once; but he had no sooner cast his eye on the figure of a man who was brooding over the dusty fire, than, letting his hat fall on the floor, he stood perfectly fixed and immovable with astonishment.

Yes; in tattered garments, and without a coat; his common calico shirt, yellow and in rags; his hair hanging over his face; his features changed with suffering, and pinched with famine—there sat Mr. Alfred Jingle; his head resting on his hands, his eyes fixed upon the fire, and his whole appearance denoting misery and dejection!

Near him, leaning listlessly against the wall, stood a strong-built countryman, flicking with a worn-out hunting-whip the top-boot that adorned his right foot; his left being thrust into an old slipper. Horses, dogs, and drink had brought him there, pell-mell. There was a rusty spur on the solitary boot, which he occasionally jerked into the empty air, at the same time giving the boot a smart blow, and muttering some of the sounds by which a sportsman encourages his horse. He was riding, in imagination, some desperate steeplechase at that moment. Poor wretch! He never rode a match on the swiftest animal in his costly stud, with half the speed at which he had torn along the course that ended in the Fleet.

“Temo, signore,” disse il signor Pickwick, posando dolcemente e con compassione la sua mano sul suo braccio – “temo che dovrà vivere in un posto rumoroso e affollato. Ora, per favore, consideri questa stanza come sua quando desidera tranquillità, o quando alcuni dei suoi amici vengono a trovarla.”

“Amici!” intervenne l’uomo, con una voce che gli tremava nella gola.
“Anche se giacessi morto sul fondo della miniera più profonda del mondo; se fossi chiuso a chiave e saldato dentro la mia bara; se marcissi in quel buio e lurido abisso che si estende sotto le fondamenta di questa prigione. Non potrei essere dimenticato o ignorato di più di quanto lo sono ora. Sono un uomo morto. Morto per la società, privo della pietà che viene riservata a coloro il cui spirito è già giunto davanti al tribunale divino. Amici, che mi vedano! Mio Dio. Sono precipitato, dalla piena giovinezza all’anzianità, in questo luogo. E non c’è nessuno che alzi una mano su di me quando giacerò morto sul mio letto, per dire: ‘È un bene che sia andato!’”

L’emozione che aveva illuminato il volto dell’uomo mentre parlava svanì non appena concluse; poi, stringendo insieme le sue mani secche e tremanti in modo affrettato e disordinato, uscì dalla stanza.

“È piuttosto arrugginito,” disse il signor Roker sorridendo. “Ah! Sono come gli elefanti. Di tanto in tanto se ne accorgono, e questo li fa impazzire!”

Dopo aver fatto questa osservazione piena di simpatia, il signor Roker iniziò ad organizzare tutto con grande efficienza; in poco tempo la stanza fu arredata con un tappeto, sei sedie, un tavolo, un divano-letto, una teiera e vari piccoli oggetti, tutti noleggiabili a un prezzo molto ragionevole: ventisette scellini e sei pence a settimana.

“Ora, c’è qualcos’altro che possiamo fare per lei?” chiese il signor Roker, guardandosi intorno con grande soddisfazione e facendo tintinnare allegramente i primi guadagni della settimana nel pugno chiuso.

“Sì, senz’altro,” disse il signor Pickwick, che aveva riflettuto a lungo per qualche minuto. “Ci sono persone qui che vanno in giro a svolgere commissioni e cose del genere?”

“Fuori, intendete?” chiese il signor Roker.

“Sì, intendo coloro che sono in grado di uscire, non i prigionieri.”

“Sì, c’è,” disse Roker. “C’è un disgraziato che ha un amico appartenente alle classi povere, il quale è felice di fare cose del genere. Negli ultimi due mesi ha svolto vari lavori strani. Dovrei mandarlo?”

“Se vi compiacete,” ribatté il signor Pickwick. “Restare. No. La parte povera, dite? Vorrei vederla con i miei occhi. Andrò io stesso da lui.”

Il lato “povero” di una prigione per debitori è, come il nome stesso indica, quello in cui vengono rinchiusi i debitori più miserabili e disperati. Un detenuto che si trova in questa sezione non paga né affitto né altre spese. Le tasse da pagare all’ingresso e alla uscita dalla prigione sono ridotte, e egli ha diritto a una piccola quantità di cibo; per garantirne la fornitura, alcune persone caritatevoli hanno, nel corso del tempo, lasciato piccole somme in eredità nei loro testamenti. La maggior parte dei nostri lettori ricorderà che, fino a pochi anni fa, all’interno delle mura della prigione di Fleet c’era una sorta di gabbia di ferro nella quale veniva posto un uomo dall’aspetto affamato; quest’uomo, di tanto in tanto, faceva suonare una scatola e esclamava con voce triste: “Pregate, ricordatevi dei poveri debitori”. I fondi raccolti con questa scatola venivano poi distribuiti tra i detenuti più bisognosi; in questo modo, gli uomini rinchiusi nella sezione “povera” si aiutavano a vicenda in questa umiliante funzione.

Sebbene questa usanza sia stata abolita e la gabbia sia ora chiusa con assi di legno, le condizioni miserevoli e disperate di queste persone infelici rimangono invariate. Non permettiamo più che vengano a supplicare alle porte delle prigioni per ottenere l’assistenza e la compassione dei passanti; tuttavia lasciamo intatti i “pagini” della nostra legge, affinché vengano rispettati e ammirati dalle generazioni future: quella legge giusta e salutare che stabilisce che il criminale robusto debba essere nutrito e vestito, mentre il debitore senza un soldo debba morire di fame e nudo. Questa non è una finzione. Non passa nemmeno una settimana senza che, in ciascuna delle nostre prigioni per debitori, alcuni di questi uomini muoiano inevitabilmente nelle lente sofferenze della povertà, se non vengono aiutati dai loro compagni di prigione.

Mentre ripensava a queste cose, salendo la stretta scala alla fine della quale Roker lo aveva lasciato, il signor Pickwick arrivò gradualmente al punto di esasperazione; era così eccitato dalle sue riflessioni su questo argomento che entrò nella stanza a cui gli era stato detto di andare, senza ricordarsi chiaramente né del luogo in cui si trovava né dello scopo della sua visita.

L’aspetto generale della stanza gli ricordò immediatamente qualcosa; ma non appena posò lo sguardo sulla figura di un uomo che stava fissando il focolare polveroso, lasciò cadere il cappello a terra e rimase immobile, sbalordito.

Sì; in abiti laceri, senza cappotto; la sua semplice camicia di cotone, gialla e stracciata; i capelli che gli coprivano il viso; i tratti del suo volto alterati dal dolore e segnati dalla fame. Lì sedeva il signor Alfred Jingle; la testa appoggiata sulle mani, lo sguardo fisso sul fuoco, e l’aspetto complessivo che esprimeva solo miseria e disperazione.

Vicino a lui, appoggiato con noncuranza al muro, c’era un uomo robusto, originario di campagna; con un vecchio frustino da caccia batteva la scarpa alta che adornava il suo piede destro, mentre il sinistro era infilato in una vecchia pantofola. Cavalli, >cani e alcol lo avevano portato lì, tutti insieme. Sulla scarpa c’era un sperone arrugginito; di tanto in tanto lo agitava nell’aria vuota, dando contemporaneamente un colpo secco alla scarpa e mormorando alcune delle parole che un appassionato di sport usa per incoraggiare il proprio cavallo. In quel momento, nella sua immaginazione, stava partecipando a una disperata gara di corsa a ostacoli. Povero infelice. Non aveva mai cavalcato nemmeno una volta su uno degli animali più veloci della sua costosa scuderia, con metà della velocità con cui si era precipitato lungo quella strada che finiva nel porto.

On the opposite side of the room an old man was seated on a small wooden box, with his eyes riveted on the floor, and his face settled into an expression of the deepest and most hopeless despair. A young girl—his little grand-daughter—was hanging about him, endeavouring, with a thousand childish devices, to engage his attention; but the old man neither saw nor heard her. The voice that had been music to him, and the eyes that had been light, fell coldly on his senses. His limbs were shaking with disease, and the palsy had fastened on his mind.

There were two or three other men in the room, congregated in a little knot, and noiselessly talking among themselves. There was a lean and haggard woman, too—a prisoner’s wife—who was watering, with great solicitude, the wretched stump of a dried-up, withered plant, which, it was plain to see, could never send forth a green leaf again—too true an emblem, perhaps, of the office she had come there to discharge.

Such were the objects which presented themselves to Mr. Pickwick’s view, as he looked round him in amazement. The noise of some one stumbling hastily into the room, roused him. Turning his eyes towards the door, they encountered the new-comer; and in him, through his rags and dirt, he recognised the familiar features of Mr. Job Trotter.

‘Mr. Pickwick!’ exclaimed Job aloud.

‘Eh?’ said Jingle, starting from his seat.

‘Mr ----! So it is—queer place—strange things—serves me right—very.’ Mr. Jingle thrust his hands into the place where his trousers pockets used to be, and, dropping his chin upon his breast, sank back into his chair.

Mr. Pickwick was affected; the two men looked so very miserable. The sharp, involuntary glance Jingle had cast at a small piece of raw loin of mutton, which Job had brought in with him, said more of their reduced state than two hours’ explanation could have done. Mr. Pickwick looked mildly at Jingle, and said—

‘I should like to speak to you in private. Will you step out for an instant?’

‘Certainly,’ said Jingle, rising hastily. ‘Can’t step far—no danger of overwalking yourself here—spike park—grounds pretty—romantic, but not extensive—open for public inspection—family always in town— housekeeper desperately careful—very.’

‘You have forgotten your coat,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as they walked out to the staircase, and closed the door after them.

‘Eh?’ said Jingle. ‘Spout—dear relation—uncle Tom—couldn’t help it— must eat, you know. Wants of nature—and all that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Gone, my dear sir—last coat—can’t help it. Lived on a pair of boots, whole fortnight. Silk umbrella—ivory handle—week—fact—honour—ask Job—knows it.’

‘Lived for three weeks upon a pair of boots, and a silk umbrella with an ivory handle!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, who had only heard of such things in shipwrecks or read of them in Constable’s Miscellany.

‘True,’ said Jingle, nodding his head. ‘Pawnbroker’s shop—duplicates here—small sums—mere nothing—all rascals.’

‘Oh,’ said Mr. Pickwick, much relieved by this explanation; ‘I understand you. You have pawned your wardrobe.’

‘Everything—Job’s too—all shirts gone—never mind—saves washing. Nothing soon—lie in bed—starve—die—inquest—little bone-house—poor prisoner—common necessaries—hush it up—gentlemen of the jury— warden’s tradesmen—keep it snug—natural death—coroner’s order— workhouse funeral—serve him right—all over—drop the curtain.’

Jingle delivered this singular summary of his prospects in life, with his accustomed volubility, and with various twitches of the countenance to counterfeit smiles. Mr. Pickwick easily perceived that his recklessness was assumed, and looking him full, but not unkindly, in the face, saw that his eyes were moist with tears.

‘Good fellow,’ said Jingle, pressing his hand, and turning his head away. ‘Ungrateful dog—boyish to cry—can’t help it—bad fever—weak— ill—hungry. Deserved it all—but suffered much—very.’ Wholly unable to keep up appearances any longer, and perhaps rendered worse by the effort he had made, the dejected stroller sat down on the stairs, and, covering his face with his hands, sobbed like a child.

‘Come, come,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with considerable emotion, ‘we will see what can be done, when I know all about the matter. Here, Job; where is that fellow?’

‘Here, sir,’ replied Job, presenting himself on the staircase. We have described him, by the bye, as having deeply-sunken eyes, in the best of times. In his present state of want and distress, he looked as if those features had gone out of town altogether.

‘Here, sir,’ cried Job.

‘Come here, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, trying to look stern, with four large tears running down his waistcoat. ‘Take that, sir.’

Take what? In the ordinary acceptation of such language, it should have been a blow. As the world runs, it ought to have been a sound, hearty cuff; for Mr. Pickwick had been duped, deceived, and wronged by the destitute outcast who was now wholly in his power. Must we tell the truth? It was something from Mr. Pickwick’s waistcoat pocket, which chinked as it was given into Job’s hand, and the giving of which, somehow or other imparted a sparkle to the eye, and a swelling to the heart, of our excellent old friend, as he hurried away.

Sam had returned when Mr. Pickwick reached his own room, and was inspecting the arrangements that had been made for his comfort, with a kind of grim satisfaction which was very pleasant to look upon. Having a decided objection to his master’s being there at all, Mr. Weller appeared to consider it a high moral duty not to appear too much pleased with anything that was done, said, suggested, or proposed.

‘Well, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Well, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘Pretty comfortable now, eh, Sam?’

‘Pretty vell, sir,’ responded Sam, looking round him in a disparaging manner.

Dall’altra parte della stanza, un vecchio sedeva su una piccola scatola di legno; i suoi occhi erano fissi sul pavimento e il suo volto esprimeva la più profonda e disperata disperazione possibile. Una giovane ragazza – sua nipotina – gli girava intorno, cercando con mille modi infantili di attirare la sua attenzione; ma il vecchio non la vedeva né la sentiva. La voce che un tempo era stata musica per lui, e lo sguardo che un tempo era stato pieno di luce, ora colpivano i suoi sensi in modo freddo e indifferente. Le sue membra tremavano a causa della malattia, e la paralisi aveva ormai invaso anche la sua mente.

C’erano altri due o tre uomini nella stanza, riuniti in un piccolo gruppo e che parlavano tra loro senza fare rumore. C’era anche una donna magra e segnata dal tempo: la moglie di un prigioniero; lei annaffiava con grande cura quel misero stelo di pianta secca e appassita, che chiaramente non avrebbe mai più prodotto una foglia verde. Forse, era proprio un simbolo appropriato del compito che lei era venuta lì ad adempiere.

Ecco gli oggetti che si presentarono davanti ai occhi di Mr. Pickwick mentre guardava intorno, stupito. Il rumore di qualcuno che inciampava precipitosamente nella stanza lo svegliò. Girando lo sguardo verso la porta, vide il nuovo arrivato; e, nonostante i suoi stracci e la sporcizia, riconobbe i tratti familiari di Mr. Job Trotter.

“Signor Pickwick!”, esclamò ad alta voce Job.

“Eh?”, disse Jingle, alzandosi dal suo posto.

“Signor ----! Lo sapevo, un posto strano, cose strane. Me lo merito davvero. Molto.”
Il signor Jingle infilò le mani nei punti in cui un tempo si trovavano le tasche dei suoi pantaloni, poi appoggiò il mento sul petto e si abbandonò nuovamente sulla sedia.

Il signor Pickwick ne fu colpito; i due uomini sembravano davvero molto sventurati. Quello sguardo rapido e involontario che Jingle lanciò verso un piccolo pezzo di carne cruda di montone, che Job aveva portato con sé, diceva di più sulla loro condizione miserabile di quanto avrebbero potuto spiegare due ore di discorsi. Il signor Pickwick guardò Jingle con dolcezza e disse.

“Vorrei parlarti in privato. Potresti uscire un attimo?”

“Certamente,” disse Jingle, alzandosi in fretta. “Non si può andare lontano. Non c’è rischio di perdersi qui. Un parco pieno di piante spinose. I giardini sono belli. Romantici, ma non molto estesi. Aperti alla visita del pubblico. La famiglia è sempre in città. La governante è estremamente attenta. Davvero.”

“Avete dimenticato il cappotto,” disse il signor Pickwick mentre uscivano verso la scala e chiudevano la porta dietro di loro.

“Eh?” disse Jingle. “Relazione di sangue, zio Tom, non poteva farci nulla, deve pur mangiare, capisci? Sono necessità della >natura, e via dicendo.”

“Cosa intendi dire?”

“Se n’è andato, mio caro signore, l’ultimo cappotto, non posso farci nulla. Ho vissuto per due settimane intere con un paio di stivali. Un ombrello di seta, manico d’avorio. Una settimana, davvero una questione d’’onore. Chiedete a Job, lui lo sa.”

“Ho vissuto per tre settimane con un paio di stivali e un ombrello di seta con manico d’avorio!”, esclamò il signor Pickwick, che aveva sentito parlare di simili cose solo in relazione a naufragi o le aveva lette nel “Constable’s Miscellany”.

“Vero,” disse Jingle annuendo con la testa. “Negozio di pegni, duplicati qui, piccole somme, praticamente nulla, tutti truffatori.”

“Oh,” disse il signor Pickwick, molto sollevato da questa spiegazione; “Capisco ora. Hai impegnato il tuo armadio.”

‘Tutto, anche le camicie di Job sono sparite. Ma non importa, così si risparmia il lavoro di lavarle. Non ci sarà nulla per molto tempo. Starà a letto, morirà di fame. Un’inchiesta. Una piccola casa. Un povero prigioniero. Bisogni essenziali. Tutto questo va tenuto nascosto. I signori della giuria. Gli artigiani del carcere. Che tutto rimanga tranquillo. Una morte naturale. L’ordine del medico legale. Un funerale nell’ospizio. È giusto così. E poi, basta chiudere il sipario.’

Jingle fornì questo breve riassunto delle sue prospettive nella vita, con la sua solita loquacità e con diversi movimenti del viso per simulare sorrisi. Il signor Pickwick capì facilmente che tutto ciò era solo una finzione, e guardandolo attentamente, ma senza malizia, notò che i suoi occhi erano umidi di lacrime.

“Bravo ragazzo,” disse Jingle, stringendogli la mano e poi girando lo sguardo altrove. “Cane ingrato. Piangere da bambino. Non ci si può fare nulla. Febbre alta. Debole. Malato. Affamato. Se l’è meritato tutto. Ma ha sofferto molto. Davvero.” Del tutto incapace ormai di mantenere le apparenze, e forse peggiorato dallo sforzo che aveva fatto, il giovane, scoraggiato, si sedette sulle scale e, coprendosi il viso con le mani, pianse come un bambino.

“Come, come,” disse il signor Pickwick con notevole emozione, “vedremo cosa si può fare quando saprò tutto sulle circostanze. Ehi, Job, dove è quel tizio?”

“Eccomi qui, signore,” rispose Job, presentandosi sulle scale. Tra l’altro, lo abbiamo descritto come una persona con occhi profondamente incavati, anche nei momenti migliori. Nello stato attuale di povertà e difficoltà in cui si trovava, sembrava che quei tratti fisici fossero del tutto scomparsi.

“Ecco qui, signore,” gridò Giobbe.

“Venga qui, signore,” disse il signor Pickwick, cercando di sembrare severo, mentre quattro grandi lacrime gli scorrevano lungo la giacca. “Prenda questo, signore.”

Prendere cosa? Nel senso comune di queste parole, avrebbe dovuto trattarsi di un colpo. Ma, secondo le abitudini del mondo, sarebbe dovuto essere piuttosto uno schiaffo sonoro e deciso; infatti, il signor Pickwick era stato ingannato, truffato e offeso da quel povero escluso che ora si trovava completamente in suo potere. Dobbiamo dire la verità? Si trattava di qualcosa che proveniva dalla tasca della giacca del signor Pickwick; quel qualcosa tintinnò mentre veniva consegnato nelle mani di Job, e il fatto stesso di darlo fece brillare gli occhi e gonfiare il cuore del nostro eccellente vecchio amico, mentre si allontanava in fretta.

Quando il signor Pickwick raggiunse la sua stanza, Sam era già tornato e stava controllando le disposizioni prese per il suo comfort, con un’espressione di cupa soddisfazione che risultava davvero piacevole da vedere. Avendo una netta avversione all’idea che il proprio padrone fosse presente in quel luogo, il signor Weller sembrava considerare un dovere morale non mostrarsi troppo compiaciuto di nulla di ciò che veniva fatto, detto, suggerito o proposto.

“Beh, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Beh, signore,” rispose il signor Weller.

“Abbastanza comodo ora, vero, Sam?”

“Molto bello, signore,” rispose Sam, guardandosi intorno in modo sprezzante.

‘Have you seen Mr. Tupman and our other friends?’

‘Yes, I _have _seen ‘em, sir, and they’re a-comin’ to-morrow, and wos wery much surprised to hear they warn’t to come to-day,’ replied Sam.

‘You have brought the things I wanted?’

Mr. Weller in reply pointed to various packages which he had arranged, as neatly as he could, in a corner of the room.

‘Very well, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, after a little hesitation; ‘listen to what I am going to say, Sam.’

‘Cert’nly, Sir,’ rejoined Mr. Weller; ‘fire away, Sir.’

‘I have felt from the first, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with much solemnity, ‘that this is not the place to bring a young man to.’

‘Nor an old ‘un neither, Sir,’ observed Mr. Weller.

‘You’re quite right, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘but old men may come here through their own heedlessness and unsuspicion, and young men may be brought here by the selfishness of those they serve. It is better for those young men, in every point of view, that they should not remain here. Do you understand me, Sam?’

‘Vy no, Sir, I do not,’ replied Mr. Weller doggedly.

‘Try, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Vell, sir,’ rejoined Sam, after a short pause, ‘I think I see your drift; and if I do see your drift, it’s my ‘pinion that you’re a-comin’ it a great deal too strong, as the mail-coachman said to the snowstorm, ven it overtook him.’

‘I see you comprehend me, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Independently of my wish that you should not be idling about a place like this, for years to come, I feel that for a debtor in the Fleet to be attended by his manservant is a monstrous absurdity. Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘for a time you must leave me.’

‘Oh, for a time, eh, sir?’ rejoined Mr. Weller rather sarcastically.

‘Yes, for the time that I remain here,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Your wages I shall continue to pay. Any one of my three friends will be happy to take you, were it only out of respect to me. And if I ever do leave this place, Sam,’ added Mr. Pickwick, with assumed cheerfulness—‘if I do, I pledge you my word that you shall return to me instantly.’

‘Now I’ll tell you wot it is, Sir,’ said Mr. Weller, in a grave and solemn voice. ‘This here sort o’ thing won’t do at all, so don’t let’s hear no more about it.’

I am serious, and resolved, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘You air, air you, sir?’ inquired Mr. Weller firmly. ‘Wery good, Sir; then so am I.’

Thus speaking, Mr. Weller fixed his hat on his head with great precision, and abruptly left the room.

‘Sam!’ cried Mr. Pickwick, calling after him, ‘Sam! Here!’

But the long gallery ceased to re-echo the sound of footsteps. Sam Weller was gone.

Hai visto il signor Tupman e gli altri nostri amici?

“Sì, signore, li ho visti davvero; arriveranno domani. Sono stati molto sorpresi nello scoprire che non era stato detto loro di venire oggi,” rispose Sam.

“Hai portato le cose che volevo?”

In risposta, il signor Weller indicò diversi pacchi che aveva sistemato, con la massima cura possibile, in un angolo della stanza.

“Molto bene, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick dopo un breve esitare; “ascolta quello che sto per dire, Sam.”

“Certo, signore,” rispose il signor Weller; “accendetela pure, signore.”

“Fin dall’inizio ho avuto questa sensazione, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick con grande solennità, “che questo non sia il posto adatto per portare un giovane uomo.”

“Né vecchio, né giovane, signore,” osservò il signor Weller.

“Hai perfettamente ragione, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick; “ma gli anziani possono venire qui a causa della loro stessa negligenza e ingenuità, mentre i giovani possono essere portati qui dall’egoismo di coloro che servono. Da ogni punto di vista, è meglio che quei giovani non rimangano qui. Capisci ciò che intendo, Sam?”

“No, signore, non lo faccio,” rispose ostinatamente il signor Weller.

“Prova, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Beh, signore,” rispose Sam dopo una breve pausa, “credo di capire dove volete arrivare; e se davvero capisco, allora penso che stiate procedendo un po’ troppo in fretta, proprio come il cocchiere disse alla tempesta di neve quando questa lo colpì.”

“Vedo che mi capisci, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Indipendentemente dal mio desiderio che tu non ti aggiri in posti del genere per gli anni a venire, ritengo assurdo che un debitore della Fleet sia accompagnato dal proprio servitore. Sam,” aggiunse, “per questa volta devi lasciarmi.”

“Ah, per una volta, eh, signore?” ribatté il signor Weller in tono piuttosto sarcastico.

“Sì, per tutto il tempo che rimarrò qui,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Continuerò a pagarti lo stipendio. Qualsiasi uno dei miei tre amici sarà felice di prenderti con sé, anche solo per rispetto verso di me. E se mai dovesse lasciare questo posto, Sam,” aggiunse il signor Pickwick con un finto entusiasmo, “se mai dovesse farlo, ti giuro sulla mia parola che tornerai immediatamente da me.”

“Ora vi dirò di cosa si tratta, signore,” disse il signor Weller con voce seria e solenne. “Questo genere di cose non va affatto bene, quindi non parliamone più.”

“Sono serio e deciso, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Avete bisogno d’aria, signore?”, chiese con fermezza il signor Weller. “Molto bene, signore; allora anch’io.”

Detto questo, il signor Weller si sistemò il cappello in testa con grande precisione e uscì improvvisamente dalla stanza.

“Sam!” gridò il signor Pickwick, chiamandolo, “Sam! Vieni qui!”

Ma la lunga galleria smise di risuonare dei passi. Sam Weller se n’era andato.

CHAPTER XLIII. SHOWING HOW MR. SAMUEL WELLER GOT INTO DIFFICULTIES

In a lofty room, ill-lighted and worse ventilated, situated in Portugal Street, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, there sit nearly the whole year round, one, two, three, or four gentlemen in wigs, as the case may be, with little writing-desks before them, constructed after the fashion of those used by the judges of the land, barring the French polish. There is a box of barristers on their right hand; there is an enclosure of insolvent debtors on their left; and there is an inclined plane of most especially dirty faces in their front. These gentlemen are the Commissioners of the Insolvent Court, and the place in which they sit, is the Insolvent Court itself.

It is, and has been, time out of mind, the remarkable fate of this court to be, somehow or other, held and understood, by the general consent of all the destitute shabby-genteel people in London, as their common resort, and place of daily refuge. It is always full. The steams of beer and spirits perpetually ascend to the ceiling, and, being condensed by the heat, roll down the walls like rain; there are more old suits of clothes in it at one time, than will be offered for sale in all Houndsditch in a twelvemonth; more unwashed skins and grizzly beards than all the pumps and shaving-shops between Tyburn and Whitechapel could render decent, between sunrise and sunset.

It must not be supposed that any of these people have the least shadow of business in, or the remotest connection with, the place they so indefatigably attend. If they had, it would be no matter of surprise, and the singularity of the thing would cease. Some of them sleep during the greater part of the sitting; others carry small portable dinners wrapped in pocket-handkerchiefs or sticking out of their worn-out pockets, and munch and listen with equal relish; but no one among them was ever known to have the slightest personal interest in any case that was ever brought forward. Whatever they do, there they sit from the first moment to the last. When it is heavy, rainy weather, they all come in, wet through; and at such times the vapours of the court are like those of a fungus-pit.

A casual visitor might suppose this place to be a temple dedicated to the Genius of Seediness. There is not a messenger or process-server attached to it, who wears a coat that was made for him; not a tolerably fresh, or wholesome-looking man in the whole establishment, except a little white-headed apple-faced tipstaff, and even he, like an ill- conditioned cherry preserved in brandy, seems to have artificially dried and withered up into a state of preservation to which he can lay no natural claim. The very barristers’ wigs are ill-powdered, and their curls lack crispness.

But the attorneys, who sit at a large bare table below the commissioners, are, after all, the greatest curiosities. The professional establishment of the more opulent of these gentlemen, consists of a blue bag and a boy; generally a youth of the Jewish persuasion. They have no fixed offices, their legal business being transacted in the parlours of public-houses, or the yards of prisons, whither they repair in crowds, and canvass for customers after the manner of omnibus cads. They are of a greasy and mildewed appearance; and if they can be said to have any vices at all, perhaps drinking and cheating are the most conspicuous among them. Their residences are usually on the outskirts of ‘the Rules,’ chiefly lying within a circle of one mile from the obelisk in St. George’s Fields. Their looks are not prepossessing, and their manners are peculiar.

Mr. Solomon Pell, one of this learned body, was a fat, flabby, pale man, in a surtout which looked green one minute, and brown the next, with a velvet collar of the same chameleon tints. His forehead was narrow, his face wide, his head large, and his nose all on one side, as if Nature, indignant with the propensities she observed in him in his birth, had given it an angry tweak which it had never recovered. Being short-necked and asthmatic, however, he respired principally through this feature; so, perhaps, what it wanted in ornament, it made up in usefulness.

‘I’m sure to bring him through it,’ said Mr. Pell.

‘Are you, though?’ replied the person to whom the assurance was pledged.

‘Certain sure,’ replied Pell; ‘but if he’d gone to any irregular practitioner, mind you, I wouldn’t have answered for the consequences.’

‘Ah!’ said the other, with open mouth.

‘No, that I wouldn’t,’ said Mr. Pell; and he pursed up his lips, frowned, and shook his head mysteriously.

Now, the place where this discourse occurred was the public-house just opposite to the Insolvent Court; and the person with whom it was held was no other than the elder Mr. Weller, who had come there, to comfort and console a friend, whose petition to be discharged under the act, was to be that day heard, and whose attorney he was at that moment consulting.

‘And vere is George?’ inquired the old gentleman.

Mr. Pell jerked his head in the direction of a back parlour, whither Mr. Weller at once repairing, was immediately greeted in the warmest and most flattering manner by some half-dozen of his professional brethren, in token of their gratification at his arrival. The insolvent gentleman, who had contracted a speculative but imprudent passion for horsing long stages, which had led to his present embarrassments, looked extremely well, and was soothing the excitement of his feelings with shrimps and porter.

The salutation between Mr. Weller and his friends was strictly confined to the freemasonry of the craft; consisting of a jerking round of the right wrist, and a tossing of the little finger into the air at the same time. We once knew two famous coachmen (they are dead now, poor fellows) who were twins, and between whom an unaffected and devoted attachment existed. They passed each other on the Dover road, every day, for twenty-four years, never exchanging any other greeting than this; and yet, when one died, the other pined away, and soon afterwards followed him!

capitolo XLIII. IN CHE MODO IL SIGNOR SAMUEL WELLER FINISCE NEI GUAI

In una stanza elevata, scarsamente illuminata e ancora peggio ventilata, situata in Portugal Street, nei pressi di Lincoln’s Inn Fields, ci sono uno, due, tre o quattro gentiluomini che trascorrono quasi tutto l’anno lì dentro. Indossano parrucche, e davanti a loro ci sono piccoli scrivanie costruite nello stesso stile di quelle utilizzate dai giudici del paese, tranne per la mancanza della lucidatura tipica francese. A destra di loro c’è una lista dei barrister; a sinistra, quella degli insolventi; davanti a loro, un insieme di volti particolarmente sporchi. Questi gentiluomini sono i Commissari del Tribunale per gli Insolventi, e il luogo in cui siedono è proprio il Tribunale per gli Insolventi stesso.

È stato, ed è ancora oggi, un destino davvero straordinario per questo locale: in qualche modo, esso è diventato il rifugio comune e la meta quotidiana di tutte quelle persone povere e di condizione sociale modesta di )Londra. È sempre pieno; i vapori di birra e alcol salgono continuamente verso il soffitto e, condensandosi a causa del calore, scendono lungo le pareti come pioggia. In un solo momento, vi sono più vecchi abiti di quanti ne vengano messi in vendita in tutto l’Houndsditch in dodici mesi; ci sono anche più pelli non lavate e barbe ispide di quante tutte le pompe e i negozi di rasatura tra Tyburn e Whitechapel possano rendere presentabili entro il sorgere e il tramonto del sole.

Non si deve pensare che alcuno di queste persone abbia la minima attinenza o interesse personale nei confronti del luogo al quale partecipa con tanta costanza. Se così fosse, non ci sarebbe nulla di sorprendente, e la stranezza della loro presenza svanirebbe. Alcuni di loro dormono per gran parte del tempo; altri portano con sé piccoli pasti pronti avvolti in fazzoletti o spuntanti dalle loro tasche logore, mangiando e ascoltando con uguale piacere; ma nessuno di loro ha mai mostrato il minimo interesse personale per qualsiasi argomento venisse discusso. Facciano ciò che fanno, rimangono seduti lì dal primo all’ultimo momento. Quando fa freddo e piove, entrano tutti bagnati fradici; in quei momenti, i vapori che si levano da quel luogo assomigliano a quelli prodotti da una fossa piena di funghi.

Un visitatore occasionale potrebbe pensare che questo posto sia un tempio dedicato al “Genio della Spermaceti”. Non c’è nessun messaggero o addetto alle consegne che indossi un abito fatto apposta per lui; in tutto l’edificio non c’è nemmeno un uomo dall’aspetto fresco e sano, tranne quel giovane impiegato dai capelli bianchi e dal viso rotondo. E anche lui, come una ciliegia in cattive condizioni conservata nel brandy, sembra essere stato artificialmente essiccato e appassito, raggiungendo uno stato di conservazione che non può avere alcuna origine naturale. Anche le parrucche degli avvocati sono mal impolverate, e le loro onde perdono ogni freschezza.

Ma gli avvocati, che siedono attorno a un grande tavolo vuoto sotto i commissari, sono dopotutto le vere e proprie curiosità di questa scena. L’“ufficio” professionale di questi signori più agiati consiste soltanto in una borsa blu e in un ragazzo; di solito si tratta di giovani di origine ebrea. Non hanno uffici fissi: le loro attività legali avvengono nei locali pubblici o nei cortili delle prigioni, dove si recano in gruppo per cercare clienti, proprio come fanno i venditori ambulanti. Hanno un aspetto untuoso e trasandato; se si dovesse indicare qualche vizio in loro, forse bere e ingannare sono quelli più evidenti. Abitano solitamente ai margini della zona residenziale, principalmente entro un raggio di un miglio dall’obelisco di St. George’s Fields. Il loro aspetto non è affatto attraente e i loro modi di comportarsi sono piuttosto strani.

Il signor Solomon Pell, uno di questi dotti membri dell’istituto, era un uomo grasso, flaccido e pallido; indossava un soprabito che a volte sembrava verde e altre volte marrone, con un colletto di velluto delle stesse tonalità camaleonte. La sua fronte era stretta, il viso largo, la testa grande e il naso storto da un lato, come se la >Natura, indignata dalle sue caratteristiche innate, gli avesse dato un “strattone” che non aveva mai più recuperato. Essendo di collo corto e asmatico, respirava principalmente attraverso quel naso storto; forse, ciò che a quel naso mancava in termini di bellezza, era compensato dalla sua utilità pratica.

“Sono sicuro che riuscirò a farlo superare questa situazione,” disse il signor Pell.

“Ma davvero lo sei?” rispose la persona a cui era stata fatta quella promessa.

“Certo,” rispose Pell; “ma se fosse andato da qualche praticante non autorizzato, ti avverto, non mi sarei assunto alcuna responsabilità per le conseguenze.”

“Ah!”, disse l’altro, con la bocca aperta.

“No, non lo farei,” disse il signor Pell; poi serrò le labbra, aggrottò la fronte e scosse la testa in modo misterioso.

Il luogo in cui ebbe luogo questo discorso era la aula pubblica situata proprio di fronte al Tribunale per i Falliti; e la persona con cui si tenne non era altri che il signor Weller, il quale era andato lì per consolare un amico il cui ricorso per ottenere l’annullamento della sentenza doveva essere esaminato quel giorno stesso, e con il quale in quel momento stava consultandosi.

“E dunque, questo è George?” chiese il vecchio gentiluomo.

Il signor Pell fece un cenno con la testa in direzione di una stanza sul retro; il signor Weller vi si recò immediatamente e fu accolto con grande calore e lusinghe da circa sei dei suoi colleghi, come segno della loro soddisfazione per il suo arrivo. Il gentiluomo insolvente, che aveva sviluppato una passione imprudente per le corse di cavalli a lunga distanza, causandosi così i problemi attuali, sembrava in ottima forma e cercava di calmare la propria agitazione mangiando gamberetti e porto.

Il saluto tra il signor Weller e i suoi amici era strettamente limitato alle regole della loro confraternita; consisteva in un movimento rapido del polso destro accompagnato dal lancio dell’anulare verso l’alto nello stesso istante. Conoscevamo una volta due famosi cocchieri (ora sono morti, poveretti) che erano gemelli e tra i quali esisteva un legame sincero e profondo. Ogni giorno, per ventiquattro anni, si incrociavano sulla strada di Dover senza mai scambiarsi altro saluto se non questo; eppure, quando uno dei due morì, l’altro iniziò a declinare rapidamente e poco dopo lo seguì nella morte.

‘Vell, George,’ said Mr. Weller senior, taking off his upper coat, and seating himself with his accustomed gravity. ‘How is it? All right behind, and full inside?’

‘All right, old feller,’ replied the embarrassed gentleman.

‘Is the gray mare made over to anybody?’ inquired Mr. Weller anxiously.

George nodded in the affirmative.

‘Vell, that’s all right,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Coach taken care on, also?’

‘Con-signed in a safe quarter,’ replied George, wringing the heads off half a dozen shrimps, and swallowing them without any more ado.

‘Wery good, wery good,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Alvays see to the drag ven you go downhill. Is the vay-bill all clear and straight for’erd?’

‘The schedule, sir,’ said Pell, guessing at Mr. Weller’s meaning, ‘the schedule is as plain and satisfactory as pen and ink can make it.’

Mr. Weller nodded in a manner which bespoke his inward approval of these arrangements; and then, turning to Mr. Pell, said, pointing to his friend George—

‘Ven do you take his cloths off?’

‘Why,’ replied Mr. Pell, ‘he stands third on the opposed list, and I should think it would be his turn in about half an hour. I told my clerk to come over and tell us when there was a chance.’

Mr. Weller surveyed the attorney from head to foot with great admiration, and said emphatically—

‘And what’ll you take, sir?’

‘Why, really,’ replied Mr. Pell, ‘you’re very—. Upon my word and honour, I’m not in the habit of—. It’s so very early in the morning, that, actually, I am almost—. Well, you may bring me threepenn’orth of rum, my dear.’

The officiating damsel, who had anticipated the order before it was given, set the glass of spirits before Pell, and retired.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Mr. Pell, looking round upon the company, ‘success to your friend! I don’t like to boast, gentlemen; it’s not my way; but I can’t help saying, that, if your friend hadn’t been fortunate enough to fall into hands that—But I won’t say what I was going to say. Gentlemen, my service to you.’ Having emptied the glass in a twinkling, Mr. Pell smacked his lips, and looked complacently round on the assembled coachmen, who evidently regarded him as a species of divinity.

‘Let me see,’ said the legal authority. ‘What was I a-saying, gentlemen?’

‘I think you was remarkin’ as you wouldn’t have no objection to another o’ the same, Sir,’ said Mr. Weller, with grave facetiousness.

‘Ha, ha!’ laughed Mr. Pell. ‘Not bad, not bad. A professional man, too! At this time of the morning, it would be rather too good a—Well, I don’t know, my dear—you may do that again, if you please. Hem!’

This last sound was a solemn and dignified cough, in which Mr. Pell, observing an indecent tendency to mirth in some of his auditors, considered it due to himself to indulge.

‘The late Lord Chancellor, gentlemen, was very fond of me,’ said Mr. Pell.

‘And wery creditable in him, too,’ interposed Mr. Weller.

‘Hear, hear,’ assented Mr. Pell’s client. ‘Why shouldn’t he be?

‘Ah! Why, indeed!’ said a very red-faced man, who had said nothing yet, and who looked extremely unlikely to say anything more. ‘Why shouldn’t he?’

A murmur of assent ran through the company.

‘I remember, gentlemen,’ said Mr. Pell, ‘dining with him on one occasion; there was only us two, but everything as splendid as if twenty people had been expected—the great seal on a dumb-waiter at his right hand, and a man in a bag-wig and suit of armour guarding the mace with a drawn sword and silk stockings—which is perpetually done, gentlemen, night and day; when he said, “Pell,” he said, “no false delicacy, Pell. You’re a man of talent; you can get anybody through the Insolvent Court, Pell; and your country should be proud of you.” Those were his very words. “My Lord,” I said, “you flatter me.”—“Pell,” he said, “if I do, I’m damned.”’

‘Did he say that?’ inquired Mr. Weller.

‘He did,’ replied Pell.

‘Vell, then,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘I say Parliament ought to ha’ took it up; and if he’d been a poor man, they would ha’ done it.’

‘But, my dear friend,’ argued Mr. Pell, ‘it was in confidence.’

‘In what?’ said Mr. Weller.

‘In confidence.’

‘Oh! wery good,’ replied Mr. Weller, after a little reflection. ‘If he damned hisself in confidence, o’ course that was another thing.’

‘Of course it was,’ said Mr. Pell. ‘The distinction’s obvious, you will perceive.’

‘Alters the case entirely,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Go on, Sir.’

No, I will not go on, Sir,’ said Mr. Pell, in a low and serious tone. ‘You have reminded me, Sir, that this conversation was private—private and confidential, gentlemen. Gentlemen, I am a professional man. It may be that I am a good deal looked up to, in my profession—it may be that I am not. Most people know. I say nothing. Observations have already been made, in this room, injurious to the reputation of my noble friend. You will excuse me, gentlemen; I was imprudent. I feel that I have no right to mention this matter without his concurrence. Thank you, Sir; thank you.’ Thus delivering himself, Mr. Pell thrust his hands into his pockets, and, frowning grimly around, rattled three halfpence with terrible determination.

This virtuous resolution had scarcely been formed, when the boy and the blue bag, who were inseparable companions, rushed violently into the room, and said (at least the boy did, for the blue bag took no part in the announcement) that the case was coming on directly. The intelligence was no sooner received than the whole party hurried across the street, and began to fight their way into court—a preparatory ceremony, which has been calculated to occupy, in ordinary cases, from twenty-five minutes to thirty.

Mr. Weller, being stout, cast himself at once into the crowd, with the desperate hope of ultimately turning up in some place which would suit him. His success was not quite equal to his expectations; for having neglected to take his hat off, it was knocked over his eyes by some unseen person, upon whose toes he had alighted with considerable force. Apparently this individual regretted his impetuosity immediately afterwards, for, muttering an indistinct exclamation of surprise, he dragged the old man out into the hall, and, after a violent struggle, released his head and face.

“Beh, George,” disse il signor Weller padre, togliendosi il cappotto e sedendosi con la sua solita gravità. “Come va? Tutto a posto, vero?”

“Va bene, vecchio mio,” rispose il gentiluomo imbarazzato.

“Quel cavallo grigio è stato venduto a qualcuno?” chiese ansiosamente il signor Weller.

George annuì affermativamente.

“Beh, va bene così,” disse il signor Weller. “Anche il calesse è stato sistemato?”

“Riposto in un luogo sicuro,” rispose George, strappando via la testa a mezza dozzina di gamberetti e ingoiandoli senza ulteriori indugi.

“Molto bene, molto bene,” disse il signor Weller. “Assicurati sempre che le ruote siano ben oliate quando scendi in discesa. Il percorso è davvero libero e dritto fino in fondo?”

“Il programma, signore,” disse Pell, intuendo ciò che il signor Weller voleva dire, “il programma è chiaro e soddisfacente al massimo grado.”

Il signor Weller annuì in modo che mostrasse il suo assenso interno a questi accordi; poi, rivolgendosi al signor Pell, disse, indicando il suo amico George.

“Ma quando gli togli i vestiti?”

“Perché,” rispose il signor Pell, “è al terzo posto nella lista opposta, e penso che sia il suo turno tra circa mezz’ora. Ho detto al mio impiegato di venire da noi non appena ci fosse stata un’opportunità.”

Il signor Weller osservò l’avvocato dalla testa ai piedi con grande ammirazione, e disse con enfasi:

“E cosa desidera ordinare, signore?”

“Davvero, no,” rispose il signor Pell, “siete molto. Per la mia parola e onore, non ho l’abitudine di. È ancora così presto al mattino che, in realtà, sono quasi. Beh, potete portarmi tre penny di rum, caro.”

La giovane damigella incaricata di servire, che aveva già previsto quell’ordine prima ancora che venisse dato, posò il bicchiere di alcolico davanti a Pell e si ritirò.

“Signori,” disse il signor Pell, guardandosi intorno, “auguri di successo al vostro amico! Non mi piace vantarmi, signori; non è nel mio carattere; ma devo dire che, se il vostro amico non fosse stato abbastanza fortunato da finire nelle mani di persone. Ma non dirò ciò che stavo per dire. Signori, il mio servizio a voi.” Dopo aver svuotato il bicchiere in un attimo, il signor Pell si leccò le labbra e guardò con soddisfazione i cocchieri riuniti lì; evidentemente, questi lo consideravano una sorta di divinità.

“Lasciatemi pensare, ”, disse l’autorità legale. “Cosa stavo dicendo, signori?”

“Credo che stesse dicendo che non avrebbe alcuna obiezione se ne facesse un altro, signore,” disse il signor Weller con una grave ironia.

“Ha, ha!” rise il signor Pell. “Niente male, davvero niente male. Anche un uomo professionista! A quest’ora della mattina, sarebbe addirittura troppo bello. Beh, non so, caro. Puoi riprovarci, se vuoi. Ehm, ”

Quest’ultimo suono fu un colpo di tosse solenne e dignitosa; il signor Pell, notando una tendenza indecente al riso da parte di alcuni dei suoi ascoltatori, ritenne opportuno indulgere in essa.

“Il defunto Cancelliere della Corte, signori, mi voleva molto bene,” disse il signor Pell.

“E anche molto meritevole da parte sua,” intervenne il signor Weller.

“Sì, sì,” concordò il cliente del signor Pell. “Perché non dovrebbe essere così?”

“Ah! Davvero, perché no!” disse un uomo con il viso molto rosso, che fino ad allora non aveva detto nulla e che sembrava assolutamente improbabile che dicesse ancora qualcosa. “Perché non dovrebbe?”

Un mormorio di assenso si diffuse tra il gruppo.

“Ricordo, signori,” disse il signor Pell, “di aver pranzato con lui una volta; eravamo solo in due, ma tutto era così sfarzoso come se fossero stati invitati venti persone: un cameriere personale con il grande sigillo reale al suo fianco destro, e un uomo con parrucca a sacco e armatura che custodiva la mazza, impugnando una spada sguainata e indossando calze di seta. Questo accade sempre, signori, sia di giorno che di notte; quando diceva ‘Pell’, aggiungeva: ‘Nessuna delicatezza inutile, Pell. Sei un uomo capace; puoi far passare chiunque attraverso la Corte dei Falliti. La tua nazione dovrebbe esserne orgogliosa.’ Queste furono esattamente le sue parole. ‘Mio Signore,’ risposi, ‘mi lusingate.’ ‘Pell,’ replicò lui, ‘se lo faccio, allora sono davvero maledetto.’”

“Ha detto davvero così?”, chiese il signor Weller.

“Lo ha fatto,” rispose Pell.

“Allora,” disse il signor Weller, “dico che il Parlamento avrebbe dovuto intervenire in questa questione; e se si fosse trattato di un uomo povero, l’avrebbero fatto sicuramente.”

“Ma, mio caro amico,” obiettò il signor Pell, “è stato detto in confidenza.”

“Di cosa?” disse il signor Weller.

“In confidenza.”

“Ah! Molto bene,” rispose il signor Weller dopo un attimo di riflessione. “Se si è rovinato per fiducia in qualcuno, beh, quella è un’altra storia.”

“Certo che lo era,” disse il signor Pell. “La differenza è evidente, la comprenderete senz’altro.”

“Cambia completamente la situazione,” disse il signor Weller. “Prosegua, signore.”

“No, non continuerò, signore,” disse il signor Pell con voce bassa e seria.
“Mi avete ricordato, signori, che questa conversazione era privata, privata e confidenziale. Signori, io sono un professionista. Forse sono molto rispettato nella mia professione, forse no. La maggior parte delle persone lo sa. Non dico nulla. In questa stanza sono già state fatte osservazioni dannose alla reputazione del mio nobile amico. Vi scuso, signori; sono stato imprudente. Ritengo di non avere il diritto di menzionare questo argomento senza il suo consenso. Grazie, signori.” Dopo aver detto queste parole, il signor Pell infilò le mani nelle tasche e, guardandosi intorno con espressione cupa, fece tintinnare tre mezzi penny con estrema determinazione.

Appena questa nobile decisione fu presa, il ragazzo e la borsa blu, compagni inseparabili, irruppero violentemente nella stanza e dissero (almeno il ragazzo lo fece; la borsa blu non prese parte a quell’annuncio) che l’evento stava per verificarsi immediatamente. Non appena ricevettero questa notizia, l’intero gruppo si affrettò ad attraversare la strada e iniziò a farsi strada verso il tribunale: una cerimonia preparatoria che, normalmente, dura tra i venticinque e i trenta minuti.

Il signor Weller, essendo robusto, si gettò immediatamente nella folla, con la disperata >speranza di finire in qualche posto che gli fosse adatto. Il suo successo non fu del tutto all’altezza delle sue aspettative: essendo stato negligente nel togliersi il cappello, questo gli venne calato sugli occhi da qualcuno di cui non si vedeva la figura; inoltre, urtò con notevole forza i piedi di quella persona. A quanto pare, quest’ultima rimpiangque immediatamente la propria impulsività, poiché, mormorando un’esclamazione di sorpresa, trascinò il vecchio fuori nel corridoio e, dopo una violenta lotta, gli liberò la testa e il viso.

‘Samivel!’ exclaimed Mr. Weller, when he was thus enabled to behold his rescuer.

Sam nodded.

‘You’re a dutiful and affectionate little boy, you are, ain’t you,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘to come a-bonnetin’ your father in his old age?’

‘How should I know who you wos?’ responded the son. ‘Do you s’pose I wos to tell you by the weight o’ your foot?’

‘Vell, that’s wery true, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller, mollified at once; ‘but wot are you a-doin’ on here? Your gov’nor can’t do no good here, Sammy. They won’t pass that werdick, they won’t pass it, Sammy.’ And Mr. Weller shook his head with legal solemnity.

‘Wot a perwerse old file it is!’ exclaimed Sam, ‘always a-goin’ on about werdicks and alleybis and that. Who said anything about the werdick?’

Mr. Weller made no reply, but once more shook his head most learnedly.

‘Leave off rattlin’ that ‘ere nob o’ yourn, if you don’t want it to come off the springs altogether,’ said Sam impatiently, ‘and behave reasonable. I vent all the vay down to the Markis o’ Granby, arter you, last night.’

‘Did you see the Marchioness o’ Granby, Sammy?’ inquired Mr. Weller, with a sigh.

‘Yes, I did,’ replied Sam.

‘How wos the dear creetur a-lookin’?’

‘Wery queer,’ said Sam. ‘I think she’s a-injurin’ herself gradivally vith too much o’ that ‘ere pine-apple rum, and other strong medicines of the same natur.’

‘You don’t mean that, Sammy?’ said the senior earnestly.

‘I do, indeed,’ replied the junior.

Mr. Weller seized his son’s hand, clasped it, and let it fall. There was an expression on his countenance in doing so—not of dismay or apprehension, but partaking more of the sweet and gentle character of hope. A gleam of resignation, and even of cheerfulness, passed over his face too, as he slowly said, ‘I ain’t quite certain, Sammy; I wouldn’t like to say I wos altogether positive, in case of any subsekent disappointment, but I rayther think, my boy, I rayther think, that the shepherd’s got the liver complaint!’

‘Does he look bad?’ inquired Sam.

‘He’s uncommon pale,’ replied his father, ‘’cept about the nose, which is redder than ever. His appetite is wery so-so, but he imbibes wonderful.’

Some thoughts of the rum appeared to obtrude themselves on Mr. Weller’s mind, as he said this; for he looked gloomy and thoughtful; but he very shortly recovered, as was testified by a perfect alphabet of winks, in which he was only wont to indulge when particularly pleased.

‘Vell, now,’ said Sam, ‘about my affair. Just open them ears o’ yourn, and don’t say nothin’ till I’ve done.’ With this preface, Sam related, as succinctly as he could, the last memorable conversation he had had with Mr. Pickwick.

‘Stop there by himself, poor creetur!’ exclaimed the elder Mr. Weller, ‘without nobody to take his part! It can’t be done, Samivel, it can’t be done.’

‘O’ course it can’t,’ asserted Sam: ‘I know’d that, afore I came.’

Why, they’ll eat him up alive, Sammy,’ exclaimed Mr. Weller.

Sam nodded his concurrence in the opinion.

‘He goes in rayther raw, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller metaphorically, ‘and he’ll come out, done so ex-ceedin’ brown, that his most formiliar friends won’t know him. Roast pigeon’s nothin’ to it, Sammy.’

Again Sam Weller nodded.

‘It oughtn’t to be, Samivel,’ said Mr. Weller gravely.

‘It mustn’t be,’ said Sam.

‘Cert’nly not,’ said Mr. Weller.

‘Vell now,’ said Sam, ‘you’ve been a-prophecyin’ away, wery fine, like a red-faced Nixon, as the sixpenny books gives picters on.’

‘Who wos he, Sammy?’ inquired Mr. Weller.

‘Never mind who he was,’ retorted Sam; ‘he warn’t a coachman; that’s enough for you.’

I know’d a ostler o’ that name,’ said Mr. Weller, musing.

‘It warn’t him,’ said Sam. ‘This here gen’l’m’n was a prophet.’

‘Wot’s a prophet?’ inquired Mr. Weller, looking sternly on his son.

‘Wy, a man as tells what’s a-goin’ to happen,’ replied Sam.

‘I wish I’d know’d him, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘P’raps he might ha’ throw’d a small light on that ‘ere liver complaint as we wos a-speakin’ on, just now. Hows’ever, if he’s dead, and ain’t left the bisness to nobody, there’s an end on it. Go on, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, with a sigh.

‘Well,’ said Sam, ‘you’ve been a-prophecyin’ avay about wot’ll happen to the gov’ner if he’s left alone. Don’t you see any way o’ takin’ care on him?’

‘No, I don’t, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, with a reflective visage.

‘No vay at all?’ inquired Sam.

‘No vay,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘unless’—and a gleam of intelligence lighted up his countenance as he sank his voice to a whisper, and applied his mouth to the ear of his offspring—‘unless it is getting him out in a turn-up bedstead, unbeknown to the turnkeys, Sammy, or dressin’ him up like a old ‘ooman vith a green wail.’

Sam Weller received both of these suggestions with unexpected contempt, and again propounded his question.

‘No,’ said the old gentleman; ‘if he von’t let you stop there, I see no vay at all. It’s no thoroughfare, Sammy, no thoroughfare.’

‘Well, then, I’ll tell you wot it is,’ said Sam, ‘I’ll trouble you for the loan of five-and-twenty pound.’

‘Wot good’ll that do?’ inquired Mr. Weller.

‘Never mind,’ replied Sam. ‘P’raps you may ask for it five minits arterwards; p’raps I may say I von’t pay, and cut up rough. You von’t think o’ arrestin’ your own son for the money, and sendin’ him off to the Fleet, will you, you unnat’ral wagabone?’

At this reply of Sam’s, the father and son exchanged a complete code of telegraph nods and gestures, after which, the elder Mr. Weller sat himself down on a stone step and laughed till he was purple.

‘Wot a old image it is!’ exclaimed Sam, indignant at this loss of time. ‘What are you a-settin’ down there for, con-wertin’ your face into a street-door knocker, wen there’s so much to be done. Where’s the money?’

‘In the boot, Sammy, in the boot,’ replied Mr. Weller, composing his features. ‘Hold my hat, Sammy.’

Having divested himself of this encumbrance, Mr. Weller gave his body a sudden wrench to one side, and by a dexterous twist, contrived to get his right hand into a most capacious pocket, from whence, after a great deal of panting and exertion, he extricated a pocket-book of the large octavo size, fastened by a huge leathern strap. From this ledger he drew forth a couple of whiplashes, three or four buckles, a little sample-bag of corn, and, finally, a small roll of very dirty bank-notes, from which he selected the required amount, which he handed over to Sam.

“Samivel!” esclamò il signor Weller quando finalmente riuscì a vedere il suo salvatore.

Sam annuì.

“Sei un bambino devoto e affettuoso, vero?”, disse il signor Weller, “venire a fare visita a tuo padre nella sua vecchiaia, ”

“Come dovrei sapere chi sei?” rispose il figlio. “Pensi forse che debba riconoscerti dal peso del tuo piede?”

“Beh, è proprio vero, Sammy,” rispose subito il signor Weller, placato; “ma che ci fai tu qui? Il tuo governatore non può fare nulla in questo posto, Sammy. Non riusciranno mai a superare quel muro, non ci riusciranno, Sammy.” E il signor Weller scosse la testa con solenne serietà.

“Che vecchio file strano!” esclamò Sam, “continua sempre a parlare di cose assurde e di quegli stupidi giochi. Chi ha mai detto qualcosa riguardo a queste stupidaggini?”

Il signor Weller non rispose nulla, ma scosse di nuovo la testa in modo molto sapiente.

“Smettila di ripetere continuamente che sei nobile, se non vuoi che tutto questo finisca del tutto,” disse Sam con impazienza, “e comportati in modo ragionevole. Ho raccontato tutta la storia al Marchese di Granby, ieri sera.”

“Hai visto la Marchesa di Granby, Sammy?” chiese il signor Weller, con un sospiro.

“Sì, l’ho fatto,” rispose Sam.

“Com’era fatto quel caro essere?”

“Molto strano,” disse Sam. “Penso che si stia gradualmente facendo del male bevendo troppo di quel rum al ananas e altri medicinali forti dello stesso genere.”

“Non lo dici sul serio, Sammy?”, disse seriamente il più anziano.

“Sì, davvero,” rispose il più giovane.

Il signor Weller prese la mano di suo figlio, la strinse forte e poi la lasciò andare. Sul suo volto, mentre lo faceva, si leggeva un’espressione che non era di disperazione né apprensione, ma piuttosto caratterizzata da una dolcezza e una gentilezza tipiche della >speranza. Un barlume di rassegnazione, persino di allegria, apparve anche sul suo viso mentre lentamente disse: “Non ne sono del tutto sicuro, Sammy. Non vorrei affermare con certezza, nel caso ci fossero delusioni in seguito. Ma credo, ragazzo mio, credo davvero che quel pastore soffra di quella malattia al fegato, ”

“Sembra brutto?” chiese Sam.

“È insolitamente pallido,” rispose suo padre, “tranne per il naso, che è più rosso del solito. Il suo appetito è piuttosto scarno, ma beve molto.”

Mentre diceva queste cose, alcune idei legate al rum sembrarono invadere la mente del signor Weller; infatti appariva cupo e pensieroso. Ma si riprese molto rapidamente, come dimostravano i suoi continui battiti di ciglia, un gesto che faceva soltanto quando era particolarmente soddisfatto.

“Bene, ora,” disse Sam, “parliamo della mia faccenda. Ascoltate attentamente e non dite nulla finché non avrò finito.” Con queste parole, Sam raccontò, nel modo più conciso possibile, l’ultima conversazione memorabile che aveva avuto con il signor Pickwick.

“Restare lì da solo, povero creatura, ”, esclamò il signor Weller più anziano, “senza nessuno che lo aiuti. Non può andare bene, Samivel, proprio non può.”

“Certo che non può,” affermò Sam: “Lo sapevo già prima di venire qui.”

“Ma lo divoreranno vivo, Sammy!”, esclamò il signor Weller.

Sam annuì in segno di accordo con quell’opinione.

“Entra più crudo possibile, Sammy,” disse metaforicamente il signor Weller, “e uscirà così ben arrostito che nemmeno i suoi amici più intimi lo riconosceranno. Un pollo arrosto non è niente al confronto, Sammy.”

Di nuovo, Sam Weller annuì.

“Non dovrebbe essere così, Samivel,” disse seriamente il signor Weller.

“Non può essere,” disse Sam.

“Certo che no,” disse il signor Weller.

“Ora basta,” disse Sam, “hai continuato a fare profezie, molto bene, proprio come quel Nixon con la faccia rossa, come mostrano i libri di sei penny con le sue foto.”

“Chi era, Sammy?”, chiese il signor Weller.

“Non importa chi fosse,” ribatté Sam; “non era certo un cocchiere. E questo basta per te.”

“Conoscevo un cocchiere di quel nome,” disse il signor Weller, pensieroso.

“Non era lui,” disse Sam. “Questo generale era un profeta.”

“Che cos’è un profeta?”, chiese il signor Weller, guardando severamente suo figlio.

“Beh, un uomo che sa cosa sta per succedere, ”, rispose Sam.

“Vorrei averlo conosciuto, Sammy,” disse il signor Weller. “Forse avrebbe potuto fornirci qualche spiegazione riguardo a quella ‘malattia del fegato’ di cui stavamo parlando poco fa. Comunque, se è morto e non ha lasciato nessuno a gestire gli affari, allora la questione è chiusa. Vai avanti, Sammy,” disse il signor Weller, sospirando.

“Beh,” disse Sam, “hai continuato a predire cosa succederà al governatore se lo lasciamo solo. Non vedi nessun modo per prenderti cura di lui?”

“No, non lo faccio, Sammy,” disse il signor Weller, con un’espressione pensierosa sul volto.

“Non andrai affatto?” chiese Sam.

“Assolutamente no,” disse il signor Weller, “a meno che, ” – e un lampo di intelligenza gli illuminò il volto mentre abbassava la voce a un sussurro e si avvicinava all’orecchio del proprio figlio – “a meno che non lo facciamo uscire in una brandina da viaggio, senza che i carcerieri se ne accorgano, Sammy, o che non lo vestiamo come una vecchia donna con un abito verde.”

Sam Weller accolse entrambe queste suggerizioni con un disprezzo inaspettato, e ripeté ancora la sua domanda.

“No,” disse il vecchio signore; “se non ti permette di fermarti lì, non vedo proprio alcuna soluzione. Non è un passaggio praticabile, Sammy, assolutamente no.”

“Beh, allora vi dirò di cosa si tratta,” disse Sam, “Vi chiederò in prestito venticinque sterline.”

“Che utilità avrà tutto questo?”, chiese il signor Weller.

“Lascia perdere,” rispose Sam. “Forse tra cinque minuti potresti chiedermelo di nuovo; magari allora dirò che non pagherò e me ne andrò via. Non penserai mica di arrestare tuo figlio per quei soldi e di mandarlo in prigione, vero? Tu, strano vagabondo, ”

Alla risposta di Sam, padre e figlio scambiarono un intero insieme di cenni e gesti convenzionali; dopo di ciò, il signor Weller si sedette su una gradinata di pietra e rise fino a diventare viola in viso.

“Che vecchia immagine, ”, esclamò Sam, indignato per questa perdita di tempo. “Cosa stai facendo lì sotto, trasformando il tuo viso in un campanello d’ingresso, quando c’è così tanto da fare? Dov’è il denaro?”

“Nella scatola, Sammy, nella scatola,” rispose il signor Weller, riacquistando la sua compostezza. “Tienimi il cappello, Sammy.”

Dopo essersi liberato di questo onere, il signor Weller fece un improvviso movimento con il corpo e, con una manovra abile, riuscì a infilare la mano destra in una tasca molto capiente; dopo molti sforzi e respiri affannosi, ne estrasse un portafoglio di dimensioni considerevoli, fissato da una grossa cinghia di cuoio. Da quel portafoglio tirò fuori alcuni frustini, tre o quattro fibbie, un piccolo sacchetto contenente del mais, e infine un rotolo di banconote molto sporche; ne selezionò la somma necessaria e la consegnò a Sam.

‘And now, Sammy,’ said the old gentleman, when the whip-lashes, and the buckles, and the samples, had been all put back, and the book once more deposited at the bottom of the same pocket, ‘now, Sammy, I know a gen’l’m’n here, as’ll do the rest o’ the bisness for us, in no time—a limb o’ the law, Sammy, as has got brains like the frogs, dispersed all over his body, and reachin’ to the wery tips of his fingers; a friend of the Lord Chancellorship’s, Sammy, who’d only have to tell him what he wanted, and he’d lock you up for life, if that wos all.’

‘I say,’ said Sam, ‘none o’ that.’

‘None o’ wot?’ inquired Mr. Weller.

‘Wy, none o’ them unconstitootional ways o’ doin’ it,’ retorted Sam. ‘The have-his-carcass, next to the perpetual motion, is vun of the blessedest things as wos ever made. I’ve read that ‘ere in the newspapers wery of’en.’

‘Well, wot’s that got to do vith it?’ inquired Mr. Weller.

‘Just this here,’ said Sam, ‘that I’ll patronise the inwention, and go in, that vay. No visperin’s to the Chancellorship—I don’t like the notion. It mayn’t be altogether safe, vith reference to gettin’ out agin.’

Deferring to his son’s feeling upon this point, Mr. Weller at once sought the erudite Solomon Pell, and acquainted him with his desire to issue a writ, instantly, for the _sum _of twenty-five pounds, and costs of process; to be executed without delay upon the body of one Samuel Weller; the charges thereby incurred, to be paid in advance to Solomon Pell.

The attorney was in high glee, for the embarrassed coach-horser was ordered to be discharged forthwith. He highly approved of Sam’s attachment to his master; declared that it strongly reminded him of his own feelings of devotion to his friend, the Chancellor; and at once led the elder Mr. Weller down to the Temple, to swear the affidavit of debt, which the boy, with the assistance of the blue bag, had drawn up on the spot.

Meanwhile, Sam, having been formally introduced to the whitewashed gentleman and his friends, as the offspring of Mr. Weller, of the Belle Savage, was treated with marked distinction, and invited to regale himself with them in honour of the occasion—an invitation which he was by no means backward in accepting.

The mirth of gentlemen of this class is of a grave and quiet character, usually; but the present instance was one of peculiar festivity, and they relaxed in proportion. After some rather tumultuous toasting of the Chief Commissioner and Mr. Solomon Pell, who had that day displayed such transcendent abilities, a mottled-faced gentleman in a blue shawl proposed that somebody should sing a song. The obvious suggestion was, that the mottled-faced gentleman, being anxious for a song, should sing it himself; but this the mottled-faced gentleman sturdily, and somewhat offensively, declined to do. Upon which, as is not unusual in such cases, a rather angry colloquy ensued.

‘Gentlemen,’ said the coach-horser, ‘rather than disturb the harmony of this delightful occasion, perhaps Mr. Samuel Weller will oblige the company.’

‘Raly, gentlemen,’ said Sam, ‘I’m not wery much in the habit o’ singin’ without the instrument; but anythin’ for a quiet life, as the man said wen he took the sitivation at the lighthouse.’

With this prelude, Mr. Samuel Weller burst at once into the following wild and beautiful legend, which, under the impression that it is not generally known, we take the liberty of quoting. We would beg to call particular attention to the monosyllable at the end of the second and fourth lines, which not only enables the singer to take breath at those points, but greatly assists the metre.

ROMANCE

I

Bold Turpin vunce, on Hounslow Heath, His bold mare Bess bestrode—er; Ven there he see’d the Bishop’s coach A-coming along the road—er. So he gallops close to the ‘orse’s legs, And he claps his head vithin; And the Bishop says, ‘Sure as eggs is eggs, This here’s the bold Turpin!’

CHORUS

And the Bishop says, ‘Sure as eggs is eggs, This here’s the bold Turpin!’

II

Says Turpin, ‘You shall eat your words, With a sarse of leaden bul— let;’ So he puts a pistol to his mouth, And he fires it down his gul— let. The coachman he not likin’ the job, Set off at full gal-lop, But Dick put a couple of balls in his nob, And perwailed on him to stop.

CHORUS (sarcastically)

But Dick put a couple of balls in his nob, And perwailed on him to stop.

‘I maintain that that ‘ere song’s personal to the cloth,’ said the mottled-faced gentleman, interrupting it at this point. ‘I demand the name o’ that coachman.’

‘Nobody know’d,’ replied Sam. ‘He hadn’t got his card in his pocket.’

‘I object to the introduction o’ politics,’ said the mottled-faced gentleman. ‘I submit that, in the present company, that ‘ere song’s political; and, wot’s much the same, that it ain’t true. I say that that coachman did not run away; but that he died game—game as pheasants; and I won’t hear nothin’ said to the contrairey.’

As the mottled-faced gentleman spoke with great energy and determination, and as the opinions of the company seemed divided on the subject, it threatened to give rise to fresh altercation, when Mr. Weller and Mr. Pell most opportunely arrived.

‘All right, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller.

‘The officer will be here at four o’clock,’ said Mr. Pell. ‘I suppose you won’t run away meanwhile, eh? Ha! ha!’

‘P’raps my cruel pa ‘ull relent afore then,’ replied Sam, with a broad grin.

‘Not I,’ said the elder Mr. Weller.

‘Do,’ said Sam.

‘Not on no account,’ replied the inexorable creditor.

‘I’ll give bills for the amount, at sixpence a month,’ said Sam.

‘I won’t take ‘em,’ said Mr. Weller.

‘Ha, ha, ha! very good, very good,’ said Mr. Solomon Pell, who was making out his little bill of costs; ‘a very amusing incident indeed! Benjamin, copy that.’ And Mr. Pell smiled again, as he called Mr. Weller’s attention to the amount.

“E ora, Sammy,” disse il vecchio gentiluomo, quando le frustate, i ganci e i campioni furono tutti rimessi a posto e il libro fu di nuovo riposto nella stessa tasca, “ora, Sammy, conosco un uomo qui che sistemerà tutto per noi in un attimo. Un funzionario legale, Sammy, dotato di una mente straordinaria: i suoi pensieri sembrano diffusi in ogni parte del suo corpo, arrivando fino alle punte delle dita. Un amico del Cancelliere della Corona, Sammy. Gli basterà dire cosa vuoi, e ti farà rinchiudere a vita, se solo fosse necessario.”

“Dico io,” disse Sam, “niente di tutto questo.”

“Niente o cosa?”, chiese il signor Weller.

“Beh, nessuno di quei metodi incostituzionali con cui lo fanno, ”, ribatté Sam.
“Quel ‘possedere un cadavere’, insieme al concetto di moto perpetuo, è una delle cose più meravigliose che siano mai state inventate. L’ho letto spesso sui giornali.”

“Beh, che c’entra questo con la questione?” chiese il signor Weller.

“Solo questo,” disse Sam, “cioè che sosterrò questa invenzione e andrò avanti con essa. Nessuna complicazione legata alla carica di Cancelliere. Non mi piace l’idea. Potrebbe non essere del tutto sicuro, considerando la possibilità di doverne uscire di nuovo.”

Rispettando il parere di suo figlio su questa questione, il signor Weller andò immediatamente dal dotto Solomon Pell e gli espresse il proprio desiderio di ottenere immediatamente un ordine giudiziario per la somma di venticinque sterline, più le spese processuali; tale ordine doveva essere eseguito senza indugio contro la persona di Samuel Weller, e le spese sostenute a tal fine dovevano essere pagate in anticipo a Solomon Pell.

L’avvocato era molto felice, perché all’imbarazzato allenatore-cavallo era stato ordinato di essere licenziato immediatamente. Apprezzava molto l’affetto del ragazzo per il suo padrone; dichiarò che quel sentimento gli ricordava profondamente i propri sentimenti di devozione verso il proprio amico, il Cancelliere; e subito accompagnò il signor Weller al Temple, affinché potesse firmare la dichiarazione di debito, che il ragazzo aveva redatto sul posto con l’aiuto della borsa blu.

Nel frattempo, Sam, dopo essere stato formalmente presentato al gentiluomo e ai suoi amici, in quanto discendente di Mr. Weller della Belle Savage, fu trattato con grande distinzione e invitato a partecipare con loro alle celebrazioni in onore dell’occasione; un invito che accettò senza esitazione.

La gioia dei gentiluomini di questa classe è solitamente di carattere serio e tranquillo; ma in questo caso si trattava di una festività particolare, quindi si rilassarono un po’ di più. Dopo alcuni brindisi piuttosto tumultuosi al Commissario Capo e a Mr. Solomon Pell, che quel giorno avevano dimostrato capacità straordinarie, un gentiluomo dal viso maculato, avvolto in uno scialle blu, propose che qualcuno cantasse una canzone. L’idea ovvia era che fosse proprio quel gentiluomo a cantarla, essendo lui stesso desideroso di farlo; ma egli rifiutò con decisione e, in modo piuttosto offensivo. Di conseguenza, come spesso accade in simili situazioni, ne seguì una discussione piuttosto animata.

“Signori,” disse il cocchiere, “piuttosto che disturbare l’armonia di questa deliziosa occasione, forse il signor Samuel Weller potrebbe onorarci con la sua esibizione.”

“Rally, signori,” disse Sam, “non ho davvero l’abitudine di cantare senza uno strumento; ma qualcosa per una vita tranquilla, come ha detto quell’uomo quando ha accettato il lavoro al faro.”

Con questo preludio, il signor Samuel Weller iniziò immediatamente a raccontare la seguente leggenda selvaggia e meravigliosa; poiché riteniamo che non sia molto conosciuta, ci permettiamo di citarla. Chiediamo in particolare di prestare attenzione alla parola monosillabica presente alla fine della seconda e della quarta riga: essa non solo aiuta il cantante a prendere fiato in quei punti, ma contribuisce anche in modo significativo al ritmo del testo.

Romanzo

I

Il coraggioso Turpin vinse, su Hounslow Heath, cavalcando la sua audace cavalla Bess; arrivato lì, vide il cocchio del Vescovo avvicinarsi lungo la strada. Allora si avvicinò velocemente ai piedi dei cavalli e batté la testa contro di loro; il Vescovo esclamò: “Con certezza, questo è il coraggioso Turpin!”

CORO

“E il vescovo dice: ‘Con certezza, questo è proprio il temerario Turpin!’”

II

“Te ne pentirai,” disse Turpin, “con una pallottola di piombo. Così mise una pistola alla bocca e la sparò giù nello stomaco del cocchiere. A quel punto il cocchiere, non gradendo quella situazione, partì al galoppo. Ma Dick gli sparò altre due pallottole e lo costrinse a fermarsi.”

CORO (in tono sarcastico)

Ma Dick gli mise un paio di palle nel sedere e continuò a tormentarlo fino a che non smise.

“Sostengo che quella ‘canzone’ sia strettamente personale di quel tessuto,” disse il gentiluomo dal viso maculato, interrompendolo in quel momento. “Chiedo il nome di quel cocchiere.”

“Nessuno lo sapeva,” rispose Sam. “Non aveva la carta nel taschino.”

“Obietto all’introduzione della politica,” disse il gentiluomo dal viso maculato. “Ritengo che, in questa compagnia, quella ‘canzone’ abbia un contenuto politico; e, in fondo, non sia nemmeno vera. Dico che quel cocchiere non è scappato; ma che è morto da vero uomo, come fagiani. E non intendo sentire nulla di contrario.”

Mentre il signore dal viso maculato parlava con grande energia e determinazione, e mentre le opinioni del gruppo sembravano divise sull’argomento, si temeva che potessero scatenarsi nuovi litigi, quando arrivarono opportunamente il signor Weller e il signor Pell.

“Va bene, Sammy,” disse il signor Weller.

“L’ufficiale arriverà alle quattro in orario”, disse il signor Pell. “Immagino che non scapperete intanto, vero? Ah! ah!”

“Forse mio padre crudele si pentirà prima di allora,” rispose Sam, con un ampio sorriso.

“Non io,” disse il signor Weller più anziano.

“Facciamolo,” disse Sam.

“Assolutamente no,” rispose il creditore inflessibile.

“Darò ricevute per l’importo richiesto, a sei pence al mese,” disse Sam.

“Non le prenderò,” disse il signor Weller.

“Ahahah, molto bene, molto bene,” disse il signor Solomon Pell, mentre compilava la sua piccola lista delle spese; “un episodio davvero divertente! Benjamin, copia questa.” E il signor Pell sorrise di nuovo, mentre attirava l’attenzione del signor Weller sull’importo specificato.

‘Thank you, thank you,’ said the professional gentleman, taking up another of the greasy notes as Mr. Weller took it from the pocket-book. ‘Three ten and one ten is five. Much obliged to you, Mr. Weller. Your son is a most deserving young man, very much so indeed, Sir. It’s a very pleasant trait in a young man’s character, very much so,’ added Mr. Pell, smiling smoothly round, as he buttoned up the money.

‘Wot a game it is!’ said the elder Mr. Weller, with a chuckle. ‘A reg’lar prodigy son!’

‘Prodigal—prodigal son, Sir,’ suggested Mr. Pell, mildly.

‘Never mind, Sir,’ said Mr. Weller, with dignity. ‘I know wot’s o’clock, Sir. Wen I don’t, I’ll ask you, Sir.’

By the time the officer arrived, Sam had made himself so extremely popular, that the congregated gentlemen determined to see him to prison in a body. So off they set; the plaintiff and defendant walking arm in arm, the officer in front, and eight stout coachmen bringing up the rear. At Serjeant’s Inn Coffee-house the whole party halted to refresh, and, the legal arrangements being completed, the procession moved on again.

Some little commotion was occasioned in Fleet Street, by the pleasantry of the eight gentlemen in the flank, who persevered in walking four abreast; it was also found necessary to leave the mottled-faced gentleman behind, to fight a ticket-porter, it being arranged that his friends should call for him as they came back. Nothing but these little incidents occurred on the way. When they reached the gate of the Fleet, the cavalcade, taking the time from the plaintiff, gave three tremendous cheers for the defendant, and, after having shaken hands all round, left him.

Sam, having been formally delivered into the warder’s custody, to the intense astonishment of Roker, and to the evident emotion of even the phlegmatic Neddy, passed at once into the prison, walked straight to his master’s room, and knocked at the door.

‘Come in,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

Sam appeared, pulled off his hat, and smiled.

‘Ah, Sam, my good lad!’ said Mr. Pickwick, evidently delighted to see his humble friend again; ‘I had no intention of hurting your feelings yesterday, my faithful fellow, by what I said. Put down your hat, Sam, and let me explain my meaning, a little more at length.’

‘Won’t presently do, sir?’ inquired Sam.

‘Certainly,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘but why not now?’

‘I’d rayther not now, sir,’ rejoined Sam.

‘Why?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘’Cause—’ said Sam, hesitating.

‘Because of what?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, alarmed at his follower’s manner. ‘Speak out, Sam.’

‘’Cause,’ rejoined Sam—‘’cause I’ve got a little bisness as I want to do.’

‘What business?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, surprised at Sam’s confused manner.

‘Nothin’ partickler, Sir,’ replied Sam.

‘Oh, if it’s nothing particular,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile, ‘you can speak with me first.’

‘I think I’d better see arter it at once,’ said Sam, still hesitating.

Mr. Pickwick looked amazed, but said nothing.

‘The fact is—’ said Sam, stopping short.

‘Well!’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Speak out, Sam.’

‘Why, the fact is,’ said Sam, with a desperate effort, ‘perhaps I’d better see arter my bed afore I do anythin’ else.’

‘Your bed!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, in astonishment.

‘Yes, my bed, Sir,’ replied Sam, ‘I’m a prisoner. I was arrested this here wery arternoon for debt.’

‘You arrested for debt!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, sinking into a chair.

‘Yes, for debt, Sir,’ replied Sam. ‘And the man as puts me in, ‘ull never let me out till you go yourself.’

‘Bless my heart and soul!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Wot I say, Sir,’ rejoined Sam. ‘If it’s forty years to come, I shall be a prisoner, and I’m very glad on it; and if it had been Newgate, it would ha’ been just the same. Now the murder’s out, and, damme, there’s an end on it!’

With these words, which he repeated with great emphasis and violence, Sam Weller dashed his hat upon the ground, in a most unusual state of excitement; and then, folding his arms, looked firmly and fixedly in his master’s face.

“Grazie, grazie,” disse il gentiluomo professionista, prendendo un’altra di quelle note untuose mentre il signor Weller le estraeva dal portafoglio. “Tre dieci più uno dieci fanno cinque. Grazie mille, signor Weller. Suo figlio è davvero un giovane meritevole, davvero sì, signore. È una qualità molto apprezzabile nel carattere di un giovane,” aggiunse il signor Pell, sorridendo mentre chiudeva la busta con i soldi.

“Che partita incredibile!”, disse il signor Weller più anziano, ridacchiando. “Un vero e proprio figlio prodigio!”

“Figlio prodigo, figlio prodigo, signore,” suggerì gentilmente il signor Pell.

“Non importa, signore,” disse il signor Weller con dignità. “So che ore sono, signore. Se non lo sapessi, vi chiederei, signore.”

Quando l’ufficiale arrivò, Sam si era reso così estremamente popolare che gli uomini radunati decisero di accompagnarlo in prigione tutti insieme. Partirono quindi: il querelante e il convenuto camminavano a braccio, l’ufficiale davanti, e otto robusti cocchieri seguivano dietro. All’osteria della Serjeant’s Inn si fermarono tutti per rinfrescarsi; una volta completate le procedure legali, la processione riprese il suo cammino.

Nella Fleet Street si verificò un po’ di trambusto a causa delle scherzose insistenze degli otto gentiluomini che camminavano sempre in quattro, uno accanto all’altro; inoltre, fu necessario lasciare indietro quel gentiluomo dal viso maculato per fargli affrontare un addetto al controllo dei biglietti, poiché i suoi amici avevano concordato di chiamarlo al loro ritorno. Nient’altro accadde durante il tragitto. Quando raggiunsero l’ingresso della Fleet Street, la comitiva, approfittando del momento in cui il querelante non era presente, lanciò tre grida entusiastiche a favore del convenuto; dopo essersi scambiati saluti, lo lasciarono andare.

Sam, una volta formalmente affidato alla custodia del carceriere, con grande sorpresa di Roker e anche con evidente emozione da parte del freddo e calmo Neddy, entrò immediatamente nella prigione, si diresse direttamente verso la stanza del suo padrone e bussò alla porta.

“Entri pure,” disse il signor Pickwick.

Sam apparve, si tolse il cappello e sorrise.

“Ah, Sam, mio buon ragazzo!” disse il signor Pickwick, chiaramente felice di rivedere il suo umile amico; “Ieri non avevo alcuna intenzione di ferire i tuoi sentimenti, caro amico mio. Metti giù il cappello, Sam, e lascia che ti spieghi più in dettaglio cosa intendevo.”

“Non è possibile adesso, signore?”, chiese Sam.

“Certo,” disse il signor Pickwick; “ma perché non ora?”

“Preferirei di no, signore,” rispose Sam.

“Perché?”, chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Perché, ” disse Sam, esitando.

“Perché?” chiese il signor Pickwick, allarmato dal comportamento del suo seguace. “Parla chiaramente, Sam.”

“Perché,” ribatté Sam, “perché ho una piccola faccenda che devo sbrigare.”

“Che affare è questo?”, chiese il signor Pickwick, sorpreso dal comportamento confuso di Sam.

“Niente di particolare, signore,” rispose Sam.

“Ah, se non è nulla di particolare,” disse il signor Pickwick sorridendo, “potete parlare con me prima.”

“Penso che sia meglio che lo controlli subito,” disse Sam, ancora esitante.

Il signor Pickwick sembrava sorpreso, ma non disse nulla.

“Il fatto è, ” disse Sam, poi si fermò.

“Beh!”, disse il signor Pickwick. “Parla pure, Sam.”

“Beh, in realtà,” disse Sam con un ultimo sforzo disperato, “forse sarebbe meglio che andassi a letto prima di fare qualsiasi altra cosa.”

“Il tuo letto!”, esclamò il signor Pickwick, stupito.

“Sì, signore, è il mio letto,” rispose Sam. “Sono un prigioniero. Sono stato arrestato questo pomeriggio per debiti.”

“Siete stato arrestato per debiti!”, esclamò il signor Pickwick, sedendosi su una sedia.

“Sì, per debiti, signore,” rispose Sam. “E quell’uomo che mi ha messo lì dentro non mi lascia uscire finché lei stesso non se ne va.”

“Mio Dio, mia anima, ” esclamò il signor Pickwick. “Cosa intendi dire?”

“Esatto, signore,” ribatté Sam. “Se dovrò aspettare quarant’anni, sarò un prigioniero, e ne sono molto felice; anche se fosse stato Newgate, sarebbe stato lo stesso. Ora che l’omicidio è stato scoperto, beh, è finita!”

Con queste parole, che ripeté con grande enfasi e violenza, Sam Weller gettò il suo cappello a terra, in uno stato di eccitazione assai insolito; poi, incrociando le braccia, fissò con determinazione il volto del proprio padrone.

CHAPTER XLIV. TREATS OF DIVERS LITTLE MATTERS WHICH OCCURRED IN THE FLEET, AND OF MR. WINKLE’S MYSTERIOUS BEHAVIOUR; AND SHOWS HOW THE POOR CHANCERY PRISONER OBTAINED HIS RELEASE AT LAST

Mr. Pickwick felt a great deal too much touched by the warmth of Sam’s attachment, to be able to exhibit any manifestation of anger or displeasure at the precipitate course he had adopted, in voluntarily consigning himself to a debtor’s prison for an indefinite period. The only point on which he persevered in demanding an explanation, was, the name of Sam’s detaining creditor; but this Mr. Weller as perseveringly withheld.

‘It ain’t o’ no use, sir,’ said Sam, again and again; ‘he’s a malicious, bad-disposed, vorldly-minded, spiteful, windictive creetur, with a hard heart as there ain’t no soft’nin’, as the wirtuous clergyman remarked of the old gen’l’m’n with the dropsy, ven he said, that upon the whole he thought he’d rayther leave his property to his vife than build a chapel vith it.’

‘But consider, Sam,’ Mr. Pickwick remonstrated, ‘the sum is so small that it can very easily be paid; and having made up my mind that you shall stop with me, you should recollect how much more useful you would be, if you could go outside the walls.’

Wery much obliged to you, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller gravely; ‘but I’d rayther not.’

‘Rather not do what, Sam?’

‘Wy, I’d rayther not let myself down to ask a favour o’ this here unremorseful enemy.’

‘But it is no favour asking him to take his money, Sam,’ reasoned Mr. Pickwick.

‘Beg your pardon, sir,’ rejoined Sam, ‘but it ‘ud be a wery great favour to pay it, and he don’t deserve none; that’s where it is, sir.’

Here Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his nose with an air of some vexation, Mr. Weller thought it prudent to change the theme of the discourse.

‘I takes my determination on principle, Sir,’ remarked Sam, ‘and you takes yours on the same ground; wich puts me in mind o’ the man as killed his-self on principle, wich o’ course you’ve heerd on, Sir.’ Mr. Weller paused when he arrived at this point, and cast a comical look at his master out of the corners of his eyes.

‘There is no “of course” in the case, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, gradually breaking into a smile, in spite of the uneasiness which Sam’s obstinacy had given him. ‘The fame of the gentleman in question, never reached my ears.’

‘No, sir!’ exclaimed Mr. Weller. ‘You astonish me, Sir; he wos a clerk in a gov’ment office, sir.’

‘Was he?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes, he wos, Sir,’ rejoined Mr. Weller; ‘and a wery pleasant gen’l’m’n too—one o’ the precise and tidy sort, as puts their feet in little India-rubber fire-buckets wen it’s wet weather, and never has no other bosom friends but hare-skins; he saved up his money on principle, wore a clean shirt ev’ry day on principle; never spoke to none of his relations on principle, ‘fear they shou’d want to borrow money of him; and wos altogether, in fact, an uncommon agreeable character. He had his hair cut on principle vunce a fortnight, and contracted for his clothes on the economic principle—three suits a year, and send back the old uns. Being a wery reg’lar gen’l’m’n, he din’d ev’ry day at the same place, where it was one-and-nine to cut off the joint, and a wery good one-and- nine’s worth he used to cut, as the landlord often said, with the tears a-tricklin’ down his face, let alone the way he used to poke the fire in the vinter time, which wos a dead loss o’ four-pence ha’penny a day, to say nothin’ at all o’ the aggrawation o’ seein’ him do it. So uncommon grand with it too! “_Post _arter the next gen’l’m’n,” he sings out ev’ry day ven he comes in. “See arter the TIMES, Thomas; let me look at the MORNIN’ HERALD, when it’s out o’ hand; don’t forget to bespeak the CHRONICLE; and just bring the ‘TIZER, vill you:” and then he’d set vith his eyes fixed on the clock, and rush out, just a quarter of a minit ‘fore the time to waylay the boy as wos a-comin’ in with the evenin’ paper, which he’d read with sich intense interest and persewerance as worked the other customers up to the wery confines o’ desperation and insanity, ‘specially one i-rascible old gen’l’m’n as the vaiter wos always obliged to keep a sharp eye on, at sich times, fear he should be tempted to commit some rash act with the carving-knife. Vell, Sir, here he’d stop, occupyin’ the best place for three hours, and never takin’ nothin’ arter his dinner, but sleep, and then he’d go away to a coffee- house a few streets off, and have a small pot o’ coffee and four crumpets, arter wich he’d walk home to Kensington and go to bed. One night he wos took very ill; sends for a doctor; doctor comes in a green fly, with a kind o’ Robinson Crusoe set o’ steps, as he could let down wen he got out, and pull up arter him wen he got in, to perwent the necessity o’ the coachman’s gettin’ down, and thereby undeceivin’ the public by lettin’ ‘em see that it wos only a livery coat as he’d got on, and not the trousers to match. “Wot’s the matter?” says the doctor. “Wery ill,” says the patient. “Wot have you been a-eatin’ on?” says the doctor. “Roast weal,” says the patient. “Wot’s the last thing you dewoured?” says the doctor. “Crumpets,” says the patient. “That’s it!” says the doctor. “I’ll send you a box of pills directly, and don’t you never take no more of ‘em,” he says. “No more o’ wot?” says the patient- -“pills?” “No; crumpets,” says the doctor. “Wy?” says the patient, starting up in bed; “I’ve eat four crumpets, ev’ry night for fifteen year, on principle.” “Well, then, you’d better leave ‘em off, on principle,” says the doctor. “Crumpets is _not _wholesome, Sir,” says the doctor, wery fierce. “But they’re so cheap,” says the patient, comin’ down a little, “and so wery fillin’ at the price.” “They’d be dear to you, at any price; dear if you wos paid to eat ‘em,” says the doctor. “Four crumpets a night,” he says, “vill do your business in six months!” The patient looks him full in the face, and turns it over in his mind for a long time, and at last he says, “Are you sure o’ that ‘ere, Sir?” “I’ll stake my professional reputation on it,” says the doctor. “How many crumpets, at a sittin’, do you think ‘ud kill me off at once?” says the patient. “I don’t know,” says the doctor. “Do you think half-a-crown’s wurth ‘ud do it?” says the patient. “I think it might,” says the doctor. “Three shillins’ wurth ‘ud be sure to do it, I s’pose?” says the patient. “Certainly,” says the doctor. “Wery good,” says the patient; “good-night.” Next mornin’ he gets up, has a fire lit, orders in three shillins’ wurth o’ crumpets, toasts ‘em all, eats ‘em all, and blows his brains out.’

CAPITOLO XLIV. Discorsi su diverse piccole questioni accadute nella flotta, nonché sul comportamento misterioso del signor Winkle; inoltre si spiega come il povero prigioniero della Corte dei Cambiali abbia finalmente ottenuto la libertà.

Il signor Pickwick fu profondamente commosso dal calore dell’affetto di Sam, al punto da non riuscire a manifestare alcuna traccia di rabbia o disappunto per la decisione affrettata che aveva preso, decidendo volontariamente di rinchiudersi nella prigione di un debitore per un periodo indeterminato. L’unica cosa su cui insistette nel chiedere spiegazioni fu il nome del creditore che teneva Sam in custodia; ma anche questo, il signor Weller, lo nascose con altrettanta determinazione.

“Non serve a nulla, signore,” diceva Sam ancora e ancora; “è un individuo malvagio, di cattivo carattere, con un modo di pensare materialistico e pieno di rancore; ha un cuore duro come non ne esiste uno più freddo. Come disse quel virtuoso prete riguardo a quell’anziano generale affetto da idropisia: in fondo, preferiva lasciare tutta la sua proprietà alla moglie piuttosto che usarla per costruire una cappella.”

“Ma pensaci bene, Sam,” obiettò il signor Pickwick, “la somma è così piccola che può essere facilmente pagata; e poiché ho deciso che tu debba restare con me, dovresti ricordare quanto saresti più utile se potessi uscire da queste mura.”

“Grazie mille, signore,” rispose seriamente il signor Weller; “ma preferirei di no.”

“Meglio di no, Sam, ”

“Mai mi abbasserei a chiedere un favore a questo nemico senza rimorsi.”

“Ma chiedergli di prendere i suoi soldi non è certo un favore, Sam,” ragionò il signor Pickwick.

“Perdonatemi, signore,” rispose Sam, “ma sarebbe un grande favore pagarlo, e lui non se lo merita affatto; è proprio questo il problema, signore.”

Ecco il signor Pickwick, che si strofinava il naso con un’aria di evidente irritazione; il signor Weller pensò quindi fosse opportuno cambiare argomento della conversazione.

“La mia determinazione deriva dai principi, signore,” osservò Sam, “e la sua deriva dallo stesso motivo; questo mi fa pensare all’uomo che si è ucciso per principio, di cui, naturalmente, avrà sentito parlare, signore.” Il signor Weller fece una pausa in quel punto e lanciò un’occhiata comica al suo padrone con la coda dell’occhio.

“Non c’è alcun ‘certamente’ in questo caso, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick, cominciando gradualmente a sorridere, nonostante l’imbarazzo causato dall’ostinazione di Sam. “La fama di quel gentiluomo, in realtà, non mi è mai giunta alle orecchie.”

“No, signore!” esclamò il signor Weller. “Mi stupite davvero, signore; era un impiegato in un ufficio governativo, signore.”

“Davvero?” disse il signor Pickwick.

I ragazzi erano paralizzati dallo stupore; il giovane ribelle non provava alcuna paura.

‘What did he do that for?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick abruptly; for he was considerably startled by this tragical termination of the narrative.

‘Wot did he do it for, Sir?’ reiterated Sam. ‘Wy, in support of his great principle that crumpets wos wholesome, and to show that he wouldn’t be put out of his way for nobody!’

With such like shiftings and changings of the discourse, did Mr. Weller meet his master’s questioning on the night of his taking up his residence in the Fleet. Finding all gentle remonstrance useless, Mr. Pickwick at length yielded a reluctant consent to his taking lodgings by the week, of a bald-headed cobbler, who rented a small slip room in one of the upper galleries. To this humble apartment Mr. Weller moved a mattress and bedding, which he hired of Mr. Roker; and, by the time he lay down upon it at night, was as much at home as if he had been bred in the prison, and his whole family had vegetated therein for three generations.

‘Do you always smoke arter you goes to bed, old cock?’ inquired Mr. Weller of his landlord, when they had both retired for the night.

‘Yes, I does, young bantam,’ replied the cobbler.

‘Will you allow me to in-quire wy you make up your bed under that ‘ere deal table?’ said Sam.

‘’Cause I was always used to a four-poster afore I came here, and I find the legs of the table answer just as well,’ replied the cobbler.

‘You’re a character, sir,’ said Sam.

‘I haven’t got anything of the kind belonging to me,’ rejoined the cobbler, shaking his head; ‘and if you want to meet with a good one, I’m afraid you’ll find some difficulty in suiting yourself at this register office.’

The above short dialogue took place as Mr. Weller lay extended on his mattress at one end of the room, and the cobbler on his, at the other; the apartment being illumined by the light of a rush-candle, and the cobbler’s pipe, which was glowing below the table, like a red-hot coal. The conversation, brief as it was, predisposed Mr. Weller strongly in his landlord’s favour; and, raising himself on his elbow, he took a more lengthened survey of his appearance than he had yet had either time or inclination to make.

He was a sallow man—all cobblers are; and had a strong bristly beard— all cobblers have. His face was a queer, good-tempered, crooked-featured piece of workmanship, ornamented with a couple of eyes that must have worn a very joyous expression at one time, for they sparkled yet. The man was sixty, by years, and Heaven knows how old by imprisonment, so that his having any look approaching to mirth or contentment, was singular enough. He was a little man, and, being half doubled up as he lay in bed, looked about as long as he ought to have been without his legs. He had a great red pipe in his mouth, and was smoking, and staring at the rush-light, in a state of enviable placidity.

‘Have you been here long?’ inquired Sam, breaking the silence which had lasted for some time.

‘Twelve year,’ replied the cobbler, biting the end of his pipe as he spoke.

‘Contempt?’ inquired Sam.

The cobbler nodded.

‘Well, then,’ said Sam, with some sternness, ‘wot do you persevere in bein’ obstinit for, vastin’ your precious life away, in this here magnified pound? Wy don’t you give in, and tell the Chancellorship that you’re wery sorry for makin’ his court contemptible, and you won’t do so no more?’

The cobbler put his pipe in the corner of his mouth, while he smiled, and then brought it back to its old place again; but said nothing.

‘Wy don’t you?’ said Sam, urging his question strenuously.

‘Ah,’ said the cobbler, ‘you don’t quite understand these matters. What do you suppose ruined me, now?’

‘Wy,’ said Sam, trimming the rush-light, ‘I s’pose the beginnin’ wos, that you got into debt, eh?’

‘Never owed a farden,’ said the cobbler; ‘try again.’

‘Well, perhaps,’ said Sam, ‘you bought houses, wich is delicate English for goin’ mad; or took to buildin’, wich is a medical term for bein’ incurable.’

The cobbler shook his head and said, ‘Try again.’

‘You didn’t go to law, I hope?’ said Sam suspiciously.

‘Never in my life,’ replied the cobbler. ‘The fact is, I was ruined by having money left me.’

‘Come, come,’ said Sam, ‘that von’t do. I wish some rich enemy ‘ud try to vork my destruction in that ‘ere vay. I’d let him.’

‘Oh, I dare say you don’t believe it,’ said the cobbler, quietly smoking his pipe. ‘I wouldn’t if I was you; but it’s true for all that.’

‘How wos it?’ inquired Sam, half induced to believe the fact already, by the look the cobbler gave him.

‘Just this,’ replied the cobbler; ‘an old gentleman that I worked for, down in the country, and a humble relation of whose I married—she’s dead, God bless her, and thank Him for it!—was seized with a fit and went off.’

‘Where?’ inquired Sam, who was growing sleepy after the numerous events of the day.

‘How should I know where he went?’ said the cobbler, speaking through his nose in an intense enjoyment of his pipe. ‘He went off dead.’

‘Oh, that indeed,’ said Sam. ‘Well?’

‘Well,’ said the cobbler, ‘he left five thousand pound behind him.’

‘And wery gen-teel in him so to do,’ said Sam.

‘One of which,’ continued the cobbler, ‘he left to me, ‘cause I married his relation, you see.’

‘Wery good,’ murmured Sam.

‘And being surrounded by a great number of nieces and nevys, as was always quarrelling and fighting among themselves for the property, he makes me his executor, and leaves the rest to me in trust, to divide it among ‘em as the will prowided.’

‘Wot do you mean by leavin’ it on trust?’ inquired Sam, waking up a little. ‘If it ain’t ready-money, were’s the use on it?’

‘It’s a law term, that’s all,’ said the cobbler.

‘I don’t think that,’ said Sam, shaking his head. ‘There’s wery little trust at that shop. Hows’ever, go on.’

Well,’ said the cobbler, ‘when I was going to take out a probate of the will, the nieces and nevys, who was desperately disappointed at not getting all the money, enters a caveat against it.’

“Perché l’ha fatto?” chiese improvvisamente il signor Pickwick; infatti era rimasto piuttosto sorpreso da questa tragica conclusione della storia.

“Perché l’ha fatto, signore?”, ripeté Sam. “Beh, per sostenere il suo grande principio secondo cui i crumpets sono salutari, e per dimostrare che non avrebbe mai fatto uno sforzo inutile per nessuno!”

Con tali cambiamenti e modifiche nel suo modo di esprimersi, il signor Weller rispose alle domande del suo padrone nella notte in cui si stabilì nella prigione della Fleet. Ritenendo inutili ogni tentativo di persuasione gentile, il signor Pickwick alla fine acconsentì a prendere in affitto una piccola stanza presso un calzolaio calvo che aveva affittato un angolo in uno degli spazi superiori della prigione. Il signor Weller portò lì un materasso e le lenzuola, che aveva noleggiato dal signor Roker; e quando, alla notte, si coricò su quel letto, si sentiva proprio come se fosse nato in quella prigione e tutta la sua famiglia vi avesse vissuto per tre generazioni.

“Fumi sempre prima di andare a letto, vecchio idiota?” chiese il signor Weller al suo padrone di casa, quando entrambi si erano ritirati per la notte.

“Sì, lo faccio,” rispose il calzolaio.

“Mi permetterai di chiederti perché prepari il letto sotto quel tavolo da gioco?” disse Sam.

“Perché prima di venire qui ero abituato ai letti con quattro colonne, e trovo che le gambe di questo tavolo funzionino altrettanto bene,” rispose il calzolaio.

“Lei è davvero un personaggio eccezionale, signore,” disse Sam.

“Non possiedo nulla del genere che mi appartenga,” rispose il calzolaio scuotendo la testa; “e se volete incontrare qualcuno davvero bravo, temo che avrete delle difficoltà a trovarlo in questo ufficio registro.”

Il breve dialogo sopra descritto ebbe luogo mentre il signor Weller giaceva disteso sul suo materasso in un angolo della stanza, e il calzolaio nell’angolo opposto; l’appartamento era illuminato dalla luce di una candela di canna e dal fumo del pipe del calzolaio, che brillava sotto il tavolo come un carbone arroventato. La conversazione, per quanto breve, fece sì che il signor Weller prendesse una forte simpatia per il suo padrone di casa; così, alzandosi su un gomito, osservò più attentamente l’aspetto del calzolaio di quanto avesse mai avuto il tempo o la voglia di fare prima.

Era un uomo pallido, tutti i calzolai lo sono; e aveva una barba folta e ispida, tutti i calzolai ne hanno una. Il suo viso era un insieme strano di linee contorte, ma dall’aspetto sembrava una persona bonaria. Gli occhi, però, dovevano aver avuto un tempo un’espressione molto gioiosa, perché ancora brillavano. Aveva sessant’anni, e chissà quanti ne aveva aggiunti in prigione. Quindi il fatto che mostrasse anche solo un minimo di felicità o soddisfazione era davvero sorprendente. Era un uomo piccolo; sdraiato a letto, sembrava ancora più basso senza le gambe. Aveva una grande pipa rossa in bocca e fumava, fissando la lampada a olio con uno sguardo di serenità davvero invidiabile.

“Sei qui da molto tempo?” chiese Sam, rompendo il silenzio che durava da alcuni minuti.

“Dodici anni,” rispose il calzolaio, mordicchiando l’estremità della sua pipa mentre parlava.

“Disprezzo?”, chiese Sam.

Il calzolaio annuì.

“Beh, allora,” disse Sam con una certa severità, “perché continui a essere così testardo, sprecando la tua preziosa vita in questa assurda situazione? Perché non ti arrendi e non dici al Consiglio che ti dispiace molto aver reso la sua corte così disprezzabile, e che non lo farai più?”

Il calzolaio mise la sua pipa nell’angolo della bocca, sorridendo, poi la riportò al suo solito posto; ma non disse nulla.

“Non lo fai anche tu?” disse Sam, ponendo la domanda con insistenza.

“Ah,” disse il calzolaio, “non capite del tutto queste cose. Cosa credete che mi abbia rovinato adesso?”

“Beh,” disse Sam, sistemando la lampada a olio, “immagino che tutto sia iniziato quando hai preso in prestito dei soldi, vero?”

“Non mi devi nemmeno un penny,” disse il calzolaio; “prova di nuovo.”

“Beh, forse,” disse Sam, “hai comprato case, il che è un modo elegante per dire che sei impazzito; oppure hai iniziato a costruire, il che, in termini medici, significa essere irrimediabilmente folle.”

Il calzolaio scosse la testa e disse: “Prova di nuovo.”

“Non hai intrapreso alcuna azione legale, spero, ”, disse Sam con sospetto.

“Mai nella mia vita,” rispose il calzolaio. “In realtà, sono stato rovinato dal fatto che mi è rimasto del denaro.”

“Ma come, ma come,” disse Sam, “questo non va affatto bene. Vorrei che qualche nemico ricco provasse a cercare di distruggermi con quel metodo. Glielo permetterei.”

“Ah, scommetto che non ci credete,” disse il calzolaio, fumando tranquillamente la sua pipa. “Anch’io non ci credevo se fossi in voi; ma è davvero vero.”

“Com’è andata?” chiese Sam, già incline a credere a quella storia a causa dello sguardo che il calzolaio gli aveva rivolto.

“Solo questo,” rispose il calzolaio; “un vecchio signore per cui lavoravo, in campagna, e una parente umile di cui mi sono sposato. Lei è morta, che Dio la benedica e gliene sia grato. Ha avuto un attacco improvviso ed è morto.”

“Dove?”, chiese Sam, che stava iniziando a sentire sonno dopo tutti gli eventi della giornata.

“Come faccio a sapere dove sia andato?” disse il calzolaio, parlando attraverso il naso mentre assaporava con piacere la sua pipa. “È morto e basta.”

“Ah, sì davvero,” disse Sam. “E poi?”

“Beh,” disse il calzolaio, “ha lasciato cinquemila sterline dietro di sé.”

“E poi era davvero molto gentile nel farlo,” disse Sam.

“Uno di questi,” continuò il calzolaio, “me lo lasciò in eredità, perché ho sposato una sua parente, capite?”

“Molto buono,” mormorò Sam.

Essendo circondato da un gran numero di nipoti e nipotine, che continuavano sempre a litigare e a combattere tra loro per l’eredità, mi ha nominato suo esecutore e mi ha affidato il resto degli oggetti in custodia, affinché li distribuisca tra di loro secondo quanto previsto dal testamento.

“Cosa intendi per lasciarlo ‘in affidamento’?”, chiese Sam, svegliandosi un po’. “Se non si tratta di denaro contante, a cosa serve allora?”

“È solo un termine legale, nient’altro,” disse il calzolaio.

“Non credo proprio,” disse Sam scuotendo la testa. “In quel negozio c’è molto poca fiducia. Comunque, continua pure.”

“Beh,” disse il calzolaio, “quando sono andato ad ottenere l’attestazione ufficiale del testamento, le nipoti e i nipoti maschi, disperatamente delusi di non aver ricevuto tutto il denaro, hanno presentato un’opposizione al testamento stesso.”

What’s that?’ inquired Sam.

‘A legal instrument, which is as much as to say, it’s no go,’ replied the cobbler.

‘I see,’ said Sam, ‘a sort of brother-in-law o’ the have-his-carcass. Well.’

‘But,’ continued the cobbler, ‘finding that they couldn’t agree among themselves, and consequently couldn’t get up a case against the will, they withdrew the caveat, and I paid all the legacies. I’d hardly done it, when one nevy brings an action to set the will aside. The case comes on, some months afterwards, afore a deaf old gentleman, in a back room somewhere down by Paul’s Churchyard; and arter four counsels had taken a day a-piece to bother him regularly, he takes a week or two to consider, and read the evidence in six volumes, and then gives his judgment that how the testator was not quite right in his head, and I must pay all the money back again, and all the costs. I appealed; the case come on before three or four very sleepy gentlemen, who had heard it all before in the other court, where they’re lawyers without work; the only difference being, that, there, they’re called doctors, and in the other place delegates, if you understand that; and they very dutifully confirmed the decision of the old gentleman below. After that, we went into Chancery, where we are still, and where I shall always be. My lawyers have had all my thousand pound long ago; and what between the estate, as they call it, and the costs, I’m here for ten thousand, and shall stop here, till I die, mending shoes. Some gentlemen have talked of bringing it before Parliament, and I dare say would have done it, only they hadn’t time to come to me, and I hadn’t power to go to them, and they got tired of my long letters, and dropped the business. And this is God’s truth, without one word of suppression or exaggeration, as fifty people, both in this place and out of it, very well know.’

The cobbler paused to ascertain what effect his story had produced on Sam; but finding that he had dropped asleep, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, sighed, put it down, drew the bed-clothes over his head, and went to sleep, too.

Mr. Pickwick was sitting at breakfast, alone, next morning (Sam being busily engaged in the cobbler’s room, polishing his master’s shoes and brushing the black gaiters) when there came a knock at the door, which, before Mr. Pickwick could cry ‘Come in!’ was followed by the appearance of a head of hair and a cotton-velvet cap, both of which articles of dress he had no difficulty in recognising as the personal property of Mr. Smangle.

‘How are you?’ said that worthy, accompanying the inquiry with a score or two of nods; ‘I say—do you expect anybody this morning? Three men— devilish gentlemanly fellows—have been asking after you downstairs, and knocking at every door on the hall flight; for which they’ve been most infernally blown up by the collegians that had the trouble of opening ‘em.’

‘Dear me! How very foolish of them,’ said Mr. Pickwick, rising. ‘Yes; I have no doubt they are some friends whom I rather expected to see, yesterday.’

‘Friends of yours!’ exclaimed Smangle, seizing Mr. Pickwick by the hand. ‘Say no more. Curse me, they’re friends of mine from this minute, and friends of Mivins’s, too. Infernal pleasant, gentlemanly dog, Mivins, isn’t he?’ said Smangle, with great feeling.

‘I know so little of the gentleman,’ said Mr. Pickwick, hesitating, ‘that I—’

‘I know you do,’ interrupted Smangle, clasping Mr. Pickwick by the shoulder. ‘You shall know him better. You’ll be delighted with him. That man, Sir,’ said Smangle, with a solemn countenance, ‘has comic powers that would do honour to Drury Lane Theatre.’

‘Has he indeed?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Ah, by Jove he has!’ replied Smangle. ‘Hear him come the four cats in the wheel-barrow—four distinct cats, sir, I pledge you my honour. Now you know that’s infernal clever! Damme, you can’t help liking a man, when you see these traits about him. He’s only one fault—that little failing I mentioned to you, you know.’

As Mr. Smangle shook his head in a confidential and sympathising manner at this juncture, Mr. Pickwick felt that he was expected to say something, so he said, ‘Ah!’ and looked restlessly at the door.

‘Ah!’ echoed Mr. Smangle, with a long-drawn sigh. ‘He’s delightful company, that man is, sir. I don’t know better company anywhere; but he has that one drawback. If the ghost of his grandfather, Sir, was to rise before him this minute, he’d ask him for the loan of his acceptance on an eightpenny stamp.’

Dear me!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes,’ added Mr. Smangle; ‘and if he’d the power of raising him again, he would, in two months and three days from this time, to renew the bill!’

‘Those are very remarkable traits,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘but I’m afraid that while we are talking here, my friends may be in a state of great perplexity at not finding me.’

‘I’ll show ‘em the way,’ said Smangle, making for the door. ‘Good-day. I won’t disturb you while they’re here, you know. By the bye—’

As Smangle pronounced the last three words, he stopped suddenly, reclosed the door which he had opened, and, walking softly back to Mr. Pickwick, stepped close up to him on tiptoe, and said, in a very soft whisper—

‘You couldn’t make it convenient to lend me half-a-crown till the latter end of next week, could you?’

Mr. Pickwick could scarcely forbear smiling, but managing to preserve his gravity, he drew forth the coin, and placed it in Mr. Smangle’s palm; upon which, that gentleman, with many nods and winks, implying profound mystery, disappeared in quest of the three strangers, with whom he presently returned; and having coughed thrice, and nodded as many times, as an assurance to Mr. Pickwick that he would not forget to pay, he shook hands all round, in an engaging manner, and at length took himself off.

“Cos’è quello?” chiese Sam.

“Un atto legale, il che significa, in altre parole, che non è possibile”, rispose il calzolaio.

“Capisco,” disse Sam, “una sorta di cognato di quel tizio che ha sempre tutto.”
“Beh, ”

“Ma,” continuò il calzolaio, “trovandosi incapaci di accordarsi tra loro e quindi impossibilitati a presentare un ricorso contro il testamento, ritirarono quella clausola restrittiva e io pagai tutti gli eredi designati. Appena lo feci, qualcuno presentò una causa per annullare il testamento. Il processo ebbe luogo alcuni mesi dopo davanti a un anziano signore sordo, in una stanza appartata vicino al cimitero di Paul’s Churchyard; dopo che quattro avvocati si presero ciascuno un giorno intero per esaminare il caso, lui ci impiegò ancora una settimana o due per rifletterci, leggere tutte le prove presentate in sei volumi, e alla fine concluse che il testatore non era del tutto sano di mente. Così dovetti restituire tutti i soldi e pagare anche tutte le spese legali. Presentai appello; il caso fu riesaminato da altri tre o quattro giudici, che avevano già ascoltato tutta la storia in un altro tribunale. L’unica differenza era che lì venivano chiamati avvocati, mentre qui delegati. Comunque, essi confermarono puntualmente la decisione del primo giudice. Dopo di ciò, portammo il caso alla Corte della Cancelleria. E lì siamo ancora, e lì rimarrò per sempre. I miei avvocati hanno già preso tutti i miei mille sterline da tempo. E tra l’eredità, come la chiamano loro, e le spese legali, ora mi trovo in debito di diecimila sterline. E rimarrò qui a riparare scarpe fino alla mia morte. Alcuni hanno proposto di portare il caso al Parlamento. Credo che avrebbero potuto farlo, se solo avessero avuto il tempo di contattarmi. E io avessi avuto i mezzi per incontrarli. Ma si sono stancati delle mie lunghe lettere e hanno abbandonato l’idea. E questa è la pura verità. Senza alcuna omissione né esagerazione. Come lo sanno benissimo cinquanta persone, sia qui che altrove.”

Il calzolaio si fermò per vedere quale effetto avesse avuto la sua storia su Sam; ma vedendo che questi si era addormentato, spazzolò via le ceneri dalla sua pipa, sospirò, la posò giù, si coprì con le coperte e anche lui andò a dormire.

Il signor Pickwick stava pranzando da solo la mattina seguente (Sam era impegnato nella stanza del calzolaio a lucidare le scarpe del suo padrone e a pulire i gambali neri) quando qualcuno bussò alla porta. Prima ancora che il signor Pickwick potesse dire “Entrate!”, apparve una testa con un cappello di velluto di cotone: entrambi questi oggetti gli risultarono immediatamente riconoscibili come appartenenti al signor Smangle.

“Come stai?” disse quell’uomo gentile, accompagnando la domanda con un paio di cenni del capo; “A proposito, aspetti qualcuno questa mattina? Tre uomini, davvero molto cortesi, hanno chiesto di te al piano di sotto e bussato a tutte le porte del corridoio; per questo sono stati letteralmente rimproverati dagli studenti che si sono presi la briga di aprirle.”

“Mio Dio! Che sciocchezza da parte loro,” disse il signor Pickwick alzandosi. “Sì; non ho alcun >dubbio che siano alcuni amici che in realtà mi aspettavo di vedere ieri.”

“Amici tuoi!”, esclamò Smangle, afferrando il signor Pickwick per la mano. “Non dire altro. Perdio, da questo momento sono miei amici, e anche amici di Mivins. Che individuo delizioso e gentiluomo, quel Mivins, non è vero?” disse Smangle con grande emozione.

“So così poco di questo gentiluomo,” disse il signor Pickwick esitando, “che io–”

“So che lo sai,” interruppe Smangle, afferrando il signor Pickwick per la spalla. “Lo conoscerai meglio. Ne sarai entusiasta. Quell’uomo, signore,” disse Smangle con un’espressione solenne, “possiede capacità comiche che darebbero onore al Drury Lane Theatre.”

“Davvero lo ha fatto?” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Ah, per Giove, ce l’ha davvero!” rispose Smangle. “Sentite come arriva: sembra il rumore di quattro gatti in una carriola a ruote. Quattro gatti distinti, signore, ve lo giuro sulla mia onore! Ora capite che genio infernale sia. Accidenti, non si può fare a meno di ammirare un uomo quando possiede queste qualità. Ha solo un difetto. Quel piccolo difetto di cui vi ho parlato, sapete, ”

Mentre il signor Smangle scuoteva la testa in modo confidenziale e comprensivo, in quel momento il signor Pickwick sentì che si aspettava da lui che dicesse qualcosa; così disse: “Ah!”, e guardò con impazienza verso la porta.

“Ah!”, esclamò il signor Smangle con un lungo sospiro. “Quell’uomo è davvero una compagnia deliziosa, signore. Non conosco nessuna compagnia migliore; ma ha quel difetto. Se l’fantasma di suo nonno dovesse apparirgli proprio in questo momento, gli chiederebbe in prestito il suo “sì” scritto su un francobollo da otto penny, ”

“Mio Dio!”, esclamò il signor Pickwick.

“Sì,” aggiunse il signor Smangle; “e se avesse il potere di risvegliarlo di nuovo, lo farebbe, tra due mesi e tre giorni da questo momento, per rinnovare il conto!”

“Sono tratti davvero notevoli,” disse il signor Pickwick; “ma temo che, mentre noi stiamo parlando qui, i miei amici possano trovarsi in una situazione di grande perplessità, non riuscendo a trovarmi.”

“Gli mostrerò la strada,” disse Smangle, dirigendosi verso la porta. “Buongiorno. Non vi disturberò mentre sono qui, capite? A proposito, ”

Mentre Smangle pronunciava le ultime tre parole, si fermò improvvisamente, richiuse la porta che aveva aperto e, tornando silenziosamente da Mr. Pickwick, gli si avvicinò in punta di piedi e disse, a voce molto bassa.

“Non potresti sistemare le cose in modo che tu possa prestarmi mezza corona fino alla fine della prossima settimana, per favore?”

Il signor Pickwick faticava a trattenersi dal sorridere, ma riuscì a mantenere la sua serietà. Estrasse quindi la moneta e la mise nella mano del signor Smangle; quest’ultimo, dopo molti cenni del capo e occhiate significative che sembravano nascondere un mistero profondo, scomparve tra quei tre stranieri con cui poco dopo tornò. Dopo aver tossito tre volte e fatto altrettanti cenni del capo per assicurare al signor Pickwick che non avrebbe dimenticato di pagare, strinse la mano a tutti in modo molto affabile e infine se ne andò.

‘My dear friends,’ said Mr. Pickwick, shaking hands alternately with Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass, who were the three visitors in question, ‘I am delighted to see you.’

The triumvirate were much affected. Mr. Tupman shook his head deploringly, Mr. Snodgrass drew forth his handkerchief, with undisguised emotion; and Mr. Winkle retired to the window, and sniffed aloud.

‘Mornin’, gen’l’m’n,’ said Sam, entering at the moment with the shoes and gaiters. ‘Avay vith melincholly, as the little boy said ven his schoolmissus died. Velcome to the college, gen’l’m’n.’

‘This foolish fellow,’ said Mr. Pickwick, tapping Sam on the head as he knelt down to button up his master’s gaiters—‘this foolish fellow has got himself arrested, in order to be near me.’

‘What!’ exclaimed the three friends.

‘Yes, gen’l’m’n,’ said Sam, ‘I’m a—stand steady, sir, if you please— I’m a prisoner, gen’l’m’n. Con-fined, as the lady said.’

‘A prisoner!’ exclaimed Mr. Winkle, with unaccountable vehemence.

‘Hollo, sir!’ responded Sam, looking up. ‘Wot’s the matter, Sir?’

‘I had hoped, Sam, that—Nothing, nothing,’ said Mr. Winkle precipitately.

There was something so very abrupt and unsettled in Mr. Winkle’s manner, that Mr. Pickwick involuntarily looked at his two friends for an explanation.

‘We don’t know,’ said Mr. Tupman, answering this mute appeal aloud. ‘He has been much excited for two days past, and his whole demeanour very unlike what it usually is. We feared there must be something the matter, but he resolutely denies it.’

‘No, no,’ said Mr. Winkle, colouring beneath Mr. Pickwick’s gaze; ‘there is really nothing. I assure you there is nothing, my dear sir. It will be necessary for me to leave town, for a short time, on private business, and I had hoped to have prevailed upon you to allow Sam to accompany me.’

Mr. Pickwick looked more astonished than before.

‘I think,’ faltered Mr. Winkle, ‘that Sam would have had no objection to do so; but, of course, his being a prisoner here, renders it impossible. So I must go alone.’

As Mr. Winkle said these words, Mr. Pickwick felt, with some astonishment, that Sam’s fingers were trembling at the gaiters, as if he were rather surprised or startled. Sam looked up at Mr. Winkle, too, when he had finished speaking; and though the glance they exchanged was instantaneous, they seemed to understand each other.

‘Do you know anything of this, Sam?’ said Mr. Pickwick sharply.

‘No, I don’t, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, beginning to button with extraordinary assiduity.

‘Are you sure, Sam?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Wy, sir,’ responded Mr. Weller; ‘I’m sure so far, that I’ve never heerd anythin’ on the subject afore this moment. If I makes any guess about it,’ added Sam, looking at Mr. Winkle, ‘I haven’t got any right to say what it is, ‘fear it should be a wrong ‘un.’

‘I have no right to make any further inquiry into the private affairs of a friend, however intimate a friend,’ said Mr. Pickwick, after a short silence; ‘at present let me merely say, that I do not understand this at all. There. We have had quite enough of the subject.’

Thus expressing himself, Mr. Pickwick led the conversation to different topics, and Mr. Winkle gradually appeared more at ease, though still very far from being completely so. They had all so much to converse about, that the morning very quickly passed away; and when, at three o’clock, Mr. Weller produced upon the little dining-table, a roast leg of mutton and an enormous meat-pie, with sundry dishes of vegetables, and pots of porter, which stood upon the chairs or the sofa bedstead, or where they could, everybody felt disposed to do justice to the meal, notwithstanding that the meat had been purchased, and dressed, and the pie made, and baked, at the prison cookery hard by.

To these succeeded a bottle or two of very good wine, for which a messenger was despatched by Mr. Pickwick to the Horn Coffee-house, in Doctors’ Commons. The bottle or two, indeed, might be more properly described as a bottle or six, for by the time it was drunk, and tea over, the bell began to ring for strangers to withdraw.

But, if Mr. Winkle’s behaviour had been unaccountable in the morning, it became perfectly unearthly and solemn when, under the influence of his feelings, and his share of the bottle or six, he prepared to take leave of his friend. He lingered behind, until Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass had disappeared, and then fervently clenched Mr. Pickwick’s hand, with an expression of face in which deep and mighty resolve was fearfully blended with the very concentrated essence of gloom.

‘Good-night, my dear Sir!’ said Mr. Winkle between his set teeth.

‘Bless you, my dear fellow!’ replied the warm-hearted Mr. Pickwick, as he returned the pressure of his young friend’s hand.

‘Now then!’ cried Mr. Tupman from the gallery.

‘Yes, yes, directly,’ replied Mr. Winkle. ‘Good-night!’

‘Good-night,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

There was another good-night, and another, and half a dozen more after that, and still Mr. Winkle had fast hold of his friend’s hand, and was looking into his face with the same strange expression.

‘Is anything the matter?’ said Mr. Pickwick at last, when his arm was quite sore with shaking.

‘Nothing,’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘Well then, good-night,’ said Mr. Pickwick, attempting to disengage his hand.

‘My friend, my benefactor, my honoured companion,’ murmured Mr. Winkle, catching at his wrist. ‘Do not judge me harshly; do not, when you hear that, driven to extremity by hopeless obstacles, I—’

‘Now then,’ said Mr. Tupman, reappearing at the door. ‘Are you coming, or are we to be locked in?’

‘Yes, yes, I am ready,’ replied Mr. Winkle. And with a violent effort he tore himself away.

As Mr. Pickwick was gazing down the passage after them in silent astonishment, Sam Weller appeared at the stair-head, and whispered for one moment in Mr. Winkle’s ear.

“Miei cari amici,” disse il signor Pickwick, stringendo la mano a turno al signor Tupman, al signor Winkle e al signor Snodgrass, che erano i tre visitatori in questione, “Sono molto felice di vedervi.”

Il triumvirato ne fu profondamente colpito. Il signor Tupman scosse la testa con rammarico, il signor Snodgrass tirò fuori il fazzoletto, mostrando emozioni inequivocabili; mentre il signor Winkle si ritirò vicino alla finestra e iniziò a singhiozzare ad alta voce.

“Buongiorno, signore,” disse Sam entrando in quel momento con le scarpe e i gambali. “Si prega di accomodarsi, come disse il bambino quando la sua insegnante morì. Benvenuto al college, signore.”

“Questo sciocco,” disse il signor Pickwick, battendo sulla testa di Sam mentre si chinava per allacciare i gambali del suo padrone, “questo sciocco si è fatto arrestare soltanto per stare vicino a me.”

“Che cosa!”, esclamarono i tre amici.

“Sì, signore,” disse Sam, “sono un prigioniero. Rinchiuso, come ha detto la signora.”

“Un prigioniero!” esclamò il signor Winkle con una veemenza inspiegabile.

“Ehi, signore!” rispose Sam alzando lo sguardo. “Che c’è, signore?”

“Speravo, Sam, che. Niente, niente,” disse il signor Winkle in fretta.

C’era qualcosa di così improvviso e inquietante nel modo di comportarsi del signor Winkle, che il signor Pickwick guardò involontariamente i suoi due amici in cerca di una spiegazione.

“Non lo sappiamo,” disse il signor Tupman, rispondendo ad questo silenzioso appello ad alta voce. “È stato molto agitato negli ultimi due giorni, e il suo comportamento è completamente diverso dal solito. Temevamo che ci fosse qualcosa che non andava, ma lui lo nega con fermezza.”

“No, no,” disse il signor Winkle, arrossendo sotto lo sguardo del signor Pickwick; “veramente non c’è nulla. Vi assicuro che non c’è nulla, mio caro signore. Sarà necessario che lasci la città per un breve periodo per motivi personali, e speravo di riuscire a convincervi ad permettere a Sam di accompagnarmi.”

Il signor Pickwick sembrava ancora più sorpreso di prima.

“Penso,” balbettò il signor Winkle, “che Sam non avrebbe avuto obiezioni ad farlo; ma naturalmente, essendo prigioniero qui, è impossibile. Quindi dovrò andare da solo.”

Mentre il signor Winkle pronunciava queste parole, il signor Pickwick notò, con una certa sorpresa, che le dita di Sam tremavano mentre sistemava i calzini, come se fosse piuttosto sorpreso o spaventato. Anche Sam alzò lo sguardo sul signor Winkle quando questi finì di parlare; e sebbene lo scambio di occhiate fosse stato istantaneo, sembrarono capirsi a vicenda.

“Sai qualcosa al riguardo, Sam?”, chiese bruscamente il signor Pickwick.

“No, non lo faccio, signore,” rispose il signor Weller, iniziando a abbottonarsi con estrema diligenza.

“Sei sicuro, Sam?”, disse il signor Pickwick.

“Beh, signore,” rispose il signor Weller; “sono sicuro che fino ad ora non abbia mai sentito nulla al riguardo. Se dovesse fare qualche congettura, ” aggiunse Sam, guardando il signor Winkle, “non ho alcun diritto di dire di cosa si tratti, temo possa essere qualcosa di sbagliato.”

“Non ho il diritto di indagare ulteriormente sugli affari privati di un amico, per quanto intimo possa essere,” disse il signor Pickwick dopo un breve silenzio; “per ora posso solo dire che non capisco affatto questa situazione. Bene, abbiamo parlato abbastanza dell’argomento.”

Esprimendosi in questo modo, il signor Pickwick portò la conversazione su diversi argomenti, e il signor Winkle gradualmente sembrò più a suo agio, anche se ancora lontano dal sentirsi completamente a proprio agio. Avevano così tante cose di cui parlare che la mattina passò molto rapidamente; e quando, alle tre in ora, il signor Weller portò sul piccolo tavolo da pranzo una gamba di montone arrostita e un’enorme torta di carne, insieme a vari piatti di verdure e pentole di birra, tutti furono disposti a godersi quel pasto, nonostante la carne fosse stata acquistata, preparata, e la torta fatta e cotta nella cucina della prigione situata nelle vicinanze.

Dopo questi, furono servite una o due bottiglie di vino molto buono; per acquistarle, il signor Pickwick inviò un messaggero presso la Horn Coffee-House, situata in Doctors’ Commons. Quelle una o due bottiglie, in realtà, avrebbero potuto essere più correttamente descritte come una o sei, perché quando vennero finite, e il tè fu terminato, già suonava la campanella che chiamava gli estranei a ritirarsi.

Ma se il comportamento del signor Winkle era stato inspiegabile la mattina, divenne davvero straordinario e solenne quando, sotto l’effetto dei suoi sentimenti e di quella bottiglia o sei che aveva bevuto, si preparò ad accomiatarsi dal suo amico. Rimase indietro fino a quando il signor Tupman e il signor Snodgrass non se ne furono andati, poi strinse con fervore la mano del signor Pickwick, con un’espressione sul viso in cui una profonda e decisa risoluzione si mescolava in modo terribile all’essenza stessa della tristezza.

“Buona notte, mio caro signore!”, disse il signor Winkle, stringendo i denti.

“Che Dio ti benedica, mio caro amico!” rispose il gentile signor Pickwick stringendo nuovamente la mano del suo giovane amico.

“E ora!” gridò il signor Tupman dal palco.

“Sì, sì, subito,” rispose il signor Winkle. “Buona notte!”

“Buona notte”, disse il signor Pickwick.

Passò un’altra bella notte, e poi un’altra ancora; ne passarono altre mezza dozzina dopo quella. Ma il signor Winkle continuava a tenere saldamente la mano del suo amico, guardandolo in faccia con lo stesso strano espressione.

“C’è qualche problema?” chiese finalmente il signor Pickwick, quando il suo braccio era diventato completamente dolorante a forza di tremare.

“Niente,” disse il signor Winkle.

“Allora, buona notte,” disse il signor Pickwick, cercando di liberare la sua mano.

“Mio amico, mio benefattore, mio onorato compagno,” mormorò il signor Winkle, afferrandogli il polso. “Non giudicatemi troppo severamente; non crediate che, di fronte ad ostacoli insormontabili, io, ”

“Bene,” disse il signor Tupman, ricomparendo alla porta. “Vieni adesso, o dobbiamo rimanere chiusi dentro?”

“Sì, sì, sono pronto,” rispose il signor Winkle. E con un grande sforzo si liberò.

Mentre il signor Pickwick li guardava scendere il corridoio con silenzioso stupore, Sam Weller apparve in cima alle scale e sussurrò qualcosa all’orecchio del signor Winkle per un momento.

‘Oh, certainly, depend upon me,’ said that gentleman aloud.

‘Thank’ee, sir. You won’t forget, sir?’ said Sam.

‘Of course not,’ replied Mr. Winkle.

‘Wish you luck, Sir,’ said Sam, touching his hat. ‘I should very much liked to ha’ joined you, Sir; but the gov’nor, o’ course, is paramount.’

‘It is very much to your credit that you remain here,’ said Mr. Winkle. With these words they disappeared down the stairs.

‘Very extraordinary,’ said Mr. Pickwick, going back into his room, and seating himself at the table in a musing attitude. ‘What can that young man be going to do?’

He had sat ruminating about the matter for some time, when the voice of Roker, the turnkey, demanded whether he might come in.

‘By all means,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘I’ve brought you a softer pillow, Sir,’ said Mr. Roker, ‘instead of the temporary one you had last night.’

‘Thank you,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Will you take a glass of wine?’

‘You’re wery good, Sir,’ replied Mr. Roker, accepting the proffered glass. ‘Yours, sir.’

‘Thank you,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘I’m sorry to say that your landlord’s wery bad to-night, Sir,’ said Roker, setting down the glass, and inspecting the lining of his hat preparatory to putting it on again.

‘What! The Chancery prisoner!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

‘He won’t be a Chancery prisoner wery long, Sir,’ replied Roker, turning his hat round, so as to get the maker’s name right side upwards, as he looked into it.

‘You make my blood run cold,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s been consumptive for a long time past,’ said Mr. Roker, ‘and he’s taken wery bad in the breath to-night. The doctor said, six months ago, that nothing but change of air could save him.’

‘Great Heaven!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick; ‘has this man been slowly murdered by the law for six months?’

‘I don’t know about that,’ replied Roker, weighing the hat by the brim in both hands. ‘I suppose he’d have been took the same, wherever he was. He went into the infirmary, this morning; the doctor says his strength is to be kept up as much as possible; and the warden’s sent him wine and broth and that, from his own house. It’s not the warden’s fault, you know, sir.’

‘Of course not,’ replied Mr. Pickwick hastily.

‘I’m afraid, however,’ said Roker, shaking his head, ‘that it’s all up with him. I offered Neddy two six-penn’orths to one upon it just now, but he wouldn’t take it, and quite right. Thank’ee, Sir. Good-night, sir.’

‘Stay,’ said Mr. Pickwick earnestly. ‘Where is this infirmary?’

‘Just over where you slept, sir,’ replied Roker. ‘I’ll show you, if you like to come.’ Mr. Pickwick snatched up his hat without speaking, and followed at once.

The turnkey led the way in silence; and gently raising the latch of the room door, motioned Mr. Pickwick to enter. It was a large, bare, desolate room, with a number of stump bedsteads made of iron, on one of which lay stretched the shadow of a man—wan, pale, and ghastly. His breathing was hard and thick, and he moaned painfully as it came and went. At the bedside sat a short old man in a cobbler’s apron, who, by the aid of a pair of horn spectacles, was reading from the Bible aloud. It was the fortunate legatee.

The sick man laid his hand upon his attendant’s arm, and motioned him to stop. He closed the book, and laid it on the bed.

‘Open the window,’ said the sick man.

He did so. The noise of carriages and carts, the rattle of wheels, the cries of men and boys, all the busy sounds of a mighty multitude instinct with life and occupation, blended into one deep murmur, floated into the room. Above the hoarse loud hum, arose, from time to time, a boisterous laugh; or a scrap of some jingling song, shouted forth, by one of the giddy crowd, would strike upon the ear, for an instant, and then be lost amidst the roar of voices and the tramp of footsteps; the breaking of the billows of the restless sea of life, that rolled heavily on, without. These are melancholy sounds to a quiet listener at any time; but how melancholy to the watcher by the bed of death!

‘There is no air here,’ said the man faintly. ‘The place pollutes it. It was fresh round about, when I walked there, years ago; but it grows hot and heavy in passing these walls. I cannot breathe it.’

‘We have breathed it together, for a long time,’ said the old man. ‘Come, come.’

There was a short silence, during which the two spectators approached the bed. The sick man drew a hand of his old fellow-prisoner towards him, and pressing it affectionately between both his own, retained it in his grasp.

‘I hope,’ he gasped after a while, so faintly that they bent their ears close over the bed to catch the half-formed sounds his pale lips gave vent to—‘I hope my merciful Judge will bear in mind my heavy punishment on earth. Twenty years, my friend, twenty years in this hideous grave! My heart broke when my child died, and I could not even kiss him in his little coffin. My loneliness since then, in all this noise and riot, has been very dreadful. May God forgive me! He has seen my solitary, lingering death.’

He folded his hands, and murmuring something more they could not hear, fell into a sleep—only a sleep at first, for they saw him smile.

They whispered together for a little time, and the turnkey, stooping over the pillow, drew hastily back. ‘He has got his discharge, by G—!’ said the man.

He had. But he had grown so like death in life, that they knew not when he died.

“Oh, certamente, potete contare su di me,” disse ad alta voce quel gentiluomo.

“Grazie mille, signore. Non se ne dimenticherà, vero, signore?” disse Sam.

“Certo che no,” rispose il signor Winkle.

“Buona fortuna, signore,” disse Sam, toccandosi il cappello. “Mi sarebbe molto piaciuto unirmi a voi, signore; ma naturalmente il governatore ha la precedenza.”

“È davvero un grande merito per voi il fatto che rimaniate qui,” disse il signor Winkle. Con queste parole scomparvero giù per le scale.

“Davvero straordinario,” disse il signor Pickwick rientrando nella sua stanza e sedendosi al tavolo con un’espressione meditabonda. “Cosa mai intende fare quel giovane?”

Era seduto a riflettere su quella questione da un po’ di tempo, quando la voce di Roker, il guardiano, chiese se potesse entrare.

“Certamente,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Ho portato un cuscino più morbido per voi, signore,” disse il signor Roker, “al posto di quello temporaneo che avevate la scorsa notte.”

“Grazie,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Vuole bere un bicchiere di vino?”

“Siete davvero molto gentile, signore,” rispose il signor Roker, accettando il bicchiere che gli veniva offerto. “A voi, signore.”

“Grazie,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Mi dispiace dirlo, ma il vostro padrone di casa è davvero molto cattivo, di notte, signore,” disse Roker, posando il bicchiere e controllando la fodera del suo cappello prima di rimetterselo in testa.

“Che cosa! Il prigioniero della Corte di Cancelleria!” esclamò il signor Pickwick.

“Non resterà prigioniero presso la Corte della Cancelleria per molto tempo, signore,” rispose Roker, girando il cappello in modo che il nome del produttore fosse rivolto verso l’alto mentre lo guardava.

“Mi fai venire i brividi,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Cosa intendi?”

“Da molto tempo ormai soffre di problemi respiratori,” disse il signor Roker, “e la scorsa notte la sua condizione è peggiorata drasticamente. Il dottore, sei mesi fa, aveva detto che l’unica possibilità per salvarlo era un cambiamento d’aria.”

“Mio Dio!” esclamò il signor Pickwick; “quest’uomo è stato lentamente assassinato dalla legge per sei mesi?”

“Non ne so nulla,” rispose Roker, tenendo il cappello per il bordo con entrambe le mani. “Immagino che sarebbe stato preso lo stesso, ovunque si trovasse. Questa mattina è andato in infermeria; il dottore dice che bisogna fare del tutto possibile per mantenere le sue forze; e il direttore gli ha mandato vino e zuppa, provenienti dalla sua stessa casa. Non è colpa del direttore, sa, ”

“Certo che no,” rispose prontamente il signor Pickwick.

“Tuttavia, temo,” disse Roker scuotendo la testa, “che tutto dipenda da lui. Poco fa ho offerto a Neddy due monete da sei penny ciascuna scommettendoci sopra, ma non le ha volute accettare. E ha fatto bene. Grazie, signore. Buona notte, signore.”

“Resta,” disse seriamente il signor Pickwick. “Dove si trova questo ospedale?”

“Proprio vicino al posto dove avete dormito, signore,” rispose Roker. “Vi mostro subito, se volete venire.” Il signor Pickwick afferrò il suo cappello senza dire una parola e lo seguì immediatamente.

Il portiere guidò il cammino in silenzio; sollevando delicatamente la serratura della porta della stanza, fece segno al signor Pickwick di entrare. Era una stanza grande, spoglia e desolata, con diversi letti di ferro; su uno di essi giaceva l’ombra di un uomo – pallido, esangue e orribile. Il suo respiro era affannoso e pesante, e emetteva lamenti dolorosi a ogni inspirazione ed espirazione. Accanto al letto sedeva un vecchio basso, con un grembiule da calzolaio; con l’aiuto di un paio di occhiali da vista leggeva ad alta voce la Bibbia. Era il fortunato erede.

L’uomo malato posò la mano sul braccio del suo assistente e gli fece segno di fermarsi. Chiuse il libro e lo mise sul letto.

“Apri la finestra”, disse l’uomo malato.

Lo fece. Il rumore dei carri e delle carrozze, il cigolio delle ruote, le grida degli uomini e dei ragazzi, tutti quei suoni frenetici di una folla numerosa e attiva si mescolavano in un unico mormorio profondo che penetrava nella stanza. Al di sopra di quel frastuono incessante, di tanto in tanto risuonava una risata clamorosa; oppure qualche frammento di canzone, gridato da qualcuno tra la folla, raggiungeva l’orecchio per un istante, per poi scomparire nuovamente nel tumulto delle voci e nel rumore dei passi. Quei suoni rappresentavano il tumultuoso movimento della “marea inquieta” della vita umana. Per chi ascolta in silenzio, in qualsiasi momento, sono suoni tristi; ma per colui che si trova accanto al letto della morte, quanto più tristi devono essere.

“Non c’è aria qui,” disse l’uomo con voce debole. “Questo posto la inquina. Era fresca intorno a me, quando ci sono passato anni fa; ma diventa calda e opprimente appena si attraversano queste mura. Non riesco a respirare.”

“L’abbiamo respirato insieme, per molto tempo,” disse l’uomo anziano. “Vieni, vieni.”

Ci fu un breve silenzio; durante quel momento, i due spettatori si avvicinarono al letto. L’uomo malato tirò verso di sé la mano del suo vecchio compagno di prigione e, stringendola affettuosamente tra le sue, la tenne saldamente nella sua presa.

“‘Spero, ’”, sospirò dopo un po’, così debolmente che dovettero avvicinare l’orecchio al letto per riuscire a captare quelle parole appena articolate dalle sue labbra pallide, “‘Spero che il mio Misericordioso Giudice tenga conto della mia terribile punizione in terra. Venti anni, amico mio. Venti anni in questa orrenda tomba! Il mio cuore si spezzò quando morì mio bambino; non potei nemmeno baciarlo nella sua piccola bara. Da allora, in mezzo a tutto questo rumore e caos, la mia solitudine è stata davvero terribile. Possa Dio perdonarmi. Lui ha visto la mia morte solitaria, lenta, ”

Si mise le mani giunte e, mormorando qualcosa che non riuscirono a sentire, cadde in un sonno, solo all’inizio, perché lo videro sorridere.

Risussurrarono tra loro per un po’ di tempo; il carceriere, chinandosi sul cuscino, si allontanò in fretta. “Gli hanno concesso la libertà, per tutti i santi!” disse l’uomo.

Lui l’aveva fatto. Ma nella sua vita era diventato così simile alla morte, che nessuno seppe quando morì.

CHAPTER XLV. DESCRIPTIVE OF AN AFFECTING INTERVIEW BETWEEN MR. SAMUEL WELLER AND A FAMILY PARTY. MR. PICKWICK MAKES A TOUR OF THE DIMINUTIVE WORLD HE INHABITS, AND RESOLVES TO MIX WITH IT, IN FUTURE, AS LITTLE AS POSSIBLE

A few mornings after his incarceration, Mr. Samuel Weller, having arranged his master’s room with all possible care, and seen him comfortably seated over his books and papers, withdrew to employ himself for an hour or two to come, as he best could. It was a fine morning, and it occurred to Sam that a pint of porter in the open air would lighten his next quarter of an hour or so, as well as any little amusement in which he could indulge.

Having arrived at this conclusion, he betook himself to the tap. Having purchased the beer, and obtained, moreover, the day-but-one-before- yesterday’s paper, he repaired to the skittle-ground, and seating himself on a bench, proceeded to enjoy himself in a very sedate and methodical manner.

First of all, he took a refreshing draught of the beer, and then he looked up at a window, and bestowed a platonic wink on a young lady who was peeling potatoes thereat. Then he opened the paper, and folded it so as to get the police reports outwards; and this being a vexatious and difficult thing to do, when there is any wind stirring, he took another draught of the beer when he had accomplished it. Then, he read two lines of the paper, and stopped short to look at a couple of men who were finishing a game at rackets, which, being concluded, he cried out ‘wery good,’ in an approving manner, and looked round upon the spectators, to ascertain whether their sentiments coincided with his own. This involved the necessity of looking up at the windows also; and as the young lady was still there, it was an act of common politeness to wink again, and to drink to her good health in dumb show, in another draught of the beer, which Sam did; and having frowned hideously upon a small boy who had noted this latter proceeding with open eyes, he threw one leg over the other, and, holding the newspaper in both hands, began to read in real earnest.

He had hardly composed himself into the needful state of abstraction, when he thought he heard his own name proclaimed in some distant passage. Nor was he mistaken, for it quickly passed from mouth to mouth, and in a few seconds the air teemed with shouts of ‘Weller!’

Here!’ roared Sam, in a stentorian voice. ‘Wot’s the matter? Who wants him? Has an express come to say that his country house is afire?’

‘Somebody wants you in the hall,’ said a man who was standing by.

‘Just mind that ‘ere paper and the pot, old feller, will you?’ said Sam. ‘I’m a-comin’. Blessed, if they was a-callin’ me to the bar, they couldn’t make more noise about it!’

Accompanying these words with a gentle rap on the head of the young gentleman before noticed, who, unconscious of his close vicinity to the person in request, was screaming ‘Weller!’ with all his might, Sam hastened across the ground, and ran up the steps into the hall. Here, the first object that met his eyes was his beloved father sitting on a bottom stair, with his hat in his hand, shouting out ‘Weller!’ in his very loudest tone, at half-minute intervals.

‘Wot are you a-roarin’ at?’ said Sam impetuously, when the old gentleman had discharged himself of another shout; ‘making yourself so precious hot that you looks like a aggrawated glass-blower. Wot’s the matter?’

‘Aha!’ replied the old gentleman, ‘I began to be afeerd that you’d gone for a walk round the Regency Park, Sammy.’

‘Come,’ said Sam, ‘none o’ them taunts agin the wictim o’ avarice, and come off that ‘ere step. Wot are you a-settin’ down there for? I don’t live there.’

‘I’ve got such a game for you, Sammy,’ said the elder Mr. Weller, rising.

‘Stop a minit,’ said Sam, ‘you’re all vite behind.’

‘That’s right, Sammy, rub it off,’ said Mr. Weller, as his son dusted him. ‘It might look personal here, if a man walked about with vitevash on his clothes, eh, Sammy?’

As Mr. Weller exhibited in this place unequivocal symptoms of an approaching fit of chuckling, Sam interposed to stop it.

‘Keep quiet, do,’ said Sam, ‘there never vos such a old picter-card born. Wot are you bustin’ vith, now?’

‘Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, wiping his forehead, ‘I’m afeerd that vun o’ these days I shall laugh myself into a appleplexy, my boy.’

‘Vell, then, wot do you do it for?’ said Sam. ‘Now, then, wot have you got to say?’

‘Who do you think’s come here with me, Samivel?’ said Mr. Weller, drawing back a pace or two, pursing up his mouth, and extending his eyebrows.

‘Pell?’ said Sam.

Mr. Weller shook his head, and his red cheeks expanded with the laughter that was endeavouring to find a vent.

‘Mottled-faced man, p’raps?’ asked Sam.

Again Mr. Weller shook his head.

‘Who then?’asked Sam.

‘Your mother-in-law,’ said Mr. Weller; and it was lucky he did say it, or his cheeks must inevitably have cracked, from their most unnatural distension.

‘Your mother-in-law, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘and the red-nosed man, my boy; and the red-nosed man. Ho! ho! ho!’

With this, Mr. Weller launched into convulsions of laughter, while Sam regarded him with a broad grin gradually over-spreading his whole countenance.

‘They’ve come to have a little serious talk with you, Samivel,’ said Mr. Weller, wiping his eyes. ‘Don’t let out nothin’ about the unnat’ral creditor, Sammy.’

‘Wot, don’t they know who it is?’ inquired Sam.

‘Not a bit on it,’ replied his father.

‘Vere are they?’ said Sam, reciprocating all the old gentleman’s grins.

‘In the snuggery,’ rejoined Mr. Weller. ‘Catch the red-nosed man a-goin’ anyvere but vere the liquors is; not he, Samivel, not he. Ve’d a wery pleasant ride along the road from the Markis this mornin’, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, when he felt himself equal to the task of speaking in an articulate manner. ‘I drove the old piebald in that ‘ere little chay- cart as belonged to your mother-in-law’s first wenter, into vich a harm- cheer wos lifted for the shepherd; and I’m blessed,’ said Mr. Weller, with a look of deep scorn—‘I’m blessed if they didn’t bring a portable flight o’ steps out into the road a-front o’ our door for him, to get up by.’

CAPITOLO XLV. Descrizione di un’intervista commovente tra il signor Samuel Weller e un gruppo di familiari. Il signor Pickwick esamina il piccolo mondo in cui vive e decide, in futuro, di mescolarsi con esso il meno possibile.

Alcuni mattini dopo il suo arresto, il signor Samuel Weller, dopo aver sistemato con la massima cura la stanza del proprio padrone e averlo visto seduto comodamente tra i suoi libri e documenti, si ritirò per dedicare un’ora o due al proprio lavoro, nel modo che gli era possibile. Era una bella mattina, e a Sam venne in mente che un pinta di birra all’aperto avrebbe potuto rendere più piacevoli quei pochi minuti, così come qualsiasi piccolo divertimento si potesse concedere.

Essendo giunto a questa conclusione, si diresse verso il rubinetto. Dopo aver comprato la birra e ottenuto anche il giornale del giorno precedente a ieri, tornò al campo da biliardo, si sedette su una panchina e iniziò a divertirsi in modo molto tranquillo e metodico.

Prima di tutto, bevve un sorso rinfrescante di birra; poi alzò lo sguardo verso una finestra e fece l’occhiolino a una giovane signorina che stava pelando patate proprio lì. Dopo aver aperto il giornale, lo piegò in modo che le notizie sulla polizia fossero visibili; poiché questa operazione risultava particolarmente complicata quando soffiava il vento, bevve un altro sorso di birra una volta riuscito nel suo intento. Poi lesse due righe del giornale e si fermò per osservare due uomini che stavano terminando una partita a racchette; quando questa finì, esclamò “Molto bene!” in tono approvativo, guardandosi intorno per vedere se anche gli spettatori condividevano il suo parere. Questo comportamento lo costrinse di nuovo ad alzare lo sguardo verso le finestre; e poiché la giovane signorina era ancora lì, fu un gesto di cortesia fare un altro occhiolino e brindare silenziosamente alla sua salute con un altro sorso di birra. Sam fece proprio questo. Dopo aver lanciato uno sguardo minaccioso a un bambino che aveva osservato attentamente tutta questa scena, incrociò le gambe, tenne il giornale tra le mani e iniziò a leggere seriamente.

Aveva appena raggiunto lo stato di distacco necessario quando pensò di sentire il proprio nome pronunciato in qualche parte lontana. Non si sbagliava: il nome iniziò rapidamente a diffondersi da una bocca all’altra, e in pochi secondi l’aria fu piena di grida che chiamavano “Weller!”.

“Eccolo qui!” gridò Sam con voce tonante. “Che succede? Chi lo vuole? È arrivata qualche notizia urgente che la sua casa nel suo paese sia in fiamme?”

“Qualcuno vuole che tu vada nel corridoio,” disse un uomo che stava lì vicino.

“Solo stai attento a quel foglio di carta e alla pentola, vecchio mio, ok?” disse Sam.
“Sto arrivando. Che fortuna! Anche se mi chiamassero al bar, non farebbero più rumore di così!”

Accompagnando queste parole con un leggero colpetto sulla testa del giovane gentiluomo che prima non era stato notato – il quale, ignaro della vicinanza di quella persona, gridava a pieni polmoni “Weller!” – Sam si affrettò ad attraversare il cortile e salì le scale verso l’ingresso. Lì, la prima cosa che gli cadde sotto gli occhi fu suo padre, seduto sul gradino in basso, con il cappello in mano, che gridava “Weller!” a intervalli di mezzo minuto, con tutta la sua voce.

“Perché stai urlando in quel modo?” chiese Sam con impazienza, quando il vecchio signore ebbe finito di gridare ancora una volta; “Ti sei scaldato così tanto che sembri un soffiatore di vetro arrabbiato. Che cosa c’è?”

“Ahah!” rispose il vecchio signore, “Cominciavo ad avere paura che fossi andato a fare una passeggiata nel Regency Park, Sammy.”

“Ma come,” disse Sam, “nessuno di loro insulta più la vittima dell’avidità. E perché mai ti sei fermato lì? Io non vivo laggiù.”

“Ho un gioco davvero speciale per te, Sammy,” disse il signor Weller più anziano, alzandosi in piedi.

“Aspettate un attimo,” disse Sam, “state tutti andando troppo velocemente.”

“Esatto, Sammy, puliscilo via,” disse il signor Weller mentre suo figlio lo spolverava. “Potrebbe sembrare qualcosa di personale, se un uomo girovasse in giro con del vetrificante addosso, eh, Sammy?”

Poiché il signor Weller mostrava in quel luogo inequivocabili segni di un imminente attacco di risate, Sam intervenne per fermarlo.

“Stai zitto, per favore,” disse Sam, “non è mai esistita una cartolina del genere. Cosa stai facendo, adesso?”

“Sammy,” disse il signor Weller, asciugandosi la fronte, “temo che in questi giorni finirò per ridere fino ad avere un attacco di convulsioni, ragazzo mio.”

“Beh, allora, per quale motivo lo fai?”, disse Sam. “Ora dimmi, cosa hai da dire?”

“Chi pensi che sia venuto qui con me, Samivel?” disse il signor Weller, facendo un paio di passi indietro, stringendo le labbra e sollevando le sopracciglia.

“Pelle?” disse Sam.

Il signor Weller scosse la testa; le sue guance rosse si gonfiarono dal ridere, che cercava disperatamente un modo per esprimersi.

“Un uomo con il viso maculato, forse?”, chiese Sam.

Di nuovo, il signor Weller scosse la testa.

“Allora chi?” chiese Sam.

“Tua suocera,” disse il signor Weller; ed era fortunato che lo dicesse, altrimenti le sue guance si sarebbero sicuramente spezzate a causa di quella distensione assolutamente innaturale.

“Tua suocera, Sammy,” disse il signor Weller, “e quell’uomo dal naso rosso, ragazzo mio, e quell’uomo dal naso rosso. Ah! ah! ah!”

A questo punto, il signor Weller scoppiò in una serie di risate convulse, mentre Sam lo guardava con un sorriso che gradualmente si estese su tutto il suo viso.

“Sono venuti per avere una lunga e seria conversazione con te, Samivel,” disse il signor Weller asciugandosi gli occhi. “Non dire nulla riguardo a quel creditore insolito, Sammy.”

“Ma che, non sanno chi è?” chiese Sam.

“Nemmeno un po’,” rispose suo padre.

“Sono davvero vere?” disse Sam, ricambiando tutti i sorrisi del vecchio signore.

“Nel rifugio,” rispose il signor Weller. “Cercate quell’uomo dal naso rosso che va da qualche parte, ma non certo a prendere alcolici. Non lui, Samivel, proprio lui. Stamattina ho fatto un viaggio molto piacevole lungo la strada con il marchese, Sammy,” disse il signor Weller, quando si sentì in grado di parlare in modo chiaramente comprensibile. “Ho guidato quel vecchio cavallo pezzato nella piccola carrozza che apparteneva alla prima moglie di tua suocera. E sono davvero fortunato,” aggiunse il signor Weller, con un’espressione di profondo disprezzo, “che non abbiano portato fuori per la strada una scala portatile davanti alla nostra porta, per aiutarlo a salire.”

‘You don’t mean that?’ said Sam.

‘I do mean that, Sammy,’ replied his father, ‘and I vish you could ha’ seen how tight he held on by the sides wen he did get up, as if he wos afeerd o’ being precipitayted down full six foot, and dashed into a million hatoms. He tumbled in at last, however, and avay ve vent; and I rayther think—I say I rayther think, Samivel—that he found his-self a little jolted ven ve turned the corners.’

‘Wot, I s’pose you happened to drive up agin a post or two?’ said Sam.

‘I’m afeerd,’ replied Mr. Weller, in a rapture of winks—‘I’m afeerd I took vun or two on ‘em, Sammy; he wos a-flyin’ out o’ the arm-cheer all the way.’

Here the old gentleman shook his head from side to side, and was seized with a hoarse internal rumbling, accompanied with a violent swelling of the countenance, and a sudden increase in the breadth of all his features; symptoms which alarmed his son not a little.

‘Don’t be frightened, Sammy, don’t be frightened,’ said the old gentleman, when by dint of much struggling, and various convulsive stamps upon the ground, he had recovered his voice. ‘It’s only a kind o’ quiet laugh as I’m a-tryin’ to come, Sammy.’

‘Well, if that’s wot it is,’ said Sam, ‘you’d better not try to come it agin. You’ll find it rayther a dangerous inwention.’

‘Don’t you like it, Sammy?’ inquired the old gentleman.

‘Not at all,’ replied Sam.

‘Well,’ said Mr. Weller, with the tears still running down his cheeks, ‘it ‘ud ha’ been a wery great accommodation to me if I could ha’ done it, and ‘ud ha’ saved a good many vords atween your mother-in-law and me, sometimes; but I’m afeerd you’re right, Sammy, it’s too much in the appleplexy line—a deal too much, Samivel.’

This conversation brought them to the door of the snuggery, into which Sam—pausing for an instant to look over his shoulder, and cast a sly leer at his respected progenitor, who was still giggling behind—at once led the way.

‘Mother-in-law,’ said Sam, politely saluting the lady, ‘wery much obliged to you for this here wisit.—Shepherd, how air you?’

‘Oh, Samuel!’ said Mrs. Weller. ‘This is dreadful.’

‘Not a bit on it, mum,’ replied Sam.—‘Is it, shepherd?’

Mr. Stiggins raised his hands, and turned up his eyes, until the whites- -or rather the yellows—were alone visible; but made no reply in words.

‘Is this here gen’l’m’n troubled with any painful complaint?’ said Sam, looking to his mother-in-law for explanation.

‘The good man is grieved to see you here, Samuel,’ replied Mrs. Weller.

‘Oh, that’s it, is it?’ said Sam. ‘I was afeerd, from his manner, that he might ha’ forgotten to take pepper vith that ‘ere last cowcumber he eat. Set down, Sir, ve make no extra charge for settin’ down, as the king remarked wen he blowed up his ministers.’

‘Young man,’ said Mr. Stiggins ostentatiously, ‘I fear you are not softened by imprisonment.’

‘Beg your pardon, Sir,’ replied Sam; ‘wot wos you graciously pleased to hobserve?’

‘I apprehend, young man, that your nature is no softer for this chastening,’ said Mr. Stiggins, in a loud voice.

‘Sir,’ replied Sam, ‘you’re wery kind to say so. I hope my natur is _NOT _ a soft vun, Sir. Wery much obliged to you for your good opinion, Sir.’

At this point of the conversation, a sound, indecorously approaching to a laugh, was heard to proceed from the chair in which the elder Mr. Weller was seated; upon which Mrs. Weller, on a hasty consideration of all the circumstances of the case, considered it her bounden duty to become gradually hysterical.

‘Weller,’ said Mrs. W. (the old gentleman was seated in a corner); ‘Weller! Come forth.’

‘Wery much obleeged to you, my dear,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘but I’m quite comfortable vere I am.’

Upon this, Mrs. Weller burst into tears.

‘Wot’s gone wrong, mum?’ said Sam.

‘Oh, Samuel!’ replied Mrs. Weller, ‘your father makes me wretched. Will nothing do him good?’

‘Do you hear this here?’ said Sam. ‘Lady vants to know vether nothin’ ‘ull do you good.’

‘Wery much indebted to Mrs. Weller for her po-lite inquiries, Sammy,’ replied the old gentleman. ‘I think a pipe vould benefit me a good deal. Could I be accommodated, Sammy?’

Here Mrs. Weller let fall some more tears, and Mr. Stiggins groaned.

‘Hollo! Here’s this unfortunate gen’l’m’n took ill agin,’ said Sam, looking round. ‘Vere do you feel it now, sir?’

‘In the same place, young man,’ rejoined Mr. Stiggins, ‘in the same place.’

‘Vere may that be, Sir?’ inquired Sam, with great outward simplicity.

‘In the buzzim, young man,’ replied Mr. Stiggins, placing his umbrella on his waistcoat.

At this affecting reply, Mrs. Weller, being wholly unable to suppress her feelings, sobbed aloud, and stated her conviction that the red-nosed man was a saint; whereupon Mr. Weller, senior, ventured to suggest, in an undertone, that he must be the representative of the united parishes of St. Simon Without and St. Walker Within.

‘I’m afeered, mum,’ said Sam, ‘that this here gen’l’m’n, with the twist in his countenance, feels rather thirsty, with the melancholy spectacle afore him. Is it the case, mum?’

The worthy lady looked at Mr. Stiggins for a reply; that gentleman, with many rollings of the eye, clenched his throat with his right hand, and mimicked the act of swallowing, to intimate that he was athirst.

‘I am afraid, Samuel, that his feelings have made him so indeed,’ said Mrs. Weller mournfully.

‘Wot’s your usual tap, sir?’ replied Sam.

‘Oh, my dear young friend,’ replied Mr. Stiggins, ‘all taps is vanities!’

‘Too true, too true, indeed,’ said Mrs. Weller, murmuring a groan, and shaking her head assentingly.

‘Well,’ said Sam, ‘I des-say they may be, sir; but wich is your partickler wanity? Wich wanity do you like the flavour on best, sir?’

‘Oh, my dear young friend,’ replied Mr. Stiggins, ‘I despise them all. If,’ said Mr. Stiggins—‘if there is any one of them less odious than another, it is the liquor called rum. Warm, my dear young friend, with three lumps of sugar to the tumbler.’

“Non lo dici sul serio?” disse Sam.

“Dico davvero questo, Sammy,” rispose suo padre, “e vorrei che tu avessi potuto vedere quanto si tenesse forte ai bordi quando finalmente si alzò, come se temesse di essere fatto cadere da un’altezza di sei piedi e schiantarsi in mille pezzi. Alla fine però riuscì a cadere giù, e credo, Samivel, che abbia provato una certa scossa quando girò l’angolo.”

“Ehi, forse per caso sei passato di nuovo vicino a una o due stazioni di posta, no?” disse Sam.

“Ho paura,” rispose il signor Weller, con un sacco di occhiate furtive, “Ho paura di averne presi uno o due; stava volando via dal gruppo tutto il tempo.”

Qui il vecchio signore scosse la testa da una parte all’altra e fu colpito da un rimbombo interno roco, accompagnato da un violento gonfiore del viso e da un improvviso aumento della larghezza di tutte le sue caratteristiche facciali; sintomi che allarmarono non poco suo figlio.

“Non avere paura, Sammy, non avere paura,” disse l’uomo anziano, dopo aver lottato molto e fatto vari movimenti convulsivi sul pavimento per riuscire a riprendere la parola. “È solo una sorta di risata tranquilla, mentre provo ad avvicinarmi, Sammy.”

“Beh,” disse Sam, “se è davvero così, sarebbe meglio che non provaste più a farlo. È un’invenzione piuttosto pericolosa.”

“Non ti piace, Sammy?” chiese il vecchio signore.

“Assolutamente no,” rispose Sam.

“Beh,” disse il signor Weller, con le lacrime che ancora gli scorrevano lungo le guance, “sarebbe stata una grande soluzione per me se avessi potuto farlo. Avrebbe risparmiato molte discussioni tra tua suocera e me, a volte. Ma temo tu abbia ragione, Sammy: è davvero troppo. Un’offerta decisamente eccessiva, Samivel.”

Quella conversazione li portò alla porta di quella piccola stanza accogliente; Sam – dopo essersi fermato un attimo per guardarsi alle spalle e lanciare uno sguardo malizioso al suo rispettato antenato, che continuava a ridacchiare alle sue spalle – prese subito la strada per entrare.

“Suocera,” disse Sam, salutando educatamente la signora, “le sono molto grato per questa visita. – Shepherd, come stai?”

“Oh, Samuel!” esclamò la signora Weller. “È terribile.”

“Assolutamente no, mamma,” rispose Sam. “Davvero, pastore?”

Il signor Stiggins alzò le mani e sollevò lo sguardo, fino a quando solo le parti bianche – o meglio, gialle – dei suoi occhi furono visibili; ma non disse una parola in risposta.

“È qui, vero? Ho qualche problema doloroso, ”, disse Sam, guardando sua suocera in cerca di spiegazioni.

“Quest’uomo buono è addolorato di vederti qui, Samuel,” rispose la signora Weller.

“Ah, è così, allora?” disse Sam. “Dal suo comportamento temevo che potesse aver dimenticato di mettere il pepe nel suo ultimo pasto. Si sieda pure, signore; non verrà addebitata alcuna tariffa aggiuntiva per il sedersi, proprio come il re disse quando fece saltare in aria i suoi ministri.”

“Giovane,” disse il signor Stiggins in modo ostentato, “temo che l’carcere non abbia avuto alcun effetto su di te.”

“Scusi, signore,” rispose Sam; “di cosa si è compiaciuto di osservare?”

“Credo, giovane uomo, che la tua >natura non sia affatto più mite dopo questa punizione,” disse il signor Stiggins ad alta voce.

“Signore,” rispose Sam, “è molto gentile da parte sua dirlo. Spero davvero che la mia natura non sia quella di una persona debole o fragile, signore. Le sono molto grato per la sua buona opinione, signore.”

In questo momento della conversazione, si udì un suono che, in modo piuttosto indecoroso, assomigliava a una risata provenire dalla sedia su cui era seduto il signor Weller più anziano; di fronte a ciò, la signora Weller, dopo aver rapidamente valutato tutte le circostanze della situazione, ritenne suo dovere inderogabile diventare gradualmente isterica.

“Weller,” disse la signora W. (il vecchio gentiluomo era seduto in un angolo); “Weller, vieni fuori.”

“Sono davvero molto grato a voi, mio caro,” rispose il signor Weller; “ma sono assolutamente a mio agio, ve lo assicuro.”

All’udire questo, la signora Weller scoppiò in lacrime.

“Cos’è successo, mamma?”, chiese Sam.

“Oh, Samuel!” rispose la signora Weller, “tuo padre mi rende infelice. Non c’è nulla che possa fargli del bene?”

“Sentite questo?” disse Sam. “La signora vuole sapere se qualcosa possa esservi d’aiuto.”

“Sono davvero molto grato alla signora Weller per le sue gentili domande, Sammy,” rispose il vecchio signore. “Penso che una pipa mi farebbe molto bene. Potresti occupartene tu, Sammy?”

A quel punto, la signora Weller versò altre lacrime, e il signor Stiggins emise un lamento.

“Ehi! Ecco questo sfortunato generale che si è ammalato di nuovo,” disse Sam, guardandosi intorno. “Davvero la sentite ora, signore?”

“Nello stesso posto, giovane uomo”, riprese il signor Stiggins, “nello stesso posto.”

“Che sia vero, signore?”, chiese Sam con estrema semplicità.

“Nel caos, giovane uomo,” rispose il signor Stiggins, mettendo l’ombrello sulla giacca.

Di fronte a questa commovente risposta, la signora Weller, non riuscendo affatto a trattenere i propri sentimenti, scoppiò in lacrime e dichiarò con convinzione che quell’uomo dal naso rosso fosse un santo; allora il signor Weller, il padre, osò suggerire, in tono sommesso, che probabilmente fosse il rappresentante delle parrocchie unite di St. Simon Without e St. Walker Within.

“Ho paura, mamma,” disse Sam, “che questo generale, con quell’espressione triste sul viso, abbia molta sete, di fronte a questa scena così melanconica. È vero, mamma?”

La nobile signora guardò il signor Stiggins in attesa di una risposta; quel gentiluomo, facendo molte rotazioni con gli occhi, si strinse la gola con la mano destra e mimò l’atto di ingoiare, per far capire che aveva sete.

“Temo, Samuel, che i suoi sentimenti lo abbiano davvero reso così,” disse la signora Weller con tristezza.

“Qual è il suo solito bicchiere, signore?”, rispose Sam.

“Ah, mio caro giovane amico,” rispose il signor Stiggins, “tutte queste vanità, ”

“Troppo vero, davvero troppo vero,” disse la signora Weller, mormorando un sospiro e scuotendo la testa in segno di assenso.

“Beh,” disse Sam, “credo che possano esserlo, signore; ma quale è la vostra particolare follia? Di quale tipo di follia preferite il sapore, signore?”

“Oh, mio caro giovane amico,” rispose il signor Stiggins, “li disprezzo tutti quanti. Se c’è qualcuno di loro meno odioso degli altri, beh, è quel liquore chiamato rum. Si scaldi bene, mio caro giovane amico, con tre zollette di zucchero nel bicchiere.”

‘Wery sorry to say, sir,’ said Sam, ‘that they don’t allow that particular wanity to be sold in this here establishment.’

‘Oh, the hardness of heart of these inveterate men!’ ejaculated Mr. Stiggins. ‘Oh, the accursed cruelty of these inhuman persecutors!’

With these words, Mr. Stiggins again cast up his eyes, and rapped his breast with his umbrella; and it is but justice to the reverend gentleman to say, that his indignation appeared very real and unfeigned indeed.

After Mrs. Weller and the red-nosed gentleman had commented on this inhuman usage in a very forcible manner, and had vented a variety of pious and holy execrations against its authors, the latter recommended a bottle of port wine, warmed with a little water, spice, and sugar, as being grateful to the stomach, and savouring less of vanity than many other compounds. It was accordingly ordered to be prepared, and pending its preparation the red-nosed man and Mrs. Weller looked at the elder W. and groaned.

‘Well, Sammy,’ said the gentleman, ‘I hope you’ll find your spirits rose by this here lively wisit. Wery cheerful and improvin’ conwersation, ain’t it, Sammy?’

‘You’re a reprobate,’ replied Sam; ‘and I desire you won’t address no more o’ them ungraceful remarks to me.’

So far from being edified by this very proper reply, the elder Mr. Weller at once relapsed into a broad grin; and this inexorable conduct causing the lady and Mr. Stiggins to close their eyes, and rock themselves to and fro on their chairs, in a troubled manner, he furthermore indulged in several acts of pantomime, indicative of a desire to pummel and wring the nose of the aforesaid Stiggins, the performance of which, appeared to afford him great mental relief. The old gentleman very narrowly escaped detection in one instance; for Mr. Stiggins happening to give a start on the arrival of the negus, brought his head in smart contact with the clenched fist with which Mr. Weller had been describing imaginary fireworks in the air, within two inches of his ear, for some minutes.

‘Wot are you a-reachin’ out, your hand for the tumbler in that ‘ere sawage way for?’ said Sam, with great promptitude. ‘Don’t you see you’ve hit the gen’l’m’n?’

‘I didn’t go to do it, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, in some degree abashed by the very unexpected occurrence of the incident.

‘Try an in’ard application, sir,’ said Sam, as the red-nosed gentleman rubbed his head with a rueful visage. ‘Wot do you think o’ that, for a go o’ wanity, warm, Sir?’

Mr. Stiggins made no verbal answer, but his manner was expressive. He tasted the contents of the glass which Sam had placed in his hand, put his umbrella on the floor, and tasted it again, passing his hand placidly across his stomach twice or thrice; he then drank the whole at a breath, and smacking his lips, held out the tumbler for more.

Nor was Mrs. Weller behind-hand in doing justice to the composition. The good lady began by protesting that she couldn’t touch a drop—then took a small drop—then a large drop—then a great many drops; and her feelings being of the nature of those substances which are powerfully affected by the application of strong waters, she dropped a tear with every drop of negus, and so got on, melting the feelings down, until at length she had arrived at a very pathetic and decent pitch of misery.

The elder Mr. Weller observed these signs and tokens with many manifestations of disgust, and when, after a second jug of the same, Mr. Stiggins began to sigh in a dismal manner, he plainly evinced his disapprobation of the whole proceedings, by sundry incoherent ramblings of speech, among which frequent angry repetitions of the word ‘gammon’ were alone distinguishable to the ear.

‘I’ll tell you wot it is, Samivel, my boy,’ whispered the old gentleman into his son’s ear, after a long and steadfast contemplation of his lady and Mr. Stiggins; ‘I think there must be somethin’ wrong in your mother- in-law’s inside, as vell as in that o’ the red-nosed man.’

‘Wot do you mean?’ said Sam.

‘I mean this here, Sammy,’ replied the old gentleman, ‘that wot they drink, don’t seem no nourishment to ‘em; it all turns to warm water, and comes a-pourin’ out o’ their eyes. ‘Pend upon it, Sammy, it’s a constitootional infirmity.’

Mr. Weller delivered this scientific opinion with many confirmatory frowns and nods; which, Mrs. Weller remarking, and concluding that they bore some disparaging reference either to herself or to Mr. Stiggins, or to both, was on the point of becoming infinitely worse, when Mr. Stiggins, getting on his legs as well as he could, proceeded to deliver an edifying discourse for the benefit of the company, but more especially of Mr. Samuel, whom he adjured in moving terms to be upon his guard in that sink of iniquity into which he was cast; to abstain from all hypocrisy and pride of heart; and to take in all things exact pattern and copy by him (Stiggins), in which case he might calculate on arriving, sooner or later at the comfortable conclusion, that, like him, he was a most estimable and blameless character, and that all his acquaintances and friends were hopelessly abandoned and profligate wretches. Which consideration, he said, could not but afford him the liveliest satisfaction.

He furthermore conjured him to avoid, above all things, the vice of intoxication, which he likened unto the filthy habits of swine, and to those poisonous and baleful drugs which being chewed in the mouth, are said to filch away the memory. At this point of his discourse, the reverend and red-nosed gentleman became singularly incoherent, and staggering to and fro in the excitement of his eloquence, was fain to catch at the back of a chair to preserve his perpendicular.

Mr. Stiggins did not desire his hearers to be upon their guard against those false prophets and wretched mockers of religion, who, without sense to expound its first doctrines, or hearts to feel its first principles, are more dangerous members of society than the common criminal; imposing, as they necessarily do, upon the weakest and worst informed, casting scorn and contempt on what should be held most sacred, and bringing into partial disrepute large bodies of virtuous and well- conducted persons of many excellent sects and persuasions. But as he leaned over the back of the chair for a considerable time, and closing one eye, winked a good deal with the other, it is presumed that he thought all this, but kept it to himself.

“Mi dispiace molto dirlo, signore,” disse Sam, “ma in questo negozio non è permesso vendere quel tipo di prodotto ridicolo.”

“Ah, quanto sia duro il cuore di questi uomini spietati!” esclamò il signor Stiggins. “Ah, quale maledetta crudeltà da parte di questi persecutori disumani!”

Con queste parole, il signor Stiggins alzò di nuovo lo sguardo e si batté il petto con l’ombrello; ed è giusto dire che la sua indignazione sembrava davvero sincera e autentica.

Dopo che la signora Weller e il gentiluomo dal naso rosso avevano espresso con forza il loro disprezzo per questo uso inumano e avevano lanciato varie esclamazioni di riprovazione contro i suoi autori, quest’ultimo consigliò una bottiglia di vino porto riscaldato con un po’ d’acqua, spezie e zucchero, sostenendo che fosse più benefico per lo stomaco e meno vanitoso di molte altre bevande. Fu quindi ordinato che venisse preparato; nel frattempo, il gentiluomo dal naso rosso e la signora Weller guardavano il vecchio W. e sospiravano.

“Beh, Sammy,” disse il gentiluomo, “spero che questa piacevole visita ti rallegri un po’. Una conversazione davvero allegra e stimolante, non è vero, Sammy?”

“Sei un disonorevole,” rispose Sam; “e desidero che non mi rivolgga più alcuna di quelle osservazioni offensive.”

Lontano dall’essere commosso da questa risposta così appropriata, il signor Weller anziano ricominciò immediatamente a sorridere ampiamente; e questo comportamento inesorabile fece sì che la signora e il signor Stiggins chiudessero gli occhi e si dondolassero avanti e indietro sulle loro sedie, in modo molto turbato. Inoltre, egli si abbandonò a diversi gesti teatrali, che indicavano un desiderio di picchiare e strizzare il naso del suddetto Stiggins; l’esecuzione di tali gesti sembrava procurargli grande sollievo mentale. In un’occasione, il vecchio signore riuscì a sfuggire per un soffio alla scoperta: infatti, quando il signor Stiggins fece un movimento improvviso all’arrivo del “negus”, la sua testa venne a contatto con il pugno chiuso che il signor Weller aveva usato per “immaginare” i fuochi d’artificio nell’aria, a soli due pollici dalla sua orecchia, per diversi minuti.

“Cosa stai cercando di afferrare con quella mano, in quel modo così goffo?”, disse Sam prontamente. “Non vedi che hai colpito il generale?”

“Non sono andato io a farlo, Sammy,” disse il signor Weller, un po’ imbarazzato dall’insolita natura di quell’incidente.

“Provate un’applicazione riscaldata, signore,” disse Sam, mentre il gentiluomo dal naso rosso si strofinava la testa con un’espressione rammaricante. “Che ne pensate? È davvero una buona idea, no?”

Il signor Stiggins non diede alcuna risposta verbale, ma il suo comportamento era molto eloquente. Assaggiò il contenuto del bicchiere che Sam gli aveva messo in mano, posò l’ombrello per terra e lo assaggiò di nuovo; poi bevve tutto d’un fiato, si leccò le labbra e tese il bicchiere chiedendo ancora.

Nemmeno la signora Weller rimase indietro nel “rendere giustizia” a quella composizione. La brava donna iniziò protestando che non riusciva nemmeno a bere una goccia; poi ne bevve una piccola, poi una grande, e infine molte altre. Poiché i suoi sentimenti erano di quel tipo di “sostanze” che vengono profondamente influenzate dall’assunzione di liquidi forti, versò una lacrima per ogni goccia di quella bevanda. E così continuò, sciogliendo gradualmente i propri sentimenti in lacrime, fino a raggiungere, alla fine, un livello di tristezza davvero commovente e dignitoso.

Il più anziano signor Weller osservava questi segni e questi comportamenti con molte manifestazioni di disgusto; quando, dopo aver bevuto un’altra brocca dello stesso liquido, il signor Stiggins iniziò a sospirare in modo cupo, egli espresse chiaramente la sua disapprovazione per tutta quella situazione attraverso discorsi incoerenti, tra cui le frequenti e furiose ripetizioni della parola “gammon”, le uniche che fossero chiaramente comprensibili all’orecchio.

“Ti dirò cosa è, Samivel, mio ragazzo,” sussurrò il vecchio gentiluomo all’orecchio di suo figlio, dopo aver osservato a lungo e attentamente sua nuora e il signor Stiggins; “Penso che ci debba essere qualcosa che non va dentro tua suocera, proprio come in quel tizio dal naso rosso.”

“Cosa intendi dire?”, chiese Sam.

“Voglio dire proprio questo, Sammy,” rispose il vecchio signore, “quello che bevono non sembra fornire loro alcun nutrimento; tutto si trasforma in semplice acqua calda e poi esce fuori dai loro occhi. Fidati, Sammy, è una malattia congenita.”

Il signor Weller espresse questo parere scientifico con molti cenni del capo e sopracciglia corrugate; la signora Weller, osservando ciò, concluse che quei gesti contenessero qualche allusione dispregiativa nei suoi confronti, o in quelli del signor Stiggins, o di entrambi. Proprio quando la situazione stava per peggiorare ulteriormente, il signor Stiggins, alzandosi in piedi nel modo migliore che potesse, iniziò a tenere un discorso edificante, rivolto soprattutto al signor Samuel. Lo esortò con parole commoventi ad essere cauto in quel “pozzo di iniquità” in cui si trovava; a astenersi da ogni ipocrisia e orgoglio; e ad imitare fedelmente i suoi comportamenti, così da arrivare, prima o poi, alla conclusione confortante che anche lui fosse una persona estremamente stimabile e irreprensibile, e che tutti i suoi conoscenti e amici fossero miserabili individui perduti e dissoluti. Affermò che tale considerazione non poteva che procurargli la più grande soddisfazione.

Gli consigliò inoltre di evitare, soprattutto, il vizio dell’ubriachezza, che paragonò alle abitudini sporche dei maiali, nonché a quei farmaci velenosi e dannosi i quali, masticati, si dice rubino la memoria. A questo punto del suo discorso, il rispettabile gentiluomo dal naso rosso divenne particolarmente incoerente; barcollando avanti e indietro per l’entusiasmo della sua eloquenza, dovette afferrarsi al dorso di una sedia per non perdere l’equilibrio.

Il signor Stiggins non desiderava affatto che i suoi ascoltatori fossero attenti a quei falsi profeti e miserabili beffatori della religione: individui che, privi sia della capacità di spiegare correttamente le sue prime dottrine che del senso per comprendere i suoi principi fondamentali, rappresentano membri più pericolosi della società dei comuni criminali. Questi individui impongono la loro influenza soprattutto sui più deboli e meno informati, disprezzano ciò che dovrebbe essere considerato sacro e gettano discredito su vasti gruppi di persone virtuose e ben comportate, appartenenti a molte diverse sette e convinzioni. Tuttavia, poiché rimase inclinato sulla spalliera della sedia per un periodo piuttosto lungo, chiudendo un occhio e battendo l’altro, si presume che pensasse tutte queste cose, ma le tenne per sé.

During the delivery of the oration, Mrs. Weller sobbed and wept at the end of the paragraphs; while Sam, sitting cross-legged on a chair and resting his arms on the top rail, regarded the speaker with great suavity and blandness of demeanour; occasionally bestowing a look of recognition on the old gentleman, who was delighted at the beginning, and went to sleep about half-way.

‘Brayvo; wery pretty!’ said Sam, when the red-nosed man having finished, pulled his worn gloves on, thereby thrusting his fingers through the broken tops till the knuckles were disclosed to view. ‘Wery pretty.’

‘I hope it may do you good, Samuel,’ said Mrs. Weller solemnly.

‘I think it vill, mum,’ replied Sam.

‘I wish I could hope that it would do your father good,’ said Mrs. Weller.

‘Thank’ee, my dear,’ said Mr. Weller, senior. ‘How do you find yourself arter it, my love?’

‘Scoffer!’ exclaimed Mrs. Weller.

‘Benighted man!’ said the Reverend Mr. Stiggins.

‘If I don’t get no better light than that ‘ere moonshine o’ yourn, my worthy creetur,’ said the elder Mr. Weller, ‘it’s wery likely as I shall continey to be a night coach till I’m took off the road altogether. Now, Mrs. We, if the piebald stands at livery much longer, he’ll stand at nothin’ as we go back, and p’raps that ‘ere harm-cheer ‘ull be tipped over into some hedge or another, with the shepherd in it.’

At this supposition, the Reverend Mr. Stiggins, in evident consternation, gathered up his hat and umbrella, and proposed an immediate departure, to which Mrs. Weller assented. Sam walked with them to the lodge gate, and took a dutiful leave.

‘A-do, Samivel,’ said the old gentleman.

‘Wot’s a-do?’ inquired Sammy.

‘Well, good-bye, then,’ said the old gentleman.

‘Oh, that’s wot you’re aimin’ at, is it?’ said Sam. ‘Good-bye!’

‘Sammy,’ whispered Mr. Weller, looking cautiously round; ‘my duty to your gov’nor, and tell him if he thinks better o’ this here bis’ness, to com-moonicate vith me. Me and a cab’net-maker has dewised a plan for gettin’ him out. A pianner, Samivel—a pianner!’ said Mr. Weller, striking his son on the chest with the back of his hand, and falling back a step or two.

‘Wot do you mean?’ said Sam.

‘A pianner-forty, Samivel,’ rejoined Mr. Weller, in a still more mysterious manner, ‘as he can have on hire; vun as von’t play, Sammy.’

‘And wot ‘ud be the good o’ that?’ said Sam.

‘Let him send to my friend, the cabinet-maker, to fetch it back, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Are you avake, now?’

‘No,’ rejoined Sam.

‘There ain’t no vurks in it,’ whispered his father. ‘It ‘ull hold him easy, vith his hat and shoes on, and breathe through the legs, vich his holler. Have a passage ready taken for ‘Merriker. The ‘Merrikin gov’ment will never give him up, ven vunce they find as he’s got money to spend, Sammy. Let the gov’nor stop there, till Mrs. Bardell’s dead, or Mr. Dodson and Fogg’s hung (wich last ewent I think is the most likely to happen first, Sammy), and then let him come back and write a book about the ‘Merrikins as’ll pay all his expenses and more, if he blows ‘em up enough.’

Mr. Weller delivered this hurried abstract of his plot with great vehemence of whisper; and then, as if fearful of weakening the effect of the tremendous communication by any further dialogue, he gave the coachman’s salute, and vanished.

Sam had scarcely recovered his usual composure of countenance, which had been greatly disturbed by the secret communication of his respected relative, when Mr. Pickwick accosted him.

‘Sam,’ said that gentleman.

‘Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘I am going for a walk round the prison, and I wish you to attend me. I see a prisoner we know coming this way, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, smiling.

‘Wich, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Weller; ‘the gen’l’m’n vith the head o’ hair, or the interestin’ captive in the stockin’s?’

‘Neither,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick. ‘He is an older friend of yours, Sam.’

‘O’ mine, Sir?’ exclaimed Mr. Weller.

‘You recollect the gentleman very well, I dare say, Sam,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘or else you are more unmindful of your old acquaintances than I think you are. Hush! not a word, Sam; not a syllable. Here he is.’

As Mr. Pickwick spoke, Jingle walked up. He looked less miserable than before, being clad in a half-worn suit of clothes, which, with Mr. Pickwick’s assistance, had been released from the pawnbroker’s. He wore clean linen too, and had had his hair cut. He was very pale and thin, however; and as he crept slowly up, leaning on a stick, it was easy to see that he had suffered severely from illness and want, and was still very weak. He took off his hat as Mr. Pickwick saluted him, and seemed much humbled and abashed at the sight of Sam Weller.

Following close at his heels, came Mr. Job Trotter, in the catalogue of whose vices, want of faith and attachment to his companion could at all events find no place. He was still ragged and squalid, but his face was not quite so hollow as on his first meeting with Mr. Pickwick, a few days before. As he took off his hat to our benevolent old friend, he murmured some broken expressions of gratitude, and muttered something about having been saved from starving.

‘Well, well,’ said Mr. Pickwick, impatiently interrupting him, ‘you can follow with Sam. I want to speak to you, Mr. Jingle. Can you walk without his arm?’

‘Certainly, sir—all ready—not too fast—legs shaky—head queer—round and round—earthquaky sort of feeling—very.’

‘Here, give me your arm,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘No, no,’ replied Jingle; ‘won’t indeed—rather not.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘lean upon me, I desire, Sir.’

Seeing that he was confused and agitated, and uncertain what to do, Mr. Pickwick cut the matter short by drawing the invalided stroller’s arm through his, and leading him away, without saying another word about it.

Durante il discorso, la signora Weller singhiozzava e piangeva alla fine di ogni paragrafo; mentre Sam, seduto con le gambe incrociate su una sedia e appoggiato ai braccioli, osservava l’oratore con un atteggiamento molto sereno e distaccato; di tanto in tanto lanciava uno sguardo di approvazione al vecchio signore, che all’inizio era molto felice, ma verso la metà del discorso si addormentò.

“Bravo; davvero bello!” disse Sam quando l’uomo dal naso rosso finì di suonare, infilò i suoi guanti logori, facendo passare le dita attraverso le parti rotte dei guanti fino a far vedere le nocche. “Davvero bello.”

“Spero che ti faccia del bene, Samuel,” disse seriamente la signora Weller.

“Penso che lo voglia, mamma,” rispose Sam.

“Vorrei davvero poter sperare che questo fosse di beneficio per tuo padre,” disse la signora Weller.

“Grazie mille, mia cara,” disse il signor Weller il maggiore. “Come stai, mia amata?”

“Disprezzatore!”, esclamò la signora Weller.

“Uomo perduto!” disse il reverendo signor Stiggins.

“Se non riesco a ottenere una luce migliore di quella luna o della tua, mia cara creatura,” disse il vecchio signor Weller, “è molto probabile che continui a fare il cocchiere notturno finché non verrò completamente rimosso dalla strada. Ora, signora We, se quel cavallo rimane ancora a lungo presso la stalla, quando torneremo non servirà più a nulla; forse quella maledetta carriola finirà per essere gettata contro qualche siepe, insieme al pastore che c’è dentro.”

Sulla base di questa supposizione, il reverendo signor Stiggins, in evidente costernazione, raccolse cappello e ombrello e propose di partire immediatamente; la signora Weller acconsentì. Sam li accompagnò fino alla porta della locanda e si congedò con doverosità.

“Ah sì, Samivel,” disse il vecchio signore.

“Cosa sta succedendo?” chiese Sammy.

“Beh, allora addio,” disse il vecchio signore.

“Ah, quindi è a questo che miri, eh? Addio!” disse Sam.

“Sammy,” sussurrò il signor Weller, guardandosi intorno con cautela; “è mio dovere verso il tuo governatore dirgli che, se ritiene meglio abbandonare questa faccenda, possa mettersi in contatto con me. Io e un falegname abbiamo ideato un piano per aiutarlo a uscirne. Un piano efficace, Samivel. Un piano davvero efficace!” disse il signor Weller, battendo il palmo della mano sul petto di suo figlio e facendo un passo indietro.

“Cosa intendi dire?”, chiese Sam.

“A pianner-forty, Samivel,” riprese il signor Weller, in un tono ancora più misterioso, “perché può averlo noleggiato; uno che non suona, Sammy.”

“E qual sarebbe il vantaggio in tutto questo?” disse Sam.

“Faccia venire il mio amico, il falegname, a riprenderlo, Sammy,” rispose il signor Weller. “Ora sei sveglio, vero?”

“No,” ribatté Sam.

“Non ci sono pericoli in questo,” sussurrò suo padre. “Lo terrà al sicuro: con il cappello e le scarpe addosso, potrà respirare anche attraverso le gambe. Prepara un passaggio pronto per ‘Merriker’. Il governo ‘merrikino’ non lo lascerà mai andare, soprattutto ora che ha soldi da spendere, Sammy. Lascia che il governatore si fermi lì, finché la signora Bardell non morirà, o il signor Dodson e Fogg non verranno impiccati. Il secondo evento, credo, è molto più probabile che accada per primo, Sammy. Poi lascialo tornare e scrivere un libro sui ‘merrikini’: gli pagheranno tutte le spese, e anche di più, se riuscirà a distruggerli completamente.”

Il signor Weller pronunciò queste parole in fretta e con grande veemenza, sussurrandole; poi, come se temesse di ridurre l’effetto di quel messaggio importante con ulteriori dialoghi, salutò il cocchiere e scomparve.

Sam aveva appena ripreso la sua solita compostezza, profondamente turbata dalla segreta comunicazione del suo rispettabile parente, quando il signor Pickwick gli si avvicinò.

“Sam,” disse quel gentiluomo.

“Signore,” rispose il signor Weller.

“Vado a fare una passeggiata attorno alla prigione e vorrei che tu mi accompagnassi. Vedo arrivare da questa parte un prigioniero che conosciamo, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick, sorridendo.

“Che cosa, signore?”, chiese il signor Weller; “il generale con i capelli bianchi, o la prigioniera interessante con le calze?”

“Nessuno dei due,” ribatté il signor Pickwick. “È un tuo amico più anziano, Sam.”

“‘Oh’, signore?” esclamò il signor Weller.

“Ricordi molto bene quel signore, vero, Sam?” rispose il signor Pickwick, “altrimenti saresti davvero meno attento ai tuoi vecchi conoscenti di quanto creda. Zitto! Niente parole, Sam; nemmeno una sillaba. Ecco che arriva.”

Mentre il signor Pickwick parlava, Jingle si avvicinò. Sembrava meno sventurato di prima: indossava un abito mezzo logoro che, con l’aiuto del signor Pickwick, era stato recuperato dal peggiatore. Portava anche biancheria pulita e i capelli tagliati di recente. Tuttavia, era molto pallido e magro; camminava lentamente, appoggiandosi a un bastone, e si vedeva chiaramente che aveva sofferto molto a causa della malattia e della povertà, ed era ancora molto debole. Si tolse il cappello quando il signor Pickwick lo salutò, e sembrava profondamente umiliato e imbarazzato alla vista di Sam Weller.

Subito dietro di lui c’era il signor Job Trotter; tra i suoi vizi, la mancanza di fede e l’assenza di attaccamento verso il suo compagno non avrebbero mai potuto trovare spazio in alcuna situazione. Era ancora vestito in stracci e trasandato, ma il suo viso non era più così scavato come al loro primo incontro, alcuni giorni prima. Mentre si toglieva il cappello davanti al nostro benevolo vecchio amico, mormorò alcune parole spezzate di gratitudine, e aggiunse che era stato salvato dalla fame.

“Beh, beh, ”, disse il signor Pickwick interrompendolo con impazienza, “puoi andare avanti con Sam. Voglio parlarti, signor Jingle. Riesci a camminare senza il suo braccio?”

“Certo, signore, tutto pronto, non troppo velocemente, le gambe tremolano, la testa mi gira, una sensazione strana, molto strana.”

“Ecco, dammi il tuo braccio,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“No, no,” rispose Jingle; “certamente no, preferisco di no.”

“Sciocchezze,” disse il signor Pickwick; “si appoggi a me, la prego, signore.”

Vedendo che era confuso e agitato, e incerto su cosa fare, il signor Pickwick pose fine alla situazione mettendo il braccio del passeggino su cui si appoggiava l’uomo invalido attraverso il proprio, e lo portò via senza dire una parola in più.

During the whole of this time the countenance of Mr. Samuel Weller had exhibited an expression of the most overwhelming and absorbing astonishment that the imagination can portray. After looking from Job to Jingle, and from Jingle to Job in profound silence, he softly ejaculated the words, ‘Well, I am damn’d!’ which he repeated at least a score of times; after which exertion, he appeared wholly bereft of speech, and again cast his eyes, first upon the one and then upon the other, in mute perplexity and bewilderment.

‘Now, Sam!’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking back.

‘I’m a-comin’, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, mechanically following his master; and still he lifted not his eyes from Mr. Job Trotter, who walked at his side in silence.

Job kept his eyes fixed on the ground for some time. Sam, with his glued to Job’s countenance, ran up against the people who were walking about, and fell over little children, and stumbled against steps and railings, without appearing at all sensible of it, until Job, looking stealthily up, said—

‘How do you do, Mr. Weller?’

‘It is him!’ exclaimed Sam; and having established Job’s identity beyond all doubt, he smote his leg, and vented his feelings in a long, shrill whistle.

‘Things has altered with me, sir,’ said Job.

‘I should think they had,’ exclaimed Mr. Weller, surveying his companion’s rags with undisguised wonder. ‘This is rayther a change for the worse, Mr. Trotter, as the gen’l’m’n said, wen he got two doubtful shillin’s and sixpenn’orth o’ pocket-pieces for a good half-crown.’

‘It is indeed,’ replied Job, shaking his head. ‘There is no deception now, Mr. Weller. Tears,’ said Job, with a look of momentary slyness— ‘tears are not the only proofs of distress, nor the best ones.’

‘No, they ain’t,’ replied Sam expressively.

‘They may be put on, Mr. Weller,’ said Job.

‘I know they may,’ said Sam; ‘some people, indeed, has ‘em always ready laid on, and can pull out the plug wenever they likes.’

‘Yes,’ replied Job; ‘but these sort of things are not so easily counterfeited, Mr. Weller, and it is a more painful process to get them up.’ As he spoke, he pointed to his sallow, sunken cheeks, and, drawing up his coat sleeve, disclosed an arm which looked as if the bone could be broken at a touch, so sharp and brittle did it appear, beneath its thin covering of flesh.

‘Wot have you been a-doin’ to yourself?’ said Sam, recoiling.

‘Nothing,’ replied Job.

‘Nothin’!’ echoed Sam.

‘I have been doin’ nothing for many weeks past,’ said Job; and eating and drinking almost as little.’

Sam took one comprehensive glance at Mr. Trotter’s thin face and wretched apparel; and then, seizing him by the arm, commenced dragging him away with great violence.

‘Where are you going, Mr. Weller?’ said Job, vainly struggling in the powerful grasp of his old enemy.

‘Come on,’ said Sam; ‘come on!’ He deigned no further explanation till they reached the tap, and then called for a pot of porter, which was speedily produced.

‘Now,’ said Sam, ‘drink that up, ev’ry drop on it, and then turn the pot upside down, to let me see as you’ve took the medicine.’

‘But, my dear Mr. Weller,’ remonstrated Job.

‘Down vith it!’ said Sam peremptorily.

Thus admonished, Mr. Trotter raised the pot to his lips, and, by gentle and almost imperceptible degrees, tilted it into the air. He paused once, and only once, to draw a long breath, but without raising his face from the vessel, which, in a few moments thereafter, he held out at arm’s length, bottom upward. Nothing fell upon the ground but a few particles of froth, which slowly detached themselves from the rim, and trickled lazily down.

‘Well done!’ said Sam. ‘How do you find yourself arter it?’

‘Better, Sir. I think I am better,’ responded Job.

‘O’ course you air,’ said Sam argumentatively. ‘It’s like puttin’ gas in a balloon. I can see with the naked eye that you gets stouter under the operation. Wot do you say to another o’ the same dimensions?’

‘I would rather not, I am much obliged to you, Sir,’ replied Job—‘much rather not.’

‘Vell, then, wot do you say to some wittles?’ inquired Sam.

‘Thanks to your worthy governor, Sir,’ said Mr. Trotter, ‘we have half a leg of mutton, baked, at a quarter before three, with the potatoes under it to save boiling.’

‘Wot! Has he been a-purwidin’ for you?’ asked Sam emphatically.

‘He has, Sir,’ replied Job. ‘More than that, Mr. Weller; my master being very ill, he got us a room—we were in a kennel before—and paid for it, Sir; and come to look at us, at night, when nobody should know. Mr. Weller,’ said Job, with real tears in his eyes, for once, ‘I could serve that gentleman till I fell down dead at his feet.’

‘I say!’ said Sam, ‘I’ll trouble you, my friend! None o’ that!’

Job Trotter looked amazed.

‘None o’ that, I say, young feller,’ repeated Sam firmly. ‘No man serves him but me. And now we’re upon it, I’ll let you into another secret besides that,’ said Sam, as he paid for the beer. ‘I never heerd, mind you, or read of in story-books, nor see in picters, any angel in tights and gaiters—not even in spectacles, as I remember, though that may ha’ been done for anythin’ I know to the contrairey—but mark my vords, Job Trotter, he’s a reg’lar thoroughbred angel for all that; and let me see the man as wenturs to tell me he knows a better vun.’ With this defiance, Mr. Weller buttoned up his change in a side pocket, and, with many confirmatory nods and gestures by the way, proceeded in search of the subject of discourse.

They found Mr. Pickwick, in company with Jingle, talking very earnestly, and not bestowing a look on the groups who were congregated on the racket-ground; they were very motley groups too, and worth the looking at, if it were only in idle curiosity.

‘Well,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as Sam and his companion drew nigh, ‘you will see how your health becomes, and think about it meanwhile. Make the statement out for me when you feel yourself equal to the task, and I will discuss the subject with you when I have considered it. Now, go to your room. You are tired, and not strong enough to be out long.’

Per tutto questo tempo, l’espressione sul volto del signor Samuel Weller mostrava uno stupore così profondo e intenso che la immaginazione stessa fatica a descriverlo. Dopo aver fissato alternativamente Job e Jingle in un profondo silenzio, esclamò dolcemente: “Beh, sono davvero dannato!”, ripetendo quelle parole almeno una ventina di volte; dopo questo sfogo, sembrò completamente privo di parole e continuò a guardare alternativamente l’uno e l’altro con un’espressione di muta perplessità e confusione.

“Ora, Sam!”, disse il signor Pickwick, guardando indietro.

“Sto arrivando, signore,” rispose il signor Weller, seguendo meccanicamente il suo padrone; e continuò a non alzare lo sguardo dal signor Job Trotter, che camminava al suo fianco in silenzio.

Job tenne lo sguardo fisso a terra per un po’. Sam, con gli occhi incollati al viso di Job, andò a sbattere contro le persone che passavano intorno, inciampò nei bambini piccoli e si scontrò con gradini e ringhiere, senza sembrare minimamente rendersene conto. Fino a quando Job, alzando lo sguardo di nascosto, disse.

“Come va, signor Weller?”

“È proprio lui!”, esclamò Sam; e una volta accertata con assoluta certezza l’identità di Job, si batté la gamba e sfogò i suoi sentimenti emettendo un lungo fischio acuto.

“Le cose sono cambiate per me, signore,” disse Giobbe.

“Credo proprio che li abbiano,” esclamò il signor Weller, osservando i stracci del suo compagno con evidente stupore. “È davvero un peggioramento, signor Trotter. Come diceva quel generale, quando ha ottenuto due scellini dubbi e sei penny di monete da tasca in cambio di una buona mezza >crown.”

“È proprio così,” rispose Giobbe scuotendo la testa. “Ora non c’è alcuna inganno, signor Weller. Le lacrime, ” disse Giobbe, con un’espressione per un attimo astuta, “le lacrime non sono le uniche prove di dolore, né le migliori.”

“No, non lo sono,” rispose Sam in modo significativo.

“Possono essere indossati, signor Weller,” disse Job.

“So che possono farlo,” disse Sam; “alcune persone, infatti, le hanno sempre pronte e possono staccare la spina quando vogliono.”

“Sì,” rispose Job; “ma queste cose non sono così facili da falsificare, signor Weller. E produrle richiede un processo molto più complicato.” Mentre parlava, indicò le sue guance giallastre e incavate; poi sollevò la manica del cappotto, rivelando un braccio che sembrava poter rompersi al minimo tocco, così sottile e fragile appariva sotto quella sottile pellicola di carne.

“Che ti sei fatto?” disse Sam, indietreggiando.

“Niente,” rispose Giobbe.

“Niente!” echeggiò la voce di Sam.

“Non ho fatto nulla per molte settimane,” disse Giobbe; “e mangio e bevo quasi altrettanto poco.”

Sam gettò uno sguardo d’insieme al volto magro e all’abbigliamento misero del signor Trotter; poi, afferrandolo per il braccio, iniziò a trascinarlo via con grande violenza.

“Dove stai andando, signor Weller?” disse Job, lottando invano contro la forte presa del suo vecchio nemico.

“Dai, su,” disse Sam; “dai!” Non volle fornire altre spiegazioni fino a quando non arrivarono alla fontanella, dopodiché chiese una pentola di birra portera, che gli fu subito portata.

“Ora,” disse Sam, “bevi tutto fino all’ultima goccia, e poi capovolgi la pentola così che io possa vedere se hai preso la medicina.”

“Ma, caro signor Weller,” obiettò Job.

“Giù con quello!” disse Sam in tono deciso.

Avvertito in questo modo, il signor Trotter portò la pentola alle labbra e, in modo lento e quasi impercettibile, iniziò ad inclinarla verso l’alto. Si fermò una sola volta per prendere un lungo respiro, senza mai alzare lo sguardo dalla pentola; dopo alcuni istanti, la tenne orizzontalmente, con il fondo rivolto verso l’alto. Non cadde nulla a terra se non alcune piccole particelle di schiuma che si staccarono lentamente dal bordo e scesero giù pigramente.

“Bravo!” disse Sam. “Come ti senti adesso?”

“Miglioro, signore. Penso che ora stia meglio,” rispose Giobbe.

“Certo che si gonfia,” disse Sam in tono argomentativo. “È come riempire un palloncino di gas. Ogni volta che lo usi, diventa più rigido. Che ne dici di ne prendere un altro delle stesse dimensioni?”

“Preferirei di no, vi sono molto grato, signore,” rispose Job – “preferisco davvero di no.”

“Allora, cosa ne dici di qualche stuzzichino?” chiese Sam.

“Grazie al vostro nobile governatore, signore,” disse il signor Trotter, “abbiamo mezzo pollo arrosto, pronto alle tre meno un quarto; le patate sono state messe sotto per evitare che bolliscano.”

“Cosa? Ha davvero cercato di aiutarti?” chiese Sam con enfasi.

“Sì, signore,” rispose Job. “Anzi di più: poiché il mio padrone era molto malato, ci ha trovato una stanza – prima eravamo in un canile – e l’ha pagata personalmente, signore; inoltre è venuto a trovarci di notte, quando nessuno avrebbe dovuto saperlo. Signor Weller,” disse Job, con vere e proprie lacrime negli occhi, “sarei disposto a servire quel gentiluomo fino alla morte ai suoi piedi.”

“Dico io!” esclamò Sam, “Ti darò da fare, amico mio. Assolutamente no!”

Job Trotter sembrava davvero sorpreso.

“Niente del genere, dico io, giovane,” ripeté Sam con fermezza. “Nessuno lo serve se non io. E ora che ne stiamo parlando, ti rivelerò un altro segreto, oltre a quello.” Mentre pagava la birra, aggiunse: “Non ho mai sentito, né letto in libri di storie, né visto in dipinti, nessun angelo con calzamaglie e gambiere, nemmeno con occhiali, per quanto ricordi; anche se forse in passato è stato rappresentato diversamente. Ma ascolta bene: Job Trotter è davvero un angelo autentico, di pura razza. E lasciami vedere chi oserebbe dire il contrario.” Con queste parole, il signor Weller si infilò i soldi rimanenti in una tasca laterale e, con molti cenni di assenso, continuò la sua conversazione.

Trovarono il signor Pickwick, in compagnia di Jingle, che parlava molto seriamente, senza degnare nemmeno uno sguardo ai gruppi radunati sul campo da racchette; si trattava di gruppi molto eterogenei, e valeva la pena osservarli, anche solo per semplice curiosità.

“Beh,” disse il signor Pickwick mentre Sam e il suo compagno si avvicinavano, “vedrete come migliorerà la vostra salute; intanto rifletteteci bene. Fatemi avere una dichiarazione quando vi sentirete in grado di affrontare l’argomento, e ne discuteremo insieme dopo che l’avrò esaminato attentamente. Ora andate nella vostra stanza: siete stanchi e non abbastanza in forza da stare fuori a lungo.”

Mr. Alfred Jingle, without one spark of his old animation—with nothing even of the dismal gaiety which he had assumed when Mr. Pickwick first stumbled on him in his misery—bowed low without speaking, and, motioning to Job not to follow him just yet, crept slowly away.

‘Curious scene this, is it not, Sam?’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking good- humouredly round.

‘Wery much so, Sir,’ replied Sam. ‘Wonders ‘ull never cease,’ added Sam, speaking to himself. ‘I’m wery much mistaken if that ‘ere Jingle worn’t a-doin somethin’ in the water-cart way!’

The area formed by the wall in that part of the Fleet in which Mr. Pickwick stood was just wide enough to make a good racket-court; one side being formed, of course, by the wall itself, and the other by that portion of the prison which looked (or rather would have looked, but for the wall) towards St. Paul’s Cathedral. Sauntering or sitting about, in every possible attitude of listless idleness, were a great number of debtors, the major part of whom were waiting in prison until their day of ‘going up’ before the Insolvent Court should arrive; while others had been remanded for various terms, which they were idling away as they best could. Some were shabby, some were smart, many dirty, a few clean; but there they all lounged, and loitered, and slunk about with as little spirit or purpose as the beasts in a menagerie.

Lolling from the windows which commanded a view of this promenade were a number of persons, some in noisy conversation with their acquaintance below, others playing at ball with some adventurous throwers outside, others looking on at the racket-players, or watching the boys as they cried the game. Dirty, slipshod women passed and repassed, on their way to the cooking-house in one corner of the yard; children screamed, and fought, and played together, in another; the tumbling of the skittles, and the shouts of the players, mingled perpetually with these and a hundred other sounds; and all was noise and tumult—save in a little miserable shed a few yards off, where lay, all quiet and ghastly, the body of the Chancery prisoner who had died the night before, awaiting the mockery of an inquest. The body! It is the lawyer’s term for the restless, whirling mass of cares and anxieties, affections, hopes, and griefs, that make up the living man. The law had his body; and there it lay, clothed in grave-clothes, an awful witness to its tender mercy.

‘Would you like to see a whistling-shop, Sir?’ inquired Job Trotter.

‘What do you mean?’ was Mr. Pickwick’s counter inquiry.

‘A vistlin’ shop, Sir,’ interposed Mr. Weller.

‘What is that, Sam?—A bird-fancier’s?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Bless your heart, no, Sir,’ replied Job; ‘a whistling-shop, Sir, is where they sell spirits.’ Mr. Job Trotter briefly explained here, that all persons, being prohibited under heavy penalties from conveying spirits into debtors’ prisons, and such commodities being highly prized by the ladies and gentlemen confined therein, it had occurred to some speculative turnkey to connive, for certain lucrative considerations, at two or three prisoners retailing the favourite article of gin, for their own profit and advantage.

‘This plan, you see, Sir, has been gradually introduced into all the prisons for debt,’ said Mr. Trotter.

‘And it has this wery great advantage,’ said Sam, ‘that the turnkeys takes wery good care to seize hold o’ ev’rybody but them as pays ‘em, that attempts the willainy, and wen it gets in the papers they’re applauded for their wigilance; so it cuts two ways—frightens other people from the trade, and elewates their own characters.’

‘Exactly so, Mr. Weller,’ observed Job.

‘Well, but are these rooms never searched to ascertain whether any spirits are concealed in them?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Cert’nly they are, Sir,’ replied Sam; ‘but the turnkeys knows beforehand, and gives the word to the wistlers, and you may wistle for it wen you go to look.’

By this time, Job had tapped at a door, which was opened by a gentleman with an uncombed head, who bolted it after them when they had walked in, and grinned; upon which Job grinned, and Sam also; whereupon Mr. Pickwick, thinking it might be expected of him, kept on smiling to the end of the interview.

The gentleman with the uncombed head appeared quite satisfied with this mute announcement of their business, and, producing a flat stone bottle, which might hold about a couple of quarts, from beneath his bedstead, filled out three glasses of gin, which Job Trotter and Sam disposed of in a most workmanlike manner.

‘Any more?’ said the whistling gentleman.

‘No more,’ replied Job Trotter.

Mr. Pickwick paid, the door was unbolted, and out they came; the uncombed gentleman bestowing a friendly nod upon Mr. Roker, who happened to be passing at the moment.

From this spot, Mr. Pickwick wandered along all the galleries, up and down all the staircases, and once again round the whole area of the yard. The great body of the prison population appeared to be Mivins, and Smangle, and the parson, and the butcher, and the leg, over and over, and over again. There were the same squalor, the same turmoil and noise, the same general characteristics, in every corner; in the best and the worst alike. The whole place seemed restless and troubled; and the people were crowding and flitting to and fro, like the shadows in an uneasy dream.

‘I have seen enough,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as he threw himself into a chair in his little apartment. ‘My head aches with these scenes, and my heart too. Henceforth I will be a prisoner in my own room.’

And Mr. Pickwick steadfastly adhered to this determination. For three long months he remained shut up, all day; only stealing out at night to breathe the air, when the greater part of his fellow-prisoners were in bed or carousing in their rooms. His health was beginning to suffer from the closeness of the confinement, but neither the often-repeated entreaties of Perker and his friends, nor the still more frequently- repeated warnings and admonitions of Mr. Samuel Weller, could induce him to alter one jot of his inflexible resolution.

Il signor Alfred Jingle, privo di ogni traccia della sua vecchia vivacità – senza nemmeno quella tetra allegria che aveva mostrato quando il signor Pickwick lo aveva incontrato per la prima volta nella sua miseria – si inchinò profondamente in silenzio, fece segno a Job di non seguirlo subito e se ne andò lentamente.

“Che scena curiosa, non è vero, Sam?” disse il signor Pickwick, guardandosi intorno con aria allegra.

“Certo che sì, signore,” rispose Sam. “I misteri non finiscono mai,” aggiunse tra sé e sé. “Devo essermi sbagliato di grosso. Se quel Jingle non stesse facendo qualcosa legato ai carri d’acqua, ”

L’area delimitata dal muro in quella parte della prigione dove si trovava il signor Pickwick era abbastanza larga da poter costituire un ottimo campo da gioco; da un lato, infatti, il muro stesso ne delimitava i confini, mentre dall’altro si estendeva quella parte della prigione che, se non fosse stato per il muro, avrebbe guardato verso la Cattedrale di St. Paul’s. Lì, sdraiati o seduti in ogni possibile atteggiamento di pigra indolenza, c’erano molti debitori; la maggior parte di loro aspettava nella prigione il proprio turno per comparire davanti al Tribunale dei falliti, mentre altri erano stati rilasciati in libertà condizionale con diversi termini di detenzione, che trascorrevano oziosamente come meglio potevano. Alcuni erano trasandati, altri curatissimi; molti sporchi, pochi puliti. Ma tutti quanti se ne stavano lì a poltrire, a gironzolare senza alcuno scopo o energia, proprio come gli animali in un giardino zoologico.

Dai finestrini che offrivano una vista su questa passeggiata, c’erano molte persone: alcune chiacchieravano ad alta voce con i conoscenti sotto di loro, altre giocavano a palla con alcuni giovani che lanciavano la palla con abilità, altre ancora osservavano i giocatori di racquet o i ragazzi che gridavano durante il gioco. Donne sporche e in abiti lisi passavano avanti e indietro, dirette verso la cucina situata in un angolo del cortile; i bambini urlavano, litigavano e giocavano insieme in un altro angolo; il rumore prodotto dai giochi e gli urli dei giocatori si mescolavano continuamente a tutti questi suoni. E tutto era caos e tumulto, tranne che in una piccola capanna, qualche metro più lontano: lì giaceva, immobile e orribile, il corpo del prigioniero del tribunale che era morto la notte precedente, in attesa delle umiliazioni di un’inchiesta. Il corpo. Questo è il termine legale per indicare quella massa inquieta e tumultuosa di preoccupazioni, ansie, affetti, speranze e dolori che compongono l’essere umano. La legge aveva preso possesso del suo corpo; ed eccolo lì, avvolto in abiti funebri, un terribile testimone della sua fragile misericordia.

“Vorreste vedere un negozio che vende flauti, signore?”, chiese Job Trotter.

“Cosa intendi dire?”, fu la domanda di rimando del signor Pickwick.

“Una bottega di stoffe, signore,” intervenne il signor Weller.

“Cos’è quello, Sam? Un oggetto per gli appassionati di uccelli?” chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Perdonate, signore, ma no,” rispose Job; “un negozio di fischi, signore, è proprio quel luogo dove si vendono alcolici.” Il signor Job Trotter spiegò brevemente che, poiché a tutte le persone era vietato, con severe punizioni, portare alcolici nelle prigioni dei debitori, e poiché tali merci erano molto apprezzate dalle signore e dai gentiluomini rinchiusi lì, alcuni secondini, per motivi di lucro, avevano iniziato a permettere a due o tre prigionieri di vendere gin, a proprio vantaggio.

“Questo piano, vedete signore, è stato gradualmente introdotto in tutte le prigioni per debiti,” disse il signor Trotter.

“E ha questo grande vantaggio,” disse Sam, “che i guardiani fanno molta attenzione a catturare tutti tranne coloro che li pagano; chi tenta di commettere atti malvagi viene punito, e quando queste azioni vengono pubblicate sui giornali, vengono lodati per la loro vigilanza. Quindi ottengono due risultati: spaventano le altre persone dal provare a intraprendere simili attività e al contempo migliorano il proprio prestigio.”

“Esattamente così, signor Weller,” osservò Job.

“Beh, ma non vengono mai ispezionate queste stanze per verificare se ci siano spiriti nascosti al loro interno?” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Certo che lo sono, signore,” rispose Sam; “ma il guardiano lo sa in anticipo e avverte i suonatori di flauto; potete suonare quando andate a controllare.”

A quell’ora, Giobbe bussò a una porta che fu aperta da un signore con i capelli in disordine; quest’ultimo la chiuse a chiave non appena loro entrarono e sorrise. Giobbe e Sam risero anch’essi. Il signor Pickwick, ritenendo che ci si aspettasse da lui lo stesso, continuò a sorridere per tutta la durata dell’incontro.

Il signore con i capelli in disordine sembrava piuttosto soddisfatto di questa comunicazione silenziosa riguardo ai loro affari; tirò fuori da sotto il letto una bottiglia di pietra piatta, in grado di contenere circa due litri, e ne versò tre bicchieri di gin, che Job Trotter e Sam bevvero in modo molto efficiente.

“Ne vuoi ancora?” disse il gentiluomo che fischiava.

“Non più,” rispose Job Trotter.

Il signor Pickwick pagò, la porta fu aperta e loro uscirono; il gentiluomo con i capelli in disordine fece un cenno amichevole al signor Roker, che capitava di passare in quel momento.

Da questo punto, il signor Pickwick si aggirò lungo tutte le gallerie, su e giù per tutte le scale, e ancora una volta per l’intera area del cortile. Le principali figure della popolazione carceraria sembravano essere Mivins, Smangle, il parroco, il macellaio, sempre loro, ancora e ancora. C’era lo stesso squallore, lo stesso caos e rumore, le stesse caratteristiche generali in ogni angolo; sia nei luoghi migliori che in quelli peggiori. L’intero posto sembrava agitato e turbolento; la gente si affollava e si spostava avanti e indietro, come ombre in un sogno inquieto.

“Ne ho visto abbastanza,” disse il signor Pickwick mentre si gettava su una sedia nel suo piccolo appartamento. “La testa mi fa male a causa di queste scene, e anche il cuore. Da ora in poi sarò prigioniero nella mia stessa stanza.”

E il signor Pickwick rimase fermamente fedele a questa decisione. Per tre lunghi mesi rimase chiuso in cella tutto il giorno; usciva soltanto di notte per respirare l’aria, quando la maggior parte dei suoi compagni di prigione era già a letto o si divertiva nelle loro stanze. La sua salute iniziò ad peggiorare a causa della reclusione forzata, ma né le continue suppliche di Perker e dei suoi amici, né le ancora più frequenti avvertenze e rimproveri del signor Samuel Weller riuscirono a fargli cambiare minimamente la sua ferma risoluzione.

CHAPTER XLVI. RECORDS A TOUCHING ACT OF DELICATE FEELING, NOT UNMIXED WITH PLEASANTRY, ACHIEVED AND PERFORMED BY Messrs. DODSON AND FOGG

It was within a week of the close of the month of July, that a hackney cabriolet, number unrecorded, was seen to proceed at a rapid pace up Goswell Street; three people were squeezed into it besides the driver, who sat in his own particular little dickey at the side; over the apron were hung two shawls, belonging to two small vixenish-looking ladies under the apron; between whom, compressed into a very small compass, was stowed away, a gentleman of heavy and subdued demeanour, who, whenever he ventured to make an observation, was snapped up short by one of the vixenish ladies before-mentioned. Lastly, the two vixenish ladies and the heavy gentleman were giving the driver contradictory directions, all tending to the one point, that he should stop at Mrs. Bardell’s door; which the heavy gentleman, in direct opposition to, and defiance of, the vixenish ladies, contended was a green door and not a yellow one.

‘Stop at the house with a green door, driver,’ said the heavy gentleman.

‘Oh! You perwerse creetur!’ exclaimed one of the vixenish ladies. ‘Drive to the ‘ouse with the yellow door, cabmin.’

Upon this the cabman, who in a sudden effort to pull up at the house with the green door, had pulled the horse up so high that he nearly pulled him backward into the cabriolet, let the animal’s fore-legs down to the ground again, and paused.

‘Now vere am I to pull up?’ inquired the driver. ‘Settle it among yourselves. All I ask is, vere?’

Here the contest was renewed with increased violence; and the horse being troubled with a fly on his nose, the cabman humanely employed his leisure in lashing him about on the head, on the counter-irritation principle.

‘Most wotes carries the day!’ said one of the vixenish ladies at length. ‘The ‘ouse with the yellow door, cabman.’

But after the cabriolet had dashed up, in splendid style, to the house with the yellow door, ‘making,’ as one of the vixenish ladies triumphantly said, ‘acterrally more noise than if one had come in one’s own carriage,’ and after the driver had dismounted to assist the ladies in getting out, the small round head of Master Thomas Bardell was thrust out of the one-pair window of a house with a red door, a few numbers off.

‘Aggrawatin’ thing!’ said the vixenish lady last-mentioned, darting a withering glance at the heavy gentleman.

‘My dear, it’s not my fault,’ said the gentleman.

‘Don’t talk to me, you creetur, don’t,’ retorted the lady. ‘The house with the red door, cabmin. Oh! If ever a woman was troubled with a ruffinly creetur, that takes a pride and a pleasure in disgracing his wife on every possible occasion afore strangers, I am that woman!’

‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Raddle,’ said the other little woman, who was no other than Mrs. Cluppins.

‘What have I been a-doing of?’ asked Mr. Raddle.

‘Don’t talk to me, don’t, you brute, for fear I should be perwoked to forgit my sect and strike you!’ said Mrs. Raddle.

While this dialogue was going on, the driver was most ignominiously leading the horse, by the bridle, up to the house with the red door, which Master Bardell had already opened. Here was a mean and low way of arriving at a friend’s house! No dashing up, with all the fire and fury of the animal; no jumping down of the driver; no loud knocking at the door; no opening of the apron with a crash at the very last moment, for fear of the ladies sitting in a draught; and then the man handing the shawls out, afterwards, as if he were a private coachman! The whole edge of the thing had been taken off—it was flatter than walking.

‘Well, Tommy,’ said Mrs. Cluppins, ‘how’s your poor dear mother?’

‘Oh, she’s very well,’ replied Master Bardell. ‘She’s in the front parlour, all ready. I’m ready too, I am.’ Here Master Bardell put his hands in his pockets, and jumped off and on the bottom step of the door.

‘Is anybody else a-goin’, Tommy?’ said Mrs. Cluppins, arranging her pelerine.

‘Mrs. Sanders is going, she is,’ replied Tommy; ‘I’m going too, I am.’

‘Drat the boy,’ said little Mrs. Cluppins. ‘He thinks of nobody but himself. Here, Tommy, dear.’

‘Well,’ said Master Bardell.

‘Who else is a-goin’, lovey?’ said Mrs. Cluppins, in an insinuating manner.

‘Oh! Mrs. Rogers is a-goin’,’ replied Master Bardell, opening his eyes very wide as he delivered the intelligence.

‘What? The lady as has taken the lodgings!’ ejaculated Mrs. Cluppins.

Master Bardell put his hands deeper down into his pockets, and nodded exactly thirty-five times, to imply that it was the lady-lodger, and no other.

‘Bless us!’ said Mrs. Cluppins. ‘It’s quite a party!’

‘Ah, if you knew what was in the cupboard, you’d say so,’ replied Master Bardell.

‘What is there, Tommy?’ said Mrs. Cluppins coaxingly. ‘You’ll tell me, Tommy, I know.’

No, I won’t,’ replied Master Bardell, shaking his head, and applying himself to the bottom step again.

‘Drat the child!’ muttered Mrs. Cluppins. ‘What a prowokin’ little wretch it is! Come, Tommy, tell your dear Cluppy.’

‘Mother said I wasn’t to,’ rejoined Master Bardell, ‘I’m a-goin’ to have some, I am.’ Cheered by this prospect, the precocious boy applied himself to his infantile treadmill, with increased vigour.

The above examination of a child of tender years took place while Mr. and Mrs. Raddle and the cab-driver were having an altercation concerning the fare, which, terminating at this point in favour of the cabman, Mrs. Raddle came up tottering.

‘Lauk, Mary Ann! what’s the matter?’ said Mrs. Cluppins.

‘It’s put me all over in such a tremble, Betsy,’ replied Mrs. Raddle. ‘Raddle ain’t like a man; he leaves everythink to me.’

This was scarcely fair upon the unfortunate Mr. Raddle, who had been thrust aside by his good lady in the commencement of the dispute, and peremptorily commanded to hold his tongue. He had no opportunity of defending himself, however, for Mrs. Raddle gave unequivocal signs of fainting; which, being perceived from the parlour window, Mrs. Bardell, Mrs. Sanders, the lodger, and the lodger’s servant, darted precipitately out, and conveyed her into the house, all talking at the same time, and giving utterance to various expressions of pity and condolence, as if she were one of the most suffering mortals on earth. Being conveyed into the front parlour, she was there deposited on a sofa; and the lady from the first floor running up to the first floor, returned with a bottle of sal-volatile, which, holding Mrs. Raddle tight round the neck, she applied in all womanly kindness and pity to her nose, until that lady with many plunges and struggles was fain to declare herself decidedly better.

CAPITOLO XLVI. RACCONTO DI UN ATTO TOCCANTE DI SENSIBILITÀ E DELICATEZZA, NON SENZA ELEMENTI DI GRAZIA E ALLEGRIA; ATTO COMPIUTO E REALIZZATO dai Signori DODSON E FOGG

Nel giro di una settimana dalla fine del mese di luglio, si vide un cabriolet senza numero di targa avanzare a velocità sostenuta lungo Goswell Street; dentro c’erano tre persone, oltre al conducente, che sedeva nel suo piccolo sedile laterale. Sopra il bordo del veicolo erano appese due sciarpe, appartenenti a due signore dall’aspetto malizioso. Tra di loro, stretto in uno spazio molto ristretto, c’era un gentiluomo dal comportamento cupo e riservato; ogni volta che osava fare un commento, veniva immediatamente zittito da una delle due signore menzionate. Infine, le due donne maliziose e il gentiluomo continuavano a dare al conducente indicazioni contraddittorie, tutte voltevoli verso lo stesso obiettivo: farlo fermare davanti alla porta di Mrs. Bardell. Il gentiluomo, invece, si opponeva decisamente alle loro richieste, sostenendo che si trattasse di una porta verde e non gialla.

“Fermati davanti alla casa con la porta verde, autista,” disse il signore robusto.

“Oh! Creatura malvagia!” esclamò una di quelle donne volgari. “Vai subito in quella casa con la porta gialla, capisci?”

A questo punto, il cocchiere, nel tentativo improvviso di fermarsi davanti alla casa con la porta verde, aveva tirato su il cavallo così in alto che quasi lo fece ricadere all’interno della carrozza; poi lasciò che le zampe anteriori dell’animale toccassero di nuovo il terreno e si fermò.

“Ora posso davvero partire?” chiese il conducente. “Decidete voi. Tutto quello che chiedo è di poter partire, va bene?”

Qui il conflitto si riprese con ancora più violenza; e poiché il cavallo era infastidito da una mosca sul naso, il cocchiere, per motivi umanitari, approfittò del proprio tempo libero per frustarlo sulla testa, seguendo il principio della controirritazione.

“La maggioranza decide tutto!”, disse infine una di quelle donne malvagie.
“Quella casa con la porta gialla. autista.”

Ma dopo che il cabriolet si era fermato con grande eleganza davanti alla casa con la porta gialla, “facendo,” come disse trionfante una di quelle donne malvagie, “molto più rumore di quanto se si fosse arrivati in carrozza propria”, e dopo che il conducente era sceso ad aiutare le signore a scendere, la piccola testa rotonda del signor Thomas Bardell spuntò fuori dalla singola finestra di una casa con la porta rossa, situata poco più in là.

“Quella cosa orribile!” disse la signora dal viso da volpe menzionata poco fa, lanciando uno sguardo sprezzante al gentiluomo robusto.

“Mia cara, non è colpa mia,” disse il gentiluomo.

“Non parlarmi, tu maledetto individuo, per favore,” ribatté la signora. “Quella casa con la porta rossa. Oh! Se mai una donna ha dovuto sopportare un individuo rozzo e scortese che si compiace nel umiliare sua moglie davanti a estranei, in ogni occasione possibile, quella sono io!”

“Dovresti vergognarti di te stesso, Raddle,” disse l’altra piccola donna, che non era altri che la signora Cluppins.

“Cosa diavolo ho fatto?” chiese il signor Raddle.

“Non parlarmi, per l’amor di Dio, non farlo. Altrimenti temo che possa dimenticare le mie convinzioni e colpirti!” disse la signora Raddle.

Mentre questo dialogo aveva luogo, il cocchiere guidava l’cavallo, tenendolo per la briglia, fino alla casa con la porta rossa, che il signor Bardell aveva già aperto. Che modo meschino e spregevole di arrivare a casa di un amico. Nessuna corsa impetuosa del cavallo, nessun salto giù dal cocchiere, nessun bussare forte alla porta, nessuno aprirla all’ultimo momento per paura che le signore prendessero freddo. E poi il cocchiere consegnava i scialli come se fosse un semplice vetturino privato! Tutto il fascino e l’eleganza dell’intera scena erano stati completamente eliminati. Era persino più noioso che camminare a piedi.

“Beh, Tommy,” disse la signora Cluppins, “come sta tua povera mamma?”

“Oh, sta molto bene,” rispose il Maestro Bardell. “È nella sala d’ingresso, pronta per tutto. Anch’io sono pronto.” Poi il Maestro Bardell mise le mani in tasca e iniziò a saltellare sul gradino inferiore della porta.

“C’è qualcun altro che se ne va, Tommy?” chiese la signora Cluppins, sistemando il suo cappotto.

“La signora Sanders se ne va, sì,” rispose Tommy; “Anch’io me ne vado, sì.”

“Maledetto ragazzo,” disse la piccola signora Cluppins. “Non pensa a nessun altro se non a sé stesso. Vieni qui, Tommy, caro.”

“Beh,” disse il Maestro Bardell.

“Chi altro se ne va, caro?” disse la signora Cluppins in tono allusivo.

“Oh! La signora Rogers se ne sta andando,” rispose il signor Bardell, aprendo molto gli occhi mentre comunicava questa notizia.

“Cosa? Quella signora ha già preso in affitto la stanza!” esclamò la signora Cluppins.

Il maestro Bardell infilò le mani ancora più profondamente nelle tasche e annuì esattamente trentacinque volte, per far capire che si trattava proprio della signorina in affitto, e di nessun’altra.

“Benedicici!”, disse la signora Cluppins. “Che bella festa!”

“Ah, se solo sapeste cosa c’è nel armadio, lo direste,” rispose il Maestro Bardell.

“Cosa c’è, Tommy?”, disse dolcemente la signora Cluppins. “Me lo dirai, Tommy. Lo so.”

“No, non lo farò,” rispose Maestro Bardell scuotendo la testa e riprendendo a lavorare sul gradino più in basso.

“Maledetto quel >bambino!” mormorò la signora Cluppins. “Che piccolo monello provocatore. Vieni, Tommy, racconta tutto alla tua cara Cluppy.”

“Mia madre ha detto che non dovevo farlo,” ribatté il maestro Bardell, “ma io lo farò lo stesso.” Rincuorato da questa prospettiva, il bambino precoce si dedicò con ancora più impegno alle sue attività infantili.

L’esame sopra menzionato di un >bambino di tenera età ebbe luogo mentre il signor e la signora Raddle, insieme al tassista, erano impegnati in una discussione riguardante la tariffa; tale discussione si concluse a favore del tassista, e la signora Raddle ne uscì barcollando.

“Lauk, Mary Ann! Che cosa è successo?” disse la signora Cluppins.

“Mi ha messo in uno stato di terrore totale, Betsy,” rispose la signora Raddle.
“Raddle non è un vero uomo; lascia che sia io a occuparmi di tutto.”

Non era affatto giusto nei confronti del povero signor Raddle: sua moglie lo aveva messo da parte all’inizio della disputa e gli aveva ordinato perentoriamente di stare zitto. Tuttavia, lui non ebbe alcuna possibilità di difendersi, poiché la signora Raddle dava chiari segni di svenire; questo fu notato dalla finestra del salotto, così la signora Bardell, la signora Sanders, l’inquilina e il suo servitore uscirono immediatamente e la portarono dentro casa, parlando tutti contemporaneamente e esprimendo profondo dolore e compassione, come se fosse una delle persone più sfortunate del mondo. Una volta portata nel salotto principale, fu adagiata su un divano; la signora del piano di sopra tornò subito con una bottiglia di sali aromatici e, tenendola stretta per il collo, le ne applicò il contenuto con grande gentilezza e compassione, finché quella donna non riuscì finalmente a dichiararsi decisamente meglio.

‘Ah, poor thing!’ said Mrs. Rogers, ‘I know what her feelin’s is, too well.’

Ah, poor thing! so do I,’ said Mrs. Sanders; and then all the ladies moaned in unison, and said they knew what it was, and they pitied her from their hearts, they did. Even the lodger’s little servant, who was thirteen years old and three feet high, murmured her sympathy.

‘But what’s been the matter?’ said Mrs. Bardell.

‘Ah, what has decomposed you, ma’am?’ inquired Mrs. Rogers.

‘I have been a good deal flurried,’ replied Mrs. Raddle, in a reproachful manner. Thereupon the ladies cast indignant glances at Mr. Raddle.

‘Why, the fact is,’ said that unhappy gentleman, stepping forward, ‘when we alighted at this door, a dispute arose with the driver of the cabrioily—’ A loud scream from his wife, at the mention of this word, rendered all further explanation inaudible.

‘You’d better leave us to bring her round, Raddle,’ said Mrs. Cluppins. ‘She’ll never get better as long as you’re here.’

All the ladies concurred in this opinion; so Mr. Raddle was pushed out of the room, and requested to give himself an airing in the back yard. Which he did for about a quarter of an hour, when Mrs. Bardell announced to him with a solemn face that he might come in now, but that he must be very careful how he behaved towards his wife. She knew he didn’t mean to be unkind; but Mary Ann was very far from strong, and, if he didn’t take care, he might lose her when he least expected it, which would be a very dreadful reflection for him afterwards; and so on. All this, Mr. Raddle heard with great submission, and presently returned to the parlour in a most lamb-like manner.

‘Why, Mrs. Rogers, ma’am,’ said Mrs. Bardell, ‘you’ve never been introduced, I declare! Mr. Raddle, ma’am; Mrs. Cluppins, ma’am; Mrs. Raddle, ma’am.’

‘Which is Mrs. Cluppins’s sister,’ suggested Mrs. Sanders.

‘Oh, indeed!’ said Mrs. Rogers graciously; for she was the lodger, and her servant was in waiting, so she was more gracious than intimate, in right of her position. ‘Oh, indeed!’

Mrs. Raddle smiled sweetly, Mr. Raddle bowed, and Mrs. Cluppins said, ‘she was sure she was very happy to have an opportunity of being known to a lady which she had heerd so much in favour of, as Mrs. Rogers.’ A compliment which the last-named lady acknowledged with graceful condescension.

‘Well, Mr. Raddle,’ said Mrs. Bardell; ‘I’m sure you ought to feel very much honoured at you and Tommy being the only gentlemen to escort so many ladies all the way to the Spaniards, at Hampstead. Don’t you think he ought, Mrs. Rogers, ma’am?’

Oh, certainly, ma’am,’ replied Mrs. Rogers; after whom all the other ladies responded, ‘Oh, certainly.’

‘Of course I feel it, ma’am,’ said Mr. Raddle, rubbing his hands, and evincing a slight tendency to brighten up a little. ‘Indeed, to tell you the truth, I said, as we was a-coming along in the cabrioily—’

At the recapitulation of the word which awakened so many painful recollections, Mrs. Raddle applied her handkerchief to her eyes again, and uttered a half-suppressed scream; so that Mrs. Bardell frowned upon Mr. Raddle, to intimate that he had better not say anything more, and desired Mrs. Rogers’s servant, with an air, to ‘put the wine on.’

This was the signal for displaying the hidden treasures of the closet, which comprised sundry plates of oranges and biscuits, and a bottle of old crusted port—that at one-and-nine—with another of the celebrated East India sherry at fourteen-pence, which were all produced in honour of the lodger, and afforded unlimited satisfaction to everybody. After great consternation had been excited in the mind of Mrs. Cluppins, by an attempt on the part of Tommy to recount how he had been cross-examined regarding the cupboard then in action (which was fortunately nipped in the bud by his imbibing half a glass of the old crusted ‘the wrong way,’ and thereby endangering his life for some seconds), the party walked forth in quest of a Hampstead stage. This was soon found, and in a couple of hours they all arrived safely in the Spaniards Tea-gardens, where the luckless Mr. Raddle’s very first act nearly occasioned his good lady a relapse; it being neither more nor less than to order tea for seven, whereas (as the ladies one and all remarked), what could have been easier than for Tommy to have drank out of anybody’s cup—or everybody’s, if that was all—when the waiter wasn’t looking, which would have saved one head of tea, and the tea just as good!

However, there was no help for it, and the tea-tray came, with seven cups and saucers, and bread-and-butter on the same scale. Mrs. Bardell was unanimously voted into the chair, and Mrs. Rogers being stationed on her right hand, and Mrs. Raddle on her left, the meal proceeded with great merriment and success.

‘How sweet the country is, to be sure!’ sighed Mrs. Rogers; ‘I almost wish I lived in it always.’

‘Oh, you wouldn’t like that, ma’am,’ replied Mrs. Bardell, rather hastily; for it was not at all advisable, with reference to the lodgings, to encourage such notions; ‘you wouldn’t like it, ma’am.’

‘Oh! I should think you was a deal too lively and sought after, to be content with the country, ma’am,’ said little Mrs. Cluppins.

‘Perhaps I am, ma’am. Perhaps I am,’ sighed the first-floor lodger.

‘For lone people as have got nobody to care for them, or take care of them, or as have been hurt in their mind, or that kind of thing,’ observed Mr. Raddle, plucking up a little cheerfulness, and looking round, ‘the country is all very well. The country for a wounded spirit, they say.’

Now, of all things in the world that the unfortunate man could have said, any would have been preferable to this. Of course Mrs. Bardell burst into tears, and requested to be led from the table instantly; upon which the affectionate child began to cry too, most dismally.

‘Would anybody believe, ma’am,’ exclaimed Mrs. Raddle, turning fiercely to the first-floor lodger, ‘that a woman could be married to such a unmanly creetur, which can tamper with a woman’s feelings as he does, every hour in the day, ma’am?’

“Ah, poverina!” disse la signora Rogers, “Anch’io so bene quali siano i suoi sentimenti.”

Ah, poverina! Anch’io la capisco perfettamente, disse la signora Sanders; e poi tutte le signore mormorarono all’unisono, dicendo di comprendere perfettamente ciò che provava e che provavano davvero compassione per lei. Anche la piccola serva dell’inquilina, che aveva tredici anni e un’altezza di circa un metro e cinquanta centimetri, esprimeva la sua solidarietà.

“Ma cos’è successo?” disse la signora Bardell.

“Ah, cosa vi ha fatto decadere, signora?” chiese la signora Rogers.

“Sono stata davvero molto agitata,” rispose la signora Raddle in tono di rimprovero. A quel punto, le signore lanciarono sguardi indignati al signor Raddle.

“Beh, la verità è,” disse quel gentiluomo sfortunato avvicinandosi, “che quando siamo scesi davanti a questa porta, è scoppiata una discussione con il conducente della vettura, ” Un grido acuto proveniente da sua moglie, all’udire quella parola, rese impossibile proseguire con le spiegazioni.

“È meglio che ci lasciate fare, Raddle,” disse la signora Cluppins. “Non migliorerà mai finché siete qui.”

Tutte le signore erano d’accordo su questo parere; così il signor Raddle fu spinto fuori dalla stanza e gli fu chiesto di andare a prendere un po’ d’aria nel cortile posteriore. Lo fece per circa quindici minuti, quando la signora Bardell gli annunciò con un’espressione solenne che poteva rientrare, ma che doveva fare molta attenzione al proprio comportamento verso sua moglie. Sapeva che lui non aveva intenzione di essere scortese; ma Mary Ann non era affatto in buona salute, e se non fosse stato cauto, avrebbe potuto perderla nel momento meno previsto, il che sarebbe stato un vero disastro per lui. E così via. Il signor Raddle ascoltò tutto questo con grande sottomissione e poco dopo tornò in salotto con un comportamento estremamente mansueto.

“Ma come, signora Rogers,” disse la signora Bardell, “non ci siamo mai presentate, davvero! Il signor Raddle, signora; la signora Cluppins, signora, il signor Raddle, signora.”

“Che è la sorella della signora Cluppins,” suggerì la signora Sanders.

“Ah, davvero!” disse gentilmente la signora Rogers; poiché era l’inquilina e la sua domestica le faceva da cameriera personale, doveva essere più gentile che affettuosa, data la sua posizione. “Ah, davvero!”

La signora Raddle sorrise dolcemente, il signor Raddle fece un inchino, e la signora Cluppins disse: “Sono sicura di essere molto felice di avere l’opportunità di conoscere una signora di cui ho sentito parlare così bene, come la signora Rogers.” Un complimento che quest’ultima accettò con grazia e distacco.

“Beh, signor Raddle,” disse la signora Bardell, “sono sicura che dovreste sentirvi molto onorati: voi e Tommy siete gli unici gentiluomini ad aver scortato tutte queste signore fino a Hampstead. Non pensate anche voi, signora Rogers?”

“Certo, signora,” rispose la signora Rogers; e tutte le altre dame aggiunsero: “Certo, certamente.”

“Certo che lo sento, signora,” disse il signor Raddle, strofinandosi le mani e mostrando un leggero tentativo di rallegrarsi un po’. “In effetti, per dirle la verità, mentre viaggiavamo in carrozza, ”

Ricordando quella parola che aveva risvegliato tante dolorose memorie, la signora Raddle si premette di nuovo il fazzoletto sugli occhi e emise un grido soffocato; così la signora Bardell fece una smorfia verso il signor Raddle, per far capire che sarebbe stato meglio se non avesse detto più nulla, e chiese con un certo tono alla serva della signora Rogers di “servire il vino”.

Questo fu il segnale per far apparire i tesori nascosti nell’armadio: c’erano varie piastre di arance e biscotti, oltre a una bottiglia di vecchio porto, e un’altra bottiglia del famoso sherry delle Indie Orientali al prezzo di quattordici penny. Tutto ciò era stato preparato in onore dell’inquilino, e fornì grande soddisfazione a tutti. Dopo che la signora Cluppins aveva provato grande agitazione per via di un tentativo da parte di Tommy di raccontare come fosse stato “sottoposto a un interrogatorio riguardo all’armadio in questione” (fortunatamente tutto si era risolto quando aveva bevuto mezzo bicchiere di quel vecchio porto, al contrario del modo corretto, mettendo così in pericolo la sua vita per qualche secondo), il gruppo partì alla ricerca di un teatro a Hampstead. Lo trovarono presto e, dopo alcune ore, arrivarono sani e salvi ai Spaniards Tea-gardens. Lì, il primo atto del sfortunato signor Raddle rischiò quasi di far riprendere la malattia alla sua signora: ordinò infatti il tè per sette persone, mentre, come osservarono tutte le donne, sarebbe stato molto più semplice che Tommy bevesse dal bicchiere di chiunque, o di tutti, se voleva, quando il cameriere non stava guardando. In questo modo si sarebbero risparmiati dei soldi e il tè sarebbe stato comunque altrettanto buono!

Tuttavia, non c’era nulla da fare; arrivò il vassoio da tè, con sette tazze e piattini, così come il pane e il burro, disposti nello stesso modo. La signora Bardell fu unanimemente eletta a presiedere la tavola; la signora Rogers si sedette alla sua destra e la signora Raddle a sinistra. Il pasto proseguì in un’atmosfera di grande allegria e successo.

“Che bel posto è la campagna, davvero!” sospirò la signora Rogers; “Quasi desidererei di viverci per sempre.”

“Oh, non vi piacerebbe affatto, signora,” rispose la signora Bardell in modo piuttosto frettoloso; perché, per quanto riguardava gli alloggi, non era affatto consigliabile incoraggiare simili idee; “non vi piacerebbe affatto, signora.”

“Ah! Direi che siate una persona troppo vivace e desiderata per accontentarvi della vita in campagna, signora,” disse la piccola signora Cluppins.

“Forse sì, signora. Forse sì,” sospirò l’inquilino del primo piano.

“Per le persone sole, che non hanno nessuno che si prenda cura di loro, o che possa prendersi cura di loro, o per quelle che hanno subito ferite mentali, o cose del genere,” osservò il signor Raddle, cercando di mostrare un po’ di allegria e guardandosi intorno, “la campagna è davvero molto buona. Si dice che la campagna possa essere un rifugio per lo spirito ferito.”

Ora, tra tutte le cose che quell’uomo sfortunato avrebbe potuto dire, qualsiasi altra sarebbe stata preferibile a questa. Naturalmente, la signora Bardell scoppiò in lacrime e chiese di essere portata via immediatamente dal tavolo; allora anche il caro bambino iniziò a piangere, con grande tristezza.

“Chi mai lo crederebbe, signora,” esclamò la signora Raddle, girandosi con furia verso l’inquilina del primo piano, “che una donna possa sposare un individuo così senza cuore, che manipola i sentimenti di una donna in questo modo, ogni ora del giorno, ”

‘My dear,’ remonstrated Mr. Raddle, ‘I didn’t mean anything, my dear.’

‘You didn’t mean!’ repeated Mrs. Raddle, with great scorn and contempt. ‘Go away. I can’t bear the sight on you, you brute.’

‘You must not flurry yourself, Mary Ann,’ interposed Mrs. Cluppins. ‘You really must consider yourself, my dear, which you never do. Now go away, Raddle, there’s a good soul, or you’ll only aggravate her.’

‘You had better take your tea by yourself, Sir, indeed,’ said Mrs. Rogers, again applying the smelling-bottle.

Mrs. Sanders, who, according to custom, was very busy with the bread- and-butter, expressed the same opinion, and Mr. Raddle quietly retired.

After this, there was a great hoisting up of Master Bardell, who was rather a large size for hugging, into his mother’s arms, in which operation he got his boots in the tea-board, and occasioned some confusion among the cups and saucers. But that description of fainting fits, which is contagious among ladies, seldom lasts long; so when he had been well kissed, and a little cried over, Mrs. Bardell recovered, set him down again, wondering how she could have been so foolish, and poured out some more tea.

It was at this moment, that the sound of approaching wheels was heard, and that the ladies, looking up, saw a hackney-coach stop at the garden gate.

‘More company!’ said Mrs. Sanders.

‘It’s a gentleman,’ said Mrs. Raddle.

‘Well, if it ain’t Mr. Jackson, the young man from Dodson and Fogg’s!’ cried Mrs. Bardell. ‘Why, gracious! Surely Mr. Pickwick can’t have paid the damages.’

‘Or hoffered marriage!’ said Mrs. Cluppins.

‘Dear me, how slow the gentleman is,’ exclaimed Mrs. Rogers. ‘Why doesn’t he make haste!’

As the lady spoke these words, Mr. Jackson turned from the coach where he had been addressing some observations to a shabby man in black leggings, who had just emerged from the vehicle with a thick ash stick in his hand, and made his way to the place where the ladies were seated; winding his hair round the brim of his hat, as he came along.

‘Is anything the matter? Has anything taken place, Mr. Jackson?’ said Mrs. Bardell eagerly.

‘Nothing whatever, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Jackson. ‘How de do, ladies? I have to ask pardon, ladies, for intruding—but the law, ladies—the law.’ With this apology Mr. Jackson smiled, made a comprehensive bow, and gave his hair another wind. Mrs. Rogers whispered Mrs. Raddle that he was really an elegant young man.

‘I called in Goswell Street,’ resumed Mr. Jackson, ‘and hearing that you were here, from the slavey, took a coach and came on. Our people want you down in the city directly, Mrs. Bardell.’

‘Lor!’ ejaculated that lady, starting at the sudden nature of the communication.

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Jackson, biting his lip. ‘It’s very important and pressing business, which can’t be postponed on any account. Indeed, Dodson expressly said so to me, and so did Fogg. I’ve kept the coach on purpose for you to go back in.’

‘How very strange!’ exclaimed Mrs. Bardell.

The ladies agreed that it _was _ very strange, but were unanimously of opinion that it must be very important, or Dodson & Fogg would never have sent; and further, that the business being urgent, she ought to repair to Dodson & Fogg’s without any delay.

There was a certain degree of pride and importance about being wanted by one’s lawyers in such a monstrous hurry, that was by no means displeasing to Mrs. Bardell, especially as it might be reasonably supposed to enhance her consequence in the eyes of the first-floor lodger. She simpered a little, affected extreme vexation and hesitation, and at last arrived at the conclusion that she supposed she must go.

‘But won’t you refresh yourself after your walk, Mr. Jackson?’ said Mrs. Bardell persuasively.

‘Why, really there ain’t much time to lose,’ replied Jackson; ‘and I’ve got a friend here,’ he continued, looking towards the man with the ash stick.

‘Oh, ask your friend to come here, Sir,’ said Mrs. Bardell. ‘Pray ask your friend here, Sir.’

‘Why, thank’ee, I’d rather not,’ said Mr. Jackson, with some embarrassment of manner. ‘He’s not much used to ladies’ society, and it makes him bashful. If you’ll order the waiter to deliver him anything short, he won’t drink it off at once, won’t he!—only try him!’ Mr. Jackson’s fingers wandered playfully round his nose at this portion of his discourse, to warn his hearers that he was speaking ironically.

The waiter was at once despatched to the bashful gentleman, and the bashful gentleman took something; Mr. Jackson also took something, and the ladies took something, for hospitality’s sake. Mr. Jackson then said he was afraid it was time to go; upon which, Mrs. Sanders, Mrs. Cluppins, and Tommy (who it was arranged should accompany Mrs. Bardell, leaving the others to Mr. Raddle’s protection), got into the coach.

‘Isaac,’ said Jackson, as Mrs. Bardell prepared to get in, looking up at the man with the ash stick, who was seated on the box, smoking a cigar.

‘Well?’

‘This is Mrs. Bardell.’

‘Oh, I know’d that long ago,’ said the man.

Mrs. Bardell got in, Mr. Jackson got in after her, and away they drove. Mrs. Bardell could not help ruminating on what Mr. Jackson’s friend had said. Shrewd creatures, those lawyers. Lord bless us, how they find people out!

‘Sad thing about these costs of our people’s, ain’t it,’ said Jackson, when Mrs. Cluppins and Mrs. Sanders had fallen asleep; ‘your bill of costs, I mean.’

‘I’m very sorry they can’t get them,’ replied Mrs. Bardell. ‘But if you law gentlemen do these things on speculation, why you must get a loss now and then, you know.’

‘You gave them a _cognovit _for the amount of your costs, after the trial, I’m told!’ said Jackson.

‘Yes. Just as a matter of form,’ replied Mrs. Bardell.

‘Certainly,’ replied Jackson drily. ‘Quite a matter of form. Quite.’

On they drove, and Mrs. Bardell fell asleep. She was awakened, after some time, by the stopping of the coach.

“Mia cara,” ribatté il signor Raddle, “non volevo dire nulla di male, davvero.”

“Non volevi davvero dire quello!” ripeté la signora Raddle con grande disprezzo e sprezzamento. “Vattene via. Non riesco a sopportare nemmeno il tuo aspetto, brutto animale.”

“Non devi agitarti così, Mary Ann,” intervenne la signora Cluppins. “Davvero dovresti pensare a te stessa, mia cara, cosa che non fai mai. Ora vattene, Raddle, sei davvero una brava persona; altrimenti finirai solo per peggiorare le cose.”

“Meglio che si prenda il tè da solo, signore, davvero,” disse la signora Rogers, applicando di nuovo la bottiglietta profumata.

La signora Sanders, che, secondo l’usanza del tempo, era molto impegnata con le faccende domestiche, espresse lo stesso parere; il signor Raddle si ritirò in silenzio.

Dopo questo, ci fu un grande sollevare di Master Bardell, che era piuttosto robusto per essere abbracciato, tra le braccia di sua madre; in quell’operazione, i suoi stivali finirono sul tavolino da tè, causando un po’ di confusione tra le tazze e i piattini. Ma quella descrizione di svenimenti, che è contagiosa tra le donne, di solito non dura a lungo; così, dopo essere stato baciato con affetto e aver pianto un po’, la signora Bardell si riprese, lo rimise giù e si chiese come avesse potuto essere così sciocca, poi versò ancora del tè.

Fu in quel momento che si udì il rumore di ruote che si avvicinavano; le signore, alzando lo sguardo, videro una carrozza fermarsi alla porta del giardino.

“Altre persone in arrivo!”, disse la signora Sanders.

“È un gentiluomo,” disse la signora Raddle.

“Beh, se non è il signor Jackson, quel giovane di Dodson e Fogg’s!” esclamò la signora Bardell. “Ma come, per carità. Il signor Pickwick non può certo aver pagato i danni.”

“O forse un matrimonio!”, disse la signora Cluppins.

“Mio Dio, quanto è lento questo signore. Perché non si sbriga?” esclamò la signora Rogers.

Mentre la signora pronunciava queste parole, il signor Jackson si allontanò dal carro dove stava facendo alcune osservazioni a un uomo in abiti logori e calzoni neri, che era appena uscito dal veicolo con un grosso bastone di legno in mano; l’uomo si diresse verso il punto in cui sedevano le signore, avvolgendo i propri capelli intorno al bordo del cappello mentre camminava.

“C’è qualche problema? È successo qualcosa, signor Jackson?” chiese ansiosamente la signora Bardell.

“Niente affatto, signora,” rispose il signor Jackson. “Come state, signore? Devo scusarmi per essere entrato senza essere stato invitato, ma la legge, signore, la legge.” Con queste scuse, il signor Jackson sorrise, fece un profondo inchino e si sistemò di nuovo i capelli. La signora Rogers sussurrò alla signora Raddle che era davvero un giovane elegante.

“Ho chiamato in Goswell Street,” continuò il signor Jackson, “e, sapendo che eravate qui, ho preso una carrozza e sono venuto subito. La nostra gente vuole che vi rechiate immediatamente in città, signora Bardell.”

“Lor!” esclamò quella signora, sorpresa dal carattere improvviso e inaspettato di quella comunicazione.

“Sì,” disse il signor Jackson, mordendosi il labbro. “È una questione molto importante e urgente che non può essere rinviata per nessun motivo. Infatti, Dodson me lo ha detto esplicitamente, così come Fogg. Ho tenuto il treno apposta affinché poteste tornare indietro.”

“Che strano davvero!”, esclamò la signora Bardell.

Le signore concordarono sul fatto che fosse davvero molto strano, ma erano tutte d’accordo nel ritenere che dovesse trattarsi di qualcosa di estremamente importante, altrimenti Dodson & Fogg non avrebbero mai inviato quel messaggio; inoltre, poiché la situazione era urgente, lei doveva recarsi immediatamente da Dodson & Fogg senza alcun indugio.

C’era un certo grado di orgoglio e importanza nel fatto di essere desiderata dai propri avvocati con tale urgenza; questo non dispiaceva affatto alla signora Bardell, soprattutto perché si poteva ragionevolmente pensare che ciò aumentasse il suo prestigio agli occhi dell’inquilino del primo piano. Lei sorrise compiaciuta, fingette estrema irritazione e esitazione, e infine concluse che probabilmente doveva andare.

“Ma non si riposerà un po’ dopo la passeggiata, signor Jackson?”, disse la signora Bardell in tono persuasivo.

“Beh, in realtà non c’è molto tempo da perdere,” rispose Jackson; “e ho un amico qui,” continuò, guardando l’uomo con il bastone di cenere.

“Oh, chieda al suo amico di venire qui, signore,” disse la signora Bardell. “La prego, chieda al suo amico di venire qui, signore.”

“Ah, no, grazie mille,” disse il signor Jackson con un certo imbarazzo nel comportamento. “Lui non è molto abituato alla compagnia delle signore, e questo lo rende timido. Se ordinate al cameriere di portargli qualcosa da bere in piccole dosi, non lo berrà tutto d’un fiato, vero? Provateci pure!” Mentre pronunciava queste parole, le dita del signor Jackson si muovevano scherzosamente intorno al suo naso, come a segnalare ai suoi ascoltatori che stava parlando in modo ironico.

Il cameriere fu immediatamente inviato dal gentiluomo timido, il quale prese qualcosa; anche il signor Jackson prese qualcosa, così come le signore, per rispettare le convenzioni dell’ospitalità. Il signor Jackson poi disse di temere che fosse arrivato l’ora di andarsene; allora la signora Sanders, la signora Cluppins e Tommy (che erano stati incaricati di accompagnare la signora Bardell, lasciando gli altri sotto la protezione del signor Raddle) salirono nella carrozza.

“Isaac,” disse Jackson, mentre la signora Bardell si preparava ad entrare, alzando lo sguardo verso l’uomo con il bastone di cenere, seduto sul baule e che fumava un sigaro.

“‘Beh?’”

“Questa è la signora Bardell.”

“Ah, lo sapevo già da molto tempo,” disse l’uomo.

La signora Bardell salì in macchina, poi lo fece anche il signor Jackson, e partirono subito.
La signora Bardell non riusciva a smettere di riflettere su ciò che aveva detto l’amico del signor Jackson. Quei avvocati sono davvero astuti; mio Dio, come riescono sempre a scoprire le verità!

“Una cosa triste riguardo a questi costi del nostro popolo, non è vero?”, disse Jackson, quando la signora Cluppins e la signora Sanders si erano addormentate; “intendo dire, il vostro rendiconto dei costi.”

“Mi dispiace molto che non riescano ad ottenerle,” rispose la signora Bardell. “Ma se voi, gentiluomini avvocati, fate queste cose per speculazione, è normale che di tanto in tanto subiate perdite, capite.”

“Gli avete concesso un cognovit per coprire le vostre spese, dopo il processo, mi è stato detto!” disse Jackson.

“Sì. Solo per formalità,” rispose la signora Bardell.

“Certamente,” rispose Jackson in tono secco. “Solo una questione di forma, nient’altro.”

Proseguirono il viaggio, e la signora Bardell si addormentò. Dopo un po’ di tempo, fu svegliata dal fermo della carrozza.

‘Bless us!’ said the lady. ‘Are we at Freeman’s Court?’

‘We’re not going quite so far,’ replied Jackson. ‘Have the goodness to step out.’

Mrs. Bardell, not yet thoroughly awake, complied. It was a curious place: a large wall, with a gate in the middle, and a gas-light burning inside.

‘Now, ladies,’ cried the man with the ash stick, looking into the coach, and shaking Mrs. Sanders to wake her, ‘Come!’ Rousing her friend, Mrs. Sanders alighted. Mrs. Bardell, leaning on Jackson’s arm, and leading Tommy by the hand, had already entered the porch. They followed.

The room they turned into was even more odd-looking than the porch. Such a number of men standing about! And they stared so!

‘What place is this?’ inquired Mrs. Bardell, pausing.

‘Only one of our public offices,’ replied Jackson, hurrying her through a door, and looking round to see that the other women were following. ‘Look sharp, Isaac!’

‘Safe and sound,’ replied the man with the ash stick. The door swung heavily after them, and they descended a small flight of steps.

‘Here we are at last. All right and tight, Mrs. Bardell!’ said Jackson, looking exultingly round.

‘What do you mean?’ said Mrs. Bardell, with a palpitating heart.

‘Just this,’ replied Jackson, drawing her a little on one side; ‘don’t be frightened, Mrs. Bardell. There never was a more delicate man than Dodson, ma’am, or a more humane man than Fogg. It was their duty in the way of business, to take you in execution for them costs; but they were anxious to spare your feelings as much as they could. What a comfort it must be, to you, to think how it’s been done! This is the Fleet, ma’am. Wish you good-night, Mrs. Bardell. Good-night, Tommy!’

As Jackson hurried away in company with the man with the ash stick another man, with a key in his hand, who had been looking on, led the bewildered female to a second short flight of steps leading to a doorway. Mrs. Bardell screamed violently; Tommy roared; Mrs. Cluppins shrunk within herself; and Mrs. Sanders made off, without more ado. For there stood the injured Mr. Pickwick, taking his nightly allowance of air; and beside him leant Samuel Weller, who, seeing Mrs. Bardell, took his hat off with mock reverence, while his master turned indignantly on his heel.

‘Don’t bother the woman,’ said the turnkey to Weller; ‘she’s just come in.’

‘A prisoner!’ said Sam, quickly replacing his hat. ‘Who’s the plaintives? What for? Speak up, old feller.’

‘Dodson and Fogg,’ replied the man; ‘execution on _cognovit _for costs.’

‘Here, Job, Job!’ shouted Sam, dashing into the passage. ‘Run to Mr. Perker’s, Job. I want him directly. I see some good in this. Here’s a game. Hooray! vere’s the gov’nor?’

But there was no reply to these inquiries, for Job had started furiously off, the instant he received his commission, and Mrs. Bardell had fainted in real downright earnest.

“Benedicici!”, disse la signora. “Siamo arrivati a Freeman’s Courtyard?”

“Non andremo fino a quel punto,” rispose Jackson. “Per favore, esci.”

La signora Bardell, ancora mezza addormentata, obbedì. Era un posto strano: un grande muro con un cancello al centro, e una lampada a gas accesa all’interno.

“Ora, signore,” gridò l’uomo con il bastone di cenere, guardando all’interno della carrozza e scuotendo la signora Sanders per svegliarla, “venite!” Dopo aver svegliato la sua amica, la signora Sanders scese dalla carrozza. La signora Bardell, appoggiandosi al braccio di Jackson e tenendo Tommy per mano, era già entrata nel portico. Loro la seguirono.

La stanza in cui si erano trasferiti aveva un aspetto ancora più strano del portico. Quanti uomini c’erano lì in piedi. E guardavano tutti intorno in modo così insistente.

“Che posto è questo?”, chiese la signora Bardell, facendo una pausa.

“Solo uno dei nostri uffici pubblici,” rispose Jackson, spingendola in fretta attraverso una porta e guardandosi intorno per assicurarsi che anche le altre donne la stessero seguendo. “Stai attenta, Isaac!”

“Sano e salvo,” rispose l’uomo con il bastone di cenere. La porta si chiuse pesantemente alle loro spalle, e loro scesero pochi gradini.

“Eccoci finalmente arrivati. Tutto a posto, signora Bardell!” disse Jackson, guardandosi intorno con esultanza.

“Cosa intendi dire?”, chiese la signora Bardell, con il cuore che le batteva all’impazzata.

“Solo questo,” rispose Jackson, tirandola da parte; “non si spaventi, signora Bardell. Non c’è mai stato un uomo più delicato di Dodson, né uno più umano di Fogg. Era loro dovere, per motivi professionali, farle pagare le spese sostenute per loro; ma desideravano davvero risparmiarle il più possibile. Che conforto deve essere, per lei, pensare a come tutto sia stato gestito! Questa è la prigione della Fleet. Buona notte, signora Bardell. Buona notte, Tommy!”

Mentre Jackson si allontanava in fretta insieme all’uomo con il bastone di cenere, un altro uomo, con una chiave in mano e che aveva osservato la scena, guidò la donna confusa verso un secondo breve gradino che conduceva a una porta. La signora Bardell gridò violentemente; Tommy ruggì; la signora Cluppins si ritirò in se stessa; mentre la signora Sanders fuggì senza indugiare. Lì, infatti, c’era il ferito signor Pickwick, che respirava l’aria notturna; accanto a lui stava Samuel Weller, il quale, vedendo la signora Bardell, si tolse il cappello con finta reverenza, mentre il suo padrone se ne andò indignato.

“Non disturbare quella donna,” disse il custode a Weller; “è appena arrivata.”

“Un prigioniero!” disse Sam, rimettendosi rapidamente il cappello. “Chi sono le persone che si lamentano? Per quale motivo? Parla, vecchio mio.”

“Dodson e Fogg”, rispose l’uomo; “esecuzione per il pagamento delle spese processuali”.

“Eccolo qui, Job, Job!” gridò Sam, correndo nel corridoio. “Corri da Mr. Perker, Job. Voglio vederlo subito. Credo che ci sia qualcosa di buono in questa situazione. Ecco, una bella opportunità! Ehi, c’è il governatore?”

Ma non ci fu alcuna risposta a queste domande, perché Job era partito immediatamente non appena aveva ricevuto l’incarico, e la signora Bardell era davvero svenuta.

CHAPTER XLVII. IS CHIEFLY DEVOTED TO MATTERS OF BUSINESS, AND THE TEMPORAL ADVANTAGE OF DODSON AND FOGG—MR. WINKLE REAPPEARS UNDER EXTRAORDINARY CIRCUMSTANCES—MR. PICKWICK’S BENEVOLENCE PROVES STRONGER THAN HIS OBSTINACY

Job Trotter, abating nothing of his speed, ran up Holborn, sometimes in the middle of the road, sometimes on the pavement, sometimes in the gutter, as the chances of getting along varied with the press of men, women, children, and coaches, in each division of the thoroughfare, and, regardless of all obstacles stopped not for an instant until he reached the gate of Gray’s Inn. Notwithstanding all the expedition he had used, however, the gate had been closed a good half-hour when he reached it, and by the time he had discovered Mr. Perker’s laundress, who lived with a married daughter, who had bestowed her hand upon a non-resident waiter, who occupied the one-pair of some number in some street closely adjoining to some brewery somewhere behind Gray’s Inn Lane, it was within fifteen minutes of closing the prison for the night. Mr. Lowten had still to be ferreted out from the back parlour of the Magpie and Stump; and Job had scarcely accomplished this object, and communicated Sam Weller’s message, when the clock struck ten.

‘There,’ said Lowten, ‘it’s too late now. You can’t get in to-night; you’ve got the key of the street, my friend.’

‘Never mind me,’ replied Job. ‘I can sleep anywhere. But won’t it be better to see Mr. Perker to-night, so that we may be there, the first thing in the morning?’

‘Why,’ responded Lowten, after a little consideration, ‘if it was in anybody else’s case, Perker wouldn’t be best pleased at my going up to his house; but as it’s Mr. Pickwick’s, I think I may venture to take a cab and charge it to the office.’ Deciding on this line of conduct, Mr. Lowten took up his hat, and begging the assembled company to appoint a deputy-chairman during his temporary absence, led the way to the nearest coach-stand. Summoning the cab of most promising appearance, he directed the driver to repair to Montague Place, Russell Square.

Mr. Perker had had a dinner-party that day, as was testified by the appearance of lights in the drawing-room windows, the sound of an improved grand piano, and an improvable cabinet voice issuing therefrom, and a rather overpowering smell of meat which pervaded the steps and entry. In fact, a couple of very good country agencies happening to come up to town, at the same time, an agreeable little party had been got together to meet them, comprising Mr. Snicks, the Life Office Secretary, Mr. Prosee, the eminent counsel, three solicitors, one commissioner of bankrupts, a special pleader from the Temple, a small-eyed peremptory young gentleman, his pupil, who had written a lively book about the law of demises, with a vast quantity of marginal notes and references; and several other eminent and distinguished personages. From this society, little Mr. Perker detached himself, on his clerk being announced in a whisper; and repairing to the dining-room, there found Mr. Lowten and Job Trotter looking very dim and shadowy by the light of a kitchen candle, which the gentleman who condescended to appear in plush shorts and cottons for a quarterly stipend, had, with a becoming contempt for the clerk and all things appertaining to ‘the office,’ placed upon the table.

‘Now, Lowten,’ said little Mr. Perker, shutting the door, ‘what’s the matter? No important letter come in a parcel, is there?’

‘No, Sir,’ replied Lowten. ‘This is a messenger from Mr. Pickwick, Sir.’

‘From Pickwick, eh?’ said the little man, turning quickly to Job. ‘Well, what is it?’

‘Dodson and Fogg have taken Mrs. Bardell in execution for her costs, Sir,’ said Job.

‘No!’ exclaimed Perker, putting his hands in his pockets, and reclining against the sideboard.

‘Yes,’ said Job. ‘It seems they got a cognovit out of her, for the amount of ‘em, directly after the trial.’

‘By Jove!’ said Perker, taking both hands out of his pockets, and striking the knuckles of his right against the palm of his left, emphatically, ‘those are the cleverest scamps I ever had anything to do with!’

‘The sharpest practitioners I ever knew, Sir,’ observed Lowten.

‘Sharp!’ echoed Perker. ‘There’s no knowing where to have them.’

‘Very true, Sir, there is not,’ replied Lowten; and then, both master and man pondered for a few seconds, with animated countenances, as if they were reflecting upon one of the most beautiful and ingenious discoveries that the intellect of man had ever made. When they had in some measure recovered from their trance of admiration, Job Trotter discharged himself of the rest of his commission. Perker nodded his head thoughtfully, and pulled out his watch.

‘At ten precisely, I will be there,’ said the little man. ‘Sam is quite right. Tell him so. Will you take a glass of wine, Lowten?’

No, thank you, Sir.’

‘You mean yes, I think,’ said the little man, turning to the sideboard for a decanter and glasses.

As Lowten _did _mean yes, he said no more on the subject, but inquired of Job, in an audible whisper, whether the portrait of Perker, which hung opposite the fireplace, wasn’t a wonderful likeness, to which Job of course replied that it was. The wine being by this time poured out, Lowten drank to Mrs. Perker and the children, and Job to Perker. The gentleman in the plush shorts and cottons considering it no part of his duty to show the people from the office out, consistently declined to answer the bell, and they showed themselves out. The attorney betook himself to his drawing-room, the clerk to the Magpie and Stump, and Job to Covent Garden Market to spend the night in a vegetable basket.

Punctually at the appointed hour next morning, the good-humoured little attorney tapped at Mr. Pickwick’s door, which was opened with great alacrity by Sam Weller.

CAPITOLO XLVII. DEDICATO PRIMARIAMENTE A AFFARI E AI VANTAGGI TEMPORALI DI DODSON E FOGG – IL SIGNOR WINKLE RIAPARE IN CIRCONSTANZE STRAORDINARIE – LA BENEVOLENZA DEL SIGOR PICKWICK SI DIMOSTRA PIÙ FORTE DEL SUO TESTARDIGIAMENTO

Job Trotter, senza diminuire minimamente la sua velocità, corse su per Holborn: a volte nel mezzo della strada, a volte sul marciapiede, a volte nel canale di scolo, poiché le possibilità di procedere variavano in base alla folla di uomini, donne, bambini e carrozze presenti in ogni parte della strada. Nonostante tutti questi ostacoli, non si fermò nemmeno per un istante fino a quando non raggiunse il cancello di Gray’s Inn. Tuttavia, nonostante la sua fretta, il cancello era già stato chiuso da almeno mezz’ora quando arrivò; e quando finalmente trovò la lavandaia del signor Perker – che viveva con una figlia sposata, la quale aveva dato il proprio cuore a un cameriere non residente che abitava in una casa situata in una strada vicina a una birreria dietro Gray’s Inn Lane – erano già passati quindici minuti dall’orario di chiusura della prigione per la notte. Il signor Lowten, intanto, doveva ancora essere trovato nel retrobottega del locale “Magpie and Stump”; e appena Job riuscì nell’intento e comunicò il messaggio di Sam Weller, suonarono le dieci.

“Ecco,” disse Lowten, “ora è troppo tardi. Non puoi entrare di notte. Hai la chiave della strada, amico mio.”

“Lasciatemi perdere,” rispose Giobbe. “Posso )dormire ovunque. Ma non sarebbe meglio incontrare il signor Perker stasera, così da essere lì già all’alba?”

“Perché,” rispose Lowten dopo un attimo di riflessione, “se si trattasse di qualcun altro, Perker non sarebbe affatto contento se andassi a casa sua; ma poiché si tratta del signor Pickwick, penso di potermi permettere di prendere una vettura e farla pagare dall’ufficio.” Deciso così, il signor Lowten prese il cappello e, chiedendo al gruppo riunito di nominare un vicepresidente durante la sua temporanea assenza, si diresse verso la più vicina stazione di cab. Chiamando quella che gli sembrava la vettura più affidabile, ordinò al conducente di dirigersi a Montague Place, Russell Square.

Quel giorno, il signor Perker aveva organizzato una cena, come testimoniavano le luci visibili dalle finestre del salotto, il suono di un pianoforte a coda e la voce di qualcuno che proveniva da lì; inoltre, un forte odore di carne pervadeva tutto l’ambiente. Infatti, poiché alcune ottime agenzie rurali erano arrivate in città nello stesso momento, era stata organizzata una piccola riunione per accoglierle: vi partecipavano il signor Snicks, segretario dell’Ufficio di Vita; il signor Prosee, eminente avvocato; tre procuratori legali; un commissario per i fallimenti; un giovane dall’aspetto deciso e dai piccoli occhi, suo allievo, che aveva scritto un libro vivace sul diritto delle successioni, completo di numerose note a margine e riferimenti bibliografici; e altre ancora eminenti personalità. Da questa compagnia, il giovane signor Perker si separò non appena il suo segretario fu annunciato sottovoce; raggiunto il salotto, trovò il signor Lowten e Job Trotter che sembravano molto pallidi e ombrosi alla luce di una candela da cucina, quella candela che il gentiluomo che si era degnato di presentarsi indossando pantaloni di velluto e abiti di cotone, per un compenso trimestrale, aveva posizionato sul tavolo, con manifesto disprezzo per il segretario e tutto ciò che riguardava “l’ufficio”.

“Ora, Lowten,” disse il piccolo signor Perker, chiudendo la porta, “di cosa si tratta? Non è arrivata nessuna lettera importante dentro un pacco, vero?”

“No, signore,” rispose Lowten. “Questo è un messaggero del signor Pickwick, signore.”

“Dai racconti di Pickwick, eh?”, disse il piccolo uomo, girandosi rapidamente verso Job. “Beh, di cosa si tratta?”

“Dodson e Fogg hanno adempiuto ai costi della signora Bardell, signore,” disse Job.

“No!”, esclamò Perker, mettendosi le mani in tasca e appoggiandosi al comodino.

“Sì,” disse Giobbe. “Sembra che abbiano ottenuto delle informazioni da lei, per la quantità di persone coinvolte, subito dopo il processo.”

“Per Giove!”, disse Perker, tirando fuori entrambe le mani dalle tasche e battendo con forza i pollici della mano destra contro il palmo della sinistra, “quei sono davvero i furfanti più astuti con cui abbia mai avuto a che fare!”

“I migliori professionisti che abbia mai conosciuto, signore,” osservò Lowten.

“Accurate!” esclamò Perker. “Non si sa mai dove posizionarle.”

“Assolutamente vero, signore, non c’è,” rispose Lowten; poi, sia il padrone che l’uomo rimasero per qualche secondo a riflettere con espressioni intense, come se stessero considerando una delle scoperte più belle e ingegnose mai fatte dall’intelligenza umana. Quando si furono in parte ripresi dal loro stato di ammirazione, Job Trotter proseguì nel raccontare il resto del suo incarico. Perker annuì pensierosamente e tirò fuori l’orologio.

“Esattamente alle dieci sarò lì,” disse il piccolo uomo. “Sam ha perfettamente ragione. Diteglielo. Vorreste bere un bicchiere di vino, Lowten?”

“No, grazie, signore.”

“Voglio dire sì, penso,” disse il piccolo uomo, dirigendosi verso l’armadietto per prendere un decantatore e dei bicchieri.

Poiché Lowten intendeva davvero dire di sì, non aggiunse più nulla sull’argomento, ma chiese a bassa voce a Job se il ritratto di Perker, appeso di fronte al caminetto, non fosse una somiglianza straordinaria; naturalmente Job rispose che lo era. A quel punto, il vino fu versato, e Lowten brindò alla signora Perker e ai bambini, mentre Job brindò a Perker stesso. Il gentiluomo in pantaloncini di velluto e abiti di cotone, ritenendo che non fosse suo dovere accompagnare le persone dell’ufficio fuori, si rifiutò sistematicamente di rispondere al campanello, e loro se ne andarono da soli. L’avvocato tornò nel suo salotto, il impiegato andò al pub “Magpie and Stump”, mentre Job si recò al mercato di Covent Garden per trascorrere la notte, in un cesto di verdure.

Puntuale all’ora concordata la mattina seguente, l’allegrone giovane avvocato bussò alla porta del signor Pickwick, che fu aperta immediatamente da Sam Weller.

‘Mr. Perker, sir,’ said Sam, announcing the visitor to Mr. Pickwick, who was sitting at the window in a thoughtful attitude. ‘Wery glad you’ve looked in accidentally, Sir. I rather think the gov’nor wants to have a word and a half with you, Sir.’

Perker bestowed a look of intelligence on Sam, intimating that he understood he was not to say he had been sent for; and beckoning him to approach, whispered briefly in his ear.

‘You don’t mean that ‘ere, Sir?’ said Sam, starting back in excessive surprise.

Perker nodded and smiled.

Mr. Samuel Weller looked at the little lawyer, then at Mr. Pickwick, then at the ceiling, then at Perker again; grinned, laughed outright, and finally, catching up his hat from the carpet, without further explanation, disappeared.

‘What does this mean?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, looking at Perker with astonishment. ‘What has put Sam into this extraordinary state?’

‘Oh, nothing, nothing,’ replied Perker. ‘Come, my dear Sir, draw up your chair to the table. I have a good deal to say to you.’

‘What papers are those?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, as the little man deposited on the table a small bundle of documents tied with red tape.

‘The papers in Bardell and Pickwick,’ replied Perker, undoing the knot with his teeth.

Mr. Pickwick grated the legs of his chair against the ground; and throwing himself into it, folded his hands and looked sternly—if Mr. Pickwick ever could look sternly—at his legal friend.

‘You don’t like to hear the name of the cause?’ said the little man, still busying himself with the knot.

‘No, I do not indeed,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Sorry for that,’ resumed Perker, ‘because it will form the subject of our conversation.’

‘I would rather that the subject should be never mentioned between us, Perker,’ interposed Mr. Pickwick hastily.

‘Pooh, pooh, my dear Sir,’ said the little man, untying the bundle, and glancing eagerly at Mr. Pickwick out of the corners of his eyes. ‘It must be mentioned. I have come here on purpose. Now, are you ready to hear what I have to say, my dear Sir? No hurry; if you are not, I can wait. I have this morning’s paper here. Your time shall be mine. There!’ Hereupon, the little man threw one leg over the other, and made a show of beginning to read with great composure and application.

‘Well, well,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with a sigh, but softening into a smile at the same time. ‘Say what you have to say; it’s the old story, I suppose?’

‘With a difference, my dear Sir; with a difference,’ rejoined Perker, deliberately folding up the paper and putting it into his pocket again. ‘Mrs. Bardell, the plaintiff in the action, is within these walls, Sir.’

‘I know it,’ was Mr. Pickwick’s reply.

‘Very good,’ retorted Perker. ‘And you know how she comes here, I suppose; I mean on what grounds, and at whose suit?’

‘Yes; at least I have heard Sam’s account of the matter,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with affected carelessness.

‘Sam’s account of the matter,’ replied Perker, ‘is, I will venture to say, a perfectly correct one. Well now, my dear Sir, the first question I have to ask, is, whether this woman is to remain here?’

‘To remain here!’ echoed Mr. Pickwick.

‘To remain here, my dear Sir,’ rejoined Perker, leaning back in his chair and looking steadily at his client.

‘How can you ask me?’ said that gentleman. ‘It rests with Dodson and Fogg; you know that very well.’

‘I know nothing of the kind,’ retorted Perker firmly. ‘It does _not _rest with Dodson and Fogg; you know the men, my dear Sir, as well as I do. It rests solely, wholly, and entirely with you.’

‘With me!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, rising nervously from his chair, and reseating himself directly afterwards.

The little man gave a double-knock on the lid of his snuff-box, opened it, took a great pinch, shut it up again, and repeated the words, ‘With you.’

‘I say, my dear Sir,’ resumed the little man, who seemed to gather confidence from the snuff—‘I say, that her speedy liberation or perpetual imprisonment rests with you, and with you alone. Hear me out, my dear Sir, if you please, and do not be so very energetic, for it will only put you into a perspiration and do no good whatever. I say,’ continued Perker, checking off each position on a different finger, as he laid it down—‘I say that nobody but you can rescue her from this den of wretchedness; and that you can only do that, by paying the costs of this suit—both of plaintive and defendant—into the hands of these Freeman Court sharks. Now pray be quiet, my dear sir.’

Mr. Pickwick, whose face had been undergoing most surprising changes during this speech, and was evidently on the verge of a strong burst of indignation, calmed his wrath as well as he could. Perker, strengthening his argumentative powers with another pinch of snuff, proceeded—

‘I have seen the woman, this morning. By paying the costs, you can obtain a full release and discharge from the damages; and further—this I know is a far greater object of consideration with you, my dear sir—a voluntary statement, under her hand, in the form of a letter to me, that this business was, from the very first, fomented, and encouraged, and brought about, by these men, Dodson and Fogg; that she deeply regrets ever having been the instrument of annoyance or injury to you; and that she entreats me to intercede with you, and implore your pardon.’

‘If I pay her costs for her,’ said Mr. Pickwick indignantly. ‘A valuable document, indeed!’

‘No “if” in the case, my dear Sir,’ said Perker triumphantly. ‘There is the very letter I speak of. Brought to my office by another woman at nine o’clock this morning, before I had set foot in this place, or held any communication with Mrs. Bardell, upon my honour.’ Selecting the letter from the bundle, the little lawyer laid it at Mr. Pickwick’s elbow, and took snuff for two consecutive minutes, without winking.

“Signor Perker, signore,” disse Sam, annunciando l’arrivo del visitatore al signor Pickwick, che stava seduto alla finestra in atteggiamento pensieroso. “Sono molto contento che siate passato da queste parti per caso, signore. Credo proprio che il governatore voglia parlarvi un attimo.”

Perker lanciò a Sam uno sguardo pieno di intelligenza, facendogli capire che non doveva dire di essere stato mandato lì; poi lo chiamò vicino e gli sussurrò qualcosa all’orecchio.

“Non intende davvero dire quello, vero, signore?”, disse Sam, indietreggiando per la sorpresa.

Perker annuì e sorrise.

Il signor Samuel Weller guardò il piccolo avvocato, poi il signor Pickwick, quindi il soffitto, e infine di nuovo Perker; sorrise, scoppiò a ridere apertamente, e alla fine, prendendo il cappello dal tappeto, senza ulteriori spiegazioni, scomparve.

“Cosa significa questo?”, chiese il signor Pickwick guardando Perker con stupore. “Cos’è che ha portato Sam in questo stato straordinario?”

“Ah, niente, niente,” rispose Perker. “Venga, caro signore, si avvicini al tavolo. Ho molte cose da dirle.”

“Che documenti sono questi?” chiese il signor Pickwick quando l’uomo piccolo posò sul tavolo un piccolo mazzo di carte legate con della corda rossa.

“Gli articoli pubblicati su ‘Bardell’ e ‘Pickwick’”, rispose Perker, sciogliendo il nodo con i denti.

Il signor Pickwick fece stridere le gambe della sua sedia sul pavimento; poi vi si sedette, incrociò le mani e guardò con aria severa, se mai il signor Pickwick fosse stato in grado di apparire severo. Guardò così il suo amico legale.

“Non ti piace sentire il nome di questa causa?” disse il piccolo uomo, continuando a occuparsi del nodo.

“No, infatti no,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

“Mi dispiace per questo,” riprese Perker, “perché diventerà l’argomento della nostra conversazione.”

“Preferirei che questo argomento non venisse mai menzionato tra di noi, Perker,” intervenne prontamente il signor Pickwick.

“Puf, puf, mio caro signore,” disse il piccolo uomo, sciogliendo il fagotto e lanciando occhiate furtive a Mr. Pickwick con l’angolo dell’occhio. “Devo assolutamente dirlo. Sono venuto qui apposta. Ora, è pronto ad ascoltare quello che ho da dire, mio caro signore? Non c’è fretta; se no, posso aspettare. Ho qui il giornale di stamattina. Il suo tempo sarà anche mio. Ecco!” Detto questo, il piccolo uomo incrociò una gamba sull’altra e fece finta di iniziare a leggere con grande calma e attenzione.

“Beh, beh, ”, disse il signor Pickwick con un sospiro, ma allo stesso tempo si addolcì in un sorriso. “Dica pure quello che deve dire; immagino sia sempre la solita storia, ”

“Con una differenza, mio caro signore; con una differenza,” ribatté Perker, ripiegando deliberatamente il foglio e mettendoselo di nuovo in tasca. “La signora Bardell, la parte civile in questa causa, si trova proprio in queste stanze, signore.”

“Lo so,” fu la risposta del signor Pickwick.

“Molto bene,” ribatté Perker. “E immagino che tu sappia come arriva qui, vero? Voglio dire, su quali motivi e su esortazione di chi?”

“Sì; almeno ho ascoltato la versione di Sam degli eventi,” disse il signor Pickwick con un’aria di indifferenza simulata.

“La descrizione che Sam ha fornito degli eventi,” rispose Perker, “è, oserei dire, assolutamente corretta. Ora, mio caro signore, la prima domanda che devo porre è: questa donna dovrà rimanere qui?”

“Rimanere qui!” echeggiò la voce del signor Pickwick.

“Rimanere qui, mio caro signore,” rispose Perker, appoggiandosi allo schienale della sedia e guardando fissamente il suo cliente.

“Come puoi chiedermelo?” disse quel gentiluomo. “La decisione spetta a Dodson e Fogg; lo sai molto bene.”

“Non so nulla del genere,” ribatté Perker con fermezza. “Quel documento non si trova presso Dodson e Fogg; conoscete quegli uomini, mio caro Signore, tanto bene quanto me. Si trova esclusivamente, interamente e totalmente in vostre mani.”

“Con me!”, esclamò il signor Pickwick, alzandosi nervosamente dalla sedia per poi risedersi immediatamente dopo.

Il piccolo uomo bussò due volte sul coperchio della sua scatola da tabacco, la aprì, ne prese una grande quantità, la richiuse e ripeté le parole: “Con te.”

“Dico, mio caro Signore,” continuò il piccolo uomo, che sembrava prendere sempre più fiducia nel parlare, “dico che la sua rapida liberazione, o la sua perpetua prigionia, dipende da voi, e soltanto da voi. Ascoltatemi, vi prego, e non siate così energico: vi farete solo sudare inutilmente. Dico,” proseguì Perker, indicando ogni punto con un dito diverso mentre parlava, “che nessuno al mondo, se non voi, può salvarla da questo rifugio di miseria. E che potete farlo soltanto pagando le spese di questa causa, sia da parte del querelante che del convenuto, nelle mani di questi squali della Corte dei Freeman. Ora, per favore, state in silenzio, mio caro Signore.”

Il signor Pickwick, il cui viso aveva subito cambiamenti davvero sorprendenti durante questo discorso e che chiaramente era sull’orlo di un forte accesso di indignazione, cercò di calmare la propria rabbia nel modo migliore possibile. Perker, rafforzando le proprie argomentazioni con un altro pizzico di tabacco da fiuto, proseguì.

‘Ho visto quella donna stamattina. Pagando le spese necessarie, è possibile ottenere la piena liberazione e l’esenzione dai danni causati; inoltre, so che questo rappresenta per voi un aspetto ancora più importante, mio caro signore, una dichiarazione scritta da lei stessa, sotto forma di lettera indirizzata a me, nella quale afferma che tutta questa faccenda è stata fin dall’inizio istigata e incoraggiata da questi uomini, Dodson e Fogg; che si rammarica profondamente di essere mai stata strumento di fastidio o danno per voi; e che mi prega di intercedere presso di voi e di implorarvi il vostro perdono.’

“Se pago io le sue spese,” disse il signor Pickwick con indignazione, “un documento davvero prezioso!”

“Nessun ‘se’ in questo caso, mio caro signore,” disse Perker trionfante. “Ecco proprio la lettera di cui parlo. È stata portata nel mio ufficio stamattina alle nove da un’altra donna, prima ancora che io mettessi piede in questo posto o avessi qualsiasi contatto con la signora Bardell. Per la mia onorabilità.” Prendendo la lettera dal mucchio, il piccolo avvocato la posò sul gomito del signor Pickwick e continuò a sniffare tabacco per due minuti di fila, senza battere ciglio.

‘Is this all you have to say to me?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick mildly.

‘Not quite,’ replied Perker. ‘I cannot undertake to say, at this moment, whether the wording of the cognovit, the nature of the ostensible consideration, and the proof we can get together about the whole conduct of the suit, will be sufficient to justify an indictment for conspiracy. I fear not, my dear Sir; they are too clever for that, I doubt. I do mean to say, however, that the whole facts, taken together, will be sufficient to justify you, in the minds of all reasonable men. And now, my dear Sir, I put it to you. This one hundred and fifty pounds, or whatever it may be—take it in round numbers—is nothing to you. A jury had decided against you; well, their verdict is wrong, but still they decided as they thought right, and it is against you. You have now an opportunity, on easy terms, of placing yourself in a much higher position than you ever could, by remaining here; which would only be imputed, by people who didn’t know you, to sheer dogged, wrongheaded, brutal obstinacy; nothing else, my dear Sir, believe me. Can you hesitate to avail yourself of it, when it restores you to your friends, your old pursuits, your health and amusements; when it liberates your faithful and attached servant, whom you otherwise doom to imprisonment for the whole of your life; and above all, when it enables you to take the very magnanimous revenge—which I know, my dear sir, is one after your own heart—of releasing this woman from a scene of misery and debauchery, to which no man should ever be consigned, if I had my will, but the infliction of which on any woman, is even more frightful and barbarous. Now I ask you, my dear sir, not only as your legal adviser, but as your very true friend, will you let slip the occasion of attaining all these objects, and doing all this good, for the paltry consideration of a few pounds finding their way into the pockets of a couple of rascals, to whom it makes no manner of difference, except that the more they gain, the more they’ll seek, and so the sooner be led into some piece of knavery that must end in a crash? I have put these considerations to you, my dear Sir, very feebly and imperfectly, but I ask you to think of them. Turn them over in your mind as long as you please. I wait here most patiently for your answer.’

Before Mr. Pickwick could reply, before Mr. Perker had taken one twentieth part of the snuff with which so unusually long an address imperatively required to be followed up, there was a low murmuring of voices outside, and then a hesitating knock at the door.

‘Dear, dear,’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, who had been evidently roused by his friend’s appeal; ‘what an annoyance that door is! Who is that?’

‘Me, Sir,’ replied Sam Weller, putting in his head.

‘I can’t speak to you just now, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘I am engaged at this moment, Sam.’

‘Beg your pardon, Sir,’ rejoined Mr. Weller. ‘But here’s a lady here, Sir, as says she’s somethin’ wery partickler to disclose.’

‘I can’t see any lady,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, whose mind was filled with visions of Mrs. Bardell.

‘I wouldn’t make too sure o’ that, Sir,’ urged Mr. Weller, shaking his head. ‘If you know’d who was near, sir, I rayther think you’d change your note; as the hawk remarked to himself vith a cheerful laugh, ven he heerd the robin-redbreast a-singin’ round the corner.’

‘Who is it?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Will you see her, Sir?’ asked Mr. Weller, holding the door in his hand as if he had some curious live animal on the other side.

‘I suppose I must,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking at Perker.

‘Well then, all in to begin!’ cried Sam. ‘Sound the gong, draw up the curtain, and enter the two conspiraytors.’

As Sam Weller spoke, he threw the door open, and there rushed tumultuously into the room, Mr. Nathaniel Winkle, leading after him by the hand, the identical young lady who at Dingley Dell had worn the boots with the fur round the tops, and who, now a very pleasing compound of blushes and confusion, and lilac silk, and a smart bonnet, and a rich lace veil, looked prettier than ever.

‘Miss Arabella Allen!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, rising from his chair.

‘No,’ replied Mr. Winkle, dropping on his knees. ‘Mrs. Winkle. Pardon, my dear friend, pardon!’

Mr. Pickwick could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses, and perhaps would not have done so, but for the corroborative testimony afforded by the smiling countenance of Perker, and the bodily presence, in the background, of Sam and the pretty housemaid; who appeared to contemplate the proceedings with the liveliest satisfaction.

‘Oh, Mr. Pickwick!’ said Arabella, in a low voice, as if alarmed at the silence. ‘Can you forgive my imprudence?’

Mr. Pickwick returned no verbal response to this appeal; but he took off his spectacles in great haste, and seizing both the young lady’s hands in his, kissed her a great number of times—perhaps a greater number than was absolutely necessary—and then, still retaining one of her hands, told Mr. Winkle he was an audacious young dog, and bade him get up. This, Mr. Winkle, who had been for some seconds scratching his nose with the brim of his hat, in a penitent manner, did; whereupon Mr. Pickwick slapped him on the back several times, and then shook hands heartily with Perker, who, not to be behind-hand in the compliments of the occasion, saluted both the bride and the pretty housemaid with right good-will, and, having wrung Mr. Winkle’s hand most cordially, wound up his demonstrations of joy by taking snuff enough to set any half-dozen men with ordinarily-constructed noses, a-sneezing for life.

‘Why, my dear girl,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘how has all this come about? Come! Sit down, and let me hear it all. How well she looks, doesn’t she, Perker?’ added Mr. Pickwick, surveying Arabella’s face with a look of as much pride and exultation, as if she had been his daughter.

“È tutto quello che hai da dirmi?”, chiese gentilmente il signor Pickwick.

“Non del tutto,” rispose Perker. “Non posso affermare, in questo momento, se la formulazione delle dichiarazioni rese, la natura della presunta considerazione motivante e le prove che possiamo raccogliere riguardo all’intero svolgimento della vicenda siano sufficienti per giustificare l’incriminazione per cospirazione. Temo di no, mio caro signore; sono troppo astuti per permetterselo, ne dubito. Tuttavia, intendo dire che tutti questi fatti, presi nel loro insieme, saranno sufficienti per farvi apparire giustificati agli occhi di qualsiasi persona ragionevole. Ora, mio caro signore, vi pongo questa domanda: questi centocinquanta sterline, o qualunque sia la somma, consideratela una cifra approssimativa, non significano nulla per voi. Una giuria ha deciso contro di voi; beh, il loro verdetto è sbagliato, ma comunque hanno espresso ciò che ritenevano giusto, e questo significa che siete stato condannato. Ora avete l’opportunità, con facilità, di mettervi in una posizione molto più vantaggiosa di quella in cui vi trovate ora, restando qui; ma coloro che non vi conoscono attribuirebbero questa scelta soltanto a una testardaggine cieca, irragionevole e brutale. Nient’altro, credetemi. Potete davvero esitare ad approfittarne, quando questo vi permetterà di tornare tra i vostri amici, alle vostre vecchie attività, alla vostra salute e ai vostri divertimenti; quando libererà il vostro fedele servitore, che altrimenti sarebbe condannato all’carcere per tutta la vita; e soprattutto, quando vi consentirà di prendervi la vendetta più nobile possibile, una vendetta che, so bene, è molto in linea con i vostri principi, liberando questa donna da una vita di miseria e depravazione, una sorte che nessun uomo dovrebbe mai subire. Ora vi chiedo, mio caro signore: non solo come vostro consulente legale, ma anche come vostro vero amico, lascerete perdere quest’opportunità di realizzare tutti questi obiettivi e compiere tutto questo bene, per il misero guadagno di poche sterline che finiranno nelle tasche di alcuni individui senza scrupoli, a cui quelle somme non significano nulla, se non che più ne guadagnano, più ne cercheranno, e quindi prima verranno trascinati in qualche attività disonesta che inevitabilmente porterà al fallimento? Vi ho esposto queste considerazioni in modo molto approssimativo e imperfetto, ma vi chiedo di pensarci attentamente. Rifletteteci quanto volete. Aspetto qui con grande pazienza la vostra risposta.”

Prima che il signor Pickwick potesse rispondere, prima ancora che il signor Perker avesse assunto una ventesima parte del tabacco da naso necessario per concludere quel discorso insolitamente lungo e impegnativo, si udì un basso mormorio di voci all’esterno, seguito da un colpo esitante alla porta.

“Caro, caro,” esclamò il signor Pickwick, che evidentemente era stato svegliato dall’appello del suo amico; “che fastidio quel portone. Chi è là?”

“Io, signore,” rispose Sam Weller, pensando tra sé.

“Non posso parlare con te adesso, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick. “In questo momento sono impegnato, Sam.”

“Perdonatemi, signore,” rispose il signor Weller. “Ma c’è una signora qui che sostiene di avere qualcosa di molto importante da rivelare.”

“Non vedo nessuna signora,” rispose il signor Pickwick, la cui mente era piena di immagini della signora Bardell.

“Non mi sentirei troppo sicuro al riguardo, signore,” insistette il signor Weller scuotendo la testa. “Se sapeste chi si trovava nelle vicinanze, credo che cambiereste il vostro messaggio. Proprio come quell’uccello falco che, ridendo allegramente, osservò il pettirosso cantare all’angolo della strada.”

“Chi è?” chiese il signor Pickwick.

“La vedrà, signore?”, chiese il signor Weller, tenendo la porta aperta nella mano, come se dall’altra parte ci fosse qualche strano animale vivente.

“Suppongo di doverlo fare,” disse il signor Pickwick, guardando Perker.

“Allora, iniziamo!” gridò Sam. “Suonate il gong, sollevate la tenda e fateli entrare, quei due cospiratori.”

Mentre Sam Weller parlava, spalancò la porta e subito dentro la stanza irruppe in modo tumultuoso il signor Nathaniel Winkle, trascinando con sé per mano la stessa giovane donna che a Dingley Dell indossava gli stivali con la pelliccia sul bordo; ora, con i suoi rossori, l’aria confusa, il vestito di seta color lavanda, il grazioso cappello e il velo di pizzo elegante, sembrava ancora più bella che mai.

“Signorina Arabella Allen!”, esclamò il signor Pickwick alzandosi dalla sedia.

“No,” rispose il signor Winkle, mettendosi in ginocchio. “Signora Winkle. Perdonatemi, mia cara amica, perdonatemi!”

Il signor Pickwick faticava a credere ai segnali che i suoi sensi gli inviavano; forse non ci avrebbe nemmeno creduto, se non fosse stato per il testimone confermante rappresentato dal sorriso di Perker, e per la presenza fisica, in secondo piano, di Sam e della graziosa cameriera, che sembravano osservare tutta quella scena con grande soddisfazione.

“Oh, signor Pickwick!” disse Arabella a bassa voce, come se fosse allarmata dal silenzio. “Potete perdonare la mia imprudenza?”

Il signor Pickwick non rispose verbalmente a questo appello; ma si tolse in fretta gli occhiali, afferrò entrambe le mani della giovane donna e la baciò molte volte – forse più di quanto fosse assolutamente necessario – dopodiché, tenendo ancora una delle sue mani, disse al signor Winkle che era un giovane audace e gli ordinò di alzarsi. Il signor Winkle, che per qualche secondo si grattava il naso con il bordo del cappello in modo penitente, obbedì; allora il signor Pickwick lo schiaffeggiò più volte sulla schiena e poi strinse calorosamente la mano a Perker, che, per non essere da meno nelle lodi dell’occasione, salutò con sincera cordialità sia la sposa che la bella cameriera. Dopo aver stretto con grande affetto la mano del signor Winkle, concluse le sue manifestazioni di gioia sniffando tanto tabacco da far sternutire per tutta la vita almeno sei uomini con nasi normalmente strutturati.

“Ma mia cara ragazza,” disse il signor Pickwick, “come è potuto succedere tutto questo? Siediti e raccontami tutto. Com’è bene che sembra, non trovi, Perker?” aggiunse il signor Pickwick, osservando il viso di Arabella con un’espressione di grande orgoglio e gioia, come se fosse sua figlia.

‘Delightful, my dear Sir,’ replied the little man. ‘If I were not a married man myself, I should be disposed to envy you, you dog.’ Thus expressing himself, the little lawyer gave Mr. Winkle a poke in the chest, which that gentleman reciprocated; after which they both laughed very loudly, but not so loudly as Mr. Samuel Weller, who had just relieved his feelings by kissing the pretty housemaid under cover of the cupboard door.

‘I can never be grateful enough to you, Sam, I am sure,’ said Arabella, with the sweetest smile imaginable. ‘I shall not forget your exertions in the garden at Clifton.’

‘Don’t say nothin’ wotever about it, ma’am,’ replied Sam. ‘I only assisted natur, ma’am; as the doctor said to the boy’s mother, after he’d bled him to death.’

‘Mary, my dear, sit down,’ said Mr. Pickwick, cutting short these compliments. ‘Now then; how long have you been married, eh?’

Arabella looked bashfully at her lord and master, who replied, ‘Only three days.’

‘Only three days, eh?’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Why, what have you been doing these three months?’

‘Ah, to be sure!’ interposed Perker; ‘come, account for this idleness. You see Mr. Pickwick’s only astonishment is, that it wasn’t all over, months ago.’

‘Why the fact is,’ replied Mr. Winkle, looking at his blushing young wife, ‘that I could not persuade Bella to run away, for a long time. And when I had persuaded her, it was a long time more before we could find an opportunity. Mary had to give a month’s warning, too, before she could leave her place next door, and we couldn’t possibly have done it without her assistance.’

Upon my word,’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, who by this time had resumed his spectacles, and was looking from Arabella to Winkle, and from Winkle to Arabella, with as much delight depicted in his countenance as warmheartedness and kindly feeling can communicate to the human face— ‘upon my word! you seem to have been very systematic in your proceedings. And is your brother acquainted with all this, my dear?’

‘Oh, no, no,’ replied Arabella, changing colour. ‘Dear Mr. Pickwick, he must only know it from you—from your lips alone. He is so violent, so prejudiced, and has been so—so anxious in behalf of his friend, Mr. Sawyer,’ added Arabella, looking down, ‘that I fear the consequences dreadfully.’

‘Ah, to be sure,’ said Perker gravely. ‘You must take this matter in hand for them, my dear sir. These young men will respect you, when they would listen to nobody else. You must prevent mischief, my dear Sir. Hot blood, hot blood.’ And the little man took a warning pinch, and shook his head doubtfully.

‘You forget, my love,’ said Mr. Pickwick gently, ‘you forget that I am a prisoner.’

‘No, indeed I do not, my dear Sir,’ replied Arabella. ‘I never have forgotten it. I have never ceased to think how great your sufferings must have been in this shocking place. But I hoped that what no consideration for yourself would induce you to do, a regard to our happiness might. If my brother hears of this, first, from you, I feel certain we shall be reconciled. He is my only relation in the world, Mr. Pickwick, and unless you plead for me, I fear I have lost even him. I have done wrong, very, very wrong, I know.’ Here poor Arabella hid her face in her handkerchief, and wept bitterly.

Mr. Pickwick’s nature was a good deal worked upon, by these same tears; but when Mrs. Winkle, drying her eyes, took to coaxing and entreating in the sweetest tones of a very sweet voice, he became particularly restless, and evidently undecided how to act, as was evinced by sundry nervous rubbings of his spectacle-glasses, nose, tights, head, and gaiters.

Taking advantage of these symptoms of indecision, Mr. Perker (to whom, it appeared, the young couple had driven straight that morning) urged with legal point and shrewdness that Mr. Winkle, senior, was still unacquainted with the important rise in life’s flight of steps which his son had taken; that the future expectations of the said son depended entirely upon the said Winkle, senior, continuing to regard him with undiminished feelings of affection and attachment, which it was very unlikely he would, if this great event were long kept a secret from him; that Mr. Pickwick, repairing to Bristol to seek Mr. Allen, might, with equal reason, repair to Birmingham to seek Mr. Winkle, senior; lastly, that Mr. Winkle, senior, had good right and title to consider Mr. Pickwick as in some degree the guardian and adviser of his son, and that it consequently behoved that gentleman, and was indeed due to his personal character, to acquaint the aforesaid Winkle, senior, personally, and by word of mouth, with the whole circumstances of the case, and with the share he had taken in the transaction.

Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass arrived, most opportunely, in this stage of the pleadings, and as it was necessary to explain to them all that had occurred, together with the various reasons pro and con, the whole of the arguments were gone over again, after which everybody urged every argument in his own way, and at his own length. And, at last, Mr. Pickwick, fairly argued and remonstrated out of all his resolutions, and being in imminent danger of being argued and remonstrated out of his wits, caught Arabella in his arms, and declaring that she was a very amiable creature, and that he didn’t know how it was, but he had always been very fond of her from the first, said he could never find it in his heart to stand in the way of young people’s happiness, and they might do with him as they pleased.

Mr. Weller’s first act, on hearing this concession, was to despatch Job Trotter to the illustrious Mr. Pell, with an authority to deliver to the bearer the formal discharge which his prudent parent had had the foresight to leave in the hands of that learned gentleman, in case it should be, at any time, required on an emergency; his next proceeding was, to invest his whole stock of ready-money in the purchase of five- and-twenty gallons of mild porter, which he himself dispensed on the racket-ground to everybody who would partake of it; this done, he hurra’d in divers parts of the building until he lost his voice, and then quietly relapsed into his usual collected and philosophical condition.

“Delizioso, mio caro signore,” rispose il piccolo uomo. “Se non fossi anch’io un uomo sposato, sarei tentato di invidiarvi, voi canaglia.” Dicendo questo, il piccolo avvocato diede una spinta al petto del signor Winkle, che ricambiò la stessa azione; dopo di ciò risero entrambi molto forte, ma non così forte come il signor Samuel Weller, il quale aveva appena espresso i propri sentimenti baciando la bella cameriera sotto la porta dell’armadio.

“Non potrò mai essere abbastanza grata a te, Sam, ne sono sicura,” disse Arabella, con il sorriso più dolce che si possa immaginare. “Non dimenticherò mai i tuoi sforzi nel giardino di Clifton.”

“Non dica assolutamente nulla al riguardo, signora,” rispose Sam. “Ho semplicemente aiutato la natura, signora. Come disse il medico alla madre del ragazzo, dopo che lo aveva fatto sanguinare fino alla morte.”

“Mary, mia cara, siediti,” disse il signor Pickwick, interrompendo questi complimenti. “Allora, da quanto tempo siete sposati?”

“Arabella guardò timidamente il suo signore e padrone, il quale rispose: ‘Solo tre giorni.’”

“Solo tre giorni, eh?”, disse il signor Pickwick. “Ma cosa hai fatto in questi tre mesi?”

“Ah, certamente!” intervenne Perker; “spiegami dunque questa inattività. Vedi, l’unica cosa che sorprende il signor Pickwick è che tutto questo non sia accaduto mesi fa.”

“La verità è,” rispose il signor Winkle, guardando sua moglie giovane e arrossita, “che per molto tempo non sono riuscito a convincere Bella a fuggire. E quando finalmente ci sono riuscito, è servito ancora molto tempo prima di trovare l’occasione giusta. Anche Mary ha dovuto dare un mese di preavviso prima di poter lasciare il posto dove viveva accanto a noi. E senza il suo aiuto, non avremmo mai potuto riuscirci.”

“Per la mia parola!”, esclamò il signor Pickwick, che a quel momento aveva già ripreso a indossare gli occhiali e stava osservando alternativamente Arabella e Winkle]], con un’espressione di gioia sul viso tale da riflettere tutta la sua cordialità e gentilezza, “Per la mia parola! Sembra che abbiate agito in modo molto sistematico nelle vostre azioni. E vostro fratello ne è a conoscenza, cara?”

“Oh, no, no,” rispose Arabella, cambiando colore. “Caro signor Pickwick, deve saperlo solo da voi, soltanto dalle vostre labbra. È così violento, così prevenuto, e ha mostrato tanta, tanta premura per il suo amico, il signor Sawyer,” aggiunse Arabella, guardando giù, “che temo terribilmente le conseguenze.”

“Ah, certamente,” disse Perker con gravità. “Deve assolutamente occuparsi di questa questione per loro, mio caro signore. Questi giovani le obbediranno, visto che non ascoltano nessun altro. Deve impedire che succedano guai, mio caro signore. Sangue caldo, sangue caldo, ” E il piccolo uomo si pizzicò la guancia come per ammonirsi, scuotendo la testa con esitazione.

“Dimentichi, mio amore”, disse gentilmente il signor Pickwick, “dimentichi che sono un prigioniero.”

“No, davvero no, mio caro Signore,” rispose Arabella. “Non l’ho mai dimenticato. Non ho mai smesso di pensare a quanto grandi debbano essere stati i vostri sofferimenti in questo posto orribile. Ma speravo che ciò che nessun considerazione per voi stessi vi avrebbe spinto a fare, potesse essere motivato dal desiderio di rendere felici noi. Se mio fratello venisse a sapere di tutto questo da voi, sono certa che ci riconcilieremmo. Lui è l’unica persona che mi rimane al mondo, Signor Pickwick, e se non interverrete in mio favore, temo di averlo perso anche lui. Ho commesso un errore, un errore molto grave, lo so.” Qui la povera Arabella nascose il viso nel fazzoletto e pianse amaramente.

La natura del signor Pickwick fu notevolmente influenzata da queste stesse lacrime; ma quando la signora Winkle, asciugandosi gli occhi, iniziò a blandirlo e supplicarlo con i toni più dolci di una voce davvero incantevole, lui divenne particolarmente irrequieto e, evidentemente, indeciso su come comportarsi, come dimostravano i suoi continui gesti nervosi con gli occhiali da vista, il naso, le calze a maglia, la testa e i gambali.

Sfruttando questi segni di indecisione, il signor Perker (a cui, a quanto pare, la giovane coppia era andata direttamente quella mattina) sostenne con argomentazioni legali e astuzia che il signor Winkle padre non fosse ancora a conoscenza dell’importante cambiamento nella situazione economica di suo figlio; che le future prospettive di questo figlio dipendessero interamente dal fatto che il suddetto Winkle padre continuasse a trattarlo con lo stesso affetto e attaccamento, cosa molto improbabile se questa notizia fosse tenuta nascosta a lungo; che il signor Pickwick, essendo andato a Bristol per cercare il signor Allen, avrebbe potuto altrettanto facilmente recarsi a Birmingham per cercare il signor Winkle padre; infine, che il signor Winkle padre aveva tutto il diritto di considerare il signor Pickwick come una sorta di tutore e consigliere di suo figlio, e che quindi fosse dovere di quel gentiluomo, e in linea con il suo carattere personale, informare personalmente e a voce il suddetto Winkle padre su tutte le circostanze del caso, nonché sul ruolo che egli stesso aveva svolto nell’intera vicenda.

Il signor Tupman e il signor Snodgrass arrivarono, in un momento davvero opportuno, in questa fase delle argomentazioni. Poiché era necessario spiegare loro tutto ciò che era accaduto, nonché le varie ragioni a favore e contro, l’intero dibattito fu riesaminato nuovamente. Dopo di ciò, ognuno presentò i propri argomenti a modo suo, per tutta la durata che ritenne necessaria. Alla fine, il signor Pickwick, dopo aver esposto e discusso con fermezza tutte le sue ragioni, si trovò di fronte al rischio concreto di perdere completamente la pazienza. Allora afferrò Arabella tra le braccia, dichiarando che era una creatura davvero adorabile, e che non riusciva proprio a capire come mai non l’avesse sempre amata fin dall’inizio. Disse inoltre che non avrebbe mai avuto il cuore di ostacolare la felicità dei giovani, e che potevano fare di lui ciò che volevano.

La prima mossa del signor Weller, dopo aver sentito questa concessione, fu quella di inviare Job Trotter dall’illustre signor Pell, con l’autorità di consegnargli la lettera di scarico ufficiale che il suo prudente genitore aveva avuto la previdenza di lasciare nelle mani di quel gentiluomo erudito, nel caso in cui potesse essere necessaria in un momento di emergenza; successivamente, investì tutto il proprio denaro liquido nell’acquisto di venticinque galloni di birra leggera, che distribuì personalmente sul posto a chiunque ne volesse; una volta fatto ciò, gridò in varie parti dell’edificio fino a perdere la voce, per poi tornare silenziosamente alla sua solita condizione calma e filosofica.

At three o’clock that afternoon, Mr. Pickwick took a last look at his little room, and made his way, as well as he could, through the throng of debtors who pressed eagerly forward to shake him by the hand, until he reached the lodge steps. He turned here, to look about him, and his eye lightened as he did so. In all the crowd of wan, emaciated faces, he saw not one which was not happier for his sympathy and charity.

‘Perker,’ said Mr. Pickwick, beckoning one young man towards him, ‘this is Mr. Jingle, whom I spoke to you about.’

‘Very good, my dear Sir,’ replied Perker, looking hard at Jingle. ‘You will see me again, young man, to-morrow. I hope you may live to remember and feel deeply, what I shall have to communicate, Sir.’

Jingle bowed respectfully, trembled very much as he took Mr. Pickwick’s proffered hand, and withdrew.

‘Job you know, I think?’ said Mr. Pickwick, presenting that gentleman.

‘I know the rascal,’ replied Perker good-humouredly. ‘See after your friend, and be in the way to-morrow at one. Do you hear? Now, is there anything more?’

‘Nothing,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick. ‘You have delivered the little parcel I gave you for your old landlord, Sam?’

‘I have, Sir,’ replied Sam. ‘He bust out a-cryin’, Sir, and said you wos wery gen’rous and thoughtful, and he only wished you could have him innockilated for a gallopin’ consumption, for his old friend as had lived here so long wos dead, and he’d noweres to look for another.’

Poor fellow, poor fellow!’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘God bless you, my friends!’

As Mr. Pickwick uttered this adieu, the crowd raised a loud shout. Many among them were pressing forward to shake him by the hand again, when he drew his arm through Perker’s, and hurried from the prison, far more sad and melancholy, for the moment, than when he had first entered it. Alas! how many sad and unhappy beings had he left behind!

A happy evening was that for at least one party in the George and Vulture; and light and cheerful were two of the hearts that emerged from its hospitable door next morning. The owners thereof were Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller, the former of whom was speedily deposited inside a comfortable post-coach, with a little dickey behind, in which the latter mounted with great agility.

‘Sir,’ called out Mr. Weller to his master.

‘Well, Sam,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, thrusting his head out of the window.

‘I wish them horses had been three months and better in the Fleet, Sir.’

‘Why, Sam?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Wy, Sir,’ exclaimed Mr. Weller, rubbing his hands, ‘how they would go if they had been!’

CHAPTER XLVIII. RELATES HOW MR. PICKWICK, WITH THE ASSISTANCE OF SAMUEL WELLER, ESSAYED TO SOFTEN THE HEART OF MR. BENJAMIN ALLEN, AND TO MOLLIFY THE WRATH OF MR. ROBERT SAWYER

Mr. Ben Allen and Mr. Bob Sawyer sat together in the little surgery behind the shop, discussing minced veal and future prospects, when the discourse, not unnaturally, turned upon the practice acquired by Bob the aforesaid, and his present chances of deriving a competent independence from the honourable profession to which he had devoted himself.

‘Which, I think,’ observed Mr. Bob Sawyer, pursuing the thread of the subject—‘which, I think, Ben, are rather dubious.’

‘What’s rather dubious?’ inquired Mr. Ben Allen, at the same time sharpening his intellect with a draught of beer. ‘What’s dubious?’

‘Why, the chances,’ responded Mr. Bob Sawyer.

‘I forgot,’ said Mr. Ben Allen. ‘The beer has reminded me that I forgot, Bob—yes; they _are _dubious.’

‘It’s wonderful how the poor people patronise me,’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer reflectively. ‘They knock me up, at all hours of the night; they take medicine to an extent which I should have conceived impossible; they put on blisters and leeches with a perseverance worthy of a better cause; they make additions to their families, in a manner which is quite awful. Six of those last-named little promissory notes, all due on the same day, Ben, and all intrusted to me!’

‘It’s very gratifying, isn’t it?’ said Mr. Ben Allen, holding his plate for some more minced veal.

‘Oh, very,’ replied Bob; ‘only not quite so much so as the confidence of patients with a shilling or two to spare would be. This business was capitally described in the advertisement, Ben. It is a practice, a very extensive practice—and that’s all.’

‘Bob,’ said Mr. Ben Allen, laying down his knife and fork, and fixing his eyes on the visage of his friend, ‘Bob, I’ll tell you what it is.’

‘What is it?’ inquired Mr. Bob Sawyer.

‘You must make yourself, with as little delay as possible, master of Arabella’s one thousand pounds.’

‘Three per cent. consolidated bank annuities, now standing in her name in the book or books of the governor and company of the Bank of England,’ added Bob Sawyer, in legal phraseology.

‘Exactly so,’ said Ben. ‘She has it when she comes of age, or marries. She wants a year of coming of age, and if you plucked up a spirit she needn’t want a month of being married.’

‘She’s a very charming and delightful creature,’ quoth Mr. Robert Sawyer, in reply; ‘and has only one fault that I know of, Ben. It happens, unfortunately, that that single blemish is a want of taste. She don’t like me.’

‘It’s my opinion that she don’t know what she does like,’ said Mr. Ben Allen contemptuously.

‘Perhaps not,’ remarked Mr. Bob Sawyer. ‘But it’s my opinion that she does know what she doesn’t like, and that’s of more importance.’

‘I wish,’ said Mr. Ben Allen, setting his teeth together, and speaking more like a savage warrior who fed on raw wolf’s flesh which he carved with his fingers, than a peaceable young gentleman who ate minced veal with a knife and fork—‘I wish I knew whether any rascal really has been tampering with her, and attempting to engage her affections. I think I should assassinate him, Bob.’

‘I’d put a bullet in him, if I found him out,’ said Mr. Sawyer, stopping in the course of a long draught of beer, and looking malignantly out of the porter pot. ‘If that didn’t do his business, I’d extract it afterwards, and kill him that way.’

Alle tre di ore di quel pomeriggio, il signor Pickwick gettò un ultimo sguardo alla sua piccola stanza e si fece strada, per quanto possibile, tra la folla di debitori che si affrettavano ad avvicinarsi per stringergli la mano, fino a raggiungere i gradini della locanda. Si voltò intorno a sé e il suo viso si illuminò: in tutta quella folla di volti pallidi ed emaciati, non ne vide uno che non fosse più felice grazie alla sua simpatia e alla sua carità.

“Perker,” disse il signor Pickwick, chiamando un giovane verso di sé, “questo è il signor Jingle, di cui vi ho parlato.”

“Molto bene, mio caro signore,” rispose Perker, fissando attentamente Jingle. “Ci rivedremo domani, giovane uomo. Spero che possiate vivere abbastanza a lungo da ricordare e comprendere appieno ciò che dovrò comunicarvi, signore.”

Jingle si inchinò rispettosamente, tremava molto mentre stringeva la mano che il signor Pickwick gli tendeva, e poi se ne andò.

“Job, sai, penso?” disse il signor Pickwick, presentando quel gentiluomo.

“Conosco bene quel birichino,” rispose Perker con buon umore. “Prenditi cura del tuo amico e vieni domani alle una. Hai capito? Ora, c’è altro da dire?”

“Niente,” rispose il signor Pickwick. “Hai consegnato il pacchetto che ti ho dato per il tuo vecchio padrone di casa, Sam?”

“Sì, signore,” rispose Sam. “Ha iniziato a piangere, signore, e ha detto che lei è stato molto generoso e premuroso. Sperava solo che potesse farlo battezzare per una morte improvvisa, perché il suo vecchio amico, che aveva vissuto qui per tanto tempo, era morto, e ora non gli restava più nessuno.”

Povero ragazzo, povero ragazzo! disse il signor Pickwick. “Dio vi benedica, miei amici!”

Mentre il signor Pickwick pronunciava queste parole d’addio, la folla levò un forte grido. Molti di loro si affrettarono ad avvicinarsi per stringergli nuovamente la mano, ma lui infilò il braccio in quello di Perker e se ne andò rapidamente dalla prigione, molto più triste e melanconico di quando vi era entrato per la prima volta. Ahimè! Quanti esseri tristi e sfortunati aveva lasciato alle sue spalle.

Quella fu una serata felice per almeno un gruppo di persone al George and Vulture; il giorno dopo, due persone dal cuore allegro e gioioso uscirono da quella casa ospitale: si trattava del signor Pickwick e di Sam Weller. Il primo venne rapidamente sistemato all’interno di una comoda posta, con uno spazio riservato per il secondo, che vi salì con grande agilità.

“Signore,” chiamò il signor Weller verso il suo padrone.

“Beh, Sam,” rispose il signor Pickwick, sporgendo la testa dalla finestra.

“Vorrei che quei cavalli fossero rimasti nella flotta per almeno tre mesi, signore.”

“Perché, Sam?”, chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Ah, signore,” esclamò il signor Weller, strofinandosi le mani, “che cosa sarebbe successo se fossero davvero accaduti!”

CAPITOLO XLVIII. RACCONTA COME IL SIGNOR PICKWICK, CON L’AIUTO DI SAMUEL WELLER, TENTÒ DI AMmorbidire IL CUORE DEL SIGNOR BENJAMIN ALLEN E DI CALMARE LA RABBIA DEL SIGNOR ROBERT SAWYER

Il signor Ben Allen e il signor Bob Sawyer sedevano insieme nel piccolo ambulatorio dietro il negozio, discutendo di vitello tritato e delle prospettive future; naturalmente, la conversazione si concentrò sulla professione che Bob aveva intrapreso e sulle sue possibilità attuali di raggiungere un’indipendenza economica attraverso quell’onorevole mestiere a cui si era dedicato.

“Cioè,” osservò il signor Bob Sawyer, proseguendo nel discorso su quell’argomento, “cioè, penso che, Ben, queste cose siano piuttosto dubie.”

“Cosa c’è di dubbio?” chiese il signor Ben Allen, nello stesso momento in cui rinfrescava la sua mente con un bicchiere di birra. “Cosa c’è di dubbio?”

“Beh, le probabilità, ”, rispose il signor Bob Sawyer.

“Me ne sono dimenticato,” disse il signor Ben Allen. “La birra mi ha fatto ricordare che me n’ero dimenticato. Bob, sì; quelle cose sono davvero dubie.”

“È meraviglioso come la gente povera mi ‘patronizzi’,” disse il signor Bob Sawyer riflettendo. “Mi lasciano incinta in qualsiasi momento della notte; assumono medicine in quantità che avrei ritenuto impossibili; si applicano vesciche e sanguisughe con una perseveranza degna di uno scopo più nobile. E aumentano la loro famiglia in modi davvero terribili. Sei di quei piccoli ‘promessori’, tutti scadenti lo stesso giorno, Ben, e tutti affidati a me!”

“È molto gratificante, non è vero?”, disse il signor Ben Allen, tenendo in mano il suo piatto per chiedere ancora un po’ di vitello tritato.

“Ah, molto,” rispose Bob; “solo che non tanto quanto la fiducia che i pazienti con uno o due scellini da parte possano avere. Quest’attività è stata descritta in modo eccellente nell’annuncio, Ben. Si tratta di una pratica, una pratica molto diffusa, e basta.”

“Bob,” disse il signor Ben Allen, posando forchetta e coltello e fissando il volto del suo amico, “Bob, ti dirò di cosa si tratta.”

“Che cos’è?” chiese il signor Bob Sawyer.

“Dovete assolutamente impossessarvi, il prima possibile, dei mille sterline di Arabella.”

“Tre per cento. Annuità bancarie consolidate, attualmente registrate a suo nome nei registri della Banca d’Inghilterra,” aggiunse Bob Sawyer, utilizzando una formulazione legale.

“Esattamente,” disse Ben. “Lo riceve quando raggiunge l’età adulta, o quando si sposa. Vuole un anno intero per prepararsi alla vita da adulta. E se riuscissimo a trovare il coraggio giusto, forse non avrebbe nemmeno bisogno di un mese di matrimonio.”

“È davvero una creatura molto affascinante e deliziosa,” disse il signor Robert Sawyer in risposta; “e, per quel che ne so, ha un solo difetto: purtroppo, quell’unica imperfezione è la mancanza di gusto. A lei non piaccio.”

“Secondo me, lei non sa davvero cosa le piaccia,” disse il signor Ben Allen con disprezzo.

“Forse no,” osservò il signor Bob Sawyer. “Ma secondo me lei sa bene cosa non le piace, e questo è molto più importante.”

“Vorrei saperlo,” disse il signor Ben Allen, stringendo i denti e parlando più come un selvaggio guerriero che si nutriva di carne cruda di lupo, tagliata con le dita, che come un tranquillo giovane gentiluomo che mangiava vitello tritato con coltello e forchetta, “Vorrei sapere se qualcuno abbia davvero cercato di approfittare di lei, di conquistare i suoi affetti. Penso che dovrei assassinarlo, Bob.”

“Gli sparerei una pallottola se lo trovassi,” disse il signor Sawyer, fermandosi dopo aver bevuto un lungo sorso di birra e guardando con aria minacciosa fuori dalla bottiglia. “Se anche questo non lo uccidesse, gliela tirerei fuori dopo e lo ucciderei comunque in quel modo.”

Mr. Benjamin Allen gazed abstractedly on his friend for some minutes in silence, and then said—

‘You have never proposed to her, point-blank, Bob?’

‘No. Because I saw it would be of no use,’ replied Mr. Robert Sawyer.

‘You shall do it, before you are twenty-four hours older,’ retorted Ben, with desperate calmness. ‘She shall have you, or I’ll know the reason why. I’ll exert my authority.’

‘Well,’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer, ‘we shall see.’

‘We shall see, my friend,’ replied Mr. Ben Allen fiercely. He paused for a few seconds, and added in a voice broken by emotion, ‘You have loved her from a child, my friend. You loved her when we were boys at school together, and, even then, she was wayward and slighted your young feelings. Do you recollect, with all the eagerness of a child’s love, one day pressing upon her acceptance, two small caraway-seed biscuits and one sweet apple, neatly folded into a circular parcel with the leaf of a copy-book?’

‘I do,’ replied Bob Sawyer.

‘She slighted that, I think?’ said Ben Allen.

‘She did,’ rejoined Bob. ‘She said I had kept the parcel so long in the pockets of my corduroys, that the apple was unpleasantly warm.’

‘I remember,’ said Mr. Allen gloomily. ‘Upon which we ate it ourselves, in alternate bites.’

Bob Sawyer intimated his recollection of the circumstance last alluded to, by a melancholy frown; and the two friends remained for some time absorbed, each in his own meditations.

While these observations were being exchanged between Mr. Bob Sawyer and Mr. Benjamin Allen; and while the boy in the gray livery, marvelling at the unwonted prolongation of the dinner, cast an anxious look, from time to time, towards the glass door, distracted by inward misgivings regarding the amount of minced veal which would be ultimately reserved for his individual cravings; there rolled soberly on through the streets of Bristol, a private fly, painted of a sad green colour, drawn by a chubby sort of brown horse, and driven by a surly-looking man with his legs dressed like the legs of a groom, and his body attired in the coat of a coachman. Such appearances are common to many vehicles belonging to, and maintained by, old ladies of economic habits; and in this vehicle sat an old lady who was its mistress and proprietor.

‘Martin!’ said the old lady, calling to the surly man, out of the front window.

‘Well?’ said the surly man, touching his hat to the old lady.

‘Mr. Sawyer’s,’ said the old lady.

‘I was going there,’ said the surly man.

The old lady nodded the satisfaction which this proof of the surly man’s foresight imparted to her feelings; and the surly man giving a smart lash to the chubby horse, they all repaired to Mr. Bob Sawyer’s together.

‘Martin!’ said the old lady, when the fly stopped at the door of Mr. Robert Sawyer, late Nockemorf.

‘Well?’ said Martin.

‘Ask the lad to step out, and mind the horse.’

‘I’m going to mind the horse myself,’ said Martin, laying his whip on the roof of the fly.

‘I can’t permit it, on any account,’ said the old lady; ‘your testimony will be very important, and I must take you into the house with me. You must not stir from my side during the whole interview. Do you hear?’

‘I hear,’ replied Martin.

‘Well; what are you stopping for?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Martin. So saying, the surly man leisurely descended from the wheel, on which he had been poising himself on the tops of the toes of his right foot, and having summoned the boy in the gray livery, opened the coach door, flung down the steps, and thrusting in a hand enveloped in a dark wash-leather glove, pulled out the old lady with as much unconcern in his manner as if she were a bandbox.

‘Dear me!’ exclaimed the old lady. ‘I am so flurried, now I have got here, Martin, that I’m all in a tremble.’

Mr. Martin coughed behind the dark wash-leather gloves, but expressed no sympathy; so the old lady, composing herself, trotted up Mr. Bob Sawyer’s steps, and Mr. Martin followed. Immediately on the old lady’s entering the shop, Mr. Benjamin Allen and Mr. Bob Sawyer, who had been putting the spirits-and-water out of sight, and upsetting nauseous drugs to take off the smell of the tobacco smoke, issued hastily forth in a transport of pleasure and affection.

‘My dear aunt,’ exclaimed Mr. Ben Allen, ‘how kind of you to look in upon us! Mr. Sawyer, aunt; my friend Mr. Bob Sawyer whom I have spoken to you about, regarding—you know, aunt.’ And here Mr. Ben Allen, who was not at the moment extraordinarily sober, added the word ‘Arabella,’ in what was meant to be a whisper, but which was an especially audible and distinct tone of speech which nobody could avoid hearing, if anybody were so disposed.

‘My dear Benjamin,’ said the old lady, struggling with a great shortness of breath, and trembling from head to foot, ‘don’t be alarmed, my dear, but I think I had better speak to Mr. Sawyer, alone, for a moment. Only for one moment.’

‘Bob,’ said Mr. Allen, ‘will you take my aunt into the surgery?’

‘Certainly,’ responded Bob, in a most professional voice. ‘Step this way, my dear ma’am. Don’t be frightened, ma’am. We shall be able to set you to rights in a very short time, I have no doubt, ma’am. Here, my dear ma’am. Now then!’ With this, Mr. Bob Sawyer having handed the old lady to a chair, shut the door, drew another chair close to her, and waited to hear detailed the symptoms of some disorder from which he saw in perspective a long train of profits and advantages.

The first thing the old lady did, was to shake her head a great many times, and began to cry.

‘Nervous,’ said Bob Sawyer complacently. ‘Camphor-julep and water three times a day, and composing draught at night.’

‘I don’t know how to begin, Mr. Sawyer,’ said the old lady. ‘It is so very painful and distressing.’

Il signor Benjamin Allen fissò il suo amico in silenzio per alcuni minuti, poi disse.

“Non le hai mai fatto una proposta diretta, vero, Bob?”

“No. Perché sapevo che non sarebbe servito a nulla,” rispose il signor Robert Sawyer.

“Devi farlo, prima che trascorrano ventiquattro ore,” ribatté Ben con una calma disperata. “Lei ti avrà, o scoprirò il motivo per cui non succederà. Userò la mia autorità.”

“Beh,” disse il signor Bob Sawyer, “vedremo.”

“Lo vedremo, amico mio,” rispose con fermezza il signor Ben Allen. Fece una pausa di qualche secondo e aggiunse, con voce rotta dall’emozione: “L’hai amata fin da quando eri un bambino, amico mio. L’hai amata anche quando eravamo ragazzi a scuola insieme. Eppure, già allora, lei era capricciosa e ha ignorato i tuoi sentimenti giovani. Ricordi ancora, con tutta l’ansia dell’amore di un bambino, quel giorno in cui le hai offerto due piccoli biscotti al cumino e una mela dolce, ripiegati con cura in un pacchetto rotondo, usando addirittura la pagina di un quaderno?”

“Sì,” rispose Bob Sawyer.

“Penso che abbia sottovalutato quella cosa”, disse Ben Allen.

“Lo ha fatto,” rispose Bob. “Ha detto che avevo tenuto il pacco per così tanto tempo nelle tasche dei miei pantaloni di velluto a coste, che la mela era diventata spiacevolmente calda.”

“Me ne ricordo,” disse il signor Allen con tristezza. “E poi lo mangiammo noi stessi, a turno.”

Bob Sawyer fece capire di ricordare la circostanza di cui si era appena parlato, con un’espressione melanconica; i due amici rimasero per qualche momento immersi nei loro pensieri.

Mentre queste osservazioni venivano scambiate tra il signor Bob Sawyer e il signor Benjamin Allen; mentre il ragazzo in abiti grigi, meravigliandosi della insolita durata della cena, lanciava occhiate ansiose, di tanto in tanto, verso la porta a vetri, preoccupato per la quantità di carne di vitello tritata che alla fine sarebbe toccata a lui; lungo le strade di Bristol procedeva tranquillamente un veicolo privato, dipinto di un triste colore verde, trainato da un robusto cavallo marrone e guidato da un uomo dall’aspetto cupo, le cui gambe erano vestite come quelle di un cocchiere, mentre il suo corpo era avvolto nel mantello di un conducente di carrozza. Questi tipi di veicoli sono comuni tra quelli posseduti e gestiti da signore anziane di modeste condizioni economiche; e in quel veicolo sedeva proprio una tale signora, sua proprietaria e conducente.

“Martin!” disse la vecchia signora, chiamando l’uomo burbero, dalla finestra anteriore.

“‘Beh?’” disse l’uomo scontroso, salutando la vecchia signora con il cappello.

“Appartiene al signor Sawyer,” disse la vecchia signora.

“Stavo andando lì,” disse l’uomo scontroso.

La vecchia signora annuì, soddisfatta da questa dimostrazione della previdenza di quell’uomo burbero; e l’uomo burbero, dando un colpo secco al robusto cavallo, si recarono tutti insieme a casa del signor Bob Sawyer.

“Martin!” disse la vecchia signora quando la mosca si fermò davanti alla porta del signor Robert Sawyer, defunto Nockemorf.

“‘Bene?’” disse Martin.

“Chiedi al ragazzo di uscire, e prenditi cura del cavallo.”

“Me ne occuperò io stesso del cavallo,” disse Martin, posando la frusta sul dorso della mosca.

“Non posso permetterlo assolutamente,” disse la vecchia signora; “la tua testimonianza sarà molto importante, e devo portarti con me in quella >casa. Non devi allontanarti da me per tutta la durata dell’interrogatorio. Capisci?”

“Capisco,” rispose Martin.

“Beh, per cosa ti fermi?”

“Niente,” rispose Martin. Detto ciò, l’uomo burbero scese con calma dalla ruota su cui si era appoggiato in equilibrio sulle punte dei piedi destri; chiamò poi il ragazzo in abiti grigi, aprì la porta della carrozza, scese i gradini e, infilando una mano avvolta in un guanto di pelle scura, trascinò fuori la vecchia signora con tale indifferenza, come se fosse solo una scatola.

“Mio Dio!”, esclamò la vecchia signora. “Sono così agitata. Ora che sono arrivata qui, Martin, non riesco nemmeno a stare ferma.”

Il signor Martin tossì dietro i suoi guanti di pelle scura, ma non mostrò alcuna simpatia; così la vecchia signora, riprendendosi, si avvicinò rapidamente ai piedi del signor Bob Sawyer, e il signor Martin la seguì. Non appena la vecchia signora entrò nel negozio, il signor Benjamin Allen e il signor Bob Sawyer, che avevano nascosto al sicuro gli alcolici e le altre sostanze per eliminare l’odore del fumo di tabacco, uscirono immediatamente, manifestando grande gioia e affetto.

“Mia cara zia,” esclamò il signor Ben Allen, “che gentile da parte sua venire a trovarci! Signor Sawyer, zia; mio amico il signor Bob Sawyer di cui vi ho parlato, riguardo a, insomma, zia.” E qui il signor Ben Allen, che in quel momento non era particolarmente sobrio, aggiunse la parola “Arabella”, nel tentativo di sussurrarla, ma in realtà con un tono così chiaro e udibile che nessuno avrebbe potuto evitarlo, se solo lo avesse voluto.

“Mio caro Benjamin,” disse la vecchia signora, con grande difficoltà a respirare e tremando dalla testa ai piedi, “non allarmarti, caro, ma penso che sia meglio che parli da sola per un momento con il signor Sawyer. Solo per un attimo.”

“Bob,” disse il signor Allen, “potresti accompagnare mia zia nella sala operatoria?”

“Certamente,” rispose Bob con voce molto professionale. “Venga da questa parte, mia cara signora. Non si spaventi, signora. Riusciremo a sistemarla in poco tempo, ne sono sicuro. Ecco, mia cara signora. Ora!” Dopo aver accompagnato la vecchia signora su una sedia, Bob chiuse la porta, avvicinò un’altra sedia accanto a lei e aspettò che gli descrivesse in dettaglio i sintomi del disturbo da cui soffriva. Vedendo in questo una lunga serie di opportunità e vantaggi per sé.

La prima cosa che la vecchia signora fece fu scuotere ripetutamente la testa e poi iniziò a piangere.

“Nervoso,” disse Bob Sawyer con soddisfazione. “Camphor-julep e acqua tre volte al giorno, e preparare decotti di notte.”

“Non so da dove cominciare, signor Sawyer,” disse la vecchia signora. “È davvero molto doloroso e angosciante.”

‘You need not begin, ma’am,’ rejoined Mr. Bob Sawyer. ‘I can anticipate all you would say. The head is in fault.’

‘I should be very sorry to think it was the heart,’ said the old lady, with a slight groan.

‘Not the slightest danger of that, ma’am,’ replied Bob Sawyer. ‘The stomach is the primary cause.’

‘Mr. Sawyer!’ exclaimed the old lady, starting.

‘Not the least doubt of it, ma’am,’ rejoined Bob, looking wondrous wise. ‘Medicine, in time, my dear ma’am, would have prevented it all.’

‘Mr. Sawyer,’ said the old lady, more flurried than before, ‘this conduct is either great impertinence to one in my situation, Sir, or it arises from your not understanding the object of my visit. If it had been in the power of medicine, or any foresight I could have used, to prevent what has occurred, I should certainly have done so. I had better see my nephew at once,’ said the old lady, twirling her reticule indignantly, and rising as she spoke.

‘Stop a moment, ma’am,’ said Bob Sawyer; ‘I’m afraid I have not understood you. What is the matter, ma’am?’

‘My niece, Mr. Sawyer,’ said the old lady: ‘your friend’s sister.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Bob, all impatience; for the old lady, although much agitated, spoke with the most tantalising deliberation, as old ladies often do. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Left my home, Mr. Sawyer, three days ago, on a pretended visit to my sister, another aunt of hers, who keeps the large boarding-school, just beyond the third mile-stone, where there is a very large laburnum-tree and an oak gate,’ said the old lady, stopping in this place to dry her eyes.

‘Oh, devil take the laburnum-tree, ma’am!’ said Bob, quite forgetting his professional dignity in his anxiety. ‘Get on a little faster; put a little more steam on, ma’am, pray.’

‘This morning,’ said the old lady slowly—‘this morning, she—’

‘She came back, ma’am, I suppose,’ said Bob, with great animation. ‘Did she come back?’

‘No, she did not; she wrote,’ replied the old lady.

‘What did she say?’ inquired Bob eagerly.

‘She said, Mr. Sawyer,’ replied the old lady—‘and it is this I want to prepare Benjamin’s mind for, gently and by degrees; she said that she was—I have got the letter in my pocket, Mr. Sawyer, but my glasses are in the carriage, and I should only waste your time if I attempted to point out the passage to you, without them; she said, in short, Mr. Sawyer, that she was married.’

What!’ said, or rather shouted, Mr. Bob Sawyer.

‘Married,’ repeated the old lady.

Mr. Bob Sawyer stopped to hear no more; but darting from the surgery into the outer shop, cried in a stentorian voice, ‘Ben, my boy, she’s bolted!’

Mr. Ben Allen, who had been slumbering behind the counter, with his head half a foot or so below his knees, no sooner heard this appalling communication, than he made a precipitate rush at Mr. Martin, and, twisting his hand in the neck-cloth of that taciturn servitor, expressed an obliging intention of choking him where he stood. This intention, with a promptitude often the effect of desperation, he at once commenced carrying into execution, with much vigour and surgical skill.

Mr. Martin, who was a man of few words and possessed but little power of eloquence or persuasion, submitted to this operation with a very calm and agreeable expression of countenance, for some seconds; finding, however, that it threatened speedily to lead to a result which would place it beyond his power to claim any wages, board or otherwise, in all time to come, he muttered an inarticulate remonstrance and felled Mr. Benjamin Allen to the ground. As that gentleman had his hands entangled in his cravat, he had no alternative but to follow him to the floor. There they both lay struggling, when the shop door opened, and the party was increased by the arrival of two most unexpected visitors, to wit, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Samuel Weller.

The impression at once produced on Mr. Weller’s mind by what he saw, was, that Mr. Martin was hired by the establishment of Sawyer, late Nockemorf, to take strong medicine, or to go into fits and be experimentalised upon, or to swallow poison now and then with the view of testing the efficacy of some new antidotes, or to do something or other to promote the great science of medicine, and gratify the ardent spirit of inquiry burning in the bosoms of its two young professors. So, without presuming to interfere, Sam stood perfectly still, and looked on, as if he were mightily interested in the result of the then pending experiment. Not so, Mr. Pickwick. He at once threw himself on the astonished combatants, with his accustomed energy, and loudly called upon the bystanders to interpose.

This roused Mr. Bob Sawyer, who had been hitherto quite paralysed by the frenzy of his companion. With that gentleman’s assistance, Mr. Pickwick raised Ben Allen to his feet. Mr. Martin finding himself alone on the floor, got up, and looked about him.

‘Mr. Allen,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘what is the matter, Sir?’

‘Never mind, Sir!’ replied Mr. Allen, with haughty defiance.

‘What is it?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, looking at Bob Sawyer. ‘Is he unwell?’

Before Bob could reply, Mr. Ben Allen seized Mr. Pickwick by the hand, and murmured, in sorrowful accents, ‘My sister, my dear Sir; my sister.’

‘Oh, is that all!’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘We shall easily arrange that matter, I hope. Your sister is safe and well, and I am here, my dear Sir, to—’

‘Sorry to do anythin’ as may cause an interruption to such wery pleasant proceedin’s, as the king said wen he dissolved the parliament,’ interposed Mr. Weller, who had been peeping through the glass door; ‘but there’s another experiment here, sir. Here’s a wenerable old lady a— lyin’ on the carpet waitin’ for dissection, or galwinism, or some other rewivin’ and scientific inwention.’

‘I forgot,’ exclaimed Mr. Ben Allen. ‘It is my aunt.’

‘Dear me!’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Poor lady! Gently Sam, gently.’

“Non è necessario che iniziate, signora,” rispose il signor Bob Sawyer. “Posso già anticipare tutto ciò che vorreste dire. Il problema sta nella testa.”

“Dovrei sentirmi molto dispiaciuta se pensassi che si trattasse del cuore,” disse la vecchia signora, con un leggero gemito.

“Nessun pericolo del genere, signora,” rispose Bob Sawyer. “Lo stomaco è la causa principale.”

“Signor Sawyer!”, esclamò la vecchia signora, iniziando a parlare.

“Nessun >dubbio al riguardo, signora,” rispose Bob, con un’espressione di saggezza sorprendente.
“La medicina, a quel tempo, mia cara signora, avrebbe potuto evitare tutto questo.”

“Signor Sawyer,” disse la vecchia signora, ancora più agitata di prima, “questo comportamento è o una grande mancanza di rispetto verso qualcuno nella mia situazione, oppure deriva dal fatto che non comprendete lo scopo della mia visita. Se fosse stato possibile, con l’aiuto della medicina o con qualsiasi altro mezzo a mia disposizione, prevenire ciò che è accaduto, sicuramente l’avrei fatto. È meglio che vada subito a vedere mio nipote,” aggiunse, girando indignata il suo reticolo e alzandosi mentre parlava.

“Un attimo, signora,” disse Bob Sawyer; “temo di non averla capita bene. Di cosa si tratta, signora?”

“Mia nipote, signor Sawyer”, disse la vecchia signora, “la sorella del vostro amico.”

“Sì, signora,” disse Bob, con grande impazienza; perché la vecchia signora, sebbene molto agitata, parlava con una lentezza estenuante, come spesso fanno le vecchie signore. “Sì, signora.”

“Ho lasciato la mia casa, signor Sawyer, tre giorni fa, con l’scusa di una visita a mia sorella, un’altra zia sua che gestisce un grande collegio poco oltre il terzo segnale stradale, dove c’è un enorme albero di laburno e un cancello in quercia,” disse la vecchia signora, fermandosi in quel punto per asciugarsi gli occhi.

“Oh, che il diavolo prenda quel gelso, signora!” disse Bob, dimenticando completamente la sua dignità professionale per l’ansia. “Andiamo un po’ più velocemente, per favore; aumentate un po’ la velocità, signora.”

“Questa mattina,” disse lentamente la vecchia signora, “questa mattina, lei, ”

“È tornata, signora, credo, ”, disse Bob con grande entusiasmo. “È davvero tornata?”

“No, non lo fece; scrisse,” rispose la vecchia signora.

“Cos’ha detto?” chiese Bob con impazienza.

“Disse: ‘Signor Sawyer’”, rispose la vecchia signora, “e è proprio questo che voglio preparare gradualmente e con delicatezza nella mente di Benjamin; disse che lei era. Ho la lettera in tasca, Signor Sawyer, ma i miei occhiali sono nel carro, e sprecherei solo il vostro tempo se tentassi di indicarvi quel passaggio senza di essi; in breve, Signor Sawyer, disse che era sposata.”

“Cosa?!” disse, o meglio urlò, il signor Bob Sawyer.

“Sposata,” ripeté la vecchia signora.

Il signor Bob Sawyer smise di ascoltare; ma uscendo di fretta dall’ambulatorio e dirigendosi verso il negozio esterno, gridò ad alta voce: “Ben, mio ragazzo, se n’è andata!”

Il signor Ben Allen, che fino ad allora dormiva dietro al bancone con la testa a circa mezzo piede sotto le ginocchia, non appena udì questa terribile comunicazione, si precipitò verso il signor Martin e, afferrandolo per il colletto, manifestò l’intenzione di soffocarlo sul posto. Questa intenzione, frutto spesso della disperazione, fu immediatamente attuata con grande vigore e abilità.

Il signor Martin, che era un uomo di poche parole e possedeva ben poco talento per l’eloquenza o la persuasione, acconsentì a sottoporsi a quell’intervento con un’espressione del viso molto calma e serena; tuttavia, dopo alcuni secondi, si rese conto che l’operazione avrebbe rapidamente portato a un risultato tale da rendergli impossibile richiedere alcun compenso, vitto o altro in futuro. Così mormorò qualche protesta inarticolata e fece cadere a terra il signor Benjamin Allen. Poiché quest’ultimo aveva le mani impigliate nella cravatta, non gli rimase altra scelta se non quella di seguirlo a terra. Lì giacevano entrambi lottando, quando la porta del negozio si aprì e arrivarono due visitatori completamente inaspettati: il signor Pickwick e il signor Samuel Weller.

L’impressione che subito si fece nella mente del signor Weller ciò che vide fu che il signor Martin fosse stato assunto dall’azienda di Sawyer, defunto Nockemorf, per assumere medicine forti, per sperimentare su di sé episodi convulsivi, oppure per ingerire di tanto in tanto veleni al fine di verificare l’efficacia di nuovi antidoti, o comunque per contribuire allo sviluppo della grande scienza medica e soddisfare lo spirito appassionato di ricerca che ardeva nei cuori dei suoi due giovani professori. Così, senza osare intervenire, Sam rimase fermo ad osservare, come se fosse profondamente interessato al risultato dell’esperimento in corso. Non così il signor Pickwick: immediatamente si gettò tra i due contendenti con la sua solita energia e chiamò ad alta voce gli spettatori a intervenire.

Questo attirò l’attenzione di Mr. Bob Sawyer, che fino ad allora era rimasto completamente paralizzato dall’isteria del suo compagno. Con il suo aiuto, Mr. Pickwick riuscì a far alzare Ben Allen in piedi. Mr. Martin, trovandosi da solo sul pavimento, si alzò e guardò intorno.

“Signor Allen,” disse il signor Pickwick, “che cosa c’è, signore?”

“Non importa, signore!” rispose il signor Allen con un tono di orgogliosa sfida.

“Che cos’è?” chiese il signor Pickwick guardando Bob Sawyer. “È malato?”

Prima che Bob potesse rispondere, il signor Ben Allen afferrò il signor Pickwick per la mano e mormorò, con toni tristi: “Mia sorella, mio caro signore, mia sorella.”

“Ah, è tutto qui!” disse il signor Pickwick. “Spero che possiamo sistemare facilmente quella questione. Tua sorella è al sicuro e sta bene, e io sono qui, mio caro signore, per–”

“Mi dispiace molto dover interrompere un procedimento così piacevole,” intervenne il signor Weller, che aveva spiato attraverso la porta di vetro; “ma c’è un altro esperimento da fare, signore. Ecco una rispettabile vecchietta, sdraiata sul tappeto in attesa di essere sottoposta a dissezione, o a qualche altra procedura scientifica.”

“L’ho dimenticato!”, esclamò il signor Ben Allen. “È mia zia.”

“Mio Dio!” disse il signor Pickwick. “Povera signora. Con delicatezza, Sam, con delicatezza.”

‘Strange sitivation for one o’ the family,’ observed Sam Weller, hoisting the aunt into a chair. ‘Now depitty sawbones, bring out the wollatilly!’

The latter observation was addressed to the boy in gray, who, having handed over the fly to the care of the street-keeper, had come back to see what all the noise was about. Between the boy in gray, and Mr. Bob Sawyer, and Mr. Benjamin Allen (who having frightened his aunt into a fainting fit, was affectionately solicitous for her recovery) the old lady was at length restored to consciousness; then Mr. Ben Allen, turning with a puzzled countenance to Mr. Pickwick, asked him what he was about to say, when he had been so alarmingly interrupted.

‘We are all friends here, I presume?’ said Mr. Pickwick, clearing his voice, and looking towards the man of few words with the surly countenance, who drove the fly with the chubby horse.

This reminded Mr. Bob Sawyer that the boy in gray was looking on, with eyes wide open, and greedy ears. The incipient chemist having been lifted up by his coat collar, and dropped outside the door, Bob Sawyer assured Mr. Pickwick that he might speak without reserve.

‘Your sister, my dear Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, turning to Benjamin Allen, ‘is in London; well and happy.’

‘Her happiness is no object to me, sir,’ said Benjamin Allen, with a flourish of the hand.

‘Her husband is an object to me, Sir,’ said Bob Sawyer. ‘He shall be an object to me, sir, at twelve paces, and a pretty object I’ll make of him, sir—a mean-spirited scoundrel!’ This, as it stood, was a very pretty denunciation, and magnanimous withal; but Mr. Bob Sawyer rather weakened its effect, by winding up with some general observations concerning the punching of heads and knocking out of eyes, which were commonplace by comparison.

‘Stay, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘before you apply those epithets to the gentleman in question, consider, dispassionately, the extent of his fault, and above all remember that he is a friend of mine.’

‘What!’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer. ‘His name!’ cried Ben Allen. ‘His name!’

‘Mr. Nathaniel Winkle,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

Mr. Benjamin Allen deliberately crushed his spectacles beneath the heel of his boot, and having picked up the pieces, and put them into three separate pockets, folded his arms, bit his lips, and looked in a threatening manner at the bland features of Mr. Pickwick.

‘Then it’s you, is it, Sir, who have encouraged and brought about this match?’ inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen at length.

‘And it’s this gentleman’s servant, I suppose,’ interrupted the old lady, ‘who has been skulking about my house, and endeavouring to entrap my servants to conspire against their mistress.—Martin!’

‘Well?’ said the surly man, coming forward.

‘Is that the young man you saw in the lane, whom you told me about, this morning?’

Mr. Martin, who, as it has already appeared, was a man of few words, looked at Sam Weller, nodded his head, and growled forth, ‘That’s the man.’ Mr. Weller, who was never proud, gave a smile of friendly recognition as his eyes encountered those of the surly groom, and admitted in courteous terms, that he had ‘knowed him afore.’

‘And this is the faithful creature,’ exclaimed Mr. Ben Allen, ‘whom I had nearly suffocated!—Mr. Pickwick, how dare you allow your fellow to be employed in the abduction of my sister? I demand that you explain this matter, sir.’

‘Explain it, sir!’ cried Bob Sawyer fiercely.

‘It’s a conspiracy,’ said Ben Allen.

‘A regular plant,’ added Mr. Bob Sawyer.

‘A disgraceful imposition,’ observed the old lady.

‘Nothing but a do,’ remarked Martin.

‘Pray hear me,’ urged Mr. Pickwick, as Mr. Ben Allen fell into a chair that patients were bled in, and gave way to his pocket-handkerchief. ‘I have rendered no assistance in this matter, beyond being present at one interview between the young people which I could not prevent, and from which I conceived my presence would remove any slight colouring of impropriety that it might otherwise have had; this is the whole share I have had in the transaction, and I had no suspicion that an immediate marriage was even contemplated. Though, mind,’ added Mr. Pickwick, hastily checking himself—‘mind, I do not say I should have prevented it, if I had known that it was intended.’

‘You hear that, all of you; you hear that?’ said Mr. Benjamin Allen.

‘I hope they do,’ mildly observed Mr. Pickwick, looking round, ‘and,’ added that gentleman, his colour mounting as he spoke, ‘I hope they hear this, Sir, also. That from what has been stated to me, sir, I assert that you were by no means justified in attempting to force your sister’s inclinations as you did, and that you should rather have endeavoured by your kindness and forbearance to have supplied the place of other nearer relations whom she had never known, from a child. As regards my young friend, I must beg to add, that in every point of worldly advantage he is, at least, on an equal footing with yourself, if not on a much better one, and that unless I hear this question discussed with becoming temper and moderation, I decline hearing any more said upon the subject.’

‘I wish to make a wery few remarks in addition to wot has been put for’ard by the honourable gen’l’m’n as has jist give over,’ said Mr. Weller, stepping forth, ‘wich is this here: a indiwidual in company has called me a feller.’

‘That has nothing whatever to do with the matter, Sam,’ interposed Mr. Pickwick. ‘Pray hold your tongue.’

‘I ain’t a-goin’ to say nothin’ on that ‘ere pint, sir,’ replied Sam, ‘but merely this here. P’raps that gen’l’m’n may think as there wos a priory ‘tachment; but there worn’t nothin’ o’ the sort, for the young lady said in the wery beginnin’ o’ the keepin’ company, that she couldn’t abide him. Nobody’s cut him out, and it ‘ud ha’ been jist the wery same for him if the young lady had never seen Mr. Vinkle. That’s what I wished to say, sir, and I hope I’ve now made that ‘ere gen’l’m’n’s mind easy.

“Strana situazione per uno della famiglia,” osservò Sam Weller, aiutando la zia a sedersi su una sedia. “Ora, maledetti chirurghi, portate fuori quel ferro da taglio!”

L’ultima osservazione era rivolta al ragazzo in grigio, che, dopo aver affidato la mosca alle cure del custode della strada, era tornato per capire cosa stesse succedendo tutto quel trambusto. Tra il ragazzo in grigio, il signor Bob Sawyer e il signor Benjamin Allen (che aveva spaventato sua zia al punto di farla svenire, e ora si prendeva premurosamente cura della sua ripresa), la vecchia signora riacquistò finalmente i sensi. Allora il signor Ben Allen, con un’espressione perplessa, si rivolse al signor Pickwick chiedendogli cosa stesse per dire, dopo essere stato interrotto in modo così improvviso e allarmante.

“Suppongo che qui siamo tutti amici, vero?” disse il signor Pickwick, schiarendosi la voce e guardando verso l’uomo di poche parole dal volto cupo, quello che scacciava le mosche con il grassoccio cavallo.

Questo fece ricordare a Mr. Bob Sawyer che il ragazzo in grigio stava osservando tutto, con gli occhi spalancati e le orecchie attente. Il giovane “chimico” in erba, essendo stato sollevato per il colletto del cappotto e poi gettato fuori dalla porta, assicurò a Mr. Pickwick che poteva parlare senza riserve.

“Vostra sorella, mio caro signore,” disse il signor Pickwick, rivolgendosi a Benjamin Allen, “si trova a Londra; sta bene e è felice.”

“La sua felicità non mi interessa affatto, signore,” disse Benjamin Allen, facendo un gesto con la mano.

“Mio marito è un oggetto di disprezzo per me, signore,” disse Bob Sawyer. “Rimarrà un oggetto di disprezzo per me, signore, e farò in modo che diventi davvero un oggetto di disprezzo: uno scellerato dal cuore meschino!” Questa era senz’altro una denuncia molto efficace e anche nobile; tuttavia, il signor Bob Sawyer ne attenuò l’impatto, concludendo con alcune osservazioni generiche riguardo al pugilato e ai colpi che possono far perdere la vista, osservazioni del tutto banali, in confronto.

“Resti, signore,” disse il signor Pickwick; “prima di attribuire quegli epiteti al gentiluomo in questione, consideri, con oggettività, l’entità del suo errore, e soprattutto ricordi che è un mio amico.”

“Che cosa!” esclamò il signor Bob Sawyer. “Il suo nome!” gridò Ben Allen. “Il suo nome!”

“Signor Nathaniel Winkle”, disse il signor Pickwick.

Il signor Benjamin Allen schiacciò deliberatamente i suoi occhiali con il tacco della sua scarpa; poi raccolse i pezzi e li mise in tre tasche separate. Incrociò le braccia, morse il labbro e guardò con aria minacciosa i tratti insignificanti del signor Pickwick.

“Allora siete voi, signore, a essere stato l’incoraggiatore e il promotore di questo incontro?” chiese infine il signor Benjamin Allen.

“E deve essere il servitore di questo signore,” intervenne la vecchia signora, “quello che si aggira furtivamente intorno a casa mia, cercando di indurre i miei domestici a complottare contro la loro padrona. Martin!”

“‘Beh?’” disse l’uomo scontroso, avvicinandosi.

“È quel giovane che hai visto nel vicolo stamattina, di cui mi hai parlato?”

Il signor Martin, che, come già accennato, era un uomo di poche parole, guardò Sam Weller, annuì e disse: “Quello è l’uomo.” Il signor Weller, che non era mai orgoglioso, sorrise in segno di amichevole riconoscimento quando i loro sguardi si incrociarono, e con modi cortesi ammise di averlo “conosciuto in precedenza”.

“E questa è la creatura fedele,” esclamò il signor Ben Allen, “che avevo quasi soffocato. Signor Pickwick, come osate permettere che il vostro compagno sia coinvolto nell’rapimento di mia sorella? Esigo che spieghiate questa situazione, signore.”

“Spiegatevelo, signore!”, gridò Bob Sawyer con ferocia.

“È una cospirazione,” disse Ben Allen.

“Una pianta comune,” aggiunse il signor Bob Sawyer.

“Un’imposizione vergognosa,” osservò la vecchia signora.

“Nient’altro che lavoro,” commentò Martin.

“Pregate, ascoltatemi”, insistette il signor Pickwick mentre il signor Ben Allen si lasciava cadere su una sedia utilizzata per le flebo e si premeva un fazzoletto di tasca sulla fronte. “Non ho fornito alcun aiuto in questa faccenda, se non essendo stato presente a un colloquio tra i due giovani che non ho potuto impedire; ritenevo che la mia presenza avrebbe evitato eventuali sospetti di irregolarità. Questo è tutto ciò che ho fatto, e non avevo alcuna idea che si stesse prendendo in considerazione un matrimonio immediato. Anche se, badate”, aggiunse il signor Pickwick, correggendosi rapidamente, “non sto dicendo che avrei cercato di impedirlo, se lo avessi saputo.”

“Sentite bene, tutti voi; avete capito?” disse il signor Benjamin Allen.

“Spero che lo facciano,” osservò con calma il signor Pickwick, guardandosi intorno, “e, ”, aggiunse quel gentiluomo, arrossendo mentre parlava, “spero anche che ascoltino queste parole. Sulla base di quanto mi è stato detto, affermo che voi non avevate alcun diritto di cercare di imporre le preferenze di vostra sorella in quel modo; avreste dovuto invece cercare di sostituire con la vostra gentilezza e tolleranza quelle figure familiari che lei non aveva mai conosciuto, fin da quando era bambina. Per quanto riguarda il mio giovane amico, devo aggiungere che, sotto ogni aspetto legato ai vantaggi materiali, egli è almeno alla stessa condizione vostra, se non addirittura in una posizione molto migliore. Se non sento questa questione discussa con moderazione e rispetto, rifiuto di continuare ad ascoltare qualsiasi altro commento sull’argomento.”

“Desidero fare solo poche osservazioni in aggiunta a quelle che hanno già espresso l’onorevole generale e il signor che ci ha appena lasciati,” disse Mr. Weller, facendosi avanti, “e queste sono le mie: una persona, in mia compagnia, mi ha chiamato ‘ragazzo’.”

“Quello non ha assolutamente nulla a che fare con la questione, Sam,” intervenne il signor Pickwick. “Per favore, taci.”

“Non ho intenzione di dire nulla contro quella birra, signore,” rispose Sam, “ma voglio solo aggiungere questo: forse quel gentiluomo potrebbe pensare che ci fosse qualche tipo di legame tra loro; ma in realtà non c’era nulla del genere. La giovane signora, fin dall’inizio, aveva detto chiaramente che non lo poteva sopportare. Nessuno gli ha fatto nulla di male, e sarebbe andata esattamente allo stesso modo anche se la giovane signora non avesse mai conosciuto il signor Vinkle. Questo è ciò che volevo dire, signore. E spero di aver chiarito le cose.”

A short pause followed these consolatory remarks of Mr. Weller. Then Mr. Ben Allen rising from his chair, protested that he would never see Arabella’s face again; while Mr. Bob Sawyer, despite Sam’s flattering assurance, vowed dreadful vengeance on the happy bridegroom.

But, just when matters were at their height, and threatening to remain so, Mr. Pickwick found a powerful assistant in the old lady, who, evidently much struck by the mode in which he had advocated her niece’s cause, ventured to approach Mr. Benjamin Allen with a few comforting reflections, of which the chief were, that after all, perhaps, it was well it was no worse; the least said the soonest mended, and upon her word she did not know that it was so very bad after all; what was over couldn’t be begun, and what couldn’t be cured must be endured; with various other assurances of the like novel and strengthening description. To all of these, Mr. Benjamin Allen replied that he meant no disrespect to his aunt, or anybody there, but if it were all the same to them, and they would allow him to have his own way, he would rather have the pleasure of hating his sister till death, and after it.

At length, when this determination had been announced half a hundred times, the old lady suddenly bridling up and looking very majestic, wished to know what she had done that no respect was to be paid to her years or station, and that she should be obliged to beg and pray, in that way, of her own nephew, whom she remembered about five-and-twenty years before he was born, and whom she had known, personally, when he hadn’t a tooth in his head; to say nothing of her presence on the first occasion of his having his hair cut, and assistance at numerous other times and ceremonies during his babyhood, of sufficient importance to found a claim upon his affection, obedience, and sympathies, for ever.

While the good lady was bestowing this objurgation on Mr. Ben Allen, Bob Sawyer and Mr. Pickwick had retired in close conversation to the inner room, where Mr. Sawyer was observed to apply himself several times to the mouth of a black bottle, under the influence of which, his features gradually assumed a cheerful and even jovial expression. And at last he emerged from the room, bottle in hand, and, remarking that he was very sorry to say he had been making a fool of himself, begged to propose the health and happiness of Mr. and Mrs. Winkle, whose felicity, so far from envying, he would be the first to congratulate them upon. Hearing this, Mr. Ben Allen suddenly arose from his chair, and, seizing the black bottle, drank the toast so heartily, that, the liquor being strong, he became nearly as black in the face as the bottle. Finally, the black bottle went round till it was empty, and there was so much shaking of hands and interchanging of compliments, that even the metal-visaged Mr. Martin condescended to smile.

‘And now,’ said Bob Sawyer, rubbing his hands, ‘we’ll have a jolly night.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘that I must return to my inn. I have not been accustomed to fatigue lately, and my journey has tired me exceedingly.’

‘You’ll take some tea, Mr. Pickwick?’ said the old lady, with irresistible sweetness.

‘Thank you, I would rather not,’ replied that gentleman. The truth is, that the old lady’s evidently increasing admiration was Mr. Pickwick’s principal inducement for going away. He thought of Mrs. Bardell; and every glance of the old lady’s eyes threw him into a cold perspiration.

As Mr. Pickwick could by no means be prevailed upon to stay, it was arranged at once, on his own proposition, that Mr. Benjamin Allen should accompany him on his journey to the elder Mr. Winkle’s, and that the coach should be at the door, at nine o’clock next morning. He then took his leave, and, followed by Samuel Weller, repaired to the Bush. It is worthy of remark, that Mr. Martin’s face was horribly convulsed as he shook hands with Sam at parting, and that he gave vent to a smile and an oath simultaneously; from which tokens it has been inferred by those who were best acquainted with that gentleman’s peculiarities, that he expressed himself much pleased with Mr. Weller’s society, and requested the honour of his further acquaintance.

‘Shall I order a private room, Sir?’ inquired Sam, when they reached the Bush.

‘Why, no, Sam,’ replied Mr. Pickwick; ‘as I dined in the coffee-room, and shall go to bed soon, it is hardly worth while. See who there is in the travellers’ room, Sam.’

Mr. Weller departed on his errand, and presently returned to say that there was only a gentleman with one eye; and that he and the landlord were drinking a bowl of bishop together.

‘I will join them,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘He’s a queer customer, the vun-eyed vun, sir,’ observed Mr. Weller, as he led the way. ‘He’s a-gammonin’ that ‘ere landlord, he is, sir, till he don’t rightly know wether he’s a-standing on the soles of his boots or the crown of his hat.’

The individual to whom this observation referred, was sitting at the upper end of the room when Mr. Pickwick entered, and was smoking a large Dutch pipe, with his eye intently fixed on the round face of the landlord; a jolly-looking old personage, to whom he had recently been relating some tale of wonder, as was testified by sundry disjointed exclamations of, ‘Well, I wouldn’t have believed it! The strangest thing I ever heard! Couldn’t have supposed it possible!’ and other expressions of astonishment which burst spontaneously from his lips, as he returned the fixed gaze of the one-eyed man.

‘Servant, sir,’ said the one-eyed man to Mr. Pickwick. ‘Fine night, sir.’

‘Very much so indeed,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, as the waiter placed a small decanter of brandy, and some hot water before him.

While Mr. Pickwick was mixing his brandy-and-water, the one-eyed man looked round at him earnestly, from time to time, and at length said—

‘I think I’ve seen you before.’

‘I don’t recollect you,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick.

‘I dare say not,’ said the one-eyed man. ‘You didn’t know me, but I knew two friends of yours that were stopping at the Peacock at Eatanswill, at the time of the election.’

‘Oh, indeed!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes,’ rejoined the one-eyed man. ‘I mentioned a little circumstance to them about a friend of mine of the name of Tom Smart. Perhaps you’ve heard them speak of it.’

‘Often,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick, smiling. ‘He was your uncle, I think?’

‘No, no; only a friend of my uncle’s,’ replied the one-eyed man.

‘He was a wonderful man, that uncle of yours, though,’ remarked the landlord shaking his head.

‘Well, I think he was; I think I may say he was,’ answered the one-eyed man. ‘I could tell you a story about that same uncle, gentlemen, that would rather surprise you.’

‘Could you?’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Let us hear it, by all means.’

The one-eyed bagman ladled out a glass of negus from the bowl, and drank it; smoked a long whiff out of the Dutch pipe; and then, calling to Sam Weller who was lingering near the door, that he needn’t go away unless he wanted to, because the story was no secret, fixed his eye upon the landlord’s, and proceeded, in the words of the next chapter.

Dopo queste parole di conforto da parte del signor Weller, seguì una breve pausa. Poi il signor Ben Allen, alzandosi dalla sedia, protestò che non avrebbe mai più visto il viso di Arabella; mentre il signor Bob Sawyer, nonostante le lusinghe di Sam, giurò vendetta terribile contro il felice sposo.

Ma proprio quando la situazione raggiunse il suo apice e sembrava destinata a rimanere tale, il signor Pickwick trovò un potente alleato nella vecchia signora, la quale, evidentemente molto colpita dal modo in cui egli aveva difeso la causa di sua nipote, osò rivolgersi al signor Benjamin Allen con alcune parole di conforto. Le principali di queste erano che, dopotutto, forse non era poi così male; meno si parlava, più presto si poteva rimediare, e secondo lei non era davvero così terribile come sembrava; ciò che era accaduto non poteva essere cambiato, e ciò che non poteva essere guarito doveva semplicemente essere sopportato. Il signor Benjamin Allen rispose a tutte queste argomentazioni dicendo di non voler mancare di rispetto verso sua zia o verso nessuno altro, ma che se a loro non importava nulla e gli permettevano di fare ciò che voleva, preferiva di gran lunga continuare ad odiare sua sorella per tutta la vita, e anche dopo la morte.

Alla fine, quando questa decisione fu annunciata per cinquanta volte, la vecchia signora, improvvisamente diventando molto severa e imponente, volle sapere quale fosse il motivo per cui i suoi anni e il suo rango non venivano rispettati, e perché dovesse essere costretta a chiedere l’aiuto del proprio nipote. Un nipote di cui ricordava che era nato circa venticinque anni prima, e che aveva conosciuto personalmente quando ancora non aveva un solo dente in bocca; per non parlare della sua presenza la prima volta che gli tagliarono i capelli, o dell’aiuto che gli aveva fornito in molte altre occasioni durante la sua infanzia. Momenti così importanti da farle credere di avere diritto, per sempre, al suo affetto, alla sua obbedienza e alla sua simpatia.

Mentre quella gentile signora lanciava queste rimproveri a Mr. Ben Allen, Bob Sawyer e Mr. Pickwick si erano ritirati nella stanza interna per conversare in privato. Si notò che Mr. Sawyer si avvicinò più volte alla bocca di una bottiglia nera; sotto l’effetto del liquido contenuto al suo interno, il suo volto assunse gradualmente un’espressione allegra e addirittura gioiosa. Alla fine uscì dalla stanza con la bottiglia in mano e, scusandosi per aver fatto la figura dello idiota, propose di brindare alla felicità di Mr. e Mrs. Winkle, le cui fortune non solo non invidiava, ma sulle quali avrebbe voluto essere il primo a congratularsi. Sentendo ciò, Mr. Ben Allen si alzò improvvisamente dalla sedia, afferrò la bottiglia nera e bevve il brindisi con tale entusiasmo che, data la forza dell’alcol, il suo viso divenne quasi altrettanto scuro quanto quello della bottiglia stessa. Alla fine, la bottiglia fu svuotata del tutto; ci furono tanti stretti di mano e complimenti scambiati tra i presenti che persino il severo Mr. Martin si degnò di sorridere.

“E ora,” disse Bob Sawyer strofinandosi le mani, “trascorreremo una bella notte.”

“Mi dispiace,” disse il signor Pickwick, “ma devo tornare alla mia locanda. Ultimamente non sono abituato alla fatica, e il mio Viaggio mi ha stancato terribilmente.”

“Prenderà un po’ di tè, signor Pickwick?”, chiese la vecchia signora con una dolcezza irresistibile.

“Grazie, preferirei di no,” rispose quel signore. La verità è che l’ammirazione crescente della vecchia signora era senza dubbio il motivo principale per cui il signor Pickwick decise di andarsene. Pensava a Mrs. Bardell; e ogni sguardo della vecchia signora lo faceva sudare freddo.

Poiché non era possibile convincere il signor Pickwick a rimanere, fu subito deciso, su sua stessa proposta, che il signor Benjamin Allen lo accompagnasse nel suo Viaggio dalla casa del signor Winkle più anziano; inoltre, si concordò che la carrozza fosse pronta alla porta alle nove di ore la mattina seguente. Dopo aver preso congedo, il signor Pickwick, seguito da Samuel Weller, si recò al Bush. È degno di nota che il viso del signor Martin fosse terribilmente contratto quando strinse la mano a Sam prima di partire; inoltre, emise contemporaneamente un sorriso e pronunciò una parola d’addio. Da questi segni, coloro che conoscevano bene le particolarità di quel signore dedussero che fosse molto soddisfatto della compagnia di Samuel Weller e che desiderasse continuare a conoscerlo.

“Devo ordinare una stanza privata, signore?”, chiese Sam quando arrivarono al ristorante.

“Perché no, Sam,” rispose il signor Pickwick; “poiché ho cenato nella sala da caffè e andrò a letto presto, non vale davvero la pena. Vai a vedere chi c’è nella stanza per i viaggiatori, Sam.”

Il signor Weller partì per svolgere la sua commissione e poco dopo tornò dicendo che c’era solo un gentiluomo con un occhio; inoltre, lui e il padrone di casa stavano bevendo insieme una coppa di birra.

“Li raggiungerò,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“È un cliente strano, quel tipo con un occhio solo, signore,” osservò il signor Weller mentre faceva strada. “Sta cercando di ingannare quel proprietario di casa. Non sa nemmeno più se sta in piedi sui tacchi delle sue scarpe o sulla corona del suo cappello.”

La persona a cui si riferiva questa osservazione era seduta nell’estremità superiore della stanza quando il signor Pickwick entrò; fumava una grande pipa olandese e fissava con attenzione il viso rotondo del padrone di casa, un anziano dall’aspetto allegro al quale aveva appena raccontato qualche storia straordinaria, come dimostravano diverse esclamazioni del tipo: “Beh, non me l’avrei mai creduto! La cosa più strana che abbia mai sentito. Non avrei mai pensato fosse possibile!”, e altre espressioni di stupore che gli uscivano spontaneamente dalle labbra mentre ricambiava lo sguardo fisso dell’uomo dal solo occhio.

“Servitore, signore,” disse l’uomo con un occhio solo a Mr. Pickwick. “Buona notte, signore.”

“Assolutamente sì,” rispose il signor Pickwick mentre il cameriere gli posava davanti un piccolo decantatore di brandy e del caldo acqua.

Mentre il signor Pickwick mescolava il suo brandy con acqua, l’uomo dal solo occhio lo guardava attentamente di tanto in tanto, e alla fine disse.

“Credo di averti già visto, ”

“Non mi ricordo di voi,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

“Oserei dire di no,” disse l’uomo con un occhio solo. “Tu non mi conoscevi, ma io conoscevo due tuoi amici che alloggiavano all’Oca Pavoniera a Eatanswill, proprio durante il periodo delle elezioni.”

“Ah, davvero!” esclamò il signor Pickwick.

“Sì,” rispose l’uomo con un occhio solo. “Ho menzionato loro una piccola circostanza riguardo a un mio amico di nome Tom Smart. Forse avete sentito parlare di lui.”

“Spesso,” rispose il signor Pickwick sorridendo. “Penso che fosse vostro zio, vero?”

“No, no; solo un amico di mio zio,” rispose l’uomo con un occhio solo.

“Era davvero un uomo meraviglioso, quel tuo zio,” osservò il proprietario scuotendo la testa.

“Beh, credo di sì; penso proprio che lo fosse,” rispose l’uomo con un occhio solo. “Potrei raccontarvi una storia su quel stesso zio, signori, una storia che vi sorprenderà senz’altro.”

“Potresti farlo?” disse il signor Pickwick. “Sentiamo pure cosa hai da dire.”

Il ragazzo con un occhio solo versò un bicchiere di negus dalla ciotola e lo bevve; fumò a lungo dalla pipa olandese; poi, chiamando Sam Weller che si trovava vicino alla porta, gli disse che non doveva andarsene se non voleva, perché la storia non era un segreto. Poi fissò lo sguardo su quello del padrone di casa e continuò a raccontare, con le parole del prossimo capitolo.

CHAPTER XLIX. CONTAINING THE STORY OF THE BAGMAN’S UNCLE

My uncle, gentlemen,’ said the bagman, ‘was one of the merriest, pleasantest, cleverest fellows, that ever lived. I wish you had known him, gentlemen. On second thoughts, gentlemen, I don’t wish you had known him, for if you had, you would have been all, by this time, in the ordinary course of nature, if not dead, at all events so near it, as to have taken to stopping at home and giving up company, which would have deprived me of the inestimable pleasure of addressing you at this moment. Gentlemen, I wish your fathers and mothers had known my uncle. They would have been amazingly fond of him, especially your respectable mothers; I know they would. If any two of his numerous virtues predominated over the many that adorned his character, I should say they were his mixed punch and his after-supper song. Excuse my dwelling on these melancholy recollections of departed worth; you won’t see a man like my uncle every day in the week.

‘I have always considered it a great point in my uncle’s character, gentlemen, that he was the intimate friend and companion of Tom Smart, of the great house of Bilson and Slum, Cateaton Street, City. My uncle collected for Tiggin and Welps, but for a long time he went pretty near the same journey as Tom; and the very first night they met, my uncle took a fancy for Tom, and Tom took a fancy for my uncle. They made a bet of a new hat before they had known each other half an hour, who should brew the best quart of punch and drink it the quickest. My uncle was judged to have won the making, but Tom Smart beat him in the drinking by about half a salt-spoonful. They took another quart apiece to drink each other’s health in, and were staunch friends ever afterwards. There’s a destiny in these things, gentlemen; we can’t help it.

‘In personal appearance, my uncle was a trifle shorter than the middle size; he was a thought stouter too, than the ordinary run of people, and perhaps his face might be a shade redder. He had the jolliest face you ever saw, gentleman: something like Punch, with a handsome nose and chin; his eyes were always twinkling and sparkling with good-humour; and a smile—not one of your unmeaning wooden grins, but a real, merry, hearty, good-tempered smile—was perpetually on his countenance. He was pitched out of his gig once, and knocked, head first, against a milestone. There he lay, stunned, and so cut about the face with some gravel which had been heaped up alongside it, that, to use my uncle’s own strong expression, if his mother could have revisited the earth, she wouldn’t have known him. Indeed, when I come to think of the matter, gentlemen, I feel pretty sure she wouldn’t, for she died when my uncle was two years and seven months old, and I think it’s very likely that, even without the gravel, his top-boots would have puzzled the good lady not a little; to say nothing of his jolly red face. However, there he lay, and I have heard my uncle say, many a time, that the man said who picked him up that he was smiling as merrily as if he had tumbled out for a treat, and that after they had bled him, the first faint glimmerings of returning animation, were his jumping up in bed, bursting out into a loud laugh, kissing the young woman who held the basin, and demanding a mutton chop and a pickled walnut. He was very fond of pickled walnuts, gentlemen. He said he always found that, taken without vinegar, they relished the beer.

‘My uncle’s great journey was in the fall of the leaf, at which time he collected debts, and took orders, in the north; going from London to Edinburgh, from Edinburgh to Glasgow, from Glasgow back to Edinburgh, and thence to London by the smack. You are to understand that his second visit to Edinburgh was for his own pleasure. He used to go back for a week, just to look up his old friends; and what with breakfasting with this one, lunching with that, dining with the third, and supping with another, a pretty tight week he used to make of it. I don’t know whether any of you, gentlemen, ever partook of a real substantial hospitable Scotch breakfast, and then went out to a slight lunch of a bushel of oysters, a dozen or so of bottled ale, and a noggin or two of whiskey to close up with. If you ever did, you will agree with me that it requires a pretty strong head to go out to dinner and supper afterwards.

‘But bless your hearts and eyebrows, all this sort of thing was nothing to my uncle! He was so well seasoned, that it was mere child’s play. I have heard him say that he could see the Dundee people out, any day, and walk home afterwards without staggering; and yet the Dundee people have as strong heads and as strong punch, gentlemen, as you are likely to meet with, between the poles. I have heard of a Glasgow man and a Dundee man drinking against each other for fifteen hours at a sitting. They were both suffocated, as nearly as could be ascertained, at the same moment, but with this trifling exception, gentlemen, they were not a bit the worse for it.

‘One night, within four-and-twenty hours of the time when he had settled to take shipping for London, my uncle supped at the house of a very old friend of his, a Bailie Mac something and four syllables after it, who lived in the old town of Edinburgh. There were the bailie’s wife, and the bailie’s three daughters, and the bailie’s grown-up son, and three or four stout, bushy eye-browed, canny, old Scotch fellows, that the bailie had got together to do honour to my uncle, and help to make merry. It was a glorious supper. There was kippered salmon, and Finnan haddocks, and a lamb’s head, and a haggis—a celebrated Scotch dish, gentlemen, which my uncle used to say always looked to him, when it came to table, very much like a Cupid’s stomach—and a great many other things besides, that I forget the names of, but very good things, notwithstanding. The lassies were pretty and agreeable; the bailie’s wife was one of the best creatures that ever lived; and my uncle was in thoroughly good cue. The consequence of which was, that the young ladies tittered and giggled, and the old lady laughed out loud, and the bailie and the other old fellows roared till they were red in the face, the whole mortal time. I don’t quite recollect how many tumblers of whiskey- toddy each man drank after supper; but this I know, that about one o’clock in the morning, the bailie’s grown-up son became insensible while attempting the first verse of “Willie brewed a peck o’ maut”; and he having been, for half an hour before, the only other man visible above the mahogany, it occurred to my uncle that it was almost time to think about going, especially as drinking had set in at seven o’clock, in order that he might get home at a decent hour. But, thinking it might not be quite polite to go just then, my uncle voted himself into the chair, mixed another glass, rose to propose his own health, addressed himself in a neat and complimentary speech, and drank the toast with great enthusiasm. Still nobody woke; so my uncle took a little drop more—neat this time, to prevent the toddy from disagreeing with him— and, laying violent hands on his hat, sallied forth into the street.

CAPITOLO XLIX. LA STORIA DELLO ZIO DEL CARROVIAIO

“Signori,” disse il bagagliaio, “mio zio era uno degli uomini più allegri, piacevoli e intelligenti che siano mai esistiti. Vorrei che lo aveste conosciuto. Ma poi, riflettendoci bene, forse non sarebbe stato meglio: se l’aveste conosciuto, ormai sareste tutti, secondo le leggi della natura, morti, o comunque così vicini alla morte da preferire restare a casa e smettere di frequentarci. Il che mi avrebbe privato del grande piacere di parlarvi in questo momento. Signori, vorrei che i vostri padri e madri avessero conosciuto mio zio: ne sarebbero stati davvero affezionati, soprattutto le vostre rispettabili madri. Lo so per certo. Se tra le molte virtù che caratterizzavano il suo essere dovevano esserci due particolarmente evidenti, direi che fossero il suo modo di bere il punch e la canzone che cantava dopo cena. Scusate se mi soffermo su questi ricordi malinconici di una persona così straordinaria; un uomo come mio zio non si incontra tutti i giorni, ”

‘Ho sempre considerato un grande pregio nel carattere di mio zio il fatto che fosse l’amico intimo e compagno di Tom Smart, del prestigioso clan dei Bilson and Slum di Cateaton Street, nella città. Mio zio lavorava per Tiggin and Welps, ma per molto tempo seguì più o meno lo stesso percorso professionale di Tom; già la prima sera che si conobbero, mio zio prese in simpatia Tom, e viceversa. Prima ancora di conoscersi a fondo, fecero scommessa su chi sarebbe riuscito a preparare e bere più velocemente una quartata di punch. Si decise che mio zio avesse vinto nella fase di preparazione, ma Tom Smart lo batté nella fase di consumo, bevendo circa mezza cucchiaino in più di liquido. Poi ne presero un’altra quartata ciascuno per brindare l’uno alla salute dell’altro, e da allora divennero amici inseparabili. C’è davvero un destino che guida queste cose, signori, non possiamo farci nulla.’

‘Per quanto riguarda l’aspetto fisico, mio zio era leggermente più basso della media; era anche più robusto della gente comune, e forse il suo viso aveva una sfumatura di rosso più intensa. Aveva il viso più allegro che si possa immaginare, signori: qualcosa di simile a quello di Punch, con un naso e una mascella attraenti; i suoi occhi brillavano sempre di buon umore, e un sorriso – non uno di quei sorrisi artificiali e rigidi, ma un vero, allegro, caloroso e gentile sorriso – era sempre presente sul suo volto. Una volta fu sbalzato dal suo calesse e cadde a testa in giù contro un palo miliare. Lì rimase stordito, con il viso coperto di ghiaia; per usare le parole forti di mio zio, se sua madre fosse tornata in vita, non lo avrebbe riconosciuto. In effetti, riflettendoci bene, signori, sono abbastanza sicuro che non lo avrebbe riconosciuto. Morì quando mio zio aveva due anni e sette mesi, e penso che anche senza quella ghiaia, il suo aspetto avrebbe comunque creato confusione. Per non parlare del suo viso rosso e allegro. Comunque, lì giaceva. E ho sentito mio zio dire molte volte che l’uomo che lo raccolse disse che stava sorridendo felicemente, come se fosse caduto apposta per divertirsi. Dopo che gli furono pulite le ferite, i primi segni di ripresa furono il fatto che si alzò di scatto dal letto, scoppiò a ridere ad alta voce, baciò la giovane donna che teneva il bacino e chiese una cotoletta d’agnello e delle noci marinate. Gli piacevano molto le noci marinate, signori. Diceva sempre che, se mangiate senza aceto, si abbinavano perfettamente alla birra.’

“Il grande viaggio di mio zio avvenne in autunno; in quel periodo riscosse dei debiti e ricevette ordini nel nord: da Londra a Edimburgo, da Edimburgo a Glasgow, da Glasgow di nuovo a Edimburgo, e poi ancora a Londra in nave. Bisogna capire che la sua seconda visita a Edimburgo fu solo per piacere personale: vi tornava ogni volta per una settimana intera, soltanto per rivedere i suoi vecchi amici. Pranzava con questo, pranzava con quello, cenava con un altro. Passava davvero una settimana molto intensa. Non so se qualcuno di voi, signori, abbia mai provato un vero e proprio breakfast scozzese sostanzioso, per poi uscire a pranzo con soltanto un secchio di ostriche, una dozzina di birre in bottiglia e uno o due bicchieri di whisky. Se l’avete fatto, concorderete con me sul fatto che serva davvero una testa forte per riuscire poi ad andare a cena e a cena, ”

“Ma per amor del cielo, tutto questo genere di cose non significava nulla per mio zio! Era così esperto che per lui era come se si trattasse di giochi da >bambini. Ho sentito dire che avrebbe potuto affrontare le persone di Dundee in una battaglia e tornare a casa senza problemi; eppure quelle persone hanno teste e forza fisica davvero notevoli, signori. Ho anche sentito parlare di un uomo di Glasgow e uno di Dundee che hanno bevuto l’uno contro l’altro per quindici ore consecutive. Entrambi sono quasi morti soffocati nello stesso momento. Ma, a parte questo piccolo dettaglio, non ne hanno risentito affatto.”

‘Una notte, entro ventiquattro ore dall’ora in cui aveva deciso di imbarcarsi per Londra, mio zio cenò a casa di un vecchio amico suo, un certo Bailie Mac, qualcosa con quattro sillabe dopo il nome, che viveva nella parte vecchia di Edimburgo. C’erano la moglie del bailie, le sue tre figlie, il figlio adulto del bailie, e tre o quattro robusti, barbuti, astuti anziani scozzesi che il bailie aveva invitato per onorare mio zio e rendere la serata più allegra. Fu una cena meravigliosa: c’erano salmone affumicato, aringhe di Finnan, una testa d’agnello, l’haggis – un famoso piatto scozzese che, diceva sempre mio zio, assomigliava molto allo stomaco di Cupido quando veniva servito in tavola – e molte altre cose, alcune delle quali ho dimenticato il nome, ma comunque tutte molto deliziose. Le ragazze erano carine e piacevoli; la moglie del bailie era una delle persone più gentili che io abbia mai conosciuto; e mio zio si comportava in modo davvero impeccabile. Di conseguenza, le giovani signore ridevano sottovoce, la vecchia signora rideva ad alta voce, mentre il bailie e gli altri anziani scoppiavano a ridere fino a diventare rossi in viso, per tutta la durata della serata. Non ricordo esattamente quante tazze di whiskey-toddy abbiano bevuto tutti dopo cena; so solo che verso le ore di mattina il figlio adulto del bailie perse i sensi mentre cercava di recitare la prima strofa della canzone “Willie brewed a peck o’ maut”. Poiché, mezz’ora prima, era l’unico altro uomo visibile nella stanza, mio zio pensò che fosse quasi arrivato il momento di andarsene, soprattutto considerando che avevano iniziato a bere alle ore di sera, così da poter tornare a casa in orario decente. Ma, ritenendo che non sarebbe stato molto educato andarsene proprio in quel momento, mio zio si sedette di nuovo, preparò un altro bicchiere, brindò alla propria salute con un discorso gentile e commovente, e bevve il brindisi con grande entusiasmo. Tuttavia nessuno si svegliò. Così mio zio ne bevve ancora un po’ – questa volta per evitare che il whiskey-toddy gli facesse effetti negativi – e, prendendo il cappello, uscì in strada.’

‘It was a wild, gusty night when my uncle closed the bailie’s door, and settling his hat firmly on his head to prevent the wind from taking it, thrust his hands into his pockets, and looking upward, took a short survey of the state of the weather. The clouds were drifting over the moon at their giddiest speed; at one time wholly obscuring her; at another, suffering her to burst forth in full splendour and shed her light on all the objects around; anon, driving over her again, with increased velocity, and shrouding everything in darkness. “Really, this won’t do,” said my uncle, addressing himself to the weather, as if he felt himself personally offended. “This is not at all the kind of thing for my voyage. It will not do at any price,” said my uncle, very impressively. Having repeated this, several times, he recovered his balance with some difficulty—for he was rather giddy with looking up into the sky so long—and walked merrily on.

‘The bailie’s house was in the Canongate, and my uncle was going to the other end of Leith Walk, rather better than a mile’s journey. On either side of him, there shot up against the dark sky, tall, gaunt, straggling houses, with time-stained fronts, and windows that seemed to have shared the lot of eyes in mortals, and to have grown dim and sunken with age. Six, seven, eight storey high, were the houses; storey piled upon storey, as children build with cards—throwing their dark shadows over the roughly paved road, and making the dark night darker. A few oil lamps were scattered at long distances, but they only served to mark the dirty entrance to some narrow close, or to show where a common stair communicated, by steep and intricate windings, with the various flats above. Glancing at all these things with the air of a man who had seen them too often before, to think them worthy of much notice now, my uncle walked up the middle of the street, with a thumb in each waistcoat pocket, indulging from time to time in various snatches of song, chanted forth with such good-will and spirit, that the quiet honest folk started from their first sleep and lay trembling in bed till the sound died away in the distance; when, satisfying themselves that it was only some drunken ne’er-do-weel finding his way home, they covered themselves up warm and fell asleep again.

‘I am particular in describing how my uncle walked up the middle of the street, with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, gentlemen, because, as he often used to say (and with great reason too) there is nothing at all extraordinary in this story, unless you distinctly understand at the beginning, that he was not by any means of a marvellous or romantic turn.

‘Gentlemen, my uncle walked on with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, taking the middle of the street to himself, and singing, now a verse of a love song, and then a verse of a drinking one, and when he was tired of both, whistling melodiously, until he reached the North Bridge, which, at this point, connects the old and new towns of Edinburgh. Here he stopped for a minute, to look at the strange, irregular clusters of lights piled one above the other, and twinkling afar off so high, that they looked like stars, gleaming from the castle walls on the one side and the Calton Hill on the other, as if they illuminated veritable castles in the air; while the old picturesque town slept heavily on, in gloom and darkness below: its palace and chapel of Holyrood, guarded day and night, as a friend of my uncle’s used to say, by old Arthur’s Seat, towering, surly and dark, like some gruff genius, over the ancient city he has watched so long. I say, gentlemen, my uncle stopped here, for a minute, to look about him; and then, paying a compliment to the weather, which had a little cleared up, though the moon was sinking, walked on again, as royally as before; keeping the middle of the road with great dignity, and looking as if he would very much like to meet with somebody who would dispute possession of it with him. There was nobody at all disposed to contest the point, as it happened; and so, on he went, with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, like a lamb.

‘When my uncle reached the end of Leith Walk, he had to cross a pretty large piece of waste ground which separated him from a short street which he had to turn down to go direct to his lodging. Now, in this piece of waste ground, there was, at that time, an enclosure belonging to some wheelwright who contracted with the Post Office for the purchase of old, worn-out mail coaches; and my uncle, being very fond of coaches, old, young, or middle-aged, all at once took it into his head to step out of his road for no other purpose than to peep between the palings at these mails—about a dozen of which he remembered to have seen, crowded together in a very forlorn and dismantled state, inside. My uncle was a very enthusiastic, emphatic sort of person, gentlemen; so, finding that he could not obtain a good peep between the palings he got over them, and sitting himself quietly down on an old axle-tree, began to contemplate the mail coaches with a deal of gravity.

‘There might be a dozen of them, or there might be more—my uncle was never quite certain on this point, and being a man of very scrupulous veracity about numbers, didn’t like to say—but there they stood, all huddled together in the most desolate condition imaginable. The doors had been torn from their hinges and removed; the linings had been stripped off, only a shred hanging here and there by a rusty nail; the lamps were gone, the poles had long since vanished, the ironwork was rusty, the paint was worn away; the wind whistled through the chinks in the bare woodwork; and the rain, which had collected on the roofs, fell, drop by drop, into the insides with a hollow and melancholy sound. They were the decaying skeletons of departed mails, and in that lonely place, at that time of night, they looked chill and dismal.

‘Era una notte selvaggia e ventosa quando mio zio chiuse la porta della baita; si sistemò bene il cappello in testa per evitare che il vento lo portasse via, mise le mani in tasca e alzò lo sguardo per osservare il tempo. Le nuvole si muovevano sopra la luna a una velocità incredibile: a un certo punto la nascondevano completamente; in altri momenti permettevano alla luna di splendere intensamente, illuminando tutto intorno; poi, ancora, le nuvole la coprivano di nuovo, con maggiore rapidità, immergendo ogni cosa nell’oscurità. “Davvero, non va affatto bene,” disse mio zio, parlando come se il tempo stesso lo avesse offeso personalmente. “Non è certo il tipo di condizioni meteorologiche adatte per il mio viaggio. Assolutamente no,” aggiunse con grande convinzione. Dopo aver ripetuto più volte queste parole, riuscì finalmente a recuperare l’equilibrio – dopo essersi guardato in alto per tanto tempo aveva un po’ la testa confusa – e proseguì il suo cammino felicemente.’

La casa del bailie si trovava nel Canongate, e mio zio doveva recarsi all’altra estremità di Leith Walk: una distanza decisamente inferiore a un miglio. Su entrambi i lati della strada, si ergevano case alte, magre, disordinate, con facciate ingrigite dal tempo e finestre che sembravano aver condiviso lo stesso destino degli occhi umani, offuscandosi e incassandosi nel corso degli anni. Queste case avevano sei, sette, otto piani; uno sopra l’altro, come se fossero state costruite da bambini con le carte da gioco. Le loro ombre scure si proiettavano sulla strada lastricata in modo approssimativo, rendendo ancora più buia la notte. Qualche lampada a olio era sparsa qua e là, ma servivano soltanto a indicare l’ingresso sporco di qualche vicolo stretto, o a mostrare dove una scala comune collegava, con tornanti ripidi e complicati, i vari appartamenti sovrastanti. Mio zio, osservando tutto questo con l’aria di chi aveva già visto troppe volte quelle scene per trovarle davvero degne di attenzione, camminava al centro della strada, con un pollice in ogni tasca del gilet. Di tanto in tanto intonava qualche brano musicale, cantandolo con tanta buona volontà e entusiasmo che la gente tranquilla e onesta si svegliava di soprassalto dal proprio primo sonno, tremando nel letto fino a quando il suono non svaniva in lontananza. Allora, rassicurati sul fatto che si trattasse soltanto di qualche ubriaco che cercava la strada di casa, si coprivano bene e riprendevano a dormire.

“Sono particolarmente attento nel descrivere come mio zio camminasse in mezzo alla strada, con i pollici infilati nelle tasche del gilet, signori. Perché, come lui stesso soleva dire (e con grande ragione), non c’è assolutamente nulla di straordinario in questa storia. A meno che non si comprenda fin dall’inizio che lui non era affatto un personaggio meraviglioso o romantico.”

‘Signori, mio zio camminava con i pollici nelle tasche del gilet, occupando tutta la strada per sé, cantando ora una strofa di una canzone d’amore, ora una strofa di una canzone da bere. Quando si stancava di entrambe, iniziava a fischiare melodiosamente, fino a quando non raggiungeva il North Bridge, che in quel punto collega la parte vecchia e quella nuova di Edimburgo. Qui si fermava per un minuto, ad ammirare quei strani gruppi di luci disposte in modo irregolare, che brillavano lontano, così in alto da sembrare vere stelle, riflettendosi sulle mura del castello da un lato e sulla collina di Calton dall’altro, come se illuminassero veri e propri castelli nell’aria. Mentre la vecchia città pittoresca dormiva profondamente, avvolta nella penombra: il suo palazzo e la cappella di Holyrood, custoditi giorno e notte, come diceva un amico di mio zio, dall’antica torre di Arthur’s Seat, imponente, cupa e scura, come un genio burbero che veglia su quella antica città da tanto tempo. Signori, mio zio si fermava qui per un minuto, a guardarsi intorno; poi, lodando il bel tempo – che si era leggermente schiarito, anche se la luna stava calando – proseguiva il suo cammino con la stessa maestosità di prima, occupando tutta la strada con grande dignità, come se desiderasse davvero incontrare qualcuno che osasse contestargli il diritto di possederla. Ma in quel momento non c’era nessuno disposto a farlo; quindi continuava ad andare avanti, con i pollici nelle tasche del gilet, come un agnello innocente.’

‘Quando mio zio arrivò alla fine di Leith Walk, dovette attraversare un vasto terreno incolto che lo separava da una stradina laterale su cui doveva svoltare per raggiungere direttamente il suo alloggio. In quel terreno incolto, all’epoca, c’era un recinto appartenente a un fabbro di ruote che aveva contratto un accordo con la Posta per l’acquisto di vecchi e logori carri postali; mio zio, essendo molto appassionato di questi carri – vecchi, giovani o di mezza età che fossero – decise all’improvviso di uscire dal suo percorso normale soltanto per dare un’occhiata a quei carri. Ne ricordava circa una dozzina, ammassati insieme in uno stato di abbandono e rovina. Mio zio era una persona molto entusiasta e appassionata; quindi, non riuscendo a vedere bene attraverso le recinzioni, si sedette tranquillamente su un vecchio assale e iniziò ad osservare quei carri con grande attenzione.’

‘Ne potevano esserci una dozzina, o forse di più. Mio zio non era mai del tutto sicuro al riguardo; essendo una persona estremamente attenta alla veridicità dei numeri, preferiva non affermarlo con certezza. Ma lì stavano, tutti ammassati insieme in condizioni davvero desolate. Le porte erano state strappate dai cardini e rimosse; gli interni erano stati spogliati di tutto, tranne qualche brandello di stoffa ancora attaccato a chiodi arrugginiti; le lampade erano scomparse, i supporti su cui erano montate da tempo non esistevano più; le strutture in ferro erano arrugginite, la vernice si era scrostata. Il vento soffiava attraverso le fessure del legno nudo; la pioggia, accumulatasi sui tetti, cadeva goccia a goccia all’interno di quelle stanze, con un suono vuoto e malinconico. Erano i resti in decomposizione della posta che un tempo vi era stata inviata. In quel luogo desolato, a quell’ora della notte, sembravano davvero freddi e tristi.’

‘My uncle rested his head upon his hands, and thought of the busy, bustling people who had rattled about, years before, in the old coaches, and were now as silent and changed; he thought of the numbers of people to whom one of these crazy, mouldering vehicles had borne, night after night, for many years, and through all weathers, the anxiously expected intelligence, the eagerly looked-for remittance, the promised assurance of health and safety, the sudden announcement of sickness and death. The merchant, the lover, the wife, the widow, the mother, the school-boy, the very child who tottered to the door at the postman’s knock—how had they all looked forward to the arrival of the old coach. And where were they all now?

‘Gentlemen, my uncle used to _say _that he thought all this at the time, but I rather suspect he learned it out of some book afterwards, for he distinctly stated that he fell into a kind of doze, as he sat on the old axle-tree looking at the decayed mail coaches, and that he was suddenly awakened by some deep church bell striking two. Now, my uncle was never a fast thinker, and if he had thought all these things, I am quite certain it would have taken him till full half-past two o’clock at the very least. I am, therefore, decidedly of opinion, gentlemen, that my uncle fell into a kind of doze, without having thought about anything at all.

‘Be this as it may, a church bell struck two. My uncle woke, rubbed his eyes, and jumped up in astonishment.

‘In one instant, after the clock struck two, the whole of this deserted and quiet spot had become a scene of most extraordinary life and animation. The mail coach doors were on their hinges, the lining was replaced, the ironwork was as good as new, the paint was restored, the lamps were alight; cushions and greatcoats were on every coach-box, porters were thrusting parcels into every boot, guards were stowing away letter-bags, hostlers were dashing pails of water against the renovated wheels; numbers of men were pushing about, fixing poles into every coach; passengers arrived, portmanteaus were handed up, horses were put to; in short, it was perfectly clear that every mail there, was to be off directly. Gentlemen, my uncle opened his eyes so wide at all this, that, to the very last moment of his life, he used to wonder how it fell out that he had ever been able to shut ‘em again.

‘“Now then!” said a voice, as my uncle felt a hand on his shoulder, “you’re booked for one inside. You’d better get in.”

‘“I booked!” said my uncle, turning round.

‘“Yes, certainly.”

‘My uncle, gentlemen, could say nothing, he was so very much astonished. The queerest thing of all was that although there was such a crowd of persons, and although fresh faces were pouring in, every moment, there was no telling where they came from. They seemed to start up, in some strange manner, from the ground, or the air, and disappear in the same way. When a porter had put his luggage in the coach, and received his fare, he turned round and was gone; and before my uncle had well begun to wonder what had become of him, half a dozen fresh ones started up, and staggered along under the weight of parcels, which seemed big enough to crush them. The passengers were all dressed so oddly too! Large, broad-skirted laced coats, with great cuffs and no collars; and wigs, gentlemen—great formal wigs with a tie behind. My uncle could make nothing of it.

‘“Now, are you going to get in?” said the person who had addressed my uncle before. He was dressed as a mail guard, with a wig on his head and most enormous cuffs to his coat, and had a lantern in one hand, and a huge blunderbuss in the other, which he was going to stow away in his little arm-chest. “_are _you going to get in, Jack Martin?” said the guard, holding the lantern to my uncle’s face.

‘“Hollo!” said my uncle, falling back a step or two. “That’s familiar!”

‘“It’s so on the way-bill,” said the guard.

‘“Isn’t there a ‘Mister’ before it?” said my uncle. For he felt, gentlemen, that for a guard he didn’t know, to call him Jack Martin, was a liberty which the Post Office wouldn’t have sanctioned if they had known it.

‘“No, there is not,” rejoined the guard coolly.

‘“Is the fare paid?” inquired my uncle.

‘“Of course it is,” rejoined the guard.

‘“It is, is it?” said my uncle. “Then here goes! Which coach?”

‘“This,” said the guard, pointing to an old-fashioned Edinburgh and London mail, which had the steps down and the door open. “Stop! Here are the other passengers. Let them get in first.”

‘As the guard spoke, there all at once appeared, right in front of my uncle, a young gentleman in a powdered wig, and a sky-blue coat trimmed with silver, made very full and broad in the skirts, which were lined with buckram. Tiggin and Welps were in the printed calico and waistcoat piece line, gentlemen, so my uncle knew all the materials at once. He wore knee breeches, and a kind of leggings rolled up over his silk stockings, and shoes with buckles; he had ruffles at his wrists, a three-cornered hat on his head, and a long taper sword by his side. The flaps of his waist-coat came half-way down his thighs, and the ends of his cravat reached to his waist. He stalked gravely to the coach door, pulled off his hat, and held it above his head at arm’s length, cocking his little finger in the air at the same time, as some affected people do, when they take a cup of tea. Then he drew his feet together, and made a low, grave bow, and then put out his left hand. My uncle was just going to step forward, and shake it heartily, when he perceived that these attentions were directed, not towards him, but to a young lady who just then appeared at the foot of the steps, attired in an old-fashioned green velvet dress with a long waist and stomacher. She had no bonnet on her head, gentlemen, which was muffled in a black silk hood, but she looked round for an instant as she prepared to get into the coach, and such a beautiful face as she disclosed, my uncle had never seen—not even in a picture. She got into the coach, holding up her dress with one hand; and as my uncle always said with a round oath, when he told the story, he wouldn’t have believed it possible that legs and feet could have been brought to such a state of perfection unless he had seen them with his own eyes.

‘Mio zio appoggiò la testa sulle mani e pensò alle persone impegnate, frenetiche, che anni prima viaggiavano su quegli vecchi treni postali; ora erano tutte silenziose e cambiate. Pensò a quante persone, notte dopo notte, per molti anni, attraverso ogni condizione meteorologica, quei mezzi avevano portato: notizie attese con ansia, denaro tanto desiderato, promesse di salute e sicurezza, o, al contrario, annunci improvvisi di malattia e morte. Il mercante, l’innamorato, la moglie, la vedova, la madre, lo scolaro, persino il piccolo bambino che barcollava alla porta al suono del campanello del postino. Tutti avevano atteso con impazienza l’arrivo di quei vecchi treni. E ora, dove erano tutti?’

‘Signori, mio zio usava dire che aveva pensato tutte queste cose in quel momento, ma sospetto piuttosto che le abbia imparate da qualche libro in seguito. Infatti, lui stesso affermò chiaramente di essersi addormentato mentre sedeva su quell’antico albero dell’asse, osservando quelle carrozze vecchie e in rovina, e di essere stato improvvisamente svegliato dal suono di una campana della chiesa che batteva le due. Ora, mio zio non era certo un uomo veloce nel pensare. Se avesse davvero concepito tutte queste idee da solo, sono sicuro che ci sarebbero voluti almeno venti minuti, fino alle due e mezza in punto. Pertanto, signori, sono assolutamente convinto che mio zio si sia semplicemente addormentato, senza aver pensato affatto a nulla.’

“Comunque fosse, una campana della chiesa suonò le due. Mio zio si svegliò, si strofinò gli occhi e balzò in piedi, sorpreso.”

‘In un istante, dopo che l’orologio suonò le due, l’intero di questo luogo deserto e tranquillo divenne teatro di una vita e di un movimento straordinari. Le porte delle diligenze furono aperte, i rivestimenti interni sostituiti, le parti metalliche riparate come nuove, la vernice restaurata, le lampade accese; cuscini e mantelli erano presenti in ogni vettura, i facchini infilavano pacchi nelle borse dei viaggiatori, i guardiani sistemavano le lettere, gli stallieri versavano secchi d’acqua sui cerchioni rinnovati; numerosi uomini si affrettavano a fissare i pali su ogni diligenza; i passeggeri arrivavano, i bauli venivano consegnati, i cavalli venivano attaccati alle vetture. In breve, era evidente che tutte le merci da spedire sarebbero partite immediatamente. Signori, mio zio aprì tanto gli occhi di fronte a tutto questo, che fino all’ultimo momento della sua vita continuò a meravigliarsi di come fosse mai riuscito a richiuderli di nuovo.’

“Ebbene!” disse una voce mentre mio zio sentì una mano sulla spalla:
“Hai prenotato un posto all’interno; è meglio che entri subito.”

“L’ho prenotato!”, disse mio zio, girandosi.

“Sì, certamente.”

“Mio zio, signori, non riusciva a dire una parola; era davvero troppo sbalordito. La cosa più strana di tutte era che, nonostante ci fosse tanta gente e continuassero ad arrivare nuovi volti, non si riusciva mai a capire da dove provenissero. Sembrava che apparissero in qualche modo misterioso dal suolo o dall’aria, per poi scomparire allo stesso modo. Quando un facchino aveva messo i bagagli nel vagone e ricevuto il suo compenso, si girava e se ne andava; e prima ancora che mio zio potesse cominciare a chiedersi cosa gli fosse successo, già altri sei o sette facchini apparivano, barcollando sotto il peso di pacchi così grandi da sembrare in grado di schiacciarli. Anche i passeggeri erano vestiti in modo molto strano: grandi cappotti con nastri, maniche ampie e senza colletti; e parrucche, signori, vere e proprie parrucche formali, con una fascia dietro la testa. Mio zio non riusciva proprio a capire cosa stesse succedendo.”

“Ora, entrerai o no?”, disse la persona che prima aveva parlato con mio zio. Era vestito da guardia della posta, con una parrucca in testa e polsini enormi sul cappotto; teneva una lanterna in una mano e un enorme fucile a canna liscia nell’altra, che stava per nascondere nel suo piccolo bauletto. “Allora, entrerai o no, Jack Martin?”, chiese la guardia, puntando la lanterna sul viso di mio zio.

“Ehi!” disse mio zio, facendo un passo o due indietro. “Questo mi sembra familiare, ”

“È proprio sulla strada principale,” disse la guardia.

“Non c’è forse il titolo di ‘Signore’ prima del nome?” disse mio zio. Perché riteneva, signori, che chiamare un addetto alla posta che non conosceva semplicemente “Jack Martin” fosse una libertà che l’ufficio postale non avrebbe mai approvato se ne fosse stato a conoscenza.

“No, non c’è,” rispose freddamente la guardia.

“La tariffa è stata pagata?” chiese mio zio.

“Certo che lo è,” rispose il guardiano.

“Davvero, è così? Allora ecco qua. Quale carrozza?” disse mio zio.

“Questo,” disse il guardiano, indicando una vecchia lettera postale proveniente da Edimburgo e Londra, la cui porta era aperta. “Fermatevi! Ecco gli altri passeggeri. Lasciate che entrino prima di voi.”

Mentre il guardiano parlava, all’improvviso apparve davanti a mio zio un giovane gentiluomo con una parrucca di polvere e un mantello blu cielo bordato d’argento; le falde del mantello erano molto ampie e svasate, foderate di raso. Tiggin e Welps indossavano abiti di cotone stampato e giacchetti coordinati; così mio zio riconobbe immediatamente tutti quegli elementi dell’abbigliamento. Il giovane gentiluomo portava pantaloni fino al ginocchio, calzamaglie di seta arrotolate sopra le calze e scarpe con fibbie; aveva volantini ai polsi, un cappello a tre punte in testa e una lunga spada accanto a sé. Le falde del suo giacchetto gli arrivavano a metà coscia, mentre i bordi della cravatta gli raggiungevano la vita. Si avvicinò con aria solenne alla porta della carrozza, si tolse il cappello e lo tenne sopra la testa a braccio teso, piegando il mignolo verso l’alto, proprio come fanno alcune persone quando bevono tè. Poi fece un inchino profondo con entrambe le mani e tese la mano sinistra. Mio zio stava per avvicinarsi e stringergliela calorosamente, quando si rese conto che tutte quelle attenzioni erano rivolte non a lui, ma a una giovane signora appena comparsa ai piedi della scalinata: indossava un abito di velluto verde in stile antico, con vita alta e petto rigonfio. Non aveva cappello in testa; i suoi capelli erano nascosti da un cappuccio di seta nera. Si guardò intorno per un istante prima di salire in carrozza. E mio zio vide un viso così bellissimo che non l’avrebbe mai creduto possibile, nemmeno se lo avesse visto in un dipinto. La giovane signora entrò in carrozza tenendosi su il vestito con una mano; e come mio zio diceva sempre, quando raccontava questa storia, non avrebbe mai creduto che gambe e piedi potessero essere così perfetti, se non li avesse visti coi suoi occhi.

‘But, in this one glimpse of the beautiful face, my uncle saw that the young lady cast an imploring look upon him, and that she appeared terrified and distressed. He noticed, too, that the young fellow in the powdered wig, notwithstanding his show of gallantry, which was all very fine and grand, clasped her tight by the wrist when she got in, and followed himself immediately afterwards. An uncommonly ill-looking fellow, in a close brown wig, and a plum-coloured suit, wearing a very large sword, and boots up to his hips, belonged to the party; and when he sat himself down next to the young lady, who shrank into a corner at his approach, my uncle was confirmed in his original impression that something dark and mysterious was going forward, or, as he always said himself, that “there was a screw loose somewhere.” It’s quite surprising how quickly he made up his mind to help the lady at any peril, if she needed any help.

‘“Death and lightning!” exclaimed the young gentleman, laying his hand upon his sword as my uncle entered the coach.

‘“Blood and thunder!” roared the other gentleman. With this, he whipped his sword out, and made a lunge at my uncle without further ceremony. My uncle had no weapon about him, but with great dexterity he snatched the ill-looking gentleman’s three-cornered hat from his head, and, receiving the point of his sword right through the crown, squeezed the sides together, and held it tight.

‘“Pink him behind!” cried the ill-looking gentleman to his companion, as he struggled to regain his sword.

‘“He had better not,” cried my uncle, displaying the heel of one of his shoes, in a threatening manner. “I’ll kick his brains out, if he has any—, or fracture his skull if he hasn’t.” Exerting all his strength, at this moment, my uncle wrenched the ill-looking man’s sword from his grasp, and flung it clean out of the coach window, upon which the younger gentleman vociferated, “Death and lightning!” again, and laid his hand upon the hilt of his sword, in a very fierce manner, but didn’t draw it. Perhaps, gentlemen, as my uncle used to say with a smile, perhaps he was afraid of alarming the lady.

‘“Now, gentlemen,” said my uncle, taking his seat deliberately, “I don’t want to have any death, with or without lightning, in a lady’s presence, and we have had quite blood and thundering enough for one journey; so, if you please, we’ll sit in our places like quiet insides. Here, guard, pick up that gentleman’s carving-knife.”

‘As quickly as my uncle said the words, the guard appeared at the coach window, with the gentleman’s sword in his hand. He held up his lantern, and looked earnestly in my uncle’s face, as he handed it in, when, by its light, my uncle saw, to his great surprise, that an immense crowd of mail-coach guards swarmed round the window, every one of whom had his eyes earnestly fixed upon him too. He had never seen such a sea of white faces, red bodies, and earnest eyes, in all his born days.

‘“This is the strangest sort of thing I ever had anything to do with,” thought my uncle; “allow me to return you your hat, sir.”

‘The ill-looking gentleman received his three-cornered hat in silence, looked at the hole in the middle with an inquiring air, and finally stuck it on the top of his wig with a solemnity the effect of which was a trifle impaired by his sneezing violently at the moment, and jerking it off again.

‘“All right!” cried the guard with the lantern, mounting into his little seat behind. Away they went. My uncle peeped out of the coach window as they emerged from the yard, and observed that the other mails, with coachmen, guards, horses, and passengers, complete, were driving round and round in circles, at a slow trot of about five miles an hour. My uncle burned with indignation, gentlemen. As a commercial man, he felt that the mail-bags were not to be trifled with, and he resolved to memorialise the Post Office on the subject, the very instant he reached London.

‘At present, however, his thoughts were occupied with the young lady who sat in the farthest corner of the coach, with her face muffled closely in her hood; the gentleman with the sky-blue coat sitting opposite to her; the other man in the plum-coloured suit, by her side; and both watching her intently. If she so much as rustled the folds of her hood, he could hear the ill-looking man clap his hand upon his sword, and could tell by the other’s breathing (it was so dark he couldn’t see his face) that he was looking as big as if he were going to devour her at a mouthful. This roused my uncle more and more, and he resolved, come what might, to see the end of it. He had a great admiration for bright eyes, and sweet faces, and pretty legs and feet; in short, he was fond of the whole sex. It runs in our family, gentleman—so am I.

‘Many were the devices which my uncle practised, to attract the lady’s attention, or at all events, to engage the mysterious gentlemen in conversation. They were all in vain; the gentlemen wouldn’t talk, and the lady didn’t dare. He thrust his head out of the coach window at intervals, and bawled out to know why they didn’t go faster. But he called till he was hoarse; nobody paid the least attention to him. He leaned back in the coach, and thought of the beautiful face, and the feet and legs. This answered better; it whiled away the time, and kept him from wondering where he was going, and how it was that he found himself in such an odd situation. Not that this would have worried him much, anyway—he was a mighty free and easy, roving, devil-may-care sort of person, was my uncle, gentlemen.

‘All of a sudden the coach stopped. “Hollo!” said my uncle, “what’s in the wind now?”

‘“Alight here,” said the guard, letting down the steps.

‘Ma, in quell’unico istante in cui vide quel bellissimo viso, mio zio notò che la giovane donna gli lanciò uno sguardo supplichevole e sembrava terrorizzata e angosciata. Notò anche che il giovane dall’acconciatura in piuma, nonostante le sue manifestazioni di galanteria, molto eleganti e solenni, la afferrò saldamente per il polso quando lei entrò e la seguì immediatamente dopo. Nel gruppo c’era anche un uomo dall’aspetto particolarmente sgradevole, con un’acconciatura marrone scuro e un abito di colore prugna; indossava una spada molto grande e stivali che gli arrivavano fino alle ginocchia. Quando si sedette accanto alla giovane donna, che si ritirò in un angolo al suo avvicinarsi, mio zio fu ancora più convinto della sua prima impressione: qualcosa di oscuro e misterioso stava accadendo. O, come lui stesso diceva sempre, “c’era qualcosa che non andava”. È davvero sorprendente quanto rapidamente abbia deciso di aiutare quella donna a qualsiasi costo, se ne avesse avuto bisogno.’

“‘Morte e fulmine!’ esclamò il giovane gentiluomo, posando la mano sulla sua _spada quando mio zio entrò nella carrozza.”

“‘Sangue e tuono!’ gridò l’altro gentiluomo. Detto questo, sguainò la sua _spada e si lanciò contro mio zio senza ulteriori preamboli. Mio zio non aveva alcuna arma con sé, ma con grande agilità gli strappò il cappello a tre punte dalla testa e, ricevendo la lama della sua _spada proprio nella -corona, strinse i bordi del cappello forte tra le mani.”

“Colpiscilo alle spalle!”, gridò il gentiluomo di aspetto sgradevole al suo compagno, mentre lottava per riprendersi la sua _spada.

“Meglio che non lo faccia,” gridò mio zio, mostrando minacciosamente il tacco di uno dei suoi stivali. “Gli spazzerò via il cervello se ce l’ha, o gli frantumerò il cranio se non ce l’ha.” Concentrando tutta la sua forza, in quel momento mio zio strappò la _spada dalle mani di quell’uomo dall’aspetto poco raccomandabile e la scagliò fuori dalla finestra della carrozza. Il giovane gentiluomo gridò di nuovo “morte e fulmine!” e posò la mano sull’impugnatura della sua _spada, con aria molto minacciosa, ma non la estrasse. Forse, signori, come mio zio usava dire sorridendo, forse aveva paura di spaventare la signora.

“Ora, signori,” disse mio zio, sedendosi con calma, “non voglio che ci siano scene di morte, con o senza fulmini, davanti a una signora. E abbiamo già avuto abbastanza sangue e rumore per un intero viaggio; quindi, se vi va bene, sediamoci tranquillamente ai nostri posti. Ecco, prendete quel coltello da intaglio del signore.”

Non appena mio zio ebbe pronunciato quelle parole, il guardiano apparve alla finestra della carrozza, con la spada del gentiluomo in mano. Sollevò la lanterna e guardò attentamente il viso di mio zio mentre gliela consegnava; alla luce della lanterna, mio zio vide, con grande sorpresa, che un enorme numero di guardie delle carrozze postali si era radunato intorno alla finestra, e ognuno di loro lo fissava attentamente. Non aveva mai visto in vita sua una tale moltitudine di volti bianchi, corpi rossi e occhi seri.

“È la cosa più strana di cui abbia mai avuto a che fare,” pensò mio zio; “permettetemi di restituirvi il cappello, signore.”

Il signore dall’aspetto poco attraente prese il suo cappello a tre punte in silenzio, osservò il foro al centro con aria curiosa e infine se lo mise in cima alla parrucca con una solennità che, tuttavia, fu leggermente compromessa dal fatto che, nel momento stesso, sternutì violentemente, facendolo cadere di nuovo.

“Bene!” gridò il guardiano con la lanterna, salendo sul suo piccolo sedile dietro. Partirono subito. Mio zio spiò fuori dalla finestra del carro mentre uscivano dal cortile e notò che gli altri corrieri, con cocchieri, guardie, cavalli e passeggeri al completo, stavano girando in cerchio a un lento trotto di circa cinque miglia all’ora. Mio zio era furioso, signori. Come uomo d’affari, riteneva che le borse postali non potessero essere trascurate in alcun modo, e decise di segnalare la questione all’Ufficio Postale non appena fosse arrivato a Londra.

‘Al momento, tuttavia, i suoi pensieri erano occupati dalla giovane donna seduta nell’angolo più lontano del carrozzone, con il viso ben nascosto nel cappuccio; dal gentiluomo in abito blu cielo seduto di fronte a lei; dall’altro uomo in abito color prugna, al suo fianco; entrambi la osservavano attentamente. Se solo lei avesse mosso le pieghe del cappuccio, lui avrebbe sentito quell’uomo dall’aspetto sgradevole battere una mano sulla sua _spada, e avrebbe potuto capire, dal respiro dell’altro (era così buio che non riusciva a vedere il suo viso), che lo stava guardando con tale intensità da sembrare sul punto di divorarla in un boccone. Questo fece aumentare ancora di più l’agitazione di mio zio, che decise, a qualunque costo, di scoprire cosa stesse succedendo. Aveva una grande ammirazione per gli occhi luminosi, i volti dolci, le gambe e i piedi graziosi. In breve, apprezzava l’intero sesso femminile. È una caratteristica della nostra famiglia, signore. Anch’io la condivido.’

Mio zio utilizzò molti stratagemmi per attirare l’attenzione della signora, o almeno per indurre quei misteriosi gentiluomini a conversare con lui. Ma tutto fu inutile: i gentiluomini non volevano parlare e la signora non osava farlo. Di tanto in tanto, mio zio sporgeva la testa dal finestrino della carrozza e gridava per chiedere perché non andassero più velocemente. Ma urlò fino a perdere la voce; nessuno gli prestò la minima attenzione. Allora si appoggiò allo schienale della carrozza, pensando al bel viso di quella donna, alle sue gambe. Questi pensieri lo aiutavano ad occupare il tempo e a non chiedersi dove stesse andando, né come fosse finito in una situazione così strana. Del resto, questo non lo avrebbe preoccupato troppo. Mio zio era, signori, un tipo davvero libero e spensierato, un individuo che non si curava affatto di nulla.

“All’improvviso l’allenatore si fermò. ‘Ehi!’ disse mio zio, ‘che cosa sta succedendo ora?’”

“Scendi qui,” disse la guardia, abbassando i gradini.

‘“Here!” cried my uncle.

‘“Here,” rejoined the guard.

‘“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” said my uncle.

‘“Very well, then stop where you are,” said the guard.

‘“I will,” said my uncle.

‘“Do,” said the guard.

‘The passengers had regarded this colloquy with great attention, and, finding that my uncle was determined not to alight, the younger man squeezed past him, to hand the lady out. At this moment, the ill-looking man was inspecting the hole in the crown of his three-cornered hat. As the young lady brushed past, she dropped one of her gloves into my uncle’s hand, and softly whispered, with her lips so close to his face that he felt her warm breath on his nose, the single word “Help!” Gentlemen, my uncle leaped out of the coach at once, with such violence that it rocked on the springs again.

‘“Oh! you’ve thought better of it, have you?” said the guard, when he saw my uncle standing on the ground.

‘My uncle looked at the guard for a few seconds, in some doubt whether it wouldn’t be better to wrench his blunderbuss from him, fire it in the face of the man with the big sword, knock the rest of the company over the head with the stock, snatch up the young lady, and go off in the smoke. On second thoughts, however, he abandoned this plan, as being a shade too melodramatic in the execution, and followed the two mysterious men, who, keeping the lady between them, were now entering an old house in front of which the coach had stopped. They turned into the passage, and my uncle followed.

‘Of all the ruinous and desolate places my uncle had ever beheld, this was the most so. It looked as if it had once been a large house of entertainment; but the roof had fallen in, in many places, and the stairs were steep, rugged, and broken. There was a huge fireplace in the room into which they walked, and the chimney was blackened with smoke; but no warm blaze lighted it up now. The white feathery dust of burned wood was still strewed over the hearth, but the stove was cold, and all was dark and gloomy.

‘“Well,” said my uncle, as he looked about him, “a mail travelling at the rate of six miles and a half an hour, and stopping for an indefinite time at such a hole as this, is rather an irregular sort of proceeding, I fancy. This shall be made known. I’ll write to the papers.”

‘My uncle said this in a pretty loud voice, and in an open, unreserved sort of manner, with the view of engaging the two strangers in conversation if he could. But, neither of them took any more notice of him than whispering to each other, and scowling at him as they did so. The lady was at the farther end of the room, and once she ventured to wave her hand, as if beseeching my uncle’s assistance.

‘At length the two strangers advanced a little, and the conversation began in earnest.

‘“You don’t know this is a private room, I suppose, fellow?” said the gentleman in sky-blue.

‘“No, I do not, fellow,” rejoined my uncle. “Only, if this is a private room specially ordered for the occasion, I should think the public room must be a _very _comfortable one;” with this, my uncle sat himself down in a high-backed chair, and took such an accurate measure of the gentleman, with his eyes, that Tiggin and Welps could have supplied him with printed calico for a suit, and not an inch too much or too little, from that estimate alone.

‘“Quit this room,” said both men together, grasping their swords.

‘“Eh?” said my uncle, not at all appearing to comprehend their meaning.

‘“Quit the room, or you are a dead man,” said the ill-looking fellow with the large sword, drawing it at the same time and flourishing it in the air.

‘“Down with him!” cried the gentleman in sky-blue, drawing his sword also, and falling back two or three yards. “Down with him!” The lady gave a loud scream.

‘Now, my uncle was always remarkable for great boldness, and great presence of mind. All the time that he had appeared so indifferent to what was going on, he had been looking slily about for some missile or weapon of defence, and at the very instant when the swords were drawn, he espied, standing in the chimney-corner, an old basket-hilted rapier in a rusty scabbard. At one bound, my uncle caught it in his hand, drew it, flourished it gallantly above his head, called aloud to the lady to keep out of the way, hurled the chair at the man in sky-blue, and the scabbard at the man in plum-colour, and taking advantage of the confusion, fell upon them both, pell-mell.

‘Gentlemen, there is an old story—none the worse for being true— regarding a fine young Irish gentleman, who being asked if he could play the fiddle, replied he had no doubt he could, but he couldn’t exactly say, for certain, because he had never tried. This is not inapplicable to my uncle and his fencing. He had never had a sword in his hand before, except once when he played Richard the Third at a private theatre, upon which occasion it was arranged with Richmond that he was to be run through, from behind, without showing fight at all. But here he was, cutting and slashing with two experienced swordsman, thrusting, and guarding, and poking, and slicing, and acquitting himself in the most manful and dexterous manner possible, although up to that time he had never been aware that he had the least notion of the science. It only shows how true the old saying is, that a man never knows what he can do till he tries, gentlemen.

‘The noise of the combat was terrific; each of the three combatants swearing like troopers, and their swords clashing with as much noise as if all the knives and steels in Newport market were rattling together, at the same time. When it was at its very height, the lady (to encourage my uncle most probably) withdrew her hood entirely from her face, and disclosed a countenance of such dazzling beauty, that he would have fought against fifty men, to win one smile from it and die. He had done wonders before, but now he began to powder away like a raving mad giant.

“Eccola qui!” gridò mio zio.

“Ecco,” rispose il guardiano.

“Non farò nulla del genere”, disse mio zio.

“Allora, fermati lì dove sei,” disse la guardia.

“Lo farò,” disse mio zio.

“Sì,” disse la guardia.

I passeggeri avevano seguito con grande attenzione questa conversazione; vedendo che mio zio era deciso a non scendere dal carro, l’uomo più giovane gli si fece strada per aiutare la signorina a uscire. In quel momento, l’uomo dall’aspetto poco presentabile stava esaminando il foro presente sulla >tacca del suo cappello a tre punte. Mentre la giovane signora gli passava accanto, lasciò cadere uno dei suoi guanti nella mano di mio zio e sussurrò dolcemente, con le labbra così vicine al suo viso che lui poté sentire il suo respiro caldo sul proprio naso: “Aiuto!”. Signori, mio zio saltò immediatamente fuori dal carro con tale violenza che questo oscillò di nuovo sulle molle.

“Oh! Hai cambiato idea, vero?” disse la guardia quando vide mio zio in piedi a terra.

“Mio zio fissò il guardiano per alcuni secondi, dubitando se non fosse meglio strappargli di mano la pistola a canna lunga, sparargli in faccia a quel tizio con la grande _spada, far cadere a terra tutti gli altri uomini con il calcio dell’arma, prendere in custodia la giovane donna e fuggire nella nebbia. Tuttavia, dopo un attimo di riflessione, abbandonò questo piano, ritenendolo troppo melodrammatico nell’esecuzione, e seguì quei due uomini misteriosi che, tenendo la donna tra loro, stavano entrando in una vecchia _casa davanti alla quale si era fermata la carrozza. Entrarono nel corridoio, e mio zio li seguì.”

Di tutti i luoghi desolati e in rovina che mio zio avesse mai visto, questo era il più terribile. Sembrava che un tempo fosse stato una grande casa di divertimenti; ma il tetto era crollato in molti punti, e le scale erano ripide, irregolari e danneggiate. Nella stanza in cui entrarono c’era un enorme caminetto, e il camino era annerito dal fumo; ma ormai non vi ardeva più alcuna fiamma calda. La polvere bianca e soffice prodotta dalla legna bruciata era ancora sparsa sul focolare, ma la stufa era fredda, e tutto intorno regnava l’oscurità e la desolazione.

“Beh,” disse mio zio guardandosi intorno, “una posta che viaggia a una velocità di sei miglia e mezza all’ora, e si ferma per un periodo indeterminato in un posto del genere, è davvero un comportamento irregolare. Credo che sia necessario farlo sapere. Scriverò ai giornali.”

“Mio zio lo disse a voce piuttosto alta, in modo aperto e senza riserve, nella speranza di attirare l’attenzione dei due sconosciuti e farli conversare, se possibile. Ma nessuno dei due gli prestò la minima attenzione; continuavano solo a sussurrarsi tra loro e a guardarlo con aria torva. La signora si trovava all’estremità opposta della stanza e, una volta, osò persino agitare la mano, come se chiedesse l’aiuto di mio zio.”

Alla fine, i due sconosciuti si avvicinarono un po’ di più e la conversazione iniziò seriamente.

“Non sapete che questa è una stanza privata, vero, amico mio?” disse il gentiluomo vestito di blu cielo.

“No, non lo penso affatto,” ribatté mio zio. “Solo che, se questa è una stanza privata ordinata appositamente per l’occasione, allora la sala pubblica deve essere davvero molto confortevole, ” Detto questo, si sedette su una sedia a schienale alto e osservò attentamente quell’uomo; con quella sola valutazione, Tiggin e Welps avrebbero potuto fornirgli del tessuto stampato per confezionargli un abito, senza che ne mancasse nemmeno un pollice o ne fosse in eccesso.

“Uscite da questa stanza,” dissero entrambi gli uomini all’unisono, afferrando le loro spade.

“‘Eh?’” disse mio zio, senza affatto sembrare capire il loro significato.

“Vattene da questa stanza, altrimenti sei morto,” disse quell’uomo dall’aspetto orribile, estraendo la sua grande _spada e agitandola nell’aria.

“Giù con lui!”, gridò il gentiluomo in blu cielo, estraendo anche la sua _spada, per poi indietreggiare di due o tre metri. “Giù con lui!”, urlò ancora la donna.

Mio zio era sempre noto per la sua grande audacia e prontezza di spirito. Per tutto il tempo in cui sembrava indifferente a ciò che stava accadendo, in realtà cercava con attenzione qualche arma o mezzo di difesa. Nel preciso istante in cui furono sguainati gli spade, scorse, nell’angolo del camino, una vecchia spada dal manico a cesto, racchiusa in un fodero arrugginito. Con un balzo afferrò l’arma, la sguainò, la brandì con aria valorosa sopra la testa, gridò alla donna di tenersi alla larga, scagliò la sedia contro l’uomo in blu cielo e il fodero contro quello in colore prugna; poi, approfittando del caos, si gettò su entrambi combattendo disperatamente.

‘Signori, c’è una vecchia storia – che non perde nulla della sua veridicità – riguardante un giovane e nobile irlandese. Quando gli chiesero se sapesse suonare il violino, rispose di non avere alcun >dubbio al riguardo, ma non poteva esserne certo, poiché non l’aveva mai provato. Questa storia si applica perfettamente a mio zio e alla scherma. Lui non aveva mai tenuto una _spada in mano prima d’allora, tranne una volta: quando interpretò il ruolo di Richard III in un teatro privato. In quell’occasione fu concordato con Richmond che venisse attaccato da due esperti spadaccini da dietro, senza che dovesse mostrare alcuna resistenza. Eppure lui reagì tagliando e parando con grande abilità e coraggio. Nonostante fino a quel momento non sapesse assolutamente nulla di questa arte. Questo dimostra quanto sia vero il vecchio detto: un uomo non sa mai cosa è in grado di fare finché non ci prova, signori.’

Il rumore della battaglia era terribile; ciascuno dei tre combattenti imprecava come un soldato, e i loro colpi di spada producevano un frastuono tale da far sembrare che tutti i coltelli e gli strumenti di ferro del mercato di Newport si stessero agitando insieme, nello stesso momento. Quando il clamore raggiunse il suo apice, la donna (probabilmente per incoraggiare mio zio) scoprì completamente il proprio volto sotto il cappuccio, rivelando un viso di una bellezza così abbagliante che lui avrebbe combattuto contro cinquanta uomini pur di ottenere un suo sorriso e morire per esso. Aveva già compiuto imprese straordinarie in passato, ma questa volta iniziò a perdere le forze come un gigante pazzo e furioso.

‘At this very moment, the gentleman in sky-blue turning round, and seeing the young lady with her face uncovered, vented an exclamation of rage and jealousy, and, turning his weapon against her beautiful bosom, pointed a thrust at her heart, which caused my uncle to utter a cry of apprehension that made the building ring. The lady stepped lightly aside, and snatching the young man’s sword from his hand, before he had recovered his balance, drove him to the wall, and running it through him, and the panelling, up to the very hilt, pinned him there, hard and fast. It was a splendid example. My uncle, with a loud shout of triumph, and a strength that was irresistible, made his adversary retreat in the same direction, and plunging the old rapier into the very centre of a large red flower in the pattern of his waistcoat, nailed him beside his friend; there they both stood, gentlemen, jerking their arms and legs about in agony, like the toy-shop figures that are moved by a piece of pack-thread. My uncle always said, afterwards, that this was one of the surest means he knew of, for disposing of an enemy; but it was liable to one objection on the ground of expense, inasmuch as it involved the loss of a sword for every man disabled.

‘“The mail, the mail!” cried the lady, running up to my uncle and throwing her beautiful arms round his neck; “we may yet escape.”

‘“May!” cried my uncle; “why, my dear, there’s nobody else to kill, is there?” My uncle was rather disappointed, gentlemen, for he thought a little quiet bit of love-making would be agreeable after the slaughtering, if it were only to change the subject.

‘“We have not an instant to lose here,” said the young lady. “He (pointing to the young gentleman in sky-blue) is the only son of the powerful Marquess of Filletoville.”

‘“Well then, my dear, I’m afraid he’ll never come to the title,” said my uncle, looking coolly at the young gentleman as he stood fixed up against the wall, in the cockchafer fashion that I have described. “You have cut off the entail, my love.”

‘“I have been torn from my home and my friends by these villains,” said the young lady, her features glowing with indignation. “That wretch would have married me by violence in another hour.”

‘“Confound his impudence!” said my uncle, bestowing a very contemptuous look on the dying heir of Filletoville.

‘“As you may guess from what you have seen,” said the young lady, “the party were prepared to murder me if I appealed to any one for assistance. If their accomplices find us here, we are lost. Two minutes hence may be too late. The mail!” With these words, overpowered by her feelings, and the exertion of sticking the young Marquess of Filletoville, she sank into my uncle’s arms. My uncle caught her up, and bore her to the house door. There stood the mail, with four long-tailed, flowing-maned, black horses, ready harnessed; but no coachman, no guard, no hostler even, at the horses’ heads.

‘Gentlemen, I hope I do no injustice to my uncle’s memory, when I express my opinion, that although he was a bachelor, he had held some ladies in his arms before this time; I believe, indeed, that he had rather a habit of kissing barmaids; and I know, that in one or two instances, he had been seen by credible witnesses, to hug a landlady in a very perceptible manner. I mention the circumstance, to show what a very uncommon sort of person this beautiful young lady must have been, to have affected my uncle in the way she did; he used to say, that as her long dark hair trailed over his arm, and her beautiful dark eyes fixed themselves upon his face when she recovered, he felt so strange and nervous that his legs trembled beneath him. But who can look in a sweet, soft pair of dark eyes, without feeling queer? I can’t, gentlemen. I am afraid to look at some eyes I know, and that’s the truth of it.

‘“You will never leave me,” murmured the young lady.

‘“Never,” said my uncle. And he meant it too.

‘“My dear preserver!” exclaimed the young lady. “My dear, kind, brave preserver!”

‘“Don’t,” said my uncle, interrupting her.

‘“‘Why?” inquired the young lady.

‘“Because your mouth looks so beautiful when you speak,” rejoined my uncle, “that I’m afraid I shall be rude enough to kiss it.”

‘The young lady put up her hand as if to caution my uncle not to do so, and said—No, she didn’t say anything—she smiled. When you are looking at a pair of the most delicious lips in the world, and see them gently break into a roguish smile—if you are very near them, and nobody else by—you cannot better testify your admiration of their beautiful form and colour than by kissing them at once. My uncle did so, and I honour him for it.

‘“Hark!” cried the young lady, starting. “The noise of wheels, and horses!”

‘“So it is,” said my uncle, listening. He had a good ear for wheels, and the trampling of hoofs; but there appeared to be so many horses and carriages rattling towards them, from a distance, that it was impossible to form a guess at their number. The sound was like that of fifty brakes, with six blood cattle in each.

‘“We are pursued!” cried the young lady, clasping her hands. “We are pursued. I have no hope but in you!”

‘There was such an expression of terror in her beautiful face, that my uncle made up his mind at once. He lifted her into the coach, told her not to be frightened, pressed his lips to hers once more, and then advising her to draw up the window to keep the cold air out, mounted to the box.

‘“Stay, love,” cried the young lady.

‘“What’s the matter?” said my uncle, from the coach-box.

‘“I want to speak to you,” said the young lady; “only a word. Only one word, dearest.”

‘“Must I get down?” inquired my uncle. The lady made no answer, but she smiled again. Such a smile, gentlemen! It beat the other one, all to nothing. My uncle descended from his perch in a twinkling.

“In questo preciso momento, il gentiluomo vestito di blu cielo si girò e, vedendo la giovane donna con il viso scoperto, emise un grido di rabbia e invidia. Poi puntò la sua arma contro il suo bellissimo seno e mirò al suo cuore; questo fece gridare mio zio per lo spavento, tanto che il suono risuonò in tutto l’edificio. La donna si spostò rapidamente di lato, strappò la spada dalle mani del giovane prima che questi riuscisse a riprendere l’equilibrio, lo spinse contro il muro e lo conficcò nella parete, fino all’elsa, fissandolo lì, immobile. Fu un esempio davvero spettacolare. Mio zio, con un grido di trionfo e una forza inarrestabile, costrinse il suo avversario a ritirarsi nella stessa direzione; poi conficcò la sua vecchia spada nel centro di un grande fiore rosso ricamato sul suo gilet, inchiodandolo accanto al suo amico. Lì rimasero entrambi, agitando braccia e gambe in preda all’agonia, come le figure dei giocattoli mossi da un filo. In seguito, mio zio disse sempre che questo era uno dei metodi più sicuri che conoscesse per sbarazzarsi di un nemico. Ma presentava un difetto: comportava la perdita di una spada per ogni avversario eliminato.”

“La posta, la posta!”, gridò la signora, correndo verso mio zio e gettandogli le sue bellissime braccia intorno al collo; “forse possiamo ancora scappare”.

“May!” gridò mio zio; “ma cara, non c’è mica nessun altro da uccidere, vero?” Mio zio era piuttosto deluso, signori. Pensava che un po’ di tranquilla tenerezza dopo tutto quel massacro sarebbe stata piacevole, anche solo per cambiare argomento.

“Non abbiamo un attimo da perdere,” disse la giovane signora. “Lui (indicando il giovane gentiluomo in blu cielo) è l’unico figlio del potente Marchese di Filletoville.”

“Allora, mio caro, temo che non otterrà mai quel titolo,” disse mio zio, guardando con freddezza il giovane gentiluomo fermo contro il muro, nella posa che ho descritto. “Hai interrotto la linea di successione, mio amore.”

“Sono stata strappata dalla mia >casa e dai miei amici da questi malviventi,” disse la giovane signora, i suoi tratti illuminati dall’indignazione. “Quel miserabile avrebbe cercato di sposarmi con la forza entro un’ora.”

“Che audacia incredibile!” disse mio zio, lanciando uno sguardo pieno di disprezzo verso l’erede morente di Filletoville.

“Come potete immaginare da ciò che avete visto,” disse la giovane signora, “quei individui erano pronti a uccidermi se avessi chiesto aiuto a qualcuno. Se i loro complici ci trovassero qui, saremmo perdute. Tra due minuti potrebbe essere già troppo tardi. Il postale!” Con queste parole, sopraffatta dai propri sentimenti e dall’emozione di aver salvato il giovane marchese di Filletoville, si abbandonò tra le braccia di mio zio. Lui la prese in braccio e la portò fino alla porta di casa. Lì c’era il postale, con quattro cavalli neri dal mantello lungo e fluente, pronti per essere attaccati; ma non c’era né cocchiere, né guardia, nemmeno un stalliere vicino ai cavalli.

‘Signori, spero di non fare ingiustizia alla memoria di mio zio esprimendo il mio parere: anche se era scapolo, in passato ha tenuto alcune donne tra le sue braccia; anzi, credo che avesse l’abitudine di baciare le cameriere. E so che, in un paio di occasioni, è stato visto da testimoni attendibili abbracciare con grande affetto una padrona di casa. Menziono queste cose per dimostrare quanto dovesse essere straordinaria questa giovane donna, per aver conquistato mio zio in quel modo. Lui diceva che, quando i suoi lunghi capelli neri gli ricadevano sul braccio e i suoi bellissimi occhi scuri si fissavano nei suoi mentre lei riprendeva fiato, si sentiva così strano e nervoso che le gambe iniziavano a tremare. Ma chi potrebbe guardare in due dolci, morbidi occhi scuri senza provare qualcosa di speciale? Io no, signori. Ho paura persino di guardare certi occhi che conosco. E questa è la verità.’

“Non mi lascerai mai”, mormorò la giovane signora.

“Mai”, disse mio zio. E lo intendeva davvero.

“Mio caro salvatore!”, esclamò la giovane signora. “Mio caro, gentile e coraggioso salvatore!”

“Non farlo,” disse mio zio, interrompendola.

“Perché?”, chiese la giovane signora.

“Perché la tua bocca sembra così bella quando parli,” ribatté mio zio, “che temo di essere così scortese da baciarla.”

La giovane signora alzò la mano come per avvertire mio zio di non farlo, e disse. No, in realtà non disse nulla; si limitò a sorridere. Quando ti trovi davanti a una delle coppie di labbra più deliziose del mondo e le vedi incurvarsi dolcemente in un sorriso malizioso, se sei molto vicino a loro e non c’è nessun altro intorno, non esiste modo migliore per esprimere la tua ammirazione per la loro bellezza che baciandole immediatamente. Mio zio lo fece, e io lo onoro per questo.

“Ascoltate!”, esclamò la giovane signora, sobbalzando. “Il rumore di ruote e cavalli, ”

“Lo so,” disse mio zio ascoltando attentamente. Aveva un orecchio molto acuto per i rumori prodotti da ruote e zoccoli; tuttavia sembrava che ci fossero così tanti cavalli e carrozze che si avvicinavano a loro da lontano, che era impossibile indovinarne il numero esatto. Il rumore assomigliava a quello di cinquanta freni, ognuno azionato da sei cavalli molto forti.

“Ci stanno inseguendo!”, gridò la giovane signora, stringendosi le mani. “Ci stanno inseguendo. Non ho alcuna >speranza se non in te!”

C’era un’espressione di terrore così evidente sul suo bellissimo viso, che mio zio decise immediatamente cosa fare. La sollevò nel calesse, le disse di non avere paura, le baciò nuovamente le labbra e poi le consigliò di chiudere la finestra per tenere fuori l’aria fredda, prima di salire sul sedile del conducente.

“Resta, amore mio”, gridò la giovane signora.

“Che c’è che non va?” disse mio zio dal sedile del conducente.

“Vorrei parlarti,” disse la giovane signora; “solo una parola. Solo una parola, carissimo.”

“Devo scendere?” chiese mio zio. La signora non rispose, ma sorrise di nuovo. Un sorriso del genere, signori, superava di gran lunga l’altro. Mio zio scese dal suo posto in un attimo.

‘“What is it, my dear?” said my uncle, looking in at the coach window. The lady happened to bend forward at the same time, and my uncle thought she looked more beautiful than she had done yet. He was very close to her just then, gentlemen, so he really ought to know.

‘“What is it, my dear?” said my uncle.

‘“Will you never love any one but me—never marry any one beside?” said the young lady.

‘My uncle swore a great oath that he never would marry anybody else, and the young lady drew in her head, and pulled up the window. He jumped upon the box, squared his elbows, adjusted the ribands, seized the whip which lay on the roof, gave one flick to the off leader, and away went the four long-tailed, flowing-maned black horses, at fifteen good English miles an hour, with the old mail-coach behind them. Whew! How they tore along!

‘The noise behind grew louder. The faster the old mail went, the faster came the pursuers—men, horses, dogs, were leagued in the pursuit. The noise was frightful, but, above all, rose the voice of the young lady, urging my uncle on, and shrieking, “Faster! Faster!”

‘They whirled past the dark trees, as feathers would be swept before a hurricane. Houses, gates, churches, haystacks, objects of every kind they shot by, with a velocity and noise like roaring waters suddenly let loose. But still the noise of pursuit grew louder, and still my uncle could hear the young lady wildly screaming, “Faster! Faster!”

‘My uncle plied whip and rein, and the horses flew onward till they were white with foam; and yet the noise behind increased; and yet the young lady cried, “Faster! Faster!” My uncle gave a loud stamp on the boot in the energy of the moment, and—found that it was gray morning, and he was sitting in the wheelwright’s yard, on the box of an old Edinburgh mail, shivering with the cold and wet and stamping his feet to warm them! He got down, and looked eagerly inside for the beautiful young lady. Alas! There was neither door nor seat to the coach. It was a mere shell.

‘Of course, my uncle knew very well that there was some mystery in the matter, and that everything had passed exactly as he used to relate it. He remained staunch to the great oath he had sworn to the beautiful young lady, refusing several eligible landladies on her account, and dying a bachelor at last. He always said what a curious thing it was that he should have found out, by such a mere accident as his clambering over the palings, that the ghosts of mail-coaches and horses, guards, coachmen, and passengers, were in the habit of making journeys regularly every night. He used to add, that he believed he was the only living person who had ever been taken as a passenger on one of these excursions. And I think he was right, gentlemen—at least I never heard of any other.’

‘I wonder what these ghosts of mail-coaches carry in their bags,’ said the landlord, who had listened to the whole story with profound attention.

‘The dead letters, of course,’ said the bagman.

‘Oh, ah! To be sure,’ rejoined the landlord. ‘I never thought of that.’

CHAPTER L. HOW MR. PICKWICK SPED UPON HIS MISSION, AND HOW HE WAS REINFORCED IN THE OUTSET BY A MOST UNEXPECTED AUXILIARY

The horses were put to, punctually at a quarter before nine next morning, and Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller having each taken his seat, the one inside and the other out, the postillion was duly directed to repair in the first instance to Mr. Bob Sawyer’s house, for the purpose of taking up Mr. Benjamin Allen.

It was with feelings of no small astonishment, when the carriage drew up before the door with the red lamp, and the very legible inscription of ‘Sawyer, late Nockemorf,’ that Mr. Pickwick saw, on popping his head out of the coach window, the boy in the gray livery very busily employed in putting up the shutters—the which, being an unusual and an unbusinesslike proceeding at that hour of the morning, at once suggested to his mind two inferences: the one, that some good friend and patient of Mr. Bob Sawyer’s was dead; the other, that Mr. Bob Sawyer himself was bankrupt.

‘What is the matter?’ said Mr. Pickwick to the boy.

‘Nothing’s the matter, Sir,’ replied the boy, expanding his mouth to the whole breadth of his countenance.

‘All right, all right!’ cried Bob Sawyer, suddenly appearing at the door, with a small leathern knapsack, limp and dirty, in one hand, and a rough coat and shawl thrown over the other arm. ‘I’m going, old fellow.’

‘You!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes,’ replied Bob Sawyer, ‘and a regular expedition we’ll make of it. Here, Sam! Look out!’ Thus briefly bespeaking Mr. Weller’s attention, Mr. Bob Sawyer jerked the leathern knapsack into the dickey, where it was immediately stowed away, under the seat, by Sam, who regarded the proceeding with great admiration. This done, Mr. Bob Sawyer, with the assistance of the boy, forcibly worked himself into the rough coat, which was a few sizes too small for him, and then advancing to the coach window, thrust in his head, and laughed boisterously.

‘What a start it is, isn’t it?’ cried Bob, wiping the tears out of his eyes, with one of the cuffs of the rough coat.

‘My dear Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with some embarrassment, ‘I had no idea of your accompanying us.’

‘No, that’s just the very thing,’ replied Bob, seizing Mr. Pickwick by the lappel of his coat. ‘That’s the joke.’

‘Oh, that’s the joke, is it?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Of course,’ replied Bob. ‘It’s the whole point of the thing, you know— that, and leaving the business to take care of itself, as it seems to have made up its mind not to take care of me.’ With this explanation of the phenomenon of the shutters, Mr. Bob Sawyer pointed to the shop, and relapsed into an ecstasy of mirth.

‘Bless me, you are surely not mad enough to think of leaving your patients without anybody to attend them!’ remonstrated Mr. Pickwick in a very serious tone.

“Che c’è, cara?” disse mio zio, guardando attraverso la finestra della carrozza. In quel momento la signora si chinò in avanti, e mio zio pensò che fosse più bella di prima. In quel preciso istante era molto vicino a lei, signori, quindi doveva sicuramente saperlo.

“Che c’è, carina mia?” disse mio zio.

“Non amerai mai nessun altro se non me. Non sposerai mai nessuno al mio posto, vero?” disse la giovane signorina.

“Mio zio giurò solennemente che non avrebbe mai sposato nessun’altra; la giovane signorina aprì la finestra e lui saltò sulla scatola, sistemò i gomiti, aggiustò le corde e afferrò il frusto posato sul tetto. Con un colpo secco fece partire i quattro cavalli neri a coda lunga e crini fluenti. A quindici miglia inglesi all’ora! Il vecchio postale li seguì. Ah, quanto corsero veloci!”

Il rumore alle loro spalle diventava sempre più forte. Più velocemente il vecchio corriere procedeva, più rapidamente arrivavano i inseguitori: uomini, cavalli, cani, tutti uniti nella caccia. Il frastuono era terribile, ma sopra ogni cosa si distingueva la voce della giovane signora che incitava mio zio, gridando: “Più veloce! Più veloce!”

Si muovevano velocemente oltre gli alberi scuri, come piume spazzate via da un uragano. Case, cancelli, chiese, mucchi di fieno, oggetti di ogni tipo sfrecciavano accanto a loro, con una velocità e un rumore simili a quelli delle acque impetuose che si scatenano all’improvviso. Eppure il rumore della loro inseguita diventava sempre più forte, e mio zio riusciva ancora a sentire la giovane donna gridare disperatamente: “Più veloce! Più veloce!”

“Mio zio teneva le redini con forza; i cavalli correvano così velocemente che il loro pelo si copriva di schiuma bianca. Eppure il rumore alle loro spalle aumentava sempre di più. E la giovane signora continuava a gridare: ‘Più veloce! Più veloce!’ In quel momento, mio zio diede un forte calcio alla scarpa. Ma si rese conto che era mattina, e che si trovava nel cortile del fabbro di carri, seduto su una scatola di un vecchio treno postale di Edimburgo. Tremava dal freddo e batteva i piedi per riscaldarsi. Scese dalla scatola e cercò con ansia all’interno la bella giovane signora. Ahimè. Non c’era né porta né sedile nel carro. Era soltanto un guscio vuoto.”

‘Certo, mio zio sapeva molto bene che c’era qualcosa di misterioso in tutta quella faccenda, e che tutto fosse accaduto esattamente come lui aveva sempre raccontato. Rimase fedele al grande giuramento fatto alla bella giovane donna, rifiutando diverse donne adatte a sposarlo per causa sua, e morì infine scapolo. Diceva sempre quanto fosse strano il fatto che, per pura casualità – semplicemente arrampicandosi oltre le recinzioni – avesse scoperto che gli “spiriti” delle diligenze, dei cavalli, dei guardiani, dei cocchieri e dei passeggeri avevano l’abitudine di intraprendere viaggi regolari ogni notte. Aggiungeva anche di credere di essere l’unica persona vivente che fosse mai stata presa come passeggero in uno di questi viaggi. E penso che avesse ragione, signori: almeno io non ho mai sentito parlare di nessun altro.’

“Mi chiedo cosa portino nelle loro borse questi ‘fantasmi’ delle diligenze,” disse il padrone di casa, che aveva ascoltato tutta la storia con grande attenzione.

“Le lettere inutilizzate, naturalmente,” disse il portabagagli.

“Ah, sì! Certo,” rispose il proprietario. “Non ci avevo mai pensato.”

CAPITOLO L. COME IL SIGNOR PICKWICK INIZIÒ LA SUA MISIA E COME ALL’INIZIO FU RICOSTITUITO DA UN AIUTANTE DEL TUTTO INASPETATO

I cavalli furono attaccati puntualmente, un quarto d’ora prima delle nove del giorno seguente. Dopo che il signor Pickwick e il signor Sam Weller si furono seduti – uno all’interno e l’altro all’esterno della carrozza – il cocchiere ricevette l’ordine di dirigersi prima di tutto alla casa del signor Bob Sawyer, al fine di prelevare il signor Benjamin Allen.

Con sentimenti di notevole stupore, quando la carrozza si fermò davanti alla porta con la lampada rossa e si vide chiaramente l’iscrizione “Sawyer, late Nockemorf”, il signor Pickwick, sporgendo la testa fuori dal finestrino della carrozza, notò un ragazzo in abiti grigi impegnato a sollevare le persiane. Un comportamento insolito e poco pratico a quell’ora del mattino, che immediatamente gli suggerì due possibili conclusioni: una, che qualche caro amico e paziente del signor Bob Sawyer fosse morto; l’altra, che il signor Bob Sawyer stesso fosse fallito.

“Che cosa c’è?” chiese il signor Pickwick al ragazzo.

“Non c’è nulla di grave, signore,” rispose il ragazzo, aprendo la bocca quanto più possibile.

“Va bene, va bene!” gridò Bob Sawyer, comparendo all’improvviso alla porta, con un piccolo zaino di cuoio, logoro e sporco in una mano, e un cappotto ruvido e uno scialle gettati sull’altra braccia. “Me ne vado, vecchio mio.”

“Tu!” esclamò il signor Pickwick.

“Sì,” rispose Bob Sawyer, “e ne faremo davvero un’impresa seria. Ehi, Sam! Fai attenzione!” Così, attirando brevemente l’attenzione di Mr. Weller, Bob Sawyer gettò lo zaino di cuoio nel vano sotto il sedile, dove Sam lo sistemò immediatamente, osservando con grande ammirazione quel gesto. Una volta fatto ciò, Bob Sawyer, con l’aiuto del ragazzo, si infilò a forza nel cappotto troppo piccolo per lui; poi si avvicinò alla finestra della carrozza, ci infilò la testa e scoppiò a ridere rumorosamente.

“Che inizio meraviglioso, non è vero?”, esclamò Bob, asciugandosi le lacrime dagli occhi con uno dei polsini del suo cappotto ruvido.

“Mio caro signore,” disse il signor Pickwick con un certo imbarazzo, “non avevo idea che ci avreste accompagnato.”

“No, proprio quello è il punto,” rispose Bob, afferrando il signor Pickwick per il bavero del suo cappotto. “È proprio questa la battuta.”

“Ah, è questa la battuta, vero?”, disse il signor Pickwick.

“Certo,” rispose Bob. “È proprio questo il punto, sai. Lasciare che gli affari vadano avanti da soli, visto che sembrano aver deciso di non occuparsi di me.” Con questa spiegazione del fenomeno delle persiane chiuse, il signor Bob Sawyer indicò la bottega e ricadde in un’estasi di gioia.

“Per l’amor del cielo, non siete mica pazzo al punto di pensare di abbandonare i vostri pazienti senza che nessuno si prenda cura di loro!” rimproverò il signor Pickwick con tono molto serio.

‘Why not?’ asked Bob, in reply. ‘I shall save by it, you know. None of them ever pay. Besides,’ said Bob, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper, ‘they will be all the better for it; for, being nearly out of drugs, and not able to increase my account just now, I should have been obliged to give them calomel all round, and it would have been certain to have disagreed with some of them. So it’s all for the best.’

There was a philosophy and a strength of reasoning about this reply, which Mr. Pickwick was not prepared for. He paused a few moments, and added, less firmly than before—

‘But this chaise, my young friend, will only hold two; and I am pledged to Mr. Allen.’

‘Don’t think of me for a minute,’ replied Bob. ‘I’ve arranged it all; Sam and I will share the dickey between us. Look here. This little bill is to be wafered on the shop door: “Sawyer, late Nockemorf. Inquire of Mrs. Cripps over the way.” Mrs. Cripps is my boy’s mother. “Mr. Sawyer’s very sorry,” says Mrs. Cripps, “couldn’t help it—fetched away early this morning to a consultation of the very first surgeons in the country—couldn’t do without him—would have him at any price— tremendous operation.” The fact is,’ said Bob, in conclusion, ‘it’ll do me more good than otherwise, I expect. If it gets into one of the local papers, it will be the making of me. Here’s Ben; now then, jump in!’

With these hurried words, Mr. Bob Sawyer pushed the postboy on one side, jerked his friend into the vehicle, slammed the door, put up the steps, wafered the bill on the street door, locked it, put the key in his pocket, jumped into the dickey, gave the word for starting, and did the whole with such extraordinary precipitation, that before Mr. Pickwick had well begun to consider whether Mr. Bob Sawyer ought to go or not, they were rolling away, with Mr. Bob Sawyer thoroughly established as part and parcel of the equipage.

So long as their progress was confined to the streets of Bristol, the facetious Bob kept his professional green spectacles on, and conducted himself with becoming steadiness and gravity of demeanour; merely giving utterance to divers verbal witticisms for the exclusive behoof and entertainment of Mr. Samuel Weller. But when they emerged on the open road, he threw off his green spectacles and his gravity together, and performed a great variety of practical jokes, which were calculated to attract the attention of the passersby, and to render the carriage and those it contained objects of more than ordinary curiosity; the least conspicuous among these feats being a most vociferous imitation of a key-bugle, and the ostentatious display of a crimson silk pocket- handkerchief attached to a walking-stick, which was occasionally waved in the air with various gestures indicative of supremacy and defiance.

‘I wonder,’ said Mr. Pickwick, stopping in the midst of a most sedate conversation with Ben Allen, bearing reference to the numerous good qualities of Mr. Winkle and his sister—‘I wonder what all the people we pass, can see in us to make them stare so.’

‘It’s a neat turn-out,’ replied Ben Allen, with something of pride in his tone. ‘They’re not used to see this sort of thing, every day, I dare say.’

‘Possibly,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘It may be so. Perhaps it is.’

Mr. Pickwick might very probably have reasoned himself into the belief that it really was, had he not, just then happening to look out of the coach window, observed that the looks of the passengers betokened anything but respectful astonishment, and that various telegraphic communications appeared to be passing between them and some persons outside the vehicle, whereupon it occurred to him that these demonstrations might be, in some remote degree, referable to the humorous deportment of Mr. Robert Sawyer.

‘I hope,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘that our volatile friend is committing no absurdities in that dickey behind.’

‘Oh dear, no,’ replied Ben Allen. ‘Except when he’s elevated, Bob’s the quietest creature breathing.’

Here a prolonged imitation of a key-bugle broke upon the ear, succeeded by cheers and screams, all of which evidently proceeded from the throat and lungs of the quietest creature breathing, or in plainer designation, of Mr. Bob Sawyer himself.

Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Ben Allen looked expressively at each other, and the former gentleman taking off his hat, and leaning out of the coach window until nearly the whole of his waistcoat was outside it, was at length enabled to catch a glimpse of his facetious friend.

Mr. Bob Sawyer was seated, not in the dickey, but on the roof of the chaise, with his legs as far asunder as they would conveniently go, wearing Mr. Samuel Weller’s hat on one side of his head, and bearing, in one hand, a most enormous sandwich, while, in the other, he supported a goodly-sized case-bottle, to both of which he applied himself with intense relish, varying the monotony of the occupation by an occasional howl, or the interchange of some lively badinage with any passing stranger. The crimson flag was carefully tied in an erect position to the rail of the dickey; and Mr. Samuel Weller, decorated with Bob Sawyer’s hat, was seated in the centre thereof, discussing a twin sandwich, with an animated countenance, the expression of which betokened his entire and perfect approval of the whole arrangement.

This was enough to irritate a gentleman with Mr. Pickwick’s sense of propriety, but it was not the whole extent of the aggravation, for a stage-coach full, inside and out, was meeting them at the moment, and the astonishment of the passengers was very palpably evinced. The congratulations of an Irish family, too, who were keeping up with the chaise, and begging all the time, were of rather a boisterous description, especially those of its male head, who appeared to consider the display as part and parcel of some political or other procession of triumph.

“Perché no?” chiese Bob in risposta. “Ci guadagnerò, sai. Nessuno di loro paga mai. Inoltre,” aggiunse Bob, abbassando la voce in un sussurro confidenziale, “farà solo del bene a tutti; visto che sono quasi senza droghe e non posso aumentare il mio conto in questo momento, avrei dovuto somministrargli della calomela. E sicuramente qualcuno di loro ne avrebbe risentito negativamente. Quindi è meglio così.”

C’era una certa filosofia e una logica solida dietro quella risposta, qualcosa che il signor Pickwick non si aspettava. Fece una pausa per qualche istante, poi aggiunse, con meno fermezza di prima.

“Ma questa carrozza, mio giovane amico, può trasportare soltanto due persone; inoltre, ho già dato la mia parola al signor Allen.”

“Non pensare affatto a me per un momento,” rispose Bob. “Ho già sistemato tutto: Sam e io divideremo equamente i guadagni. Guarda qui. Questo piccolo avviso dovrà essere attaccato sulla porta del negozio: ‘Sawyer, assente stasera. Chiedere a Mrs. Cripps di fronte.’ Mrs. Cripps è la madre di mio figlio. ‘Il signor Sawyer si scusa molto,’ dirà Mrs. Cripps, ‘ma non ha potuto evitarlo. È stato chiamato questa mattina presto per un intervento chirurgico tra i migliori specialisti del paese. Non potevano fare a meno di lui. Lo avrebbero preso a qualunque costo. Un’operazione molto importante.’ In realtà,” concluse Bob, “penso che questo mi farà più bene che altro. Se la notizia finirà su un giornale locale, sarà la mia fortuna. Ecco Ben. Ora sali!”

Con queste parole affrettate, il signor Bob Sawyer spostò di lato il postino, trascinò il suo amico dentro il veicolo, chiuse la porta con forza, sistemò i gradini, attaccò il biglietto alla porta di casa, la chiuse a chiave, mise la chiave in tasca, salì sul veicolo e diede l’ordine di partire. Tutto ciò fu fatto con tale rapidità che, prima ancora che il signor Pickwick avesse avuto il tempo di riflettere se il signor Bob Sawyer dovesse davvero andare o meno, erano già in viaggio, e il signor Bob Sawyer faceva ormai parte integrante del gruppo.

Finché i loro spostamenti si limitavano alle strade di Bristol, il faccettone Bob continuava a indossare i suoi occhiali verdi da professionista e si comportava con una compostezza e un’aria solenne che sembravano appropriate alla sua figura; pronunciava soltanto diversi scherzi verbali esclusivamente a beneficio e per il divertimento di Mr. Samuel Weller. Ma non appena uscivano sulle strade aperte, si toglieva gli occhiali verdi e anche quell’aria seria, mettendo in atto una grande varietà di scherzi pratici destinati ad attirare l’attenzione dei passanti e a rendere la carrozza e i suoi occupanti oggetto di curiosità particolare. Tra questi scherzi, il meno evidente era senz’altro un’imitazione molto rumorosa di una tromba da campo, nonché la messa in mostra ostentata di un fazzoletto da tasca di seta rosso sangue attaccato a un bastone da passeggio, che veniva talvolta agitato in aria con gesti che simboleggiavano supremazia e sfida.

“Che meraviglie,” disse il signor Pickwick, interrompendo una conversazione molto tranquilla con Ben Allen riguardante le numerose qualità positive del signor Winkle e di sua sorella, “Mi chiedo davvero cosa vedano tutte queste persone che incontriamo in noi, da farle fissarci in quel modo.”

“È un risultato davvero interessante,” rispose Ben Allen, con una certa orgoglio nel tono della sua voce. “Non sono abituati a vedere cose del genere ogni giorno, oserei dire.”

“Forse,” rispose il signor Pickwick. “Potrebbe essere così. Forse lo è davvero.”

Il signor Pickwick avrebbe molto probabilmente potuto convincersi che fosse davvero così, se solo in quel momento non avesse guardato fuori dal finestrino del vagone e non avesse notato che l’espressione dei passeggeri denotava tutt’altro che rispetto e stupore; inoltre, sembrava che si stessero scambiando messaggi tra di loro e alcune persone all’esterno del veicolo. A quel punto, gli venne in mente che tutte queste reazioni potessero, in qualche modo, essere collegate al comportamento umoristico del signor Robert Sawyer.

“Spero”, disse il signor Pickwick, “che il nostro amico capriccioso non stia commettendo alcuna assurdità in quel posto lì.”

“Oh no,” rispose Ben Allen. “Tranne quando è in uno stato di eccitazione, Bob è davvero l’essere più silenzioso che esista.”

Qui si udì una prolungata imitazione del suono di una tromba; dopo di essa seguirono grida e urla, provenienti chiaramente dalla gola e dai polmoni della creatura più tranquilla che esistesse, o, per dirla in modo più semplice, dallo stesso signor Bob Sawyer.

Il signor Pickwick e il signor Ben Allen si scambiarono sguardi significativi; il primo, togliendosi il cappello, si sporse fuori dal finestrino della carrozza fino a far uscire quasi tutto il suo gilet, riuscendo finalmente a intravedere il suo amico scherzoso.

Il signor Bob Sawyer era seduto, non sul sedile ribaltabile della carrozza, ma sul tetto di essa; aveva le gambe distese il più possibile e indossava il cappello del signor Samuel Weller su un lato della testa. In una mano teneva un enorme panino, mentre nell’altra reggeva una bottiglia di notevoli dimensioni; si dedicava con grande gusto a entrambi questi oggetti, interrompendo di tanto in tanto la monotonia dell’attività con un ululato o scambiando battute vivaci con qualche passante. La vistosa bandiera rossa era stata attentamente legata in posizione eretta al corrimano del sedile ribaltabile; il signor Samuel Weller, adornato con il cappello di Bob Sawyer, era seduto al centro di esso e discuteva animatamente di due panini identici, il suo volto esprimendo piena approvazione per l’intera organizzazione.

Questo fu sufficiente per irritare un gentiluomo con il senso della proprietà di Mr. Pickwick, ma non rappresentava l’intera fonte di disagio, poiché in quel momento una vettura da viaggio piena zeppa, sia all’interno che all’esterno, li stava incontrando, e lo stupore dei passeggeri era evidente a tutti. Inoltre, le congratulazioni di una famiglia irlandese che seguiva la loro carrozza, e che non smetteva di chiedere scuse, erano piuttosto rumorose; in particolare quelle del capofamiglia, il quale sembrava considerare tutto ciò parte integrante di qualche processione politica o di trionfo.

‘Mr. Sawyer!’ cried Mr. Pickwick, in a state of great excitement, ‘Mr. Sawyer, Sir!’

‘Hollo!’ responded that gentleman, looking over the side of the chaise with all the coolness in life.

‘Are you mad, sir?’ demanded Mr. Pickwick.

‘Not a bit of it,’ replied Bob; ‘only cheerful.’

‘Cheerful, sir!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick. ‘Take down that scandalous red handkerchief, I beg. I insist, Sir. Sam, take it down.’

Before Sam could interpose, Mr. Bob Sawyer gracefully struck his colours, and having put them in his pocket, nodded in a courteous manner to Mr. Pickwick, wiped the mouth of the case-bottle, and applied it to his own, thereby informing him, without any unnecessary waste of words, that he devoted that draught to wishing him all manner of happiness and prosperity. Having done this, Bob replaced the cork with great care, and looking benignantly down on Mr. Pickwick, took a large bite out of the sandwich, and smiled.

‘Come,’ said Mr. Pickwick, whose momentary anger was not quite proof against Bob’s immovable self-possession, ‘pray let us have no more of this absurdity.’

‘No, no,’ replied Bob, once more exchanging hats with Mr. Weller; ‘I didn’t mean to do it, only I got so enlivened with the ride that I couldn’t help it.’

‘Think of the look of the thing,’ expostulated Mr. Pickwick; ‘have some regard to appearances.’

‘Oh, certainly,’ said Bob, ‘it’s not the sort of thing at all. All over, governor.’

Satisfied with this assurance, Mr. Pickwick once more drew his head into the chaise and pulled up the glass; but he had scarcely resumed the conversation which Mr. Bob Sawyer had interrupted, when he was somewhat startled by the apparition of a small dark body, of an oblong form, on the outside of the window, which gave sundry taps against it, as if impatient of admission.

‘What’s this?’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

‘It looks like a case-bottle;’ remarked Ben Allen, eyeing the object in question through his spectacles with some interest; ‘I rather think it belongs to Bob.’

The impression was perfectly accurate; for Mr. Bob Sawyer, having attached the case-bottle to the end of the walking-stick, was battering the window with it, in token of his wish, that his friends inside would partake of its contents, in all good-fellowship and harmony.

‘What’s to be done?’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking at the bottle. ‘This proceeding is more absurd than the other.’

‘I think it would be best to take it in,’ replied Mr. Ben Allen; ‘it would serve him right to take it in and keep it, wouldn’t it?’

‘It would,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘shall I?’

‘I think it the most proper course we could possibly adopt,’ replied Ben.

This advice quite coinciding with his own opinion, Mr. Pickwick gently let down the window and disengaged the bottle from the stick; upon which the latter was drawn up, and Mr. Bob Sawyer was heard to laugh heartily.

‘What a merry dog it is!’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking round at his companion, with the bottle in his hand.

‘He is,’ said Mr. Allen.

‘You cannot possibly be angry with him,’ remarked Mr. Pickwick.

‘Quite out of the question,’ observed Benjamin Allen.

During this short interchange of sentiments, Mr. Pickwick had, in an abstracted mood, uncorked the bottle.

‘What is it?’ inquired Ben Allen carelessly.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, with equal carelessness. ‘It smells, I think, like milk-punch.’

Oh, indeed?’ said Ben.

‘I _think _so,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick, very properly guarding himself against the possibility of stating an untruth; ‘mind, I could not undertake to say certainly, without tasting it.’

‘You had better do so,’ said Ben; ‘we may as well know what it is.’

‘Do you think so?’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘Well; if you are curious to know, of course I have no objection.’

Ever willing to sacrifice his own feelings to the wishes of his friend, Mr. Pickwick at once took a pretty long taste.

‘What is it?’ inquired Ben Allen, interrupting him with some impatience.

‘Curious,’ said Mr. Pickwick, smacking his lips, ‘I hardly know, now. Oh, yes!’ said Mr. Pickwick, after a second taste. ‘It is punch.’

Mr. Ben Allen looked at Mr. Pickwick; Mr. Pickwick looked at Mr. Ben Allen; Mr. Ben Allen smiled; Mr. Pickwick did not.

‘It would serve him right,’ said the last-named gentleman, with some severity—‘it would serve him right to drink it every drop.’

‘The very thing that occurred to me,’ said Ben Allen.

‘Is it, indeed?’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick. ‘Then here’s his health!’ With these words, that excellent person took a most energetic pull at the bottle, and handed it to Ben Allen, who was not slow to imitate his example. The smiles became mutual, and the milk-punch was gradually and cheerfully disposed of.

‘After all,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as he drained the last drop, ‘his pranks are really very amusing; very entertaining indeed.’

‘You may say that,’ rejoined Mr. Ben Allen. In proof of Bob Sawyer’s being one of the funniest fellows alive, he proceeded to entertain Mr. Pickwick with a long and circumstantial account how that gentleman once drank himself into a fever and got his head shaved; the relation of which pleasant and agreeable history was only stopped by the stoppage of the chaise at the Bell at Berkeley Heath, to change horses.

‘I say! We’re going to dine here, aren’t we?’ said Bob, looking in at the window.

‘Dine!’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Why, we have only come nineteen miles, and have eighty-seven and a half to go.’

‘Just the reason why we should take something to enable us to bear up against the fatigue,’ remonstrated Mr. Bob Sawyer.

‘Oh, it’s quite impossible to dine at half-past eleven o’clock in the day,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, looking at his watch.

‘So it is,’ rejoined Bob, ‘lunch is the very thing. Hollo, you sir! Lunch for three, directly; and keep the horses back for a quarter of an hour. Tell them to put everything they have cold, on the table, and some bottled ale, and let us taste your very best Madeira.’ Issuing these orders with monstrous importance and bustle, Mr. Bob Sawyer at once hurried into the house to superintend the arrangements; in less than five minutes he returned and declared them to be excellent.

“Signor Sawyer!” gridò il signor Pickwick in uno stato di grande eccitazione, “Signor Sawyer, per favore!”

“Salve!”, rispose quel gentiluomo, guardando oltre il bordo della poltrona con tutta la calma possibile.

“Siete pazzo, signore?”, chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Nemmeno per idea,” rispose Bob; “solo felice.”

“Che gioia, signore!” esclamò il signor Pickwick. “Per favore, togliate quel disgustoso fazzoletto rosso. Insisto, signore. Sam, fallo subito.”

Prima che Sam potesse intervenire, il signor Bob Sawyer mise via con grazia i suoi colori, li infilò in tasca, fece un cenno cortese al signor Pickwick, pulì l’imboccatura della bottiglia e la usò per bere a sua volta, comunicandogli così, senza alcuna perdita di parole superflue, che desiderava per lui ogni sorta di felicità e prosperità. Dopo aver fatto questo, Bob rimise il tappo con grande cura, guardò con benevolenza il signor Pickwick, prese un grosso boccone del panino e sorrise.

“Come,” disse il signor Pickwick, la cui rabbia momentanea non fu sufficiente a contrastare l’immutabile autocontrollo di Bob, “per favore, basta con queste assurdità.”

“No, no,” rispose Bob, scambiando di nuovo i cappelli con il signor Weller; “Non volevo farlo, ma l’aver fatto quel viaggio mi ha così rinvigorito che non ho potuto evitarlo.”

“Pensate solo all’aspetto di quell’oggetto,” esclamò il signor Pickwick; “dovete tenere un po’ in considerazione l’apparenza.”

“Certo,” disse Bob, “assolutamente no. In ogni caso, governatore.”

Rassicurato da questa promessa, il signor Pickwick riportò nuovamente la testa nella poltrona a dondolo e sollevò il bicchiere; ma appena aveva ripreso la conversazione interrotta dal signor Bob Sawyer, fu improvvisamente sorpreso dall’apparizione di un piccolo corpo scuro, di forma allungata, all’esterno della finestra, che batteva contro il vetro con insistenza, come se fosse impaziente di essere fatto entrare.

“Che cos’è questo?” esclamò il signor Pickwick.

“Sembra una bottiglia per conservare oggetti,” osservò Ben Allen, esaminando l’oggetto in questione attraverso gli occhiali con interesse; “Penso che appartenga a Bob.”

L’impressione era perfettamente accurata; infatti il signor Bob Sawyer, dopo aver attaccato la bottiglia alla punta del suo bastone da passeggio, la usava per battere contro la finestra, come segno del suo desiderio che i suoi amici all’interno potessero condividere il suo contenuto in armonia e buona compagnia.

“Cosa si deve fare?” disse il signor Pickwick guardando la bottiglia. “Questo comportamento è ancora più assurdo del precedente.”

“Penso che sia meglio prenderlo,” rispose il signor Ben Allen; “gli starebbe bene prenderlo e tenerlo, non credete?”

“Sì, lo farei,” disse il signor Pickwick; “devo farlo?”

“Penso che sia la linea d’azione più appropriata che possiamo adottare,” rispose Ben.

Questo consiglio, che coincideva in modo piuttosto strano con la sua stessa opinione, fece sì che il signor Pickwick aprisse delicatamente la finestra e staccasse la bottiglia dal bastone; subito dopo, il bastone fu ritratto e si sentì il signor Bob Sawyer ridere di cuore.

“Che cane allegro!” disse il signor Pickwick, guardandosi intorno insieme al suo compagno, con la bottiglia in mano.

“Lo è,” disse il signor Allen.

“Non è possibile che tu sia arrabbiato con lui,” osservò il signor Pickwick.

“Assolutamente fuori discussione,” osservò Benjamin Allen.

Durante questo breve scambio di sentimenti, il signor Pickwick, in uno stato di distacco mentale, aveva stappato la bottiglia.

“Che cos’è?” chiese Ben Allen con noncuranza.

“Non lo so,” rispose il signor Pickwick con la stessa noncuranza. “Penso che profumi come il punch al latte.”

“Davvero?” disse Ben.

“Credo di sì,” rispose il signor Pickwick, prendendo ogni precauzione per evitare di affermare qualcosa di falso; “vedete, non potrei dirlo con certezza senza assaggiarlo prima.”

“È meglio che lo facciate,” disse Ben; “in fondo possiamo anche sapere di cosa si tratta.”

“Pensi davvero così?” rispose il signor Pickwick. “Beh, se hai curiosità di saperlo, naturalmente non ho obiezioni.”

Sempre disposto a sacrificare i propri sentimenti per soddisfare i desideri del suo amico, il signor Pickwick assaporò immediatamente quel liquido per un bel po’.

“Che cos’è?” chiese Ben Allen, interrompendolo con un certo impazienza.

“Curioso,” disse il signor Pickwick, schioccandosi le labbra. “Adesso non ne sono più sicuro. Oh, sì!” aggiunse dopo averne assaggiato un altro boccone. “È davvero punch.”

Il signor Ben Allen guardò il signor Pickwick; il signor Pickwick guardò il signor Ben Allen; il signor Ben Allen sorrise; il signor Pickwick no.

“Gli farebbe bene,” disse il gentiluomo menzionato per ultimo con una certa severità, “gli farebbe davvero bene berne ogni goccia.”

“Proprio quella cosa che mi è venuta in mente,” disse Ben Allen.

“Davvero è così?” ribatté il signor Pickwick. “Allora brindiamo alla sua salute!” Con queste parole, quell’eccellente persona tracannò con grande entusiasmo il contenuto della bottiglia e la passò a Ben Allen, che non esitò a imitarlo. I sorrisi divennero reciproci, e il milk-punch fu gradualmente e allegramente bevuto fino alla fine.

“Dopotutto,” disse il signor Pickwick mentre beveva l’ultima goccia, “le sue battute sono davvero molto divertenti, davvero molto intrattenenti.”

“Può darsi,” ribatté il signor Ben Allen. Per dimostrare che Bob Sawyer fosse uno dei tipi più divertenti al mondo, iniziò a raccontare al signor Pickwick una lunga e dettagliata storia su come quel gentiluomo si fosse ubriacato fino a prendere la febbre e farsi rasare la testa; il racconto di questa piacevole e gradevole storia fu interrotto soltanto quando la carrozza si fermò alla locanda “Bell at Berkeley Heath” per cambiare cavalli.

“Dico io! Mangieremo qui, vero?” disse Bob, guardando attraverso la finestra.

“Mangia!” disse il signor Pickwick. “Ma abbiamo percorso soltanto diciannove miglia, e ne mancano ancora ottantasette e mezza.”

“Proprio per questo dovremmo prendere qualcosa che ci aiuti a resistere alla fatica,” obiettò il signor Bob Sawyer.

“Ah, è davvero impossibile pranzare alle undici e mezza di giorno,” rispose il signor Pickwick, guardando l’orologio.

“Lo so bene,” rispose Bob, “il pranzo è proprio ciò di cui abbiamo bisogno. Ehi, signore! Pranzo per tre persone, subito; e fate aspettare i cavalli per un quarto d’ora. Dite loro di mettere tutto ciò che hanno in frigorifero sul tavolo, insieme a un po’ di birra in bottiglia. E lasciateci assaggiare la vostra migliore Madeira.” Dando queste istruzioni con grande solennità e fretta, il signor Bob Sawyer si affrettò subito verso la casa per supervisionare i preparativi; in meno di cinque minuti tornò e dichiarò che tutto era andato ottimamente.

The quality of the lunch fully justified the eulogium which Bob had pronounced, and very great justice was done to it, not only by that gentleman, but Mr. Ben Allen and Mr. Pickwick also. Under the auspices of the three, the bottled ale and the Madeira were promptly disposed of; and when (the horses being once more put to) they resumed their seats, with the case-bottle full of the best substitute for milk-punch that could be procured on so short a notice, the key-bugle sounded, and the red flag waved, without the slightest opposition on Mr. Pickwick’s part.

At the Hop Pole at Tewkesbury, they stopped to dine; upon which occasion there was more bottled ale, with some more Madeira, and some port besides; and here the case-bottle was replenished for the fourth time. Under the influence of these combined stimulants, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Ben Allen fell fast asleep for thirty miles, while Bob and Mr. Weller sang duets in the dickey.

It was quite dark when Mr. Pickwick roused himself sufficiently to look out of the window. The straggling cottages by the road-side, the dingy hue of every object visible, the murky atmosphere, the paths of cinders and brick-dust, the deep-red glow of furnace fires in the distance, the volumes of dense smoke issuing heavily forth from high toppling chimneys, blackening and obscuring everything around; the glare of distant lights, the ponderous wagons which toiled along the road, laden with clashing rods of iron, or piled with heavy goods—all betokened their rapid approach to the great working town of Birmingham.

As they rattled through the narrow thoroughfares leading to the heart of the turmoil, the sights and sounds of earnest occupation struck more forcibly on the senses. The streets were thronged with working people. The hum of labour resounded from every house; lights gleamed from the long casement windows in the attic storeys, and the whirl of wheels and noise of machinery shook the trembling walls. The fires, whose lurid, sullen light had been visible for miles, blazed fiercely up, in the great works and factories of the town. The din of hammers, the rushing of steam, and the dead heavy clanking of engines, was the harsh music which arose from every quarter.

The postboy was driving briskly through the open streets, and past the handsome and well-lighted shops that intervene between the outskirts of the town and the Old Royal Hotel, before Mr. Pickwick had begun to consider the very difficult and delicate nature of the commission which had carried him thither.

The delicate nature of this commission, and the difficulty of executing it in a satisfactory manner, were by no means lessened by the voluntary companionship of Mr. Bob Sawyer. Truth to tell, Mr. Pickwick felt that his presence on the occasion, however considerate and gratifying, was by no means an honour he would willingly have sought; in fact, he would cheerfully have given a reasonable sum of money to have had Mr. Bob Sawyer removed to any place at not less than fifty miles’ distance, without delay.

Mr. Pickwick had never held any personal communication with Mr. Winkle, senior, although he had once or twice corresponded with him by letter, and returned satisfactory answers to his inquiries concerning the moral character and behaviour of his son; he felt nervously sensible that to wait upon him, for the first time, attended by Bob Sawyer and Ben Allen, both slightly fuddled, was not the most ingenious and likely means that could have been hit upon to prepossess him in his favour.

‘However,’ said Mr. Pickwick, endeavouring to reassure himself, ‘I must do the best I can. I must see him to-night, for I faithfully promised to do so. If they persist in accompanying me, I must make the interview as brief as possible, and be content that, for their own sakes, they will not expose themselves.’

As he comforted himself with these reflections, the chaise stopped at the door of the Old Royal. Ben Allen having been partially awakened from a stupendous sleep, and dragged out by the collar by Mr. Samuel Weller, Mr. Pickwick was enabled to alight. They were shown to a comfortable apartment, and Mr. Pickwick at once propounded a question to the waiter concerning the whereabout of Mr. Winkle’s residence.

‘Close by, Sir,’ said the waiter, ‘not above five hundred yards, Sir. Mr. Winkle is a wharfinger, Sir, at the canal, sir. Private residence is not—oh dear, no, sir, not five hundred yards, sir.’ Here the waiter blew a candle out, and made a feint of lighting it again, in order to afford Mr. Pickwick an opportunity of asking any further questions, if he felt so disposed.

‘Take anything now, Sir?’ said the waiter, lighting the candle in desperation at Mr. Pickwick’s silence. ‘Tea or coffee, Sir? Dinner, sir?’

‘Nothing now.’

‘Very good, sir. Like to order supper, Sir?’

‘Not just now.’

‘Very good, Sir.’ Here, he walked slowly to the door, and then stopping short, turned round and said, with great suavity—

‘Shall I send the chambermaid, gentlemen?’

‘You may if you please,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘If _you _please, sir.’

‘And bring some soda-water,’ said Bob Sawyer.

‘Soda-water, Sir! Yes, Sir.’ With his mind apparently relieved from an overwhelming weight, by having at last got an order for something, the waiter imperceptibly melted away. Waiters never walk or run. They have a peculiar and mysterious power of skimming out of rooms, which other mortals possess not.

Some slight symptoms of vitality having been awakened in Mr. Ben Allen by the soda-water, he suffered himself to be prevailed upon to wash his face and hands, and to submit to be brushed by Sam. Mr. Pickwick and Bob Sawyer having also repaired the disorder which the journey had made in their apparel, the three started forth, arm in arm, to Mr. Winkle’s; Bob Sawyer impregnating the atmosphere with tobacco smoke as he walked along.

La qualità di quel pranzo giustificava pienamente l’elogio che Bob aveva espresso; a esso fu resa grande giustizia non solo da quell’uomo gentile, ma anche dal signor Ben Allen e dal signor Pickwick. Sotto la loro supervisione, la birra in bottiglia e il Madeira furono rapidamente consumati. Quando (dopo aver fatto ripartire i cavalli) tornarono ai loro posti, con la bottiglia piena del miglior sostituto del latte fresco che fosse possibile reperire in così poco tempo, suonò la tromba e sventolò la bandiera rossa, senza alcuna obiezione da parte del signor Pickwick.

Al Hop Pole di Tewkesbury si fermarono per pranzare; durante questa occasione fu servita ancora più birra in bottiglia, insieme a del Madeira e del porto; in questo modo la bottiglia da viaggio fu riempita per la quarta volta. Sotto l’effetto di questi stimolanti combinati, il signor Pickwick e il signor Ben Allen si addormentarono profondamente per trenta miglia, mentre Bob e il signor Weller cantavano duetti nel vagone.

Era piuttosto buio quando il signor Pickwick si riprese abbastanza da guardare fuori dalla finestra. Le casette sparse lungo la strada, i colori scialbi di ogni oggetto visibile, l’atmosfera nebbiosa, i sentieri coperti di cenere e polvere di mattoni, il rosso intenso delle fiamme dei forni in lontananza, le dense nuvole di fumo che uscivano dalle ciminiere alte e inclinate, annerendo e offuscando tutto intorno; i bagliori delle luci lontane, i pesanti carri che si muovevano lungo la strada, carichi di barre di ferro che si urtavano tra loro o di merci pesanti. Tutto ciò indicava il loro rapido avvicinamento alla grande città industriale di Birmingham.

Mentre percorrevano i vicoli stretti che conducevano al cuore di quel caos, le immagini e i suoni della frenetica attività umana colpivano i loro sensi in modo ancora più intensivo. Le strade erano piene di lavoratori; il ronzio del lavoro risuonava da ogni casa; luci brillavano dalle lunghe finestre dei piani superiori, e il rumore delle ruote e delle macchine scuoteva le pareti tremanti. I fuochi, i cui bagliori cupi si vedevano a chilometri di distanza, ardevano intensamente nelle grandi fabbriche della città. Il fragore dei martelli, il soffio del vapore e il pesante rumore delle macchine costituivano la “musica” aspra che proveniva da ogni angolo di quella zona.

Il postino guidava veloce lungo le strade deserte, passando accanto ai negozi belli e ben illuminati che si trovano tra i margini della città e l’Old Royal Hotel; in quel momento, il signor Pickwick non aveva ancora iniziato a riflettere sulla natura molto difficile e delicata dell’incarico che lo aveva portato lì.

La delicata natura di questa commissione, e la difficoltà di eseguirla in modo soddisfacente, non venivano affatto ridotte dalla compagnia volontaria del signor Bob Sawyer. A dire il vero, il signor Pickwick riteneva che la sua presenza in quell’occasione, per quanto considerata e gradita, non rappresentasse affatto un onore che avrebbe desiderato ardentemente; anzi, avrebbe volentieri pagato una somma ragionevole pur di far allontanare il signor Bob Sawyer, in qualsiasi luogo situato a una distanza di almeno cinquanta miglia, senza alcun indugio.

Il signor Pickwick non aveva mai avuto alcun contatto personale con il signor Winkle senior, anche se una volta o due gli aveva scritto per rispondere alle sue domande riguardo al carattere morale e al comportamento di suo figlio; sentiva, in modo un po’ nervoso, che farlo attendere, per la prima volta, accompagnato da Bob Sawyer e Ben Allen – entrambi piuttosto confusi – non fosse certo il metodo più ingegnoso e appropriato per fargli prendere una buona opinione di lui.

“Tuttavia,” disse il signor Pickwick, cercando di rassicurarsi, “devo fare del mio meglio. Devo incontrarlo stasera, perché gliel’ho promesso fedelmente. Se insistono nel accompagnarmi, dovrò rendere l’incontro il più breve possibile e accontentarmi del fatto che, per il loro stesso bene, non si esporranno a dei rischi.”

Mentre si consolava con queste riflessioni, la carrozza si fermò davanti alla porta dell’Old Royal. Ben Allen, parzialmente svegliato da un sonno profondo e trascinato fuori per il colletto dal signor Samuel Weller, poté scendere dalla carrozza. Furono accompagnati in un appartamento confortevole, e subito il signor Pickwick pose al cameriere una domanda riguardo alla residenza del signor Winkle.

“Vicinissimo, signore,” disse il cameriere, “non più di cinquecento metri, signore. Il signor Winkle è un addetto ai moli, sul canale. La sua residenza privata non si trova certo a meno di cinquecento metri da qui, signore.” A quel punto il cameriere spense una candela e fece finta di accenderla di nuovo, per dare al signor Pickwick l’opportunità di porre altre domande, se ne avesse desiderato.

“Prende qualcosa adesso, signore?” disse il cameriere, accendendo la candela nella disperazione di fronte al silenzio del signor Pickwick. “Tè o caffè, signore? Cena, signore?”

“Niente ora.”

“Molto bene, signore. Desidera ordinare la cena, signore?”

“Non proprio ora.”

“Molto bene, signore.” Poi si avvicinò lentamente alla porta, ma si fermò all’improvviso, girò sui tacchi e disse, con grande gentilezza.

“Devo chiamare la cameriera, signori?”

“Potete farlo, se lo desiderate,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

“Se le fosse possibile, signore, ”

“E portate anche un po’ di soda-acqua,” disse Bob Sawyer.

“Soda e acqua, signore! Sì, signore.” Con la mente apparentemente sollevata da un peso opprimente, dopo aver finalmente ricevuto l’ordine di preparare qualcosa, il cameriere scomparve silenziosamente. I camerieri non camminano né corrono. Hanno una strana e misteriosa capacità di uscire dalle stanze in modo quasi invisibile, una capacità che gli altri mortali non possiedono.

In Mr. Ben Allen, alcuni lievi segni di vitalità furono risvegliati dall’acqua gassata; così si lasciò convincere a lavarsi il viso e le mani, e anche ad essere spazzolato da Sam. Dopo che anche Mr. Pickwick e Bob Sawyer avevano ripristinato l’ordine nei loro abiti, i tre partirono insieme, mano nella mano, diretti a casa di Mr. Winkle; lungo il cammino, Bob Sawyer riempiva l’aria di fumo di tabacco.

About a quarter of a mile off, in a quiet, substantial-looking street, stood an old red brick house with three steps before the door, and a brass plate upon it, bearing, in fat Roman capitals, the words, ‘Mr. Winkle.’ The steps were very white, and the bricks were very red, and the house was very clean; and here stood Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Benjamin Allen, and Mr. Bob Sawyer, as the clock struck ten.

A smart servant-girl answered the knock, and started on beholding the three strangers.

‘Is Mr. Winkle at home, my dear?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘He is just going to supper, Sir,’ replied the girl.

‘Give him that card if you please,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick. ‘Say I am sorry to trouble him at so late an hour; but I am anxious to see him to- night, and have only just arrived.’

The girl looked timidly at Mr. Bob Sawyer, who was expressing his admiration of her personal charms by a variety of wonderful grimaces; and casting an eye at the hats and greatcoats which hung in the passage, called another girl to mind the door while she went upstairs. The sentinel was speedily relieved; for the girl returned immediately, and begging pardon of the gentlemen for leaving them in the street, ushered them into a floor-clothed back parlour, half office and half dressing room, in which the principal useful and ornamental articles of furniture were a desk, a wash-hand stand and shaving-glass, a boot-rack and boot- jack, a high stool, four chairs, a table, and an old eight-day clock. Over the mantelpiece were the sunken doors of an iron safe, while a couple of hanging shelves for books, an almanac, and several files of dusty papers, decorated the walls.

‘Very sorry to leave you standing at the door, Sir,’ said the girl, lighting a lamp, and addressing Mr. Pickwick with a winning smile, ‘but you was quite strangers to me; and we have such a many trampers that only come to see what they can lay their hands on, that really—’

‘There is not the least occasion for any apology, my dear,’ said Mr. Pickwick good-humouredly.

‘Not the slightest, my love,’ said Bob Sawyer, playfully stretching forth his arms, and skipping from side to side, as if to prevent the young lady’s leaving the room.

The young lady was not at all softened by these allurements, for she at once expressed her opinion, that Mr. Bob Sawyer was an ‘odous creetur;’ and, on his becoming rather more pressing in his attentions, imprinted her fair fingers upon his face, and bounced out of the room with many expressions of aversion and contempt.

Deprived of the young lady’s society, Mr. Bob Sawyer proceeded to divert himself by peeping into the desk, looking into all the table drawers, feigning to pick the lock of the iron safe, turning the almanac with its face to the wall, trying on the boots of Mr. Winkle, senior, over his own, and making several other humorous experiments upon the furniture, all of which afforded Mr. Pickwick unspeakable horror and agony, and yielded Mr. Bob Sawyer proportionate delight.

At length the door opened, and a little old gentleman in a snuff- coloured suit, with a head and face the precise counterpart of those belonging to Mr. Winkle, junior, excepting that he was rather bald, trotted into the room with Mr. Pickwick’s card in one hand, and a silver candlestick in the other.

‘Mr. Pickwick, sir, how do you do?’ said Winkle the elder, putting down the candlestick and proffering his hand. ‘Hope I see you well, sir. Glad to see you. Be seated, Mr. Pickwick, I beg, Sir. This gentleman is—’

‘My friend, Mr. Sawyer,’ interposed Mr. Pickwick, ‘your son’s friend.’

‘Oh,’ said Mr. Winkle the elder, looking rather grimly at Bob. ‘I hope you are well, sir.’

‘Right as a trivet, sir,’ replied Bob Sawyer.

‘This other gentleman,’ cried Mr. Pickwick, ‘is, as you will see when you have read the letter with which I am intrusted, a very near relative, or I should rather say a very particular friend of your son’s. His name is Allen.’

‘_That _gentleman?’ inquired Mr. Winkle, pointing with the card towards Ben Allen, who had fallen asleep in an attitude which left nothing of him visible but his spine and his coat collar.

Mr. Pickwick was on the point of replying to the question, and reciting Mr. Benjamin Allen’s name and honourable distinctions at full length, when the sprightly Mr. Bob Sawyer, with a view of rousing his friend to a sense of his situation, inflicted a startling pinch upon the fleshly part of his arm, which caused him to jump up with a shriek. Suddenly aware that he was in the presence of a stranger, Mr. Ben Allen advanced and, shaking Mr. Winkle most affectionately by both hands for about five minutes, murmured, in some half-intelligible fragments of sentences, the great delight he felt in seeing him, and a hospitable inquiry whether he felt disposed to take anything after his walk, or would prefer waiting ‘till dinner-time;’ which done, he sat down and gazed about him with a petrified stare, as if he had not the remotest idea where he was, which indeed he had not.

All this was most embarrassing to Mr. Pickwick, the more especially as Mr. Winkle, senior, evinced palpable astonishment at the eccentric—not to say extraordinary—behaviour of his two companions. To bring the matter to an issue at once, he drew a letter from his pocket, and presenting it to Mr. Winkle, senior, said—

‘This letter, Sir, is from your son. You will see, by its contents, that on your favourable and fatherly consideration of it, depend his future happiness and welfare. Will you oblige me by giving it the calmest and coolest perusal, and by discussing the subject afterwards with me, in the tone and spirit in which alone it ought to be discussed? You may judge of the importance of your decision to your son, and his intense anxiety upon the subject, by my waiting upon you, without any previous warning, at so late an hour; and,’ added Mr. Pickwick, glancing slightly at his two companions—‘and under such unfavourable circumstances.’

A circa un quarto di miglio di distanza, in una strada tranquilla e dall’aspetto dignitoso, sorgeva una vecchia casa in mattoni rossi con tre gradini davanti alla porta; su di essa era appesa una targa di bronzo su cui, in caratteri romani grossolani, erano scritte le parole “Signor Winkle”. I gradini erano molto bianchi, i mattoni molto rossi e la casa estremamente pulita. Proprio lì, alle dieci in punto, si trovavano il signor Pickwick, il signor Benjamin Allen e il signor Bob Sawyer.

Una serva intelligente aprì la porta non appena bussarono, e iniziò a osservare i tre sconosciuti.

“Mio caro, il signor Winkle è a casa?” chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Sta semplicemente andando a cena, signore,” rispose la ragazza.

“Per favore, dategli quella carta,” riprese il signor Pickwick. “Ditegli che mi dispiace disturbarlo a un’ora così tarda; ma desidero vederlo stasera e sono appena arrivato.”

La ragazza guardò timidamente il signor Bob Sawyer, che esprimeva la sua ammirazione per i suoi pregi personali con una serie di strani gesti; poi, lanciando un’occhiata ai cappelli e agli abiti appesi nel corridoio, chiamò un’altra ragazza perché tenesse la porta aperta mentre lei saliva al piano di sopra. Il “sentinello” fu presto sollevato: la ragazza tornò subito indietro, scusandosi con i signori per averli lasciati in strada, e li accompagnò in un salotto arredato con tappeti, a metà ufficio e a metà camera da vestire. Gli oggetti mobili più utili e decorativi presenti nella stanza erano una scrivania, un lavandino, uno specchio da barba, un portascarpe, uno sgabello alto, quattro sedie, un tavolo e un vecchio orologio a molla. Sopra la mensola del camino si trovavano le porte di una cassaforte in ferro; sulle pareti erano appese alcune mensole per i libri, un almanacco e diversi fascicoli pieni di documenti polverosi.

“Mi dispiace molto di averla lasciata ad aspettare alla porta, signore,” disse la ragazza, accendendo una lampada e rivolgendosi a Mr. Pickwick con un sorriso affabile, “ma lei non mi conosceva affatto; inoltre, abbiamo così tanti vagabondi che vengono solo per vedere cosa possono prendere, davvero, ”

“Non c’è alcun motivo per scusarsi, mia cara,” disse il signor Pickwick con buon umore.

“Nemmeno un po’, mia amata”, disse Bob Sawyer, stiracchiandosi scherzosamente e saltellando da una parte all’altra, come se volesse impedire alla giovane signora di lasciare la stanza.

La giovane signorina non fu affatto intenerita da queste lusinghe; anzi, esprimette subito il suo parere, definendo il signor Bob Sawyer un “essere orribile”. Quando le sue attenzioni divennero ancora più insistenti, gli stampò le sue belle dita sul viso e uscì dalla stanza con molte espressioni di disgusto e disprezzo.

Privato della compagnia della giovane signora, il signor Bob Sawyer iniziò a divertirsi spiando all’interno del tavolo, esaminando tutti gli sportelli, fingendo di forzare la serratura della cassaforte di ferro, girando l’almanacco con la faccia rivolta al muro, provando le scarpe del signor Winkle sulle proprie, e compiendo altre numerose e umoristiche “esperimentazioni” sui mobili. Tutto ciò causò a Mr. Pickwick un orrore e un dolore indescrivibili, mentre per il signor Bob Sawyer rappresentava una fonte di grande divertimento.

Finalmente la porta si aprì e un piccolo vecchio gentiluomo, vestito con un abito di colore tabacco, il cui viso era esattamente identico a quello del signor Winkle junior, tranne per il fatto che fosse piuttosto calvo, entrò nella stanza tenendo in una mano la carta del signor Pickwick e nell’altra un candelabro d’argento.

“Signor Pickwick, come state?” disse Winkle il maggiore, posando il candelabro e porgendo la mano. “Spero che stiate bene, signore. È un piacere rivedervi. Si accomodi, per favore, signor Pickwick. Questo gentiluomo è, ”

“Mio caro amico, il signor Sawyer,” intervenne il signor Pickwick, “l’amico di vostro figlio.”

“Ah,” disse il signor Winkle il vecchio, guardando Bob con un’espressione piuttosto cupa. “Spero che stiate bene, signore.”

“Esattamente come un portatovagliolo, signore,” rispose Bob Sawyer.

“Questo altro signore,” esclamò il signor Pickwick, “è, come vedrete dopo aver letto la lettera che mi è stata affidata, un parente molto stretto, o meglio, un amico molto particolare di vostro figlio. Si chiama Allen.”

“Quel gentiluomo?” chiese il signor Winkle, indicando con la carta Ben Allen, che si era addormentato in una posizione tale da far vedere soltanto la sua spina dorsale e il colletto del cappotto.

Il signor Pickwick stava per rispondere alla domanda e menzionare per esteso il nome e le onorevoli qualità del signor Benjamin Allen, quando il vivace signor Bob Sawyer, nel tentativo di far prendere coscienza al suo amico della sua situazione, gli diede un pizzicotto così forte che lui balzò in piedi urlando. Improvvisamente rendendosi conto di trovarsi in presenza di uno sconosciuto, il signor Ben Allen si avvicinò e, stringendo con grande affetto le mani del signor Winkle per circa cinque minuti, mormorò frasi a metà comprensibili, esprimendo la grande gioia che provava nel rivederlo e chiedendogli se desiderasse mangiare qualcosa dopo la passeggiata, o preferisse aspettare fino all’ora di cena. Dopo aver fatto questa domanda, si sedette e guardò intorno con uno sguardo sbalordito, come se non avesse la minima idea di dove si trovasse, il che, in effetti, era vero.

Tutto ciò fu particolarmente imbarazzante per il signor Pickwick, soprattutto perché il signor Winkle, il maggiore, mostrò un evidente stupore di fronte al comportamento eccentrico – per non dire straordinario – dei suoi due compagni. Per risolvere la questione immediatamente, tirò fuori una lettera dalla tasca e, presentandola al signor Winkle, il maggiore, disse.

“Questa lettera, signore, è di vostro figlio. Come potrete vedere dal suo contenuto, il suo futuro felicità e benessere dipendono dalla vostra attenzione e considerazione paterna. Vi prego di leggerla con calma e serenità, e successivamente di discuterne con me nel modo e nello spirito in cui soltanto dovrebbe essere trattata. Potrete giudicare l’importanza della vostra decisione per vostro figlio, nonché la sua profonda ansia al riguardo, dal fatto che sono venuto a trovarvi senza alcun preavviso, a un’ora così tarda. E,” aggiunse il signor Pickwick, lanciando uno sguardo ai suoi due compagni, “in circostanze così sfavorevoli.”

With this prelude, Mr. Pickwick placed four closely-written sides of extra superfine wire-wove penitence in the hands of the astounded Mr. Winkle, senior. Then reseating himself in his chair, he watched his looks and manner: anxiously, it is true, but with the open front of a gentleman who feels he has taken no part which he need excuse or palliate.

The old wharfinger turned the letter over, looked at the front, back, and sides, made a microscopic examination of the fat little boy on the seal, raised his eyes to Mr. Pickwick’s face, and then, seating himself on the high stool, and drawing the lamp closer to him, broke the wax, unfolded the epistle, and lifting it to the light, prepared to read.

Just at this moment, Mr. Bob Sawyer, whose wit had lain dormant for some minutes, placed his hands on his knees, and made a face after the portraits of the late Mr. Grimaldi, as clown. It so happened that Mr. Winkle, senior, instead of being deeply engaged in reading the letter, as Mr. Bob Sawyer thought, chanced to be looking over the top of it at no less a person than Mr. Bob Sawyer himself; rightly conjecturing that the face aforesaid was made in ridicule and derision of his own person, he fixed his eyes on Bob with such expressive sternness, that the late Mr. Grimaldi’s lineaments gradually resolved themselves into a very fine expression of humility and confusion.

‘Did you speak, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Winkle, senior, after an awful silence.

‘No, sir,’ replied Bob, With no remains of the clown about him, save and except the extreme redness of his cheeks.

‘You are sure you did not, sir?’ said Mr. Winkle, senior.

‘Oh dear, yes, sir, quite,’ replied Bob.

‘I thought you did, Sir,’ replied the old gentleman, with indignant emphasis. ‘Perhaps you _looked _at me, sir?’

‘Oh, no! sir, not at all,’ replied Bob, with extreme civility.

‘I am very glad to hear it, sir,’ said Mr. Winkle, senior. Having frowned upon the abashed Bob with great magnificence, the old gentleman again brought the letter to the light, and began to read it seriously.

Mr. Pickwick eyed him intently as he turned from the bottom line of the first page to the top line of the second, and from the bottom of the second to the top of the third, and from the bottom of the third to the top of the fourth; but not the slightest alteration of countenance afforded a clue to the feelings with which he received the announcement of his son’s marriage, which Mr. Pickwick knew was in the very first half-dozen lines.

He read the letter to the last word, folded it again with all the carefulness and precision of a man of business, and, just when Mr. Pickwick expected some great outbreak of feeling, dipped a pen in the ink-stand, and said, as quietly as if he were speaking on the most ordinary counting-house topic—

‘What is Nathaniel’s address, Mr. Pickwick?’

‘The George and Vulture, at present,’ replied that gentleman.

‘George and Vulture. Where is that?’

‘George Yard, Lombard Street.’

‘In the city?’

‘Yes.’

The old gentleman methodically indorsed the address on the back of the letter; and then, placing it in the desk, which he locked, said, as he got off the stool and put the bunch of keys in his pocket—

‘I suppose there is nothing else which need detain us, Mr. Pickwick?’

‘Nothing else, my dear Sir!’ observed that warm-hearted person in indignant amazement. ‘Nothing else! Have you no opinion to express on this momentous event in our young friend’s life? No assurance to convey to him, through me, of the continuance of your affection and protection? Nothing to say which will cheer and sustain him, and the anxious girl who looks to him for comfort and support? My dear Sir, consider.’

‘I will consider,’ replied the old gentleman. ‘I have nothing to say just now. I am a man of business, Mr. Pickwick. I never commit myself hastily in any affair, and from what I see of this, I by no means like the appearance of it. A thousand pounds is not much, Mr. Pickwick.’

‘You’re very right, Sir,’ interposed Ben Allen, just awake enough to know that he had spent his thousand pounds without the smallest difficulty. ‘You’re an intelligent man. Bob, he’s a very knowing fellow this.’

‘I am very happy to find that you do me the justice to make the admission, sir,’ said Mr. Winkle, senior, looking contemptuously at Ben Allen, who was shaking his head profoundly. ‘The fact is, Mr. Pickwick, that when I gave my son a roving license for a year or so, to see something of men and manners (which he has done under your auspices), so that he might not enter life a mere boarding-school milk-sop to be gulled by everybody, I never bargained for this. He knows that very well, so if I withdraw my countenance from him on this account, he has no call to be surprised. He shall hear from me, Mr. Pickwick. Good- night, sir.—Margaret, open the door.’

All this time, Bob Sawyer had been nudging Mr. Ben Allen to say something on the right side; Ben accordingly now burst, without the slightest preliminary notice, into a brief but impassioned piece of eloquence.

‘Sir,’ said Mr. Ben Allen, staring at the old gentleman, out of a pair of very dim and languid eyes, and working his right arm vehemently up and down, ‘you—you ought to be ashamed of yourself.’

‘As the lady’s brother, of course you are an excellent judge of the question,’ retorted Mr. Winkle, senior. ‘There; that’s enough. Pray say no more, Mr. Pickwick. Good-night, gentlemen!’

With these words the old gentleman took up the candle-stick and opening the room door, politely motioned towards the passage.

‘You will regret this, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, setting his teeth close together to keep down his choler; for he felt how important the effect might prove to his young friend.

‘I am at present of a different opinion,’ calmly replied Mr. Winkle, senior. ‘Once again, gentlemen, I wish you a good-night.’

Con questo preludio, il signor Pickwick porse nelle mani del sbalordito signor Winkle senior quattro fogli scritti con caratteri molto piccoli e composti interamente di filo d’argento sottilissimo, simboli della propria penitenza. Poi si risedette sulla sua sedia e osservò il suo comportamento: con ansia, è vero, ma con l’atteggiamento aperto di un gentiluomo che si sente di non aver commesso nulla di cui debba scusarsi o giustificarsi.

Il vecchio portuale girò la lettera, la esaminò davanti e dietro, sui lati, la analizzò attentamente, osservando il piccolo ragazzo grassoccio raffigurato sul sigillo; poi alzò lo sguardo verso il viso del signor Pickwick. Infine si sedette sulla stuoia alta, avvicinò la lampada a sé, romse il sigillo di cera, aprì la lettera e, tenendola sotto la luce, si preparò a leggerla.

Proprio in quel momento, il signor Bob Sawyer, la cui arguzia era rimasta inattiva per alcuni minuti, si appoggiò sulle ginocchia e fece una faccia simile a quelle dei ritratti del defunto signor Grimaldi, imitando i gesti di un clown. Casualmente, il signor Winkle, anziano, invece di essere immerso nella lettura della lettera – come pensava il signor Bob Sawyer – stava proprio guardandone il contenuto; intuendo immediatamente che quella faccia fosse un modo per deridere lui stesso, fissò Bob con uno sguardo così severo e significativo che i tratti del defunto signor Grimaldi gradualmente si trasformarono in un’espressione di profonda umiltà e confusione.

“Avete detto qualcosa, signore?”, chiese il signor Winkle padre, dopo un terribile silenzio.

“No, signore,” rispose Bob. Non c’era più traccia del pagliaccio in lui, se non il rossore intenso delle sue guance.

“È sicuro di non averlo fatto, signore?”, chiese il signor Winkle, il maggiore.

“Ah sì, signore, certamente,” rispose Bob.

“Pensavo che lo aveste fatto, signore,” rispose il vecchio gentiluomo con enfasi indignata. “Forse vi siete soltanto guardato intorno, signore?”

“Oh, no! Signore, assolutamente no,” rispose Bob con estrema cortesia.

“Sono molto felice di saperlo, signore,” disse il signor Winkle il maggiore. Dopo aver fissato con aria sprezzante il imbarazzato Bob, il vecchio gentiluomo riportò la lettera alla luce e iniziò a leggerla seriamente.

Il signor Pickwick lo osservò attentamente mentre passava dalla parte inferiore della prima pagina a quella superiore della seconda, dalla parte inferiore della seconda alla parte superiore della terza, e dalla parte inferiore della terza a quella superiore della quarta; tuttavia, nessun cambiamento nel suo volto rivelò quali fossero i suoi sentimenti di fronte all’annuncio del matrimonio di suo figlio, che il signor Pickwick sapeva essere contenuto nelle prime sei righe della notizia.

Lesse la lettera fino all’ultima parola, la ripiegò con tutta la cura e precisione tipiche di un uomo d’affari, e proprio quando il signor Pickwick si aspettava una qualche forte reazione emotiva, intinse la penna nell’inchiostro e disse, con la stessa calma come se stesse discutendo di un argomento del tutto banale.

“Qual è l’indirizzo di Nathaniel, signor Pickwick?”

“Al momento, il George and Vulture,” rispose quel gentiluomo.

“George e il Vulturone. Dove si trova?”

George Yard, Lombard Street.

“Nella città?”

“Sì, davvero.”

Il vecchio signore indirizzò metodicamente la lettera sul retro; poi, dopo averla messa nel cassetto che chiuse a chiave, disse, mentre scendeva dallo sgabello e infilava il mazzo di chiavi in tasca.

“Immagino non ci sia nulla altro che possa trattenerci, signor Pickwick?”

“Nient’altro, mio caro Signore!” osservò quella persona dal cuore gentile con indignazione e meraviglia. “Nient’altro! Non ha alcuna opinione da esprimere su questo evento così importante nella vita di nostro giovane amico? Nessuna parola per rassicurarlo, attraverso me, riguardo alla continuità del suo affetto e della sua protezione? Niente che possa consolarlo e sostenerlo, soprattutto quella ragazza ansiosa che si affida a lui per conforto e aiuto? Mio caro Signore, ci pensi bene.”

“Ci penserò,” rispose il vecchio signore. “Non ho nulla da dire al momento. Sono un uomo d’affari, signor Pickwick. Non mi impegno mai affrettatamente in nessuna questione, e da quanto vedo, questa faccenda non mi sembra affatto promettente. Mille sterline non sono certo una somma considerevole, signor Pickwick.”

“Ha perfettamente ragione, signore,” intervenne Ben Allen, appena sveglio abbastanza da rendersi conto di aver speso i suoi mille sterline senza alcuna difficoltà. “È un uomo intelligente. Bob, davvero una persona molto perspicace.”

“Sono molto felice di constatare che mi date questa giustizia, signore,” disse il signor Winkle senior, guardando con disprezzo Ben Allen, che scuoteva vigorosamente la testa. “Il fatto è, signor Pickwick, che quando ho dato a mio figlio un permesso di viaggiare per circa un anno, affinché potesse conoscere meglio le persone e i loro costumi (cosa che ha fatto sotto la vostra guida), non mi aspettavo certo una cosa del genere. Lui lo sa molto bene; quindi, se dovesse ritirare il mio sostegno per questo motivo, non dovrebbe sorprendersi. Gli farò sapere, signor Pickwick. Buona notte, signore. Margaret, apri la porta.”

In tutto questo tempo, Bob Sawyer aveva continuato a incoraggiare il signor Ben Allen a dire qualcosa di appropriato; così, senza alcun preavviso, Ben iniziò improvvisamente a pronunciare un breve ma appassionato discorso.

“Signore,” disse il signor Ben Allen, fissando l’anziano gentiluomo con due occhi molto pallidi e spenti, mentre muoveva vigorosamente la sua braccia destra su e giù, “voi, dovreste vergognarvene.”

“Essendo il fratello della signora, ovviamente lei è un ottimo giudice in questa questione,” ribatté il signor Winkle senior. “Bene, questo basta. La prego, non dica più nulla, signor Pickwick. Buonanotte, signori!”

Con queste parole, il vecchio signore prese il candelabro, aprì la porta della stanza e fece un gesto cortese indicando il corridoio.

“Se ne pentirà, signore,” disse il signor Pickwick, stringendo i denti per trattenere la sua rabbia; perché sapeva quanto potesse essere importante l’effetto di quelle parole sul suo giovane amico.

“Al momento ho un parere diverso,” rispose con calma il signor Winkle senior. “Ancora una volta, signori, vi auguro una buona notte.”

Mr. Pickwick walked with angry strides into the street. Mr. Bob Sawyer, completely quelled by the decision of the old gentleman’s manner, took the same course. Mr. Ben Allen’s hat rolled down the steps immediately afterwards, and Mr. Ben Allen’s body followed it directly. The whole party went silent and supperless to bed; and Mr. Pickwick thought, just before he fell asleep, that if he had known Mr. Winkle, senior, had been quite so much of a man of business, it was extremely probable he might never have waited upon him, on such an errand.

CHAPTER LI. IN WHICH MR. PICKWICK ENCOUNTERS AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE—TO WHICH FORTUNATE CIRCUMSTANCE THE READER IS MAINLY INDEBTED FOR MATTER OF THRILLING INTEREST HEREIN SET DOWN, CONCERNING TWO GREAT PUBLIC MEN OF MIGHT AND POWER

The morning which broke upon Mr. Pickwick’s sight at eight o’clock, was not at all calculated to elevate his spirits, or to lessen the depression which the unlooked-for result of his embassy inspired. The sky was dark and gloomy, the air was damp and raw, the streets were wet and sloppy. The smoke hung sluggishly above the chimney-tops as if it lacked the courage to rise, and the rain came slowly and doggedly down, as if it had not even the spirit to pour. A game-cock in the stableyard, deprived of every spark of his accustomed animation, balanced himself dismally on one leg in a corner; a donkey, moping with drooping head under the narrow roof of an outhouse, appeared from his meditative and miserable countenance to be contemplating suicide. In the street, umbrellas were the only things to be seen, and the clicking of pattens and splashing of rain-drops were the only sounds to be heard.

The breakfast was interrupted by very little conversation; even Mr. Bob Sawyer felt the influence of the weather, and the previous day’s excitement. In his own expressive language he was ‘floored.’ So was Mr. Ben Allen. So was Mr. Pickwick.

In protracted expectation of the weather clearing up, the last evening paper from London was read and re-read with an intensity of interest only known in cases of extreme destitution; every inch of the carpet was walked over with similar perseverance; the windows were looked out of, often enough to justify the imposition of an additional duty upon them; all kinds of topics of conversation were started, and failed; and at length Mr. Pickwick, when noon had arrived, without a change for the better, rang the bell resolutely, and ordered out the chaise.

Although the roads were miry, and the drizzling rain came down harder than it had done yet, and although the mud and wet splashed in at the open windows of the carriage to such an extent that the discomfort was almost as great to the pair of insides as to the pair of outsides, still there was something in the motion, and the sense of being up and doing, which was so infinitely superior to being pent in a dull room, looking at the dull rain dripping into a dull street, that they all agreed, on starting, that the change was a great improvement, and wondered how they could possibly have delayed making it as long as they had done.

When they stopped to change at Coventry, the steam ascended from the horses in such clouds as wholly to obscure the hostler, whose voice was however heard to declare from the mist, that he expected the first gold medal from the Humane Society on their next distribution of rewards, for taking the postboy’s hat off; the water descending from the brim of which, the invisible gentleman declared, must have drowned him (the postboy), but for his great presence of mind in tearing it promptly from his head, and drying the gasping man’s countenance with a wisp of straw.

‘This is pleasant,’ said Bob Sawyer, turning up his coat collar, and pulling the shawl over his mouth to concentrate the fumes of a glass of brandy just swallowed.

‘Wery,’ replied Sam composedly.

‘You don’t seem to mind it,’ observed Bob.

‘Vy, I don’t exactly see no good my mindin’ on it ‘ud do, sir,’ replied Sam.

‘That’s an unanswerable reason, anyhow,’ said Bob.

‘Yes, sir,’ rejoined Mr. Weller. ‘Wotever is, is right, as the young nobleman sweetly remarked wen they put him down in the pension list ‘cos his mother’s uncle’s vife’s grandfather vunce lit the king’s pipe vith a portable tinder-box.’

Not a bad notion that, Sam,’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer approvingly.

‘Just wot the young nobleman said ev’ry quarter-day arterwards for the rest of his life,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘Wos you ever called in,’ inquired Sam, glancing at the driver, after a short silence, and lowering his voice to a mysterious whisper—‘wos you ever called in, when you wos ‘prentice to a sawbones, to wisit a postboy.’

‘I don’t remember that I ever was,’ replied Bob Sawyer.

‘You never see a postboy in that ‘ere hospital as you _walked _(as they says o’ the ghosts), did you?’ demanded Sam.

‘No,’ replied Bob Sawyer. ‘I don’t think I ever did.’

‘Never know’d a churchyard were there wos a postboy’s tombstone, or see a dead postboy, did you?’ inquired Sam, pursuing his catechism.

‘No,’ rejoined Bob, ‘I never did.’

‘No!’ rejoined Sam triumphantly. ‘Nor never vill; and there’s another thing that no man never see, and that’s a dead donkey. No man never see a dead donkey ‘cept the gen’l’m’n in the black silk smalls as know’d the young ‘ooman as kep’ a goat; and that wos a French donkey, so wery likely he warn’t wun o’ the reg’lar breed.’

‘Well, what has that got to do with the postboys?’ asked Bob Sawyer.

‘This here,’ replied Sam. ‘Without goin’ so far as to as-sert, as some wery sensible people do, that postboys and donkeys is both immortal, wot I say is this: that wenever they feels theirselves gettin’ stiff and past their work, they just rides off together, wun postboy to a pair in the usual way; wot becomes on ‘em nobody knows, but it’s wery probable as they starts avay to take their pleasure in some other vorld, for there ain’t a man alive as ever see either a donkey or a postboy a- takin’ his pleasure in this!’

Il signor Pickwick entrò in strada con passi furiosi. Il signor Bob Sawyer, completamente intimidito dal comportamento di quel vecchio gentiluomo, seguì lo stesso percorso. Subito dopo, il cappello del signor Ben Allen rotolò giù per le scale, e poco dopo anche il corpo del signor Ben Allen lo seguì. Tutti andarono a letto in silenzio, senza aver cenato; e il signor Pickwick, poco prima di addormentarsi, pensò che se avesse saputo che il signor Winkle, il maggiore, fosse davvero un uomo così dedito agli affari, probabilmente non lo avrebbe mai servito in una missione del genere.

CAPITOLO LI. IN IL QUALE IL SIGORNO PICKWICK INCONTRA UN VECCHIO CONOSCENTE – A QUESTA FORTUNATA OCCASIONE IL LETTORE DEVE IN GRAN PARTE il suo debito per le avventure appassionanti che vengono qui raccontate, riguardanti due grandi uomini di potere e influenza.

La mattina che si presentò davanti agli occhi di Mr. Pickwick alle otto in punto non era affatto destinata ad elevare il suo spirito, né a alleviare la depressione causata dall’esito inaspettato della sua missione. Il cielo era scuro e cupo, l’aria umida e fredda, le strade bagnate e fangose. Il fumo si attardava sopra i comignoli, come se mancasse il coraggio di salire verso l’alto; la pioggia cadeva lentamente e ostinatamente, come se nemmeno avesse lo spirito di scendere con forza. Nel cortile dello stallo, un gallo da combattimento, privo di ogni traccia della sua solita vivacità, si reggeva malinconicamente su una zampa in un angolo; un asino, con la testa bassa sotto il tetto stretto di un capanno, sembrava, dal suo aspetto meditabondo e miserabile, essere sul punto di compiere il suicidio. Per strada, gli unici oggetti visibili erano gli ombrelli; i soli suoni udibili erano il rumore delle suole che battevano sull’asfalto e lo schizzettio delle gocce di pioggia.

La colazione fu interrotta da pochissime conversazioni; anche il signor Bob Sawyer sentì l’influenza del tempo e dell’eccitazione della giornata precedente. Nel suo modo di esprimersi caratteristico, disse di essere “sbalordito”. Lo stesso valeva per il signor Ben Allen. E anche per il signor Pickwick.

In attesa che il tempo migliorasse, si lessero e rilessero con grande interesse l’ultimo giornale di Londra; si esaminò ogni dettaglio della stanza con la stessa perseveranza riservata solo nei casi di estrema povertà; si guardò fuori dalle finestre così spesso da rendere necessario aggiungere un “dovere” supplementare. Si iniziarono e poi abbandonarono ogni tipo di conversazione; alla fine, quando arrivò mezzogiorno senza alcun miglioramento nelle condizioni meteorologiche, il signor Pickwick suonò risolutamente il campanello e ordinò che si preparasse la carrozza.

Sebbene le strade fossero fangose e la pioggerellina cadeva più intensamente che mai, sebbene il fango e l’acqua schizzassero attraverso le finestre aperte del carrozzone fino a causare grande disagio sia all’interno che all’esterno, c’era qualcosa nel movimento stesso, nella sensazione di essere in movimento e di fare qualcosa, che era infinitamente superiore rispetto al restare rinchiusi in una stanza noiosa a guardare la pioggia monotona cadere su una strada desolata. Così, all’inizio del viaggio, tutti concordarono sul fatto che quel cambiamento rappresentasse un grande miglioramento e si chiesero come avessero potuto ritardare così a lungo nell’approfittarne.

Quando si fermarono a Coventry per fare rifornimento, il vapore sprigionato dai cavalli formò nuvole così dense da oscurare completamente il locandiere; tuttavia la sua voce si udì chiaramente attraverso la nebbia, mentre annunciava che aspettava con impazienza la prima medaglia d’oro conferita dalla Humane Society durante la prossima distribuzione dei premi, per aver tolto il cappello al postino. L’acqua che scorreva dal bordo del recipiente, secondo le parole di quel gentiluomo invisibile, avrebbe sicuramente annegato il postino, se non fosse stato per la sua prontezza nel togliersi immediatamente il cappello e asciugare il viso dell’uomo che stava soffocando con un filo di paglia.

“È piacevole,” disse Bob Sawyer, alzando il colletto del cappotto e tirandosi lo scialle sulla bocca per concentrare i fumi di un bicchiere di brandy appena bevuto.

“Sì,” rispose Sam con calma.

“Sembra che non ti dispiaccia,” osservò Bob.

“Signore, non vedo davvero alcun vantaggio nel farlo,” rispose Sam.

“Comunque, si tratta di una ragione inaccettabile,” disse Bob.

“Sì, signore,” rispose il signor Weller. “Quello che è, è giusto. Come disse gentilmente quel giovane nobile quando venne inserito nell’elenco delle pensioni: ‘Perché la nonna della moglie dello zio di sua madre una volta accese la pipa del re usando una scatola di esca portatile.’”

“Non è una cattiva idea, Sam,” disse il signor Bob Sawyer in tono approvativo.

“Proprio quello che il giovane nobile diceva ogni quarto di mese per il resto della sua vita,” rispose il signor Weller.

“Hai mai chiamato qualcuno?” chiese Sam, guardando il conducente dopo un breve silenzio, e abbassando la voce in un sussurro misterioso: “Hai mai chiamato qualcuno quando eri apprendista di un chirurgo, quando andavi a fare commissioni per i postini?”

“Non ricordo di essere mai stato così,” rispose Bob Sawyer.

“Mai si vede un corriere postale in quell’ospedale, quando si cammina, come dicono loro, tra gli fantasmi, vero?” chiese Sam.

“No,” rispose Bob Sawyer. “Non credo di averlo mai fatto.”

“Non sapevo mai che in un cimitero ci fosse la lapide di un ragazzo che consegnava le lettere, né avevo mai visto un ragazzo del genere morto, vero?” chiese Sam, proseguendo con il suo “catechismo”.

“No,” ribatté Bob, “mai l’ho fatto.”

“No!” ribatté Sam trionfante. “Nemmeno io lo vorrei mai; e c’è un’altra cosa che nessuno ha mai visto, ed è un asino morto. Nessuno ha mai visto un asino morto, tranne quel generale con i calzoni di seta nera che conosceva quella giovane donna che teneva una capra. E quello era un asino francese, quindi molto probabilmente non apparteneva alla razza comune.”

“Beh, cosa c’entra questo con i messaggeri?” chiese Bob Sawyer.

“Questo qui,” rispose Sam. “Senza arrivare al punto di affermare, come fanno alcune persone molto sensate, che sia i postini che gli asini siano immortali. Quello che dico io è questo: ogni volta che si rendono conto di essere diventati troppo vecchi e incapaci di svolgere il loro lavoro, semplicemente se ne vanno insieme. Un postino va con un altro, nel modo abituale. Nessuno sa cosa succede dopo, ma è molto probabile che vadano a cercare piacere in un altro mondo, perché non esiste nessun uomo al mondo che abbia mai visto un asino o un postino divertirsi in questo modo!”

Expatiating upon this learned and remarkable theory, and citing many curious statistical and other facts in its support, Sam Weller beguiled the time until they reached Dunchurch, where a dry postboy and fresh horses were procured; the next stage was Daventry, and the next Towcester; and at the end of each stage it rained harder than it had done at the beginning.

‘I say,’ remonstrated Bob Sawyer, looking in at the coach window, as they pulled up before the door of the Saracen’s Head, Towcester, ‘this won’t do, you know.’

‘Bless me!’ said Mr. Pickwick, just awakening from a nap, ‘I’m afraid you’re wet.’

‘Oh, you are, are you?’ returned Bob. ‘Yes, I am, a little that way, Uncomfortably damp, perhaps.’

Bob did look dampish, inasmuch as the rain was streaming from his neck, elbows, cuffs, skirts, and knees; and his whole apparel shone so with the wet, that it might have been mistaken for a full suit of prepared oilskin.

‘I am rather wet,’ said Bob, giving himself a shake and casting a little hydraulic shower around, like a Newfoundland dog just emerged from the water.

‘I think it’s quite impossible to go on to-night,’ interposed Ben.

‘Out of the question, sir,’ remarked Sam Weller, coming to assist in the conference; ‘it’s a cruelty to animals, sir, to ask ‘em to do it. There’s beds here, sir,’ said Sam, addressing his master, ‘everything clean and comfortable. Wery good little dinner, sir, they can get ready in half an hour—pair of fowls, sir, and a weal cutlet; French beans, ‘taturs, tart, and tidiness. You’d better stop vere you are, sir, if I might recommend. Take adwice, sir, as the doctor said.’

The host of the Saracen’s Head opportunely appeared at this moment, to confirm Mr. Weller’s statement relative to the accommodations of the establishment, and to back his entreaties with a variety of dismal conjectures regarding the state of the roads, the doubt of fresh horses being to be had at the next stage, the dead certainty of its raining all night, the equally mortal certainty of its clearing up in the morning, and other topics of inducement familiar to innkeepers.

‘Well,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘but I must send a letter to London by some conveyance, so that it may be delivered the very first thing in the morning, or I must go forwards at all hazards.’

The landlord smiled his delight. Nothing could be easier than for the gentleman to inclose a letter in a sheet of brown paper, and send it on, either by the mail or the night coach from Birmingham. If the gentleman were particularly anxious to have it left as soon as possible, he might write outside, ‘To be delivered immediately,’ which was sure to be attended to; or ‘Pay the bearer half-a-crown extra for instant delivery,’ which was surer still.

‘Very well,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘then we will stop here.’

‘Lights in the Sun, John; make up the fire; the gentlemen are wet!’ cried the landlord. ‘This way, gentlemen; don’t trouble yourselves about the postboy now, sir. I’ll send him to you when you ring for him, sir. Now, John, the candles.’

The candles were brought, the fire was stirred up, and a fresh log of wood thrown on. In ten minutes’ time, a waiter was laying the cloth for dinner, the curtains were drawn, the fire was blazing brightly, and everything looked (as everything always does, in all decent English inns) as if the travellers had been expected, and their comforts prepared, for days beforehand.

Mr. Pickwick sat down at a side table, and hastily indited a note to Mr. Winkle, merely informing him that he was detained by stress of weather, but would certainly be in London next day; until when he deferred any account of his proceedings. This note was hastily made into a parcel, and despatched to the bar per Mr. Samuel Weller.

Sam left it with the landlady, and was returning to pull his master’s boots off, after drying himself by the kitchen fire, when glancing casually through a half-opened door, he was arrested by the sight of a gentleman with a sandy head who had a large bundle of newspapers lying on the table before him, and was perusing the leading article of one with a settled sneer which curled up his nose and all other features into a majestic expression of haughty contempt.

‘Hollo!’ said Sam, ‘I ought to know that ‘ere head and them features; the eyeglass, too, and the broad-brimmed tile! Eatansvill to vit, or I’m a Roman.’

Sam was taken with a troublesome cough, at once, for the purpose of attracting the gentleman’s attention; the gentleman starting at the sound, raised his head and his eyeglass, and disclosed to view the profound and thoughtful features of Mr. Pott, of the Eatanswill Gazette.

‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir,’ said Sam, advancing with a bow, ‘my master’s here, Mr. Pott.’

‘Hush! hush!’ cried Pott, drawing Sam into the room, and closing the door, with a countenance of mysterious dread and apprehension.

‘Wot’s the matter, Sir?’ inquired Sam, looking vacantly about him.

‘Not a whisper of my name,’ replied Pott; ‘this is a buff neighbourhood. If the excited and irritable populace knew I was here, I should be torn to pieces.’

‘No! Vould you, sir?’ inquired Sam.

‘I should be the victim of their fury,’ replied Pott. ‘Now young man, what of your master?’

‘He’s a-stopping here to-night on his vay to town, with a couple of friends,’ replied Sam.

‘Is Mr. Winkle one of them?’ inquired Pott, with a slight frown.

‘No, Sir. Mr. Vinkle stops at home now,’ rejoined Sam. ‘He’s married.’

‘Married!’ exclaimed Pott, with frightful vehemence. He stopped, smiled darkly, and added, in a low, vindictive tone, ‘It serves him right!’

Having given vent to this cruel ebullition of deadly malice and cold- blooded triumph over a fallen enemy, Mr. Pott inquired whether Mr. Pickwick’s friends were ‘blue?’ Receiving a most satisfactory answer in the affirmative from Sam, who knew as much about the matter as Pott himself, he consented to accompany him to Mr. Pickwick’s room, where a hearty welcome awaited him, and an agreement to club their dinners together was at once made and ratified.

Esplicando in dettaglio questa teoria erudita e notevole, e citando molti fatti statistici e altri elementi curiosi a suo sostegno, Sam Weller fece passare il tempo fino a quando non raggiunsero Dunchurch, dove trovarono un postiglione asciutto e cavalli freschi; la tappa successiva era Daventry, poi Towcester; e alla fine di ogni tappa pioveva ancora più forte di quanto avesse piovuto all’inizio.

“Dico io,” obiettò Bob Sawyer, guardando fuori dalla finestra della carrozza mentre si fermavano davanti al ristorante “Saracen’s Head” a Towcester, “questo non va affatto, lo sai.”

“Che mi benedica!” disse il signor Pickwick, appena svegliato da un pisolino, “Temo che tu sia bagnato.”

“Ah, davvero?” rispose Bob. “Sì, più o meno. Forse un po’ troppo umido, in effetti.”

Bob sembrava davvero bagnato: la pioggia gli scorreva lungo il collo, i gomiti, le maniche, le gambe; tutto il suo abbigliamento brillava per l’umidità, al punto da poter essere scambiato per un intero completo di giubbotto impermeabile.

“Sono abbastanza bagnato,” disse Bob, scuotendosi e spruzzando un po’ d’acqua intorno a sé, come un cane di Terranova appena uscito dall’acqua.

“Penso che sia del tutto impossibile continuare fino a, la notte”, intervenne Ben.

“Assolutamente impossibile, signore,” osservò Sam Weller avvicinandosi per partecipare alla conversazione; “è una crudeltà verso gli animali, signore, chiedere loro di farlo. Qui ci sono letti, signore,” disse Sam rivolgendosi al suo padrone, “tutto pulito e confortevole. C’è anche un ottimo piccolo pasto pronto in mezz’ora: due polli, una bella cotoletta, fagiolini, formaggio, torta. Fareste meglio a fermarvi qui, se posso darvi questo consiglio. Seguite il mio parere, signore, come ha detto anche il dottore.”

In quel momento apparve opportunamente il proprietario dell’ostello “Saracen’s Head”, per confermare le affermazioni del signor Weller riguardo alle strutture disponibili e per sostenere le sue richieste con una serie di previsioni pessimistiche sullo stato delle strade, sulla probabilità di trovare cavalli freschi alla prossima tappa del viaggio, sulla certezza assoluta che avrebbe piovuto tutta la notte e, altrettanto certamente, che il tempo si sarebbe schiarito al mattino, insomma, argomenti tipici di chi gestisce ostelli.

‘Beh,’ disse il signor Pickwick; ‘ma devo inviare una lettera a Londra con qualche mezzo di trasporto, in modo che arrivi entro la prima mattina; altrimenti dovrò partire a tutti i rischi.’

Il proprietario sorrise compiaciuto. Non c’era nulla di più semplice per quel gentiluomo che inserire una lettera in un foglio di carta marrone e inviarla, sia via posta che con il treno notturno da Birmingham. Se desiderava che la lettera venisse consegnata il prima possibile, poteva scrivere sopra: “Da consegnare immediatamente”; in questo caso, l’ordine sarebbe sicuramente stato eseguito. Oppure poteva scrivere: “Pagare mezzo corone in più al corriere per una consegna immediata”, il che garantiva ancora maggiore efficienza.

“Molto bene,” disse il signor Pickwick, “allora ci fermeremo qui.”

“Luci nel sole, John, accendi il fuoco; gli signori sono bagnati!” gridò il padrone di casa. “Da questa parte, signori, non vi preoccupate del postino adesso; lo manderò da voi quando lo chiederete, signore. Ora, John, porta le candele.”

Le candele furono accese, il fuoco fu ravvivato e vi fu gettata una nuova trave di legno. In dieci minuti, un cameriere stava già preparando la tovaglia per la cena; le tende furono chiuse, il fuoco ardeva intensamente, e tutto sembrava (come succede sempre in tutte le oneste locande inglesi) come se i viaggiatori fossero stati attesi da tempo e i loro comfort preparati con giorni di anticipo.

Il signor Pickwick si sedette a un tavolino laterale e scrisse in fretta una nota al signor Winkle, informandolo semplicemente che era trattenuto a causa del cattivo tempo, ma che sicuramente sarebbe arrivato a Londra il giorno seguente; per il momento rinviava qualsiasi spiegazione sui suoi movimenti. Questa nota fu rapidamente confezionata in un pacchetto e inviata al bar tramite il signor Samuel Weller.

Sam lo lasciò con la padrona di casa e stava tornando per togliersi le scarpe del suo padrone, dopo essersi asciugato vicino al forno della cucina, quando, guardando casualmente attraverso una porta semiaperta, fu colpito dalla vista di un gentiluomo con i capelli biondi che aveva davanti a sé un grande mucchio di giornali; stava leggendo l’articolo di testa di uno di essi, con un sorriso sprezzante che gli incurvava il naso e tutte le altre caratteristiche del viso in un’espressione di altezzoso disprezzo.

“Salve!” disse Sam, “Dovrei riconoscere quella testa e quei tratti facciali; anche gli occhiali e il cappello a tesa larga. Devo essere a Eatansvill, altrimenti non sono un vero romano.”

Sam fu colpito da un attacco di tosse particolarmente insistente, proprio nel momento giusto, al fine di attirare l’attenzione del gentiluomo; quest’ultimo, sentendo quel suono, sollevò la testa e gli occhiali, rivelando così i tratti profondi e pensierosi del signor Pott, del “Eatanswill Gazette”.

“Con permesso, signore,” disse Sam, avvicinandosi con un inchino, “il mio padrone è qui, il signor Pott.”

“Zitta! Zitta!” gridò Pott, trascinando Sam dentro la stanza e chiudendo la porta con un’espressione di misterioso terrore e preoccupazione.

“Che c’è che non va, signore?”, chiese Sam, guardandosi intorno con aria perplessa.

“Nessun sussurro sul mio nome,” rispose Pott; “questo è un quartiere pericoloso. Se la folla eccitata e irascibile scoprisse che sono qui, mi farebbero a pezzi.”

“No! Lo vorreste davvero, signore?” chiese Sam.

“Dovrei essere la vittima della loro furia,” rispose Pott. “Ora, giovane uomo, che ne dici del tuo padrone?”

“Si ferma qui per la notte durante il suo viaggio in città, insieme a un paio di amici,” rispose Sam.

“Il signor Winkle è uno di loro?” chiese Pott, con un leggero cipiglio.

“No, signore. Ora il signor Vinkle si ferma a >casa,” rispose Sam. “È sposato.”

“Sposato!”, esclamò Pott con una veemenza terribile. Si fermò, sorrise cupamente e aggiunse, con un tono basso e vendicativo: “Gli è proprio servito!”

Dopo aver dato sfogo a questa crudele esplosione di malvagità letale e trionfo spietato su un nemico sconfitto, il signor Pott chiese se gli amici del signor Pickwick fossero “disponibili”. Ricevendo una risposta affermativa molto soddisfacente da Sam, che ne sapeva tanto quanto Pott stesso, acconsentì ad accompagnarlo nella stanza del signor Pickwick, dove lo aspettava un caloroso benvenuto. Fu subito concordato e confermato l’impegno a pranzare insieme.

‘And how are matters going on in Eatanswill?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, when Pott had taken a seat near the fire, and the whole party had got their wet boots off, and dry slippers on. ‘Is the Independent still in being?’

‘The Independent, sir,’ replied Pott, ‘is still dragging on a wretched and lingering career. Abhorred and despised by even the few who are cognisant of its miserable and disgraceful existence, stifled by the very filth it so profusely scatters, rendered deaf and blind by the exhalations of its own slime, the obscene journal, happily unconscious of its degraded state, is rapidly sinking beneath that treacherous mud which, while it seems to give it a firm standing with the low and debased classes of society, is nevertheless rising above its detested head, and will speedily engulf it for ever.’

Having delivered this manifesto (which formed a portion of his last week’s leader) with vehement articulation, the editor paused to take breath, and looked majestically at Bob Sawyer.

‘You are a young man, sir,’ said Pott.

Mr. Bob Sawyer nodded.

‘So are you, sir,’ said Pott, addressing Mr. Ben Allen.

Ben admitted the soft impeachment.

‘And are both deeply imbued with those blue principles, which, so long as I live, I have pledged myself to the people of these kingdoms to support and to maintain?’ suggested Pott.

‘Why, I don’t exactly know about that,’ replied Bob Sawyer. ‘I am—’

‘Not buff, Mr. Pickwick,’ interrupted Pott, drawing back his chair, ‘your friend is not buff, sir?’

‘No, no,’ rejoined Bob, ‘I’m a kind of plaid at present; a compound of all sorts of colours.’

‘A waverer,’ said Pott solemnly, ‘a waverer. I should like to show you a series of eight articles, Sir, that have appeared in the Eatanswill Gazette. I think I may venture to say that you would not be long in establishing your opinions on a firm and solid blue basis, sir.’

I dare say I should turn very blue, long before I got to the end of them,’ responded Bob.

Mr. Pott looked dubiously at Bob Sawyer for some seconds, and, turning to Mr. Pickwick, said—

‘You have seen the literary articles which have appeared at intervals in the Eatanswill Gazette in the course of the last three months, and which have excited such general—I may say such universal—attention and admiration?’

‘Why,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, slightly embarrassed by the question, ‘the fact is, I have been so much engaged in other ways, that I really have not had an opportunity of perusing them.’

‘You should do so, Sir,’ said Pott, with a severe countenance.

‘I will,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘They appeared in the form of a copious review of a work on Chinese metaphysics, Sir,’ said Pott.

‘Oh,’ observed Mr. Pickwick; ‘from your pen, I hope?’

‘From the pen of my critic, Sir,’ rejoined Pott, with dignity.

‘An abstruse subject, I should conceive,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Very, Sir,’ responded Pott, looking intensely sage. ‘He _crammed _for it, to use a technical but expressive term; he read up for the subject, at my desire, in the “Encyclopaedia Britannica.”’

‘Indeed!’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘I was not aware that that valuable work contained any information respecting Chinese metaphysics.’

‘He read, Sir,’ rejoined Pott, laying his hand on Mr. Pickwick’s knee, and looking round with a smile of intellectual superiority—‘he read for metaphysics under the letter M, and for China under the letter C, and combined his information, Sir!’

Mr. Pott’s features assumed so much additional grandeur at the recollection of the power and research displayed in the learned effusions in question, that some minutes elapsed before Mr. Pickwick felt emboldened to renew the conversation; at length, as the editor’s countenance gradually relaxed into its customary expression of moral supremacy, he ventured to resume the discourse by asking—

‘Is it fair to inquire what great object has brought you so far from home?’

‘That object which actuates and animates me in all my gigantic labours, Sir,’ replied Pott, with a calm smile: ‘my country’s good.’

I supposed it was some public mission,’ observed Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes, Sir,’ resumed Pott, ‘it is.’ Here, bending towards Mr. Pickwick, he whispered in a deep, hollow voice, ‘A Buff ball, Sir, will take place in Birmingham to-morrow evening.’

‘God bless me!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes, Sir, and supper,’ added Pott.

‘You don’t say so!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick.

Pott nodded portentously.

Now, although Mr. Pickwick feigned to stand aghast at this disclosure, he was so little versed in local politics that he was unable to form an adequate comprehension of the importance of the dire conspiracy it referred to; observing which, Mr. Pott, drawing forth the last number of the Eatanswill Gazette, and referring to the same, delivered himself of the following paragraph:—

HOLE-AND-CORNER BUFFERY.

‘A reptile contemporary has recently sweltered forth his black venom in the vain and hopeless attempt of sullying the fair name of our distinguished and excellent representative, the Honourable Mr. Slumkey— that Slumkey whom we, long before he gained his present noble and exalted position, predicted would one day be, as he now is, at once his country’s brightest honour, and her proudest boast: alike her bold defender and her honest pride—our reptile contemporary, we say, has made himself merry, at the expense of a superbly embossed plated coal- scuttle, which has been presented to that glorious man by his enraptured constituents, and towards the purchase of which, the nameless wretch insinuates, the Honourable Mr. Slumkey himself contributed, through a confidential friend of his butler’s, more than three-fourths of the whole sum subscribed. Why, does not the crawling creature see, that even if this be the fact, the Honourable Mr. Slumkey only appears in a still more amiable and radiant light than before, if that be possible? Does not even his obtuseness perceive that this amiable and touching desire to carry out the wishes of the constituent body, must for ever endear him to the hearts and souls of such of his fellow townsmen as are not worse than swine; or, in other words, who are not as debased as our contemporary himself? But such is the wretched trickery of hole-and- corner Buffery! These are not its only artifices. Treason is abroad. We boldly state, now that we are goaded to the disclosure, and we throw ourselves on the country and its constables for protection—we boldly state that secret preparations are at this moment in progress for a Buff ball; which is to be held in a Buff town, in the very heart and centre of a Buff population; which is to be conducted by a Buff master of the ceremonies; which is to be attended by four ultra Buff members of Parliament, and the admission to which, is to be by Buff tickets! Does our fiendish contemporary wince? Let him writhe, in impotent malice, as we pen the words, We will be there.’

“E come vanno le cose a Eatanswill?”, chiese il signor Pickwick quando Pott si fu seduto vicino al focolare, e tutti ebbero tolto gli stivali bagnati e messo i pantofoli asciutti. “Il Independent esiste ancora?”

“‘The Independent’, signore”, rispose Pott, “continua ancora a proseguire una carriera miserabile e interminabile. Odio e disprezzo sono riservati anche da quei pochi che conoscono la sua esistenza infima e vergognosa; soffocata dalla stessa sporcizia che diffonde ovunque, accecata e assordita dai suoi stessi esalazioni disgustose, quella rivista oscena, ignara felicemente del proprio stato decaduto, sta rapidamente affondando in quel fango traditore che, sebbene sembri offrirle un punto d’appoggio tra le classi basse e degenerate della società, in realtà sta lentamente sommergendola per sempre.”

Dopo aver pronunciato con grande fervore questo manifesto (che faceva parte del suo discorso della scorsa settimana), l’editore fece una pausa per riprendere fiato e guardò con aria maestosa Bob Sawyer.

“È un giovane uomo, signore,” disse Pott.

Il signor Bob Sawyer annuì.

“Anch’io lo so, signore,” disse Pott rivolgendosi al signor Ben Allen.

Ben accettò volontariamente questa forma blanda di “impeachment”.

“E sono entrambi profondamente permeati da quei principi fondamentali. Principi che, finché vivo, ho promesso di sostenere e difendere per il popolo di questi regni”, suggerì Pott.

“Beh, non ne sono proprio sicuro,” rispose Bob Sawyer. “Io sono, ”

“Non è robusto, signor Pickwick”, interruppe Pott, tirando indietro la sua sedia, “il suo amico non è robusto, signore?”

“No, no,” ribatté Bob, “al momento sono una sorta di tessuto a quadri; un insieme di tutti i tipi di colori.”

“Un indeciso,” disse Pott con solennità, “un indeciso. Vorrei mostrarvi una serie di otto articoli, signore, apparsi sul ‘Eatanswill Gazette’. Credo di poter azzardare l’affermazione che non ci vorrà molto perché voi stabiliate le vostre opinioni su basi solide e ferme, signore.”

“Oserei dire che diventerei molto pallido, molto prima di arrivare alla fine di quelle cose,” rispose Bob.

Il signor Pott guardò con scetticismo Bob Sawyer per alcuni secondi, poi si rivolse al signor Pickwick e disse:

Avete letto gli articoli letterari che sono apparsi a intervalli nel “Eatanswill Gazette” negli ultimi tre mesi, e che hanno suscitato un’attenzione e un’ammirazione così diffuse, potrei dire addirittura universali?

“Perché,” rispose il signor Pickwick, leggermente imbarazzato dalla domanda, “il fatto è che sono stato così impegnato in altre cose che davvero non ho avuto l’opportunità di leggerle.”

“Dovreste farlo, signore,” disse Pott, con un’espressione severa.

“Lo farò,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Sono apparsi sotto forma di una lunga recensione di un’opera sulla metafisica cinese, signore,” disse Pott.

“Ah,” osservò il signor Pickwick; “spero che sia scritto dalla tua penna, ”

“Dalla penna del mio critico, signore,” rispose Pott con dignità.

“Un argomento assai complesso, direi,” osservò il signor Pickwick.

“Certamente, signore,” rispose Pott, con un’espressione estremamente seria. “Ha studiato intensamente sull’argomento, per usare un termine tecnico ma efficace; ha letto tutto ciò che c’era da leggere sull’argomento, su mia richiesta, nell‘Enciclopedia Britannica’.”

“Certamente!”, disse il signor Pickwick; “Non sapevo che quel prezioso lavoro contenesse informazioni sulla metafisica cinese.”

“Ha letto, signore,” rispose Pott, posando la mano sul ginocchio del signor Pickwick e guardandosi intorno con un sorriso di superiorità intellettuale; “ha studiato la metafisica sotto la lettera ‘M’ e la Cina sotto la lettera ‘C’, e ha combinato le sue informazioni, signore!”

Le sembianze del signor Pott assunsero una grandezza ancora maggiore al ricordo del potere e della profondità dimostrati in quelle erudite dissertazioni; trascorsero alcuni minuti prima che il signor Pickwick si sentisse abbastanza coraggioso da riprendere la conversazione. Alla fine, quando l’espressione del volto dell’editore si rilassò gradualmente, tornando alla sua solita aria di supremazia morale, egli osò riprendere il discorso chiedendo.

“È giusto chiedere quale grande scopo vi abbia portato così lontano da >casa?”

“Quell’oggetto che mi dà la forza e l’energia per compiere tutti questi imponenti sforzi,” rispose Pott con un sorriso sereno, “è il bene della mia patria.”

“Suppongo si trattasse di qualche missione pubblica,” osservò il signor Pickwick.

“Sì, signore,” continuò Pott, “è proprio così.” Poi, chinandosi verso il signor Pickwick, sussurrò con una voce profonda e cavernosa: “Domani sera si terrà a Birmingham una festa in maschera, signore.”

“Dio mi benedica!”, esclamò il signor Pickwick.

“Sì, signore, e anche la cena,” aggiunse Pott.

“Non dici mica!” esclamò il signor Pickwick.

Pott annuì in modo significativo.

Ora, sebbene il signor Pickwick fingesse di essere sbalordito da questa rivelazione, conosceva così poco la politica locale che non fu in grado di comprendere appieno l’importanza della terribile cospirazione di cui si parlava; notando ciò, il signor Pott tirò fuori l’ultimo numero del Gazette di Eatanswill e, facendo riferimento ad esso, pronunciò il seguente passaggio:–

Buffering in every possible situation.

Un “rettile contemporaneo” ha recentemente versato il proprio veleno nero nel vano e disperato tentativo di macchiare la nobile reputazione del nostro distinto ed eccellente rappresentante, l’onorevole signor Slumkey. Quel Slumkey che noi, molto tempo prima che raggiungesse la sua attuale posizione nobile ed elevata, avevamo predetto che un giorno sarebbe stato, proprio come è ora, allo stesso tempo il più luminoso onore della sua nazione e il suo più grande vanto: sia il suo coraggioso difensore che l’orgoglio sincero del suo popolo. Questo “rettile contemporaneo”, dunque, si è divertito a scapito di una splendida coppa in metallo regalata a quell’uomo glorioso dai suoi entusiasti elettori; per l’acquisto della quale, secondo quel miserabile senza nome, lo stesso onorevole signor Slumkey avrebbe contribuito, attraverso un amico fidato del suo maggiordomo, con più di tre quarti dell’intera somma raccolta. Ma perché mai questa creatura strisciante non capisce che, anche se fosse vero, l’onorevole signor Slumkey appare ancora più amabile e radioso di prima. Se ciò è possibile, ovviamente! E nemmeno la sua ottusità riesce a comprendere che questo desiderio sincero e commovente di esaudire i voleri dei propri elettori non farà altro che renderlo ancora più amato dai cittadini onesti della sua città. In altre parole, da coloro che non sono così decaduti come lui stesso. Ma questa è proprio la miserabile astuzia di quel Buffery! E questi non sono gli unici suoi trucchi. La tradizione regna ovunque. Ora, spinti a rivelare tutto questo, ci affidiamo alla protezione del paese e delle sue forze dell’ordine. Affermiamo con coraggio che in questo momento stanno avvenendo segreti preparativi per un “ballo Buff”; che si terrà in una città dominata dai Buff, nel cuore stesso di quella popolazione; che sarà organizzato da un maestro delle cerimonie appartenente al gruppo dei Buff; che vi parteciperanno quattro membri estremamente conservatori del Parlamento. E l’ingresso sarà possibile soltanto con biglietti “Buff”. Il nostro malvagio contemporaneo trema forse? Lasciatelo contorcersi di rabbia impotente, mentre scriviamo queste parole: Noi ci saremo.

‘There, Sir,’ said Pott, folding up the paper quite exhausted, ‘that is the state of the case!’

The landlord and waiter entering at the moment with dinner, caused Mr. Pott to lay his finger on his lips, in token that he considered his life in Mr. Pickwick’s hands, and depended on his secrecy. Messrs. Bob Sawyer and Benjamin Allen, who had irreverently fallen asleep during the reading of the quotation from the Eatanswill Gazette, and the discussion which followed it, were roused by the mere whispering of the talismanic word ‘Dinner’ in their ears; and to dinner they went with good digestion waiting on appetite, and health on both, and a waiter on all three.

In the course of the dinner and the sitting which succeeded it, Mr. Pott descending, for a few moments, to domestic topics, informed Mr. Pickwick that the air of Eatanswill not agreeing with his lady, she was then engaged in making a tour of different fashionable watering-places with a view to the recovery of her wonted health and spirits; this was a delicate veiling of the fact that Mrs. Pott, acting upon her often- repeated threat of separation, had, in virtue of an arrangement negotiated by her brother, the lieutenant, and concluded by Mr. Pott, permanently retired with the faithful bodyguard upon one moiety or half part of the annual income and profits arising from the editorship and sale of the Eatanswill Gazette.

While the great Mr. Pott was dwelling upon this and other matters, enlivening the conversation from time to time with various extracts from his own lucubrations, a stern stranger, calling from the window of a stage-coach, outward bound, which halted at the inn to deliver packages, requested to know whether if he stopped short on his journey and remained there for the night, he could be furnished with the necessary accommodation of a bed and bedstead.

‘Certainly, sir,’ replied the landlord.

‘I can, can I?’ inquired the stranger, who seemed habitually suspicious in look and manner.

‘No doubt of it, Sir,’ replied the landlord.

‘Good,’ said the stranger. ‘Coachman, I get down here. Guard, my carpet- bag!’

Bidding the other passengers good-night, in a rather snappish manner, the stranger alighted. He was a shortish gentleman, with very stiff black hair cut in the porcupine or blacking-brush style, and standing stiff and straight all over his head; his aspect was pompous and threatening; his manner was peremptory; his eyes were sharp and restless; and his whole bearing bespoke a feeling of great confidence in himself, and a consciousness of immeasurable superiority over all other people.

This gentleman was shown into the room originally assigned to the patriotic Mr. Pott; and the waiter remarked, in dumb astonishment at the singular coincidence, that he had no sooner lighted the candles than the gentleman, diving into his hat, drew forth a newspaper, and began to read it with the very same expression of indignant scorn, which, upon the majestic features of Pott, had paralysed his energies an hour before. The man observed too, that, whereas Mr. Pott’s scorn had been roused by a newspaper headed the Eatanswill Independent, this gentleman’s withering contempt was awakened by a newspaper entitled the Eatanswill Gazette.

‘Send the landlord,’ said the stranger.

‘Yes, sir,’ rejoined the waiter.

The landlord was sent, and came.

‘Are you the landlord?’ inquired the gentleman.

‘I am sir,’ replied the landlord.

‘Do you know me?’ demanded the gentleman.

‘I have not had that pleasure, Sir,’ rejoined the landlord.

‘My name is Slurk,’ said the gentleman.

The landlord slightly inclined his head.

‘Slurk, sir,’ repeated the gentleman haughtily. ‘Do you know me now, man?’

The landlord scratched his head, looked at the ceiling, and at the stranger, and smiled feebly.

‘Do you know me, man?’ inquired the stranger angrily.

The landlord made a strong effort, and at length replied, ‘Well, Sir, I do not know you.’

‘Great Heaven!’ said the stranger, dashing his clenched fist upon the table. ‘And this is popularity!’

The landlord took a step or two towards the door; the stranger fixing his eyes upon him, resumed.

‘This,’ said the stranger—‘this is gratitude for years of labour and study in behalf of the masses. I alight wet and weary; no enthusiastic crowds press forward to greet their champion; the church bells are silent; the very name elicits no responsive feeling in their torpid bosoms. It is enough,’ said the agitated Mr. Slurk, pacing to and fro, ‘to curdle the ink in one’s pen, and induce one to abandon their cause for ever.’

‘Did you say brandy-and-water, Sir?’ said the landlord, venturing a hint.

‘Rum,’ said Mr. Slurk, turning fiercely upon him. ‘Have you got a fire anywhere?’

‘We can light one directly, Sir,’ said the landlord.

‘Which will throw out no heat until it is bed-time,’ interrupted Mr. Slurk. ‘Is there anybody in the kitchen?’

Not a soul. There was a beautiful fire. Everybody had gone, and the house door was closed for the night.

‘I will drink my rum-and-water,’ said Mr. Slurk, ‘by the kitchen fire.’ So, gathering up his hat and newspaper, he stalked solemnly behind the landlord to that humble apartment, and throwing himself on a settle by the fireside, resumed his countenance of scorn, and began to read and drink in silent dignity.

Now, some demon of discord, flying over the Saracen’s Head at that moment, on casting down his eyes in mere idle curiosity, happened to behold Slurk established comfortably by the kitchen fire, and Pott slightly elevated with wine in another room; upon which the malicious demon, darting down into the last-mentioned apartment with inconceivable rapidity, passed at once into the head of Mr. Bob Sawyer, and prompted him for his (the demon’s) own evil purpose to speak as follows:—

‘I say, we’ve let the fire out. It’s uncommonly cold after the rain, isn’t it?’

“Ecco, signore,” disse Pott, ripiegando il foglio con evidente stanchezza, “questo è lo stato della situazione!”

Il proprietario e il cameriere che entrarono in quel momento con la cena fecero sì che il signor Pott posasse un dito sulle labbra, come segno che considerava la sua vita nelle mani del signor Pickwick e si fidava della sua discrezione. I signori Bob Sawyer e Benjamin Allen, che avevano sonnecchiato durante la lettura della citazione tratta dal Eatanswill Gazette e la successiva discussione, furono svegliati soltanto dal sussurro della parola magica “Cena”; andarono quindi a tavola con buon appetito, in ottima salute, e accompagnati da un cameriere per tutti e tre.

Durante la cena e il successivo incontro, il signor Pott, abbassandosi per un momento su argomenti domestici, informò il signor Pickwick che l’aria di Eatanswill non faceva bene alla sua moglie, quindi lei si era recata in diversi luoghi di villeggiatura alla moda nel tentativo di ripristinare la propria salute e il proprio spirito. Questo era in realtà un modo delicato per nascondere il fatto che la signora Pott, attuando la sua minaccia ricorrente di separarsi, si era ritirata definitivamente con il fedele “guardiano del corpo”, usufruendo di metà degli introiti annuali derivanti dalla direzione e dalla vendita del Gazette di Eatanswill. L’accordo era stato negoziato dal fratello della signora Pott, un tenente militare, e poi definitivamente concordato dal signor Pott stesso.

Mentre il grande signor Pott discuteva di queste e altre cose, ravvivando la conversazione di tanto in tanto con vari estratti delle sue riflessioni personali, un estraneo austero, chiamando dal finestrino di una diligenza in partenza che si era fermata all’osteria per consegnare pacchi, chiese se, qualora si fermasse lì per la notte, gli fosse possibile ottenere un alloggio con letto e cassapanca.

“Certamente, signore,” rispose il proprietario dell’alloggio.

“Posso farlo, vero?”, chiese lo sconosciuto, il cui aspetto e i cui modi sembravano denotare una costante diffidenza.

“Nessun >dubbio al riguardo, signore,” rispose il padrone di casa.

“Bene,” disse lo sconosciuto. “Cochiere, fermati qui; attenzione, il mio borsone!”

Salutando gli altri passeggeri con un tono piuttosto brusco di notte, lo sconosciuto scese dalla nave. Era un signore di statura media, con i capelli neri molto rigidi tagliati in modo ordinato; si muoveva in modo rigido e impettoso; il suo aspetto era pomposo e minaccioso; il suo comportamento era autoritario; i suoi occhi erano acuti e inquieti; l’intera sua postura trasmetteva una grande fiducia in se stesso, nonché la consapevolezza di una superiorità incommensurabile rispetto a tutte le altre persone.

Questo signore fu fatto entrare nella stanza originariamente assegnata al patriottico signor Pott; il cameriere, in silenziosa meraviglia di fronte a questa strana coincidenza, osservò che non appena aveva acceso le candele, il signore, infilando la mano nel cappello, ne estrasse un giornale e iniziò a leggerlo con lo stesso espressione di indignato disprezzo che, un’ora prima, sul volto maestoso del signor Pott, aveva paralizzato tutte le sue energie. Il cameriere notò anche che, mentre il disprezzo del signor Pott era stato suscitato da un giornale intitolato “Eatanswill Independent”, il disprezzo gelido di questo nuovo signore era stato provocato da un giornale chiamato “Eatanswill Gazette”.

“Mandate il proprietario,” disse lo sconosciuto.

“Sì, signore,” rispose il cameriere.

Il proprietario fu chiamato e arrivò.

“È lei il proprietario?” chiese il signore.

“Sono il padrone,” rispose l’affittuatore.

“Mi conosci?” chiese il gentiluomo.

“Non ho avuto tale piacere, signore,” rispose il padrone di casa.

“Mi chiamo Slurk,” disse il gentiluomo.

Il proprietario inclinò leggermente la testa.

“Slurk, signore,” ripeté il gentiluomo con aria sprezzante. “Ora mi riconoscete, vero?”

Il proprietario si grattò la testa, guardò il soffitto e poi lo sconosciuto, e sorrise debolmente.

“Mi conosci, amico?” chiese l’estraneo con rabbia.

Il proprietario fece un grande sforzo e, alla fine, rispose: “Beh, signore, non vi conosco.”

“Mio Dio!” esclamò lo sconosciuto, battendo il pugno chiuso sul tavolo. “E questa è la popolarità, ”

Il proprietario di casa fece un paio di passi verso la porta; lo sconosciuto, fissandolo con lo sguardo, continuò a parlare.

“Questo,” disse lo sconosciuto, “è il segno della gratitudine per anni di lavoro e studio a beneficio delle masse. Sono giunto fradicio e stanco; nessuna folla entusiasta si affretta ad accogliere il proprio campione; le campane della chiesa tacciono; persino il nome stesso non suscita alcuna reazione nei loro cuori indolenti. È sufficiente,” disse il turbato signor Slurk, camminando avanti e indietro, “per far solidificare l’inchiostro nella penna di uno e spingerlo ad abbandonare per sempre la propria causa.”

“Ha detto brandy e acqua, signore?”, chiese il padrone di casa, osando fare un suggerimento.

“Rum,” disse il signor Slurk, girandosi bruscamente verso di lui. “Hai qualche posto dove c’è un fuoco?”

“Possiamo accenderne uno direttamente, signore,” disse il proprietario dell’alloggio.

“Non rilascerà calore fino all’ora di andare a letto,” interruppe il signor Slurk. “C’è qualcuno in cucina?”

Nessuna ‘anima. C’era solo un bellissimo fuoco. Tutti se n’erano andati, e la porta della casa era chiusa per la notte.

“Beverò il mio rum e acqua,” disse il signor Slurk, “vicino al fuoco della cucina.” Così, raccolto cappello e giornale, seguì solennemente il proprietario di casa fino a quell’umile appartamento; si gettò su un divano accanto al camino, riprese l’espressione di disprezzo e iniziò a leggere e bere con dignità silenziosa.

Ora, qualche demone del disordine, che in quel momento volava sopra la testa del Saraceno, abbassando lo sguardo per pura curiosità, vide casualmente Slurk seduto comodamente accanto al fuoco della cucina, e Pott leggermente ubriaco in un’altra stanza; allora il malvagio demone, precipitandosi con incredibile velocità nella seconda stanza, entrò immediatamente nella testa di Mr. Bob Sawyer e lo spinse, per i propri scopi malvagi, a dire quanto segue:

“Dico, abbiamo lasciato uscire il fuoco. Fa un freddo insolito dopo la pioggia, non è vero?”

‘It really is,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, shivering.

‘It wouldn’t be a bad notion to have a cigar by the kitchen fire, would it?’ said Bob Sawyer, still prompted by the demon aforesaid.

‘It would be particularly comfortable, I think,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘Mr. Pott, what do you say?’

Mr. Pott yielded a ready assent; and all four travellers, each with his glass in his hand, at once betook themselves to the kitchen, with Sam Weller heading the procession to show them the way.

The stranger was still reading; he looked up and started. Mr. Pott started.

‘What’s the matter?’ whispered Mr. Pickwick.

‘That reptile!’ replied Pott.

‘What reptile?’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking about him for fear he should tread on some overgrown black beetle, or dropsical spider.

‘That reptile,’ whispered Pott, catching Mr. Pickwick by the arm, and pointing towards the stranger. ‘That reptile Slurk, of the Independent!’

‘Perhaps we had better retire,’ whispered Mr. Pickwick.

‘Never, Sir,’ rejoined Pott, pot-valiant in a double sense—‘never.’ With these words, Mr. Pott took up his position on an opposite settle, and selecting one from a little bundle of newspapers, began to read against his enemy.

Mr. Pott, of course read the Independent, and Mr. Slurk, of course, read the Gazette; and each gentleman audibly expressed his contempt at the other’s compositions by bitter laughs and sarcastic sniffs; whence they proceeded to more open expressions of opinion, such as ‘absurd,’ ‘wretched,’ ‘atrocity,’ ‘humbug,’ ‘knavery’, ‘dirt,’ ‘filth,’ ‘slime,’ ‘ditch-water,’ and other critical remarks of the like nature.

Both Mr. Bob Sawyer and Mr. Ben Allen had beheld these symptoms of rivalry and hatred, with a degree of delight which imparted great additional relish to the cigars at which they were puffing most vigorously. The moment they began to flag, the mischievous Mr. Bob Sawyer, addressing Slurk with great politeness, said—

‘Will you allow me to look at your paper, Sir, when you have quite done with it?’

‘You will find very little to repay you for your trouble in this contemptible thing, sir,’ replied Slurk, bestowing a Satanic frown on Pott.

‘You shall have this presently,’ said Pott, looking up, pale with rage, and quivering in his speech, from the same cause. ‘Ha! ha! you will be amused with this fellow’s audacity.’

Terrible emphasis was laid upon ‘thing’ and ‘fellow’; and the faces of both editors began to glow with defiance.

‘The ribaldry of this miserable man is despicably disgusting,’ said Pott, pretending to address Bob Sawyer, and scowling upon Slurk.

Here, Mr. Slurk laughed very heartily, and folding up the paper so as to get at a fresh column conveniently, said, that the blockhead really amused him.

‘What an impudent blunderer this fellow is,’ said Pott, turning from pink to crimson.

‘Did you ever read any of this man’s foolery, Sir?’ inquired Slurk of Bob Sawyer.

‘Never,’ replied Bob; ‘is it very bad?’

‘Oh, shocking! shocking!’ rejoined Slurk.

‘Really! Dear me, this is too atrocious!’ exclaimed Pott, at this juncture; still feigning to be absorbed in his reading.

‘If you can wade through a few sentences of malice, meanness, falsehood, perjury, treachery, and cant,’ said Slurk, handing the paper to Bob, ‘you will, perhaps, be somewhat repaid by a laugh at the style of this ungrammatical twaddler.’

‘What’s that you said, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Pott, looking up, trembling all over with passion.

‘What’s that to you, sir?’ replied Slurk.

‘Ungrammatical twaddler, was it, sir?’ said Pott.

‘Yes, sir, it was,’ replied Slurk; ‘and blue bore, Sir, if you like that better; ha! ha!’

Mr. Pott retorted not a word at this jocose insult, but deliberately folded up his copy of the Independent, flattened it carefully down, crushed it beneath his boot, spat upon it with great ceremony, and flung it into the fire.

‘There, sir,’ said Pott, retreating from the stove, ‘and that’s the way I would serve the viper who produces it, if I were not, fortunately for him, restrained by the laws of my country.’

‘Serve him so, sir!’ cried Slurk, starting up. ‘Those laws shall never be appealed to by him, sir, in such a case. Serve him so, sir!’

‘Hear! hear!’ said Bob Sawyer.

‘Nothing can be fairer,’ observed Mr. Ben Allen.

‘Serve him so, sir!’ reiterated Slurk, in a loud voice.

Mr. Pott darted a look of contempt, which might have withered an anchor.

‘Serve him so, sir!’ reiterated Slurk, in a louder voice than before.

‘I will not, sir,’ rejoined Pott.

‘Oh, you won’t, won’t you, sir?’ said Mr. Slurk, in a taunting manner; ‘you hear this, gentlemen! He won’t; not that he’s afraid—, oh, no! he won’t. Ha! ha!’

‘I consider you, sir,’ said Mr. Pott, moved by this sarcasm, ‘I consider you a viper. I look upon you, sir, as a man who has placed himself beyond the pale of society, by his most audacious, disgraceful, and abominable public conduct. I view you, sir, personally and politically, in no other light than as a most unparalleled and unmitigated viper.’

The indignant Independent did not wait to hear the end of this personal denunciation; for, catching up his carpet-bag, which was well stuffed with movables, he swung it in the air as Pott turned away, and, letting it fall with a circular sweep on his head, just at that particular angle of the bag where a good thick hairbrush happened to be packed, caused a sharp crash to be heard throughout the kitchen, and brought him at once to the ground.

‘Gentlemen,’ cried Mr. Pickwick, as Pott started up and seized the fire- shovel—‘gentlemen! Consider, for Heaven’s sake—help—Sam—here—pray, gentlemen—interfere, somebody.’

Uttering these incoherent exclamations, Mr. Pickwick rushed between the infuriated combatants just in time to receive the carpet-bag on one side of his body, and the fire-shovel on the other. Whether the representatives of the public feeling of Eatanswill were blinded by animosity, or (being both acute reasoners) saw the advantage of having a third party between them to bear all the blows, certain it is that they paid not the slightest attention to Mr. Pickwick, but defying each other with great spirit, plied the carpet-bag and the fire-shovel most fearlessly. Mr. Pickwick would unquestionably have suffered severely for his humane interference, if Mr. Weller, attracted by his master’s cries, had not rushed in at the moment, and, snatching up a meal-sack, effectually stopped the conflict by drawing it over the head and shoulders of the mighty Pott, and clasping him tight round the shoulders.

‘Take away that ‘ere bag from the t’other madman,’ said Sam to Ben Allen and Bob Sawyer, who had done nothing but dodge round the group, each with a tortoise-shell lancet in his hand, ready to bleed the first man stunned. ‘Give it up, you wretched little creetur, or I’ll smother you in it.’

Awed by these threats, and quite out of breath, the Independent suffered himself to be disarmed; and Mr. Weller, removing the extinguisher from Pott, set him free with a caution.

‘You take yourselves off to bed quietly,’ said Sam, ‘or I’ll put you both in it, and let you fight it out vith the mouth tied, as I vould a dozen sich, if they played these games. And you have the goodness to come this here way, sir, if you please.’

Thus addressing his master, Sam took him by the arm, and led him off, while the rival editors were severally removed to their beds by the landlord, under the inspection of Mr. Bob Sawyer and Mr. Benjamin Allen; breathing, as they went away, many sanguinary threats, and making vague appointments for mortal combat next day. When they came to think it over, however, it occurred to them that they could do it much better in print, so they recommenced deadly hostilities without delay; and all Eatanswill rung with their boldness—on paper.

They had taken themselves off in separate coaches, early next morning, before the other travellers were stirring; and the weather having now cleared up, the chaise companions once more turned their faces to London.

“Davvero,” rispose il signor Pickwick, tremando.

“Non sarebbe una cattiva idea avere un sigaro vicino al fuoco in cucina, vero?” disse Bob Sawyer, ancora spinto da quel demone menzionato prima.

“Sarebbe particolarmente confortevole, penso,” rispose il signor Pickwick.
“Signor Pott, che ne pensate?”

Il signor Pott acconsentì prontamente; e i quattro viaggiatori, ognuno con il proprio bicchiere in mano, si diressero immediatamente verso la cucina, con Sam Weller che guidava il gruppo per indicare loro la strada.

Lo sconosciuto continuava a leggere; alzò lo sguardo e iniziò a parlare. Il signor Pott iniziò a raccontare.

“Che c’è che non va?” sussurrò il signor Pickwick.

“Quel rettile!” rispose Pott.

“Quale rettile?” disse il signor Pickwick, guardandosi intorno con timore di calpestare qualche scarabeo nero cresciuto troppo o una ragnatela.

“Quel rettile, ”, sussurrò Pott, afferrando il braccio di Mr. Pickwick e indicando verso lo sconosciuto. “Quel maledetto Slurk, del Independent!”

“Forse sarebbe meglio che ci ritirassimo,” sussurrò il signor Pickwick.

“Mai, signore,” rispose Pott, con un coraggio davvero doppio, “Mai.”
Dopo queste parole, il signor Pott si sistemò su una sedia opposta e, selezionando un giornale da un piccolo mazzo, iniziò a leggere, sfidando il suo avversario.

Naturalmente, il signor Pott leggeva l’Independent, e naturalmente il signor Slurk leggeva il Gazette; entrambi esprimevano apertamente il proprio disprezzo per le opere dell’altro con risate amare e sospiri sarcastici; da qui passarono a commenti ancora più espliciti, come “assurdo”, “orribile”, “atrocità”, “farsa”, “inganno”, “sporcizia”, “immondizia” e altre espressioni simili di questo tenore.

Sia il signor Bob Sawyer che il signor Ben Allen avevano osservato questi segni di rivalità e odio, provando un certo piacere che rendeva ancora più deliziosi i sigari che fumavano con grande gusto. Non appena iniziarono ad affaticarsi, il malizioso signor Bob Sawyer, parlando a Slurk con grande cortesia, disse.

“Mi permetterà di dare un’occhiata al suo documento, signore, una volta che l’avrà terminato?”

“Non troverete quasi nulla che possa ripagare le vostre fatiche per questa spregevole cosa, signore,” rispose Slurk, lanciando a Pott uno sguardo satanico.

“La avrai subito,” disse Pott, alzando lo sguardo, pallido di rabbia, e tremando mentre parlava, per la stessa ragione. “Ahah! Sarai divertito dall’audacia di questo tizio.”

Si dava un’enfasi terribile alle parole “cosa” e “compagno”; i volti di entrambi gli editori iniziarono a brillare di sfida.

“La volgarità di quest’uomo miserabile è disgustosa al massimo,” disse Pott, fingendo di rivolgersi a Bob Sawyer e fissando con sguardo torvo Slurk.

Qui, il signor Slurk rise molto di cuore; poi ripiegò il foglio per poter leggere comodamente la nuova colonna e disse che quel testardo lo divertiva davvero.

“Che sciocco impudente,” disse Pott, passando dal rosa al rosso scuro.

“Ha mai letto qualcuna di queste sciocchezze scritte da questo uomo, signore?”, chiese Slurk a Bob Sawyer.

“Mai,” rispose Bob; “è davvero così grave?”

“Oh, scioccante! davvero scioccante!” esclamò Slurk.

“Davvero! Perbacco, è troppo orribile!” esclamò Pott in quel momento, continuando a fingere di essere assorto nella sua lettura.

“Se riesci a sopportare alcune frasi piene di malizia, meschinità, menzogne, falsa testimonianza, tradimento e sciocchezze,” disse Slurk porgendo il foglio a Bob, “forse ti verrà ricompensato con una risata per lo stile di questo balbettante incompetente.”

“Che cosa ha detto, signore?”, chiese il signor Pott, alzando lo sguardo e tremando per l’emozione.

“Che cosa c’entra questo con voi, signore?” rispose Slurk.

“Un balbettone grammaticalmente scorretto, vero, signore?” disse Pott.

“Sì, signore, è stato proprio così,” rispose Slurk; “e, blu era il colore, se a voi piace di più; ahah!”

Il signor Pott non disse una parola in risposta a questa offesa scherzosa; invece, piegò con cura il suo esemplare del Independent, lo appiattì completamente, lo schiacciò sotto la sua scarpa, ci sputò sopra con grande solennità e poi lo gettò nel fuoco.

“Ecco, signore,” disse Pott, allontanandosi dal camino, “e così servirei io stesso la vipera che produce questo veleno, se solo, per sua fortuna, non fossi vincolato dalle leggi del mio paese.”

“Servitelo così, signore!” gridò Slurk, alzandosi in piedi. “In un caso del genere, quelle leggi non verranno mai invocate da lui, signore. Servitelo così, signore!”

“Sentite! Sentite!” disse Bob Sawyer.

“Niente potrebbe essere più giusto,” osservò il signor Ben Allen.

“Servitelo così, signore!” ripeté Slurk ad alta voce.

Il signor Pott lanciò uno sguardo di disprezzo, capace forse di far appassire anche un’ancora.

“Servitelo così, signore!” ripeté Slurk, a voce più alta di prima.

“Non lo farò, signore,” rispose Pott.

“Oh, non lo farà, vero, signore?” disse il signor Slurk in tono derisorio;
“Sentite questo, signori! Non lo farà. Non perché abbia paura. Oh, no! Non lo farà proprio. Ahah!”

“Vi considero, signore,” disse il signor Pott, commosso da questo sarcasmo, “un serpente velenoso. Vi vedo come un uomo che si è posto al di fuori dei limiti della società, a causa del suo comportamento pubblico così audace, vergognoso e abominabile. Personalmente e politicamente, non vi considero in alcun altro modo se non come un serpente velenoso senza pari e senza remore.”

L’indignato Indipendente non aspettò nemmeno di sentire la fine di questa denuncia personale; afferrò il proprio borsone, ben riempito di oggetti personali, lo fece roteare in aria mentre Pott si allontanava, e poi lo lasciò cadere con precisione sulla sua testa. Proprio in quel punto del borsone, dove era stato riposto un robusto pettine, si udì un forte rumore; Pott fu immediatamente sbattuto a terra.

“Signori,” gridò il signor Pickwick, mentre Pott si alzava e afferrava la >pala da fuoco, “Signori! Per l’amor del cielo, pensateci, aiutatemi. Sam è qui, per favore, intervenite qualcuno!”

Emettendo queste esclamazioni incoerenti, il signor Pickwick si precipitò tra i combattenti furibondi proprio nel momento giusto per ricevere un sacco di stoffa da una parte del suo corpo e una pala da fuoco dall’altra. Che i rappresentanti dell’opinione pubblica di Eatanswill fossero accecati dall’animosità, o che (essendo entrambi persone dotate di un buon senso) vedessero il vantaggio nel far intervenire una terza parte per assorbire tutti i colpi, è certo che non prestarono la minima attenzione al signor Pickwick, ma continuarono a combattere con grande vigore, utilizzando senza paura il sacco di stoffa e la pala da fuoco. Il signor Pickwick avrebbe sicuramente subito gravi conseguenze per la sua intervento umanitario, se il signor Weller, attirato dai gridi del suo padrone, non fosse intervenuto in quel momento: afferrando un sacco da cibo, fermò efficacemente lo scontro, gettandolo sulla testa e sulle spalle del poderoso Pott e stringendolo saldamente per le spalle.

“Togliete via quella borsa di pelle da quel pazzo,” disse Sam a Ben Allen e Bob Sawyer, che non avevano fatto altro che muoversi intorno al gruppo, ognuno con un bisturi in mano, pronti a ferire la prima persona che si avvicinasse. “Dammela, maledetto piccolo mostro. Altrimenti ti soffocherò con quella borsa.”

Intimidito da queste minacce e completamente senza fiato, il Indipendente si lasciò disarmare; e il signor Weller, togliendo l’estintore a Pott, lo liberò con cautela.

“Andatevene a letto in silenzio,” disse Sam, “altrimenti vi metterò entrambi a letto e vi farò combattere con la bocca legata. Lo farei volentieri con una dozzina di voi se facessero queste sciocchezze. E ora, per favore, venite da questa parte.”

Parlando così al proprio padrone, Sam gli prese il braccio e lo portò via, mentre gli altri editori rivali venivano ciascuno accompagnato dal proprietario dell’edificio fino ai loro letti, sotto la supervisione di Mr. Bob Sawyer e Mr. Benjamin Allen. Mentre se ne andavano, pronunciavano molte minacce violente e fissavano appuntamenti vaghi per un duello mortale il giorno seguente. Tuttavia, riflettendoci meglio, decisero che potevano fare molto meglio pubblicando tutto su carta; così ripresero immediatamente le loro ostilità letali. E tutta Eatanswill ne parlò con ammirazione, per la loro audacia, su carta.

Si erano imbarcati su vagoni separati la mattina presto, prima che gli altri viaggiatori si svegliassero; e ora che il tempo si era schiarito, i compagni di viaggio rivolsero nuovamente il loro cammino verso Londra.

CHAPTER LII. INVOLVING A SERIOUS CHANGE IN THE WELLER FAMILY, AND THE UNTIMELY DOWNFALL OF MR. STIGGINS

Considering it a matter of delicacy to abstain from introducing either Bob Sawyer or Ben Allen to the young couple, until they were fully prepared to expect them, and wishing to spare Arabella’s feelings as much as possible, Mr. Pickwick proposed that he and Sam should alight in the neighbourhood of the George and Vulture, and that the two young men should for the present take up their quarters elsewhere. To this they very readily agreed, and the proposition was accordingly acted upon; Mr. Ben Allen and Mr. Bob Sawyer betaking themselves to a sequestered pot- shop on the remotest confines of the Borough, behind the bar door of which their names had in other days very often appeared at the head of long and complex calculations worked in white chalk.

‘Dear me, Mr. Weller,’ said the pretty housemaid, meeting Sam at the door.

‘Dear me I vish it vos, my dear,’ replied Sam, dropping behind, to let his master get out of hearing. ‘Wot a sweet-lookin’ creetur you are, Mary!’

‘Lor’, Mr. Weller, what nonsense you do talk!’ said Mary. ‘Oh! don’t, Mr. Weller.’

‘Don’t what, my dear?’ said Sam.

‘Why, that,’ replied the pretty housemaid. ‘Lor, do get along with you.’ Thus admonishing him, the pretty housemaid pushed Sam against the wall, declaring that he had tumbled her cap, and put her hair quite out of curl.

‘And prevented what I was going to say, besides,’ added Mary. ‘There’s a letter been waiting here for you four days; you hadn’t gone away, half an hour, when it came; and more than that, it’s got “immediate,” on the outside.’

‘Vere is it, my love?’ inquired Sam.

‘I took care of it, for you, or I dare say it would have been lost long before this,’ replied Mary. ‘There, take it; it’s more than you deserve.’

With these words, after many pretty little coquettish doubts and fears, and wishes that she might not have lost it, Mary produced the letter from behind the nicest little muslin tucker possible, and handed it to Sam, who thereupon kissed it with much gallantry and devotion.

‘My goodness me!’ said Mary, adjusting the tucker, and feigning unconsciousness, ‘you seem to have grown very fond of it all at once.’

To this Mr. Weller only replied by a wink, the intense meaning of which no description could convey the faintest idea of; and, sitting himself down beside Mary on a window-seat, opened the letter and glanced at the contents.

‘Hollo!’ exclaimed Sam, ‘wot’s all this?’

‘Nothing the matter, I hope?’ said Mary, peeping over his shoulder.

‘Bless them eyes o’ yourn!’ said Sam, looking up.

‘Never mind my eyes; you had much better read your letter,’ said the pretty housemaid; and as she said so, she made the eyes twinkle with such slyness and beauty that they were perfectly irresistible.

Sam refreshed himself with a kiss, and read as follows:—

‘MARKIS GRAN ‘By DORKEN ‘Wensdy.

‘My DEAR SAMMLE,

‘I am wery sorry to have the pleasure of being a Bear of ill news your Mother in law cort cold consekens of imprudently settin too long on the damp grass in the rain a hearin of a shepherd who warnt able to leave off till late at night owen to his having vound his-self up vith brandy and vater and not being able to stop his-self till he got a little sober which took a many hours to do the doctor says that if she’d svallo’d varm brandy and vater artervards insted of afore she mightn’t have been no vus her veels wos immedetly greased and everythink done to set her agoin as could be inwented your father had hopes as she vould have vorked round as usual but just as she wos a turnen the corner my boy she took the wrong road and vent down hill vith a welocity you never see and notvithstandin that the drag wos put on drectly by the medikel man it wornt of no use at all for she paid the last pike at twenty minutes afore six o’clock yesterday evenin havin done the jouney wery much under the reglar time vich praps was partly owen to her haven taken in wery little luggage by the vay your father says that if you vill come and see me Sammy he vill take it as a wery great favor for I am wery lonely Samivel N. B. he _vill _have it spelt that vay vich I say ant right and as there is sich a many things to settle he is sure your guvner wont object of course he vill not Sammy for I knows him better so he sends his dooty in which I join and am Samivel infernally yours

‘TONY VELLER.’

‘Wot a incomprehensible letter,’ said Sam; ‘who’s to know wot it means, vith all this he-ing and I-ing! It ain’t my father’s writin’, ‘cept this here signater in print letters; that’s his.’

‘Perhaps he got somebody to write it for him, and signed it himself afterwards,’ said the pretty housemaid.

‘Stop a minit,’ replied Sam, running over the letter again, and pausing here and there, to reflect, as he did so. ‘You’ve hit it. The gen’l’m’n as wrote it wos a-tellin’ all about the misfortun’ in a proper vay, and then my father comes a-lookin’ over him, and complicates the whole concern by puttin’ his oar in. That’s just the wery sort o’ thing he’d do. You’re right, Mary, my dear.’

Having satisfied himself on this point, Sam read the letter all over, once more, and, appearing to form a clear notion of its contents for the first time, ejaculated thoughtfully, as he folded it up—

‘And so the poor creetur’s dead! I’m sorry for it. She warn’t a bad- disposed ‘ooman, if them shepherds had let her alone. I’m wery sorry for it.’

Mr. Weller uttered these words in so serious a manner, that the pretty housemaid cast down her eyes and looked very grave.

‘Hows’ever,’ said Sam, putting the letter in his pocket with a gentle sigh, ‘it wos to be—and wos, as the old lady said arter she’d married the footman. Can’t be helped now, can it, Mary?’

Mary shook her head, and sighed too.

‘I must apply to the hemperor for leave of absence,’ said Sam.

CAPITOLO LII. Un cambiamento significativo nella famiglia Weller e il prematuro declino del signor Stiggins

Ritenendo che fosse opportuno astenersi dal presentare sia Bob Sawyer che Ben Allen alla giovane coppia finché non fossero completamente pronti ad accoglierli, e desiderando al contempo rispettare i sentimenti di Arabella il più possibile, il signor Pickwick propose che lui e Sam si fermassero nelle vicinanze del pub “George and Vulture”, mentre i due giovani avrebbero per il momento trovato alloggio altrove. Essi acconsentirono prontamente, e la proposta fu quindi attuata: il signor Ben Allen e il signor Bob Sawyer si recarono in un negozietto di ferramenta situato nelle zone più remote del quartiere, dove i loro nomi erano spesso presenti all’inizio di lunghi e complessi calcoli fatti con la gesso bianca.

“Mio Dio, signor Weller,” disse la bella cameriera incontrando Sam alla porta.

“Caro mio, te lo desidero davvero, mio caro,” rispose Sam, rimanendo indietro per non farsi sentire dal suo padrone. “Che creatura dolce e bella che sei, Mary!”

“Ma che sciocchezze sta dicendo, signor Weller!”, esclamò Mary. “Oh, per favore, non lo faccia, signor Weller.”

“Non fare cosa, cara mia?” disse Sam.

“Perché, proprio quello, ”, rispose la bella cameriera. “Oh, poverino, quanto sei goffo, ” Dopo averlo rimproverato in questo modo, la bella cameriera spinse Sam contro il muro, dichiarando che gli aveva fatto cadere il cappello e che i suoi capelli erano completamente scompigliati.

“E inoltre, hanno impedito che dicessi ciò che stavo per dire,” aggiunse Mary. “C’è una lettera che aspetta qui da te da quattro giorni; è arrivata meno di mezz’ora dopo la tua partenza. E, cosa ancora più importante, sul davanti c’è scritto ‘urgente’.”

“Davvero è così, mio amore?”, chiese Sam.

“Me ne sono occupata io, per te. O forse dovrei dire che sarebbe andata persa molto tempo fa,” rispose Mary. “Ecco, prendila; meriti di più.”

Con queste parole, dopo molte piccole e scherzose incertezze e timori, e dopo aver sperato che non l’avesse persa, Mary tirò fuori la lettera da dietro il più grazioso fazzoletto di mussola possibile e la consegnò a Sam, il quale la baciò immediatamente con grande galanteria e devozione.

“Mio Dio!” disse Mary, sistemando il bavaglio e fingendo di essere svenuta, “sembra che tu ti sia improvvisamente affezionata molto a tutto questo.”

A queste parole, il signor Weller rispose soltanto con un battito di ciglia, il cui profondo significato nessuna descrizione avrebbe potuto nemmeno lontanamente esprimere; poi si sedette accanto a Mary su una poltrona vicino alla finestra, aprì la lettera e ne scorse rapidamente il contenuto.

“Ehi!”, esclamò Sam, “che cosa sta succedendo?”

“Niente di grave, spero, ”, disse Mary, spiando sopra la sua spalla.

“Che occhi benedetti!” disse Sam, alzando lo sguardo.

“Non badare ai miei occhi; sarebbe molto meglio che leggessi la tua lettera,” disse la bella cameriera; e mentre lo diceva, i suoi occhi brillavano di una tale astuzia e bellezza da essere davvero irresistibili.

Sam si rinfrescò con un bacio e poi lesse quanto segue:–

“Markis Gran” di Dorken Wensdy.

“Mio caro Sammle, ”

Mi dispiace molto di dovervi portare queste cattive notizie. Vostra suocera ha subito gravi conseguenze a causa dell’essersi trattenuta troppo a lungo sull’erba umida sotto la pioggia. Si è sentita parlare di un pastore che non riusciva a lasciare il posto prima di tardi, la notte. Questo pastore aveva bevuto molto brandy e, non essendo in grado di fermarsi, ha continuato fino a quando non si è un po’ ripreso. Il dottore dice che, se avesse bevuto del brandy caldo dopo aver bevuto quello freddo, forse non sarebbe successo nulla. Le sue membrane nasali sono state immediatamente unte con un liquido apposito e sono stati fatti tutti i tentativi possibili per farla riprendere. Vostro padre aveva speranze che potesse tornare a lavorare come al solito. Ma proprio mentre stava per girare l’angolo, ha preso la strada sbagliata ed è scesa giù dalla collina a una velocità incredibile. Nonostante il medico avesse applicato immediatamente le cure necessarie, non è servito a nulla. È morta venti minuti prima delle sei di ieri sera. Ha percorso tutto il tragitto in molto meno tempo del solito. Probabilmente anche perché aveva portato con sé pochissimi bagagli. Vostro padre dice che, se volete venire a trovarmi, Sammy, lui ne sarà molto grato. Sono davvero molto solo. Samivel N. B.: vi prego di far scrivere il mio nome esattamente come dico io. Ci sono ancora molte cose da sistemare. Ma ovviamente vostro padre non si opporrà. Certo che no, Sammy. Lo conosco bene. Quindi manda i suoi saluti. E anch’io vi invio i miei. Con affetto, Samivel.

“Tony Veller.”

“Che lettera incomprensibile, ”, disse Sam; “chi può capire cosa significa, con tutti questi ‘egli’ e ‘io’! Non è la scrittura di mio padre, tranne questo segno qui, scritto in lettere stampate; quello sì che è suo.”

“Forse ha fatto scrivere qualcuno quel messaggio per lui, e poi l’ha firmato personalmente,” disse la bella cameriera.

“Fermati un attimo,” rispose Sam, rileggendo la lettera e fermandosi di tanto in tanto per riflettere. “Hai colto nel segno: il generale, nella sua lettera, descriveva tutti questi eventi sfortunati in modo molto chiaro. E poi mio padre è venuto a leggerla anche lui, complicando ulteriormente la situazione con le sue interventi. È proprio il tipo di cose che farebbe. Hai ragione, Mary, cara.”

Essendosi assicurato su questo punto, Sam rilesse la lettera per intero, e, per la prima volta sembrò comprendere appieno il suo contenuto; poi, mentre la ripiegava, mormorò pensierosamente.

“E così quella povera creatura è morta. Mi dispiace davvero. Non era una donna cattiva; se solo quei pastori l’avessero lasciata in pace. Mi dispiace moltissimo.”

Il signor Weller pronunciò queste parole con tale serietà che la bella cameriera abbassò lo sguardo e sembrava molto seria.

“Comunque,” disse Sam, mettendo la lettera in tasca con un sospiro leggero, “è stato così, e infatti è andata proprio come ha detto quella vecchia signora dopo essersi sposata con il valletto. Ormai non si può più cambiare nulla, vero, Mary?”

Mary scosse la testa e sospirò anche lei.

“Devo chiedere al imperatore il permesso di assenza,” disse Sam.

Mary sighed again—the letter was so very affecting.

‘Good-bye!’ said Sam.

‘Good-bye,’ rejoined the pretty housemaid, turning her head away.

‘Well, shake hands, won’t you?’ said Sam.

The pretty housemaid put out a hand which, although it was a housemaid’s, was a very small one, and rose to go.

‘I shan’t be wery long avay,’ said Sam.

‘You’re always away,’ said Mary, giving her head the slightest possible toss in the air. ‘You no sooner come, Mr. Weller, than you go again.’

Mr. Weller drew the household beauty closer to him, and entered upon a whispering conversation, which had not proceeded far, when she turned her face round and condescended to look at him again. When they parted, it was somehow or other indispensably necessary for her to go to her room, and arrange the cap and curls before she could think of presenting herself to her mistress; which preparatory ceremony she went off to perform, bestowing many nods and smiles on Sam over the banisters as she tripped upstairs.

‘I shan’t be avay more than a day, or two, Sir, at the furthest,’ said Sam, when he had communicated to Mr. Pickwick the intelligence of his father’s loss.

‘As long as may be necessary, Sam,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘you have my full permission to remain.’

Sam bowed.

‘You will tell your father, Sam, that if I can be of any assistance to him in his present situation, I shall be most willing and ready to lend him any aid in my power,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Thank’ee, sir,’ rejoined Sam. ‘I’ll mention it, sir.’

And with some expressions of mutual good-will and interest, master and man separated.

It was just seven o’clock when Samuel Weller, alighting from the box of a stage-coach which passed through Dorking, stood within a few hundred yards of the Marquis of Granby. It was a cold, dull evening; the little street looked dreary and dismal; and the mahogany countenance of the noble and gallant marquis seemed to wear a more sad and melancholy expression than it was wont to do, as it swung to and fro, creaking mournfully in the wind. The blinds were pulled down, and the shutters partly closed; of the knot of loungers that usually collected about the door, not one was to be seen; the place was silent and desolate.

Seeing nobody of whom he could ask any preliminary questions, Sam walked softly in, and glancing round, he quickly recognised his parent in the distance.

The widower was seated at a small round table in the little room behind the bar, smoking a pipe, with his eyes intently fixed upon the fire. The funeral had evidently taken place that day, for attached to his hat, which he still retained on his head, was a hatband measuring about a yard and a half in length, which hung over the top rail of the chair and streamed negligently down. Mr. Weller was in a very abstracted and contemplative mood. Notwithstanding that Sam called him by name several times, he still continued to smoke with the same fixed and quiet countenance, and was only roused ultimately by his son’s placing the palm of his hand on his shoulder.

‘Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘you’re welcome.’

‘I’ve been a-callin’ to you half a dozen times,’ said Sam, hanging his hat on a peg, ‘but you didn’t hear me.’

‘No, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller, again looking thoughtfully at the fire. ‘I was in a referee, Sammy.’

‘Wot about?’ inquired Sam, drawing his chair up to the fire.

‘In a referee, Sammy,’ replied the elder Mr. Weller, ‘regarding her, Samivel.’ Here Mr. Weller jerked his head in the direction of Dorking churchyard, in mute explanation that his words referred to the late Mrs. Weller.

‘I wos a-thinkin’, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, eyeing his son, with great earnestness, over his pipe, as if to assure him that however extraordinary and incredible the declaration might appear, it was nevertheless calmly and deliberately uttered. ‘I wos a-thinkin’, Sammy, that upon the whole I wos wery sorry she wos gone.’

‘Vell, and so you ought to be,’ replied Sam.

Mr. Weller nodded his acquiescence in the sentiment, and again fastening his eyes on the fire, shrouded himself in a cloud, and mused deeply.

‘Those wos wery sensible observations as she made, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, driving the smoke away with his hand, after a long silence.

‘Wot observations?’ inquired Sam.

‘Them as she made, arter she was took ill,’ replied the old gentleman.

‘Wot was they?’

‘Somethin’ to this here effect. “Veller,” she says, “I’m afeered I’ve not done by you quite wot I ought to have done; you’re a wery kind- hearted man, and I might ha’ made your home more comfortabler. I begin to see now,” she says, “ven it’s too late, that if a married ‘ooman vishes to be religious, she should begin vith dischargin’ her dooties at home, and makin’ them as is about her cheerful and happy, and that vile she goes to church, or chapel, or wot not, at all proper times, she should be wery careful not to con-wert this sort o’ thing into a excuse for idleness or self-indulgence. I have done this,” she says, “and I’ve vasted time and substance on them as has done it more than me; but I hope ven I’m gone, Veller, that you’ll think on me as I wos afore I know’d them people, and as I raly wos by natur.” ‘“Susan,” says I—I wos took up wery short by this, Samivel; I von’t deny it, my boy—“Susan,” I says, “you’ve been a wery good vife to me, altogether; don’t say nothin’ at all about it; keep a good heart, my dear; and you’ll live to see me punch that ‘ere Stiggins’s head yet.” She smiled at this, Samivel,’ said the old gentleman, stifling a sigh with his pipe, ‘but she died arter all!’

‘Vell,’ said Sam, venturing to offer a little homely consolation, after the lapse of three or four minutes, consumed by the old gentleman in slowly shaking his head from side to side, and solemnly smoking, ‘vell, gov’nor, ve must all come to it, one day or another.’

Mary sospirò di nuovo: la lettera era davvero molto commovente.

“Addio!”, disse Sam.

“Addio,” rispose la bella cameriera, girando la testa dall’altra parte.

“Beh, stringiamoci la mano, no?” disse Sam.

La bella cameriera tese una mano che, sebbene fosse quella di una cameriera, era davvero molto piccola, e invitò lui ad andare.

“Non sarò via per molto,” disse Sam.

“Sei sempre via,” disse Mary, scuotendo leggermente la testa. “Appena arrivi, signor Weller, te ne vai subito di nuovo.”

Il signor Weller attirò a sé la più bella ragazza della casa e iniziò a sussurrare con lei. Dopo pochi istanti, lei girò il viso verso di lui e si degnò di guardarlo di nuovo. Quando si separarono, era assolutamente necessario che lei andasse nella sua stanza per sistemarsi i capelli prima di potersi presentare alla sua padrona; così fece, lanciando a Sam molti sguardi e sorrisi mentre saliva le scale.

“Non sarò via per più di un giorno o due, al massimo,” disse Sam dopo aver comunicato a Mr. Pickwick la notizia della perdita di suo padre.

“Per tutto il tempo necessario, Sam,” rispose il signor Pickwick, “hai la mia piena autorizzazione a rimanere.”

Sam si inchinò.

“Digli pure a tuo padre, Sam, che se posso essere d’aiuto in questa sua situazione attuale, sarò più che felice e pronto ad offrirgli tutto il mio sostegno”, disse il signor Pickwick.

“Grazie mille, signore,” rispose Sam. “Ci penserò, signore.”

E con alcune espressioni di reciproca buona volontà e interesse, maestro e discepolo si separarono.

Erano appena le sette di sera quando Samuel Weller, scendendo da una vettura che attraversava Dorking, si trovò a poche centinaia di metri dal Marchese di Granby. Era una serata fredda e cupa; la piccola strada sembrava desolata e triste; il volto di mogano del nobile e valoroso marchese aveva un’espressione più malinconica del solito, mentre si muoveva avanti e indietro, cigolando tristemente nel vento. Le tende erano tirate giù e le persiane parzialmente chiuse; non si vedeva nessuno dei soliti individui che si radunavano intorno alla porta; il posto era silenzioso e desolato.

Non vedendo nessuno a cui potesse porre alcune domande preliminari, Sam entrò silenziosamente e, guardandosi intorno, riconobbe rapidamente i suoi genitori in lontananza.

Il vedovo era seduto a un piccolo tavolo rotondo nella stanzetta dietro al bancone, fumando la pipa con lo sguardo fisso sul fuoco. Era evidente che il funerale fosse avvenuto quel giorno, poiché attaccato al suo cappello, ancora indossato, c’era un nastro lungo circa un metro e mezzo che pendeva oltre il bordo della sedia. Il signor Weller era immerso in profonde riflessioni. Nonostante Sam lo chiamasse più volte per nome, continuò a fumare con lo stesso volto sereno e concentrato; fu solo allora che suo figlio gli posò la mano sulla spalla, riuscendo finalmente a distrarlo.

“Sammy,” disse il signor Weller, “non c’è di che.”

“Ti ho chiamato un sacco di volte,” disse Sam, appendendo il cappello a un gancio, “ma non mi hai sentito.”

“No, Sammy,” rispose il signor Weller, guardando di nuovo pensierosamente il fuoco. “Ero un arbitro, Sammy.”

“E poi?” chiese Sam, avvicinando la sedia al focolare.

“Per quanto riguarda una giudice, Sammy,” rispose il signor Weller più anziano, “si tratta di lei, Samivel.” A quel punto il signor Weller indicò con la testa in direzione del cimitero di Dorking, come silenziosa spiegazione del fatto che si riferiva alla defunta signora Weller.

“Stavo pensando, ”, disse il signor Weller, guardando suo figlio con grande serietà attraverso la pipa, come per assicurargli che, per quanto quella dichiarazione potesse sembrare straordinaria e inverosimile, era stata comunque pronunciata con calma e deliberazione. “Stavo pensando, che, in fondo, mi dispiaceva molto che se ne fosse andata.”

“Beh, è proprio quello che dovresti fare,” rispose Sam.

Il signor Weller annuì in segno di accordo con quel sentimento; poi, fissando nuovamente lo fuoco, si immerse nei suoi pensieri.

“Quegli erano osservazioni davvero sensate, quelle che ha fatto, Sammy,” disse il signor Weller, scacciando il fumo con la mano, dopo un lungo silenzio.

“Quali osservazioni?” chiese Sam.

“Quelli che lei aveva creato, dopo che si ammalò,” rispose il vecchio signore.

“Cosa erano?”

“Qualcosa del genere, ‘Veller,’ disse lei, ‘temo di non aver fatto per te tutto ciò che avrei dovuto fare; sei un uomo davvero gentile, e forse avrei potuto rendere la tua casa più confortevole. Ora capisco,” continuò, “che forse è troppo tardi. Ma se una donna sposata desidera essere religiosa, dovrebbe innanzitutto impegnarsi a rendere la propria casa accogliente e felice; e poi, andando in chiesa o in cappella nei momenti giusti, dovrebbe fare attenzione a non trasformare tutto questo in scuse per l’ozio o il piacere egoistico. Io ho provato,” disse, “ho sprecato molto tempo e denaro in queste cose. Ma spero che, quando me ne sarò andata, tu penserai a me come ero prima di conoscere quelle persone, come realmente ero per natura.’ ‘Susan,’ le dissi io. Beh, Samivel, non ho voluto dilungarmi troppo su questo argomento; non lo nego, ragazzo mio, ‘Susan,’ ripresi, ‘sei stata davvero una moglie meravigliosa per me. Non dire nulla al riguardo; tieni il cuore alto, cara. E vedrai che riuscirò ancora a mettere K.O. quel maledetto Stiggins.’ Lei sorrise a queste parole, Samivel, ” disse l’anziano signore, soffocando un sospiro con la pipa, “ma alla fine è morta lo stesso, ”

“Beh,” disse Sam, osando offrire un piccolo conforto familiare, dopo che tre o quattro minuti erano trascorsi; il vecchio signore continuava a scuotere lentamente la testa da una parte all’altra e a fumare con solennità. “Beh, signore, prima o poi tutti dovranno affrontarlo.”

‘So we must, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller the elder.

‘There’s a Providence in it all,’ said Sam.

‘O’ course there is,’ replied his father, with a nod of grave approval. ‘Wot ‘ud become of the undertakers vithout it, Sammy?’

Lost in the immense field of conjecture opened by this reflection, the elder Mr. Weller laid his pipe on the table, and stirred the fire with a meditative visage.

While the old gentleman was thus engaged, a very buxom-looking cook, dressed in mourning, who had been bustling about, in the bar, glided into the room, and bestowing many smirks of recognition upon Sam, silently stationed herself at the back of his father’s chair, and announced her presence by a slight cough, the which, being disregarded, was followed by a louder one.

‘Hollo!’ said the elder Mr. Weller, dropping the poker as he looked round, and hastily drew his chair away. ‘Wot’s the matter now?’

‘Have a cup of tea, there’s a good soul,’ replied the buxom female coaxingly.

‘I von’t,’ replied Mr. Weller, in a somewhat boisterous manner. ‘I’ll see you—’ Mr. Weller hastily checked himself, and added in a low tone, ‘furder fust.’

‘Oh, dear, dear! How adwersity does change people!’ said the lady, looking upwards.

‘It’s the only thing ‘twixt this and the doctor as shall change my condition,’ muttered Mr. Weller.

‘I really never saw a man so cross,’ said the buxom female.

‘Never mind. It’s all for my own good; vich is the reflection vith vich the penitent school-boy comforted his feelin’s ven they flogged him,’ rejoined the old gentleman.

The buxom female shook her head with a compassionate and sympathising air; and, appealing to Sam, inquired whether his father really ought not to make an effort to keep up, and not give way to that lowness of spirits.

‘You see, Mr. Samuel,’ said the buxom female, ‘as I was telling him yesterday, he will feel lonely, he can’t expect but what he should, sir, but he should keep up a good heart, because, dear me, I’m sure we all pity his loss, and are ready to do anything for him; and there’s no situation in life so bad, Mr. Samuel, that it can’t be mended. Which is what a very worthy person said to me when my husband died.’ Here the speaker, putting her hand before her mouth, coughed again, and looked affectionately at the elder Mr. Weller.

‘As I don’t rekvire any o’ your conversation just now, mum, vill you have the goodness to re-tire?’ inquired Mr. Weller, in a grave and steady voice.

‘Well, Mr. Weller,’ said the buxom female, ‘I’m sure I only spoke to you out of kindness.’

‘Wery likely, mum,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Samivel, show the lady out, and shut the door after her.’

This hint was not lost upon the buxom female; for she at once left the room, and slammed the door behind her, upon which Mr. Weller, senior, falling back in his chair in a violent perspiration, said—

‘Sammy, if I wos to stop here alone vun week—only vun week, my boy— that ‘ere ‘ooman ‘ud marry me by force and wiolence afore it was over.’

‘Wot! is she so wery fond on you?’ inquired Sam.

‘Fond!’ replied his father. ‘I can’t keep her avay from me. If I was locked up in a fireproof chest vith a patent Brahmin, she’d find means to get at me, Sammy.’

‘Wot a thing it is to be so sought arter!’ observed Sam, smiling.

‘I don’t take no pride out on it, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller, poking the fire vehemently, ‘it’s a horrid sitiwation. I’m actiwally drove out o’ house and home by it. The breath was scarcely out o’ your poor mother- in-law’s body, ven vun old ‘ooman sends me a pot o’ jam, and another a pot o’ jelly, and another brews a blessed large jug o’ camomile-tea, vich she brings in vith her own hands.’ Mr. Weller paused with an aspect of intense disgust, and looking round, added in a whisper, ‘They wos all widders, Sammy, all on ‘em, ‘cept the camomile-tea vun, as wos a single young lady o’ fifty-three.’

Sam gave a comical look in reply, and the old gentleman having broken an obstinate lump of coal, with a countenance expressive of as much earnestness and malice as if it had been the head of one of the widows last-mentioned, said:

‘In short, Sammy, I feel that I ain’t safe anyveres but on the box.’

‘How are you safer there than anyveres else?’ interrupted Sam.

‘’Cos a coachman’s a privileged indiwidual,’ replied Mr. Weller, looking fixedly at his son. ‘’Cos a coachman may do vithout suspicion wot other men may not; ‘cos a coachman may be on the wery amicablest terms with eighty mile o’ females, and yet nobody think that he ever means to marry any vun among ‘em. And wot other man can say the same, Sammy?’

‘Vell, there’s somethin’ in that,’ said Sam.

‘If your gov’nor had been a coachman,’ reasoned Mr. Weller, ‘do you s’pose as that ‘ere jury ‘ud ever ha’ conwicted him, s’posin’ it possible as the matter could ha’ gone to that extremity? They dustn’t ha’ done it.’

‘Wy not?’ said Sam, rather disparagingly.

‘Wy not!’ rejoined Mr. Weller; ‘’cos it ‘ud ha’ gone agin their consciences. A reg’lar coachman’s a sort o’ con-nectin’ link betwixt singleness and matrimony, and every practicable man knows it.’

‘Wot! You mean, they’re gen’ral favorites, and nobody takes adwantage on ‘em, p’raps?’ said Sam.

His father nodded.

‘How it ever come to that ‘ere pass,’ resumed the parent Weller, ‘I can’t say. Wy it is that long-stage coachmen possess such insiniwations, and is alvays looked up to—a-dored I may say—by ev’ry young ‘ooman in ev’ry town he vurks through, I don’t know. I only know that so it is. It’s a regulation of natur—a dispensary, as your poor mother-in-law used to say.’

‘A dispensation,’ said Sam, correcting the old gentleman.

‘Wery good, Samivel, a dispensation if you like it better,’ returned Mr. Weller; ‘I call it a dispensary, and it’s always writ up so, at the places vere they gives you physic for nothin’ in your own bottles; that’s all.’

With these words, Mr. Weller refilled and relighted his pipe, and once more summoning up a meditative expression of countenance, continued as follows—

“Dobbiamo farlo, Sammy,” disse il signor Weller il vecchio.

“C’è una qualche forma di providenza in tutto questo,” disse Sam.

“Certo che c’è,” rispose suo padre, annuendo con un’espressione di seria approvazione.
“E cosa succederebbe agli impresari funebri senza di essa, Sammy?”

Perduto nel vasto campo di congetture aperto da questa riflessione, il più anziano signor Weller posò la sua pipa sul tavolo e mescolò il fuoco con un’espressione meditativa.

Mentre il vecchio signore era impegnato in queste attività, una cuoca dall’aspetto molto rotondo, vestita a lutto e che aveva continuato a muoversi avanti e indietro nel bar, entrò silenziosamente nella stanza. Lanciando a Sam molti sguardi di riconoscimento, si posizionò in silenzio dietro la sedia di suo padre e annunciò la sua presenza con un leggero colpo di tosse; poiché questo fu ignorato, ne seguì uno più forte.

“Salve!” disse il signor Weller più anziano, lasciando cadere la paletta da camino mentre guardava intorno e allontanando rapidamente la sedia. “Che c’è adesso?”

“Bevi una tazza di tè, c’è una persona davvero gentile,” rispose dolcemente la donna dal seno prosperoso.

“Non lo farò,” rispose il signor Weller in tono piuttosto vivace. “Ci vedremo, ” Il signor Weller si trattenne subito e aggiunse sottovoce: “in un’altra occasione.”

“Oh, mio Dio, quanto la sfortuna possa cambiare le persone!” disse la signora, guardando verso l’alto.

“È l’unica cosa, tra questa e la visita dal dottore, che possa cambiare la mia situazione,” mormorò il signor Weller.

“Davvero, non ho mai visto un uomo così arrabbiato”, disse la donna dalle forme generose.

“Non importa. È tutto a mio vantaggio; in questo modo, il penitente studente può consolarsi i sentimenti mentre viene frustato,” rispose il vecchio signore.

La donna dalle forme generose scosse la testa con un’espressione di compassione e simpatia; poi, rivolgendosi a Sam, chiese se suo padre non dovesse davvero cercare di tenere il passo e non cedere a quella sorta di abbattimento d’animo.

“Vede, signor Samuel,” disse la donna dal seno prosperoso, “come gli stavo dicendo ieri, si sentirà solo. Non può aspettarsi altro se non ciò che merita, signore. Ma deve mantenere un buon cuore, perché, davvero, sono sicura che tutti noi proviamo compassione per la sua perdita e siamo pronti a fare qualsiasi cosa per lui. E non esiste situazione nella vita così difficile da non poter essere risolta, signor Samuel. È proprio ciò che mi disse una persona molto meritevole quando mio marito morì.” Qui la donna, mettendosi una mano davanti alla bocca, tossì di nuovo e guardò con affetto il signor Weller più anziano.

“Poiché non desidero affatto continuare la vostra conversazione di poco fa, mamma, potreste avere la gentilezza di ritirarvi?” chiese il signor Weller con una voce seria e ferma.

“Beh, signor Weller,” disse la donna robusta, “sono sicura di aver parlato con voi solo per gentilezza.”

“È molto probabile, mamma,” rispose il signor Weller. “Samivel, accompagni la signora fuori e chiuda la porta dopo di lei.”

Questo indizio non sfuggì alla donna corpulenta; infatti lei uscì immediatamente dalla stanza e sbatté la porta dietro di sé. A quel punto, il signor Weller, padre, si appoggiò di nuovo allo schienale della sedia, coperto da un sudore copioso, e disse.

“Sammy, se dovessi fermarmi qui da solo per una settimana, solo una settimana, ragazzo mio, quella donna mi sposerebbe con la forza e la violenza prima che tutto finisse.”

“Che cosa? È davvero così innamorata di te?” chiese Sam.

“Fond!” rispose suo padre. “Non riesco a tenerla lontana da me. Anche se fossi chiuso in un baule antincendio insieme a un vero brahmino, lei troverebbe comunque il modo di raggiungermi, Sammy.”

“Che strano essere così ricercati!”, osservò Sam sorridendo.

“Non ne vado certo fiero, Sammy,” rispose il signor Weller, aggiungendo vigorosamente legna al fuoco. “È una situazione terribile. Sono stato letteralmente cacciato di casa da tutto questo. Appena tua povera suocera aveva esalato l’ultimo respiro, un’anziana donna mi ha portato una pentola di marmellata, un’altra una pentola di gelatina, e un’altra ancora ha preparato una grande giara di tè alla camomilla, che è venuta a portarmi di persona.” Il signor Weller fece una pausa, con un’espressione di profondo disgusto, poi aggiunse sottovoce: “Erano tutte vedove, tutte tranne quella che aveva preparato il tè alla camomilla. Era una giovane donna di cinquantatré anni.”

Sam rispose con un’espressione comica; l’anziano signore, dopo aver spezzato con grande sforzo un pezzo di carbone ostinatamente resistente, disse con un volto che esprimeva tanto impegno quanto malizia, come se si fosse trattato della testa di una delle vedove menzionate poco prima.

“In breve, Sammy, penso di non essere al sicuro da nessuna parte tranne che su quella scatola.”

“Come fai ad essere più al sicuro lì che in qualsiasi altro posto?”, interruppe Sam.

“Perché un cocchiere è una persona privilegiata,” rispose il signor Weller, guardando fisso suo figlio. “Perché un cocchiere può fare certe cose senza essere sospettato, cose che altri uomini non potrebbero; perché un cocchiere può avere rapporti molto amichevoli con ottanta miglia di donne, eppure nessuno penserebbe mai che abbia intenzione di sposarne qualcuna. E quale altro uomo potrebbe dire lo stesso, Sammy?”

“Beh, c’è qualcosa di vero in quello che dice,” disse Sam.

“Se il vostro governatore fosse stato un cocchiere,” ragionò il signor Weller, “pensate che la giuria lo avrebbe mai condannato, anche supponendo che le cose potessero arrivare a quel punto? Non l’avrebbero fatto.”

“Perché no?”, disse Sam, con un tono piuttosto dispregiativo.

“Ma no!” ribatté il signor Weller; “così tornerebbero di nuovo in conflitto con la loro coscienza. Un vero cocchiere rappresenta una sorta di collegamento tra la castità e il matrimonio, e chiunque abbia un po’ di buon senso lo sa.”

“Cosa? Vuoi dire che sono i preferiti di tutti, e nessuno ne approfitta, forse?” disse Sam.

Suo padre annuì.

“Come sia potuto accadere una cosa del genere, ”, riprese il padre Weller, “non lo so proprio. Perché quei cocchieri delle diligenze lunghe distanze abbiano sempre tanta influenza, e perché siano sempre rispettati – anzi, ammirati, si potrebbe dire – da ogni giovane donna in ogni città attraverso cui passano. Non lo so. So solo che è così. È una legge della natura. Una sorta di ‘dispensario’, come usava dire tua povera suocera.”

“Una dispensazione,” disse Sam, correggendo il vecchio signore.

“Molto bene, Samivel, se preferisci chiamarlo un dispensario. Io lo chiamo proprio così, e infatti è sempre indicato come tale nei luoghi dove ti danno medicine gratuitamente, dentro le tue stesse bottiglie; nient’altro.”

Con queste parole, il signor Weller riempì di nuovo la sua pipa e la riaccese; assumendo nuovamente un’espressione meditativa, continuò così:

‘Therefore, my boy, as I do not see the adwisability o’ stoppin here to be married vether I vant to or not, and as at the same time I do not vish to separate myself from them interestin’ members o’ society altogether, I have come to the determination o’ driving the Safety, and puttin’ up vunce more at the Bell Savage, vich is my nat’ral born element, Sammy.’

‘And wot’s to become o’ the bis’ness?’ inquired Sam.

‘The bis’ness, Samivel,’ replied the old gentleman, ‘good-vill, stock, and fixters, vill be sold by private contract; and out o’ the money, two hundred pound, agreeable to a rekvest o’ your mother-in-law’s to me, a little afore she died, vill be invested in your name in—What do you call them things agin?’

‘Wot things?’ inquired Sam.

‘Them things as is always a-goin’ up and down, in the city.’

‘Omnibuses?’ suggested Sam.

‘Nonsense,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Them things as is alvays a- fluctooatin’, and gettin’ theirselves inwolved somehow or another vith the national debt, and the chequers bill; and all that.’

‘Oh! the funds,’ said Sam.

‘Ah!’ rejoined Mr. Weller, ‘the funs; two hundred pounds o’ the money is to be inwested for you, Samivel, in the funs; four and a half per cent. reduced counsels, Sammy.’

‘Wery kind o’ the old lady to think o’ me,’ said Sam, ‘and I’m wery much obliged to her.’

‘The rest will be inwested in my name,’ continued the elder Mr. Weller; ‘and wen I’m took off the road, it’ll come to you, so take care you don’t spend it all at vunst, my boy, and mind that no widder gets a inklin’ o’ your fortun’, or you’re done.’

Having delivered this warning, Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with a more serene countenance; the disclosure of these matters appearing to have eased his mind considerably.

‘Somebody’s a-tappin’ at the door,’ said Sam.

‘Let ‘em tap,’ replied his father, with dignity.

Sam acted upon the direction. There was another tap, and another, and then a long row of taps; upon which Sam inquired why the tapper was not admitted.

‘Hush,’ whispered Mr. Weller, with apprehensive looks, ‘don’t take no notice on ‘em, Sammy, it’s vun o’ the widders, p’raps.’

No notice being taken of the taps, the unseen visitor, after a short lapse, ventured to open the door and peep in. It was no female head that was thrust in at the partially-opened door, but the long black locks and red face of Mr. Stiggins. Mr. Weller’s pipe fell from his hands.

The reverend gentleman gradually opened the door by almost imperceptible degrees, until the aperture was just wide enough to admit of the passage of his lank body, when he glided into the room and closed it after him, with great care and gentleness. Turning towards Sam, and raising his hands and eyes in token of the unspeakable sorrow with which he regarded the calamity that had befallen the family, he carried the high-backed chair to his old corner by the fire, and, seating himself on the very edge, drew forth a brown pocket-handkerchief, and applied the same to his optics.

While this was going forward, the elder Mr. Weller sat back in his chair, with his eyes wide open, his hands planted on his knees, and his whole countenance expressive of absorbing and overwhelming astonishment. Sam sat opposite him in perfect silence, waiting, with eager curiosity, for the termination of the scene.

Mr. Stiggins kept the brown pocket-handkerchief before his eyes for some minutes, moaning decently meanwhile, and then, mastering his feelings by a strong effort, put it in his pocket and buttoned it up. After this, he stirred the fire; after that, he rubbed his hands and looked at Sam.

‘Oh, my young friend,’ said Mr. Stiggins, breaking the silence, in a very low voice, ‘here’s a sorrowful affliction!’

Sam nodded very slightly.

‘For the man of wrath, too!’ added Mr. Stiggins; ‘it makes a vessel’s heart bleed!’

Mr. Weller was overheard by his son to murmur something relative to making a vessel’s nose bleed; but Mr. Stiggins heard him not.

‘Do you know, young man,’ whispered Mr. Stiggins, drawing his chair closer to Sam, ‘whether she has left Emanuel anything?’

‘Who’s he?’ inquired Sam.

‘The chapel,’ replied Mr. Stiggins; ‘our chapel; our fold, Mr. Samuel.’

‘She hasn’t left the fold nothin’, nor the shepherd nothin’, nor the animals nothin’,’ said Sam decisively; ‘nor the dogs neither.’

Mr. Stiggins looked slily at Sam; glanced at the old gentleman, who was sitting with his eyes closed, as if asleep; and drawing his chair still nearer, said—

‘Nothing for me, Mr. Samuel?’

Sam shook his head.

‘I think there’s something,’ said Stiggins, turning as pale as he could turn. ‘Consider, Mr. Samuel; no little token?’

‘Not so much as the vorth o’ that ‘ere old umberella o’ yourn,’ replied Sam.

‘Perhaps,’ said Mr. Stiggins hesitatingly, after a few moments’ deep thought, ‘perhaps she recommended me to the care of the man of wrath, Mr. Samuel?’

‘I think that’s wery likely, from what he said,’ rejoined Sam; ‘he wos a-speakin’ about you, jist now.’

‘Was he, though?’ exclaimed Stiggins, brightening up. ‘Ah! He’s changed, I dare say. We might live very comfortably together now, Mr. Samuel, eh? I could take care of his property when you are away—good care, you see.’

Heaving a long-drawn sigh, Mr. Stiggins paused for a response. Sam nodded, and Mr. Weller the elder gave vent to an extraordinary sound, which, being neither a groan, nor a grunt, nor a gasp, nor a growl, seemed to partake in some degree of the character of all four.

Mr. Stiggins, encouraged by this sound, which he understood to betoken remorse or repentance, looked about him, rubbed his hands, wept, smiled, wept again, and then, walking softly across the room to a well- remembered shelf in one corner, took down a tumbler, and with great deliberation put four lumps of sugar in it. Having got thus far, he looked about him again, and sighed grievously; with that, he walked softly into the bar, and presently returning with the tumbler half full of pine-apple rum, advanced to the kettle which was singing gaily on the hob, mixed his grog, stirred it, sipped it, sat down, and taking a long and hearty pull at the rum-and-water, stopped for breath.

The elder Mr. Weller, who still continued to make various strange and uncouth attempts to appear asleep, offered not a single word during these proceedings; but when Stiggins stopped for breath, he darted upon him, and snatching the tumbler from his hand, threw the remainder of the rum-and-water in his face, and the glass itself into the grate. Then, seizing the reverend gentleman firmly by the collar, he suddenly fell to kicking him most furiously, accompanying every application of his top- boot to Mr. Stiggins’s person, with sundry violent and incoherent anathemas upon his limbs, eyes, and body.

‘Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘put my hat on tight for me.’

Sam dutifully adjusted the hat with the long hatband more firmly on his father’s head, and the old gentleman, resuming his kicking with greater agility than before, tumbled with Mr. Stiggins through the bar, and through the passage, out at the front door, and so into the street—the kicking continuing the whole way, and increasing in vehemence, rather than diminishing, every time the top-boot was lifted.

It was a beautiful and exhilarating sight to see the red-nosed man writhing in Mr. Weller’s grasp, and his whole frame quivering with anguish as kick followed kick in rapid succession; it was a still more exciting spectacle to behold Mr. Weller, after a powerful struggle, immersing Mr. Stiggins’s head in a horse-trough full of water, and holding it there, until he was half suffocated.

‘There!’ said Mr. Weller, throwing all his energy into one most complicated kick, as he at length permitted Mr. Stiggins to withdraw his head from the trough, ‘send any vun o’ them lazy shepherds here, and I’ll pound him to a jelly first, and drownd him artervards! Sammy, help me in, and fill me a small glass of brandy. I’m out o’ breath, my boy.’

“Pertanto, mio ragazzo, poiché non ritengo opportuno fermarmi qui per sposarmi, che sia desiderabile o meno, e poiché allo stesso tempo non desidero affatto separarmi da quegli elementi della società con cui ho legami, ho deciso di continuare la mia strada verso la ‘Sicurezza’, e di mettermi ancora una volta alla prova con Bell Savage, che rappresenta il mio elemento naturale, Sammy.”

“E cosa ne sarà del negozio?” chiese Sam.

“L’affare, Samivel,” rispose il vecchio gentiluomo, “le merci, le azioni e gli attrezzi verranno venduti tramite contratto privato; e i duecento sterline che rimangono, in seguito all’accordo stipulato poco prima della morte di tua suocera, verranno investiti a tuo nome in, come si chiamano quelle cose di nuovo?”

“Che cose?” chiese Sam.

“In quella città, le cose vanno sempre avanti e indietro, ”

“Autobus?” suggerì Sam.

“Sciocchezze,” rispose il signor Weller. “Tali cose sono sempre in continuo cambiamento, e in qualche modo si intrecciano con il debito pubblico e con tutte quelle questioni finanziarie complesse, ”

“Ah! I soldi, ”, disse Sam.

“Ah!” esclamò il signor Weller, “quei fondi. Duecento sterline di denaro saranno investite per te, Samivel, in quei fondi; un rendimento del quattro e mezzo percento. Consulenti ridotti al minimo indispensabile, Sammy.”

“È davvero gentile da parte della vecchia signora pensare a me,” disse Sam, “e le sono molto grato.”

“Il resto verrà investito a mio nome,” continuò il signor Weller più anziano; “e quando me ne andrò da questo mondo, tutto passerà a te. Quindi fai attenzione a non spenderlo tutto in cose inutili, ragazzo mio. E assicurati che nessuna altra donna abbia la possibilità di approfittare della tua fortuna, altrimenti sei finito.”

Dopo aver dato questo avvertimento, il signor Weller riprese a fumare la sua pipa con un’espressione molto più serena; sembrava che la rivelazione di queste informazioni lo avesse notevolmente tranquillizzato.

“Qualcuno sta bussando alla porta,” disse Sam.

“Lasciali che battono,” rispose suo padre con dignità.

Sam seguì le istruzioni ricevute. Ci furono altri colpi, uno dopo l’altro, poi una lunga serie di colpi; allora Sam chiese perché la persona che stava battendo non venisse fatta entrare.

“Zitto,” sussurrò il signor Weller con sguardo preoccupato, “non dare loro retta, Sammy, forse sono solo delle donne.”

Nessuno prestò attenzione alle tubature; il visitatore invisibile, dopo un breve lasso di tempo, osò aprire la porta e sbirciare all’interno. Non fu una testa femminile a comparire nella fessura della porta semi-aperta, ma i lunghi capelli neri e il viso rosso del signor Stiggins. La pipa del signor Weller gli cadde di mano.

Il rispettabile signore aprì lentamente la porta, di pochissimo alla volta, fino a quando l’apertura non divenne abbastanza larga da permettere il passaggio del suo snello corpo. Poi entrò nella stanza e la chiuse con grande cura e delicatezza. Girandosi verso Sam, alzò le mani e gli occhi in segno del dolore indescrivibile che provava per la calamità che aveva colpito la famiglia; portò quindi la sedia a schienale alto nel suo solito angolo vicino al focolare, si sedette sul bordo della sedia, tirò fuori un fazzoletto di stoffa marrone e se lo premette sugli occhi.

Mentre tutto ciò accadeva, il signor Weller più anziano sedeva immobile sulla sua sedia, con gli occhi spalancati, le mani appoggiate sulle ginocchia; l’espressione del suo volto rifletteva un’assoluta e travolgente meraviglia. Sam, seduto di fronte a lui in perfetto silenzio, attendeva con grande curiosità la fine di quella scena.

Il signor Stiggins tenne il fazzoletto di seta marrone davanti ai suoi occhi per alcuni minuti, lamentandosi in modo appropriato nel frattempo; poi, con un grande sforzo, riuscì a controllare i propri sentimenti, lo mise in tasca e se lo abbottonò. Dopo questo, ravvivò il fuoco; successivamente si strofinò le mani e guardò Sam.

“Oh, mio giovane amico,” disse il signor Stiggins, rompendo il silenzio con una voce molto bassa, “questa è davvero un’afflizione dolorosa!”

Sam annuì molto leggermente.

“Anche per l’uomo irascibile!”, aggiunse il signor Stiggins; “fa sì che il cuore di un uomo si spezzi dal dolore, ”

Il signor Weller fu sentito dal figlio mormorare qualcosa riguardo al fatto di far sanguinare il “naso” di una nave; ma il signor Stiggins non lo sentì.

“Lo sai, giovane uomo?” sussurrò il signor Stiggins, avvicinando la sua sedia a Sam. “Sa se lei ha lasciato qualcosa a Emanuel?”

“Chi è?” chiese Sam.

“La cappella,” rispose il signor Stiggins; “la nostra cappella, il nostro rifugio, signor Samuel.”

“Non ha lasciato il gregge, né il pastore, né le animali”, disse Sam con decisione; “né tantomeno i cani.”

Il signor Stiggins guardò Sam in modo sospetto; gettò un’occhiata al vecchio gentiluomo, che sedeva con gli occhi chiusi, come se dormisse; poi avvicinò ancora di più la sua sedia e disse.

“Niente per me, signor Samuel?”

Sam scosse la testa.

“Penso che ci sia qualcosa,” disse Stiggins, impallidendo al massimo possibile. “Pensateci, signor Samuel. Non c’è qualche piccolo indizio?”

“Nemmeno lontanamente paragonabile al valore di quella vecchia ombrello tua,” rispose Sam.

“Forse,” disse il signor Stiggins esitando, dopo alcuni momenti di profonda riflessione, “forse è stata lei a consigliarmi alle cure di quell’uomo irascibile, il signor Samuel?”

“Credo che sia molto probabile, a giudicare da quello che ha detto,” ribatté Sam; “stava proprio parlando di te, proprio adesso.”

“Ma davvero lo era?” esclamò Stiggins, illuminandosi in volto. “Ah! Si è cambiato, oserei dire. Ora potremmo vivere molto comodamente insieme, signor Samuel, eh? Potrei prendermi cura delle sue proprietà quando lei non c’è. Una buona cura, capisce?”

Emettendo un lungo sospiro, il signor Stiggins attese una risposta. Sam annuì, e il signor Weller il vecchio emise un suono strano: né un gemito, né un grugnito, né un rantolo, né un ringhio, sembrava combinare in qualche modo caratteristiche di tutti e quattro questi suoni.

Il signor Stiggins, incoraggiato da questo suono che interpretò come segno di rimorso o pentimento, si guardò intorno, si strofinò le mani, pianse, sorrise, pianse di nuovo; poi, camminando silenziosamente verso uno scaffale ben ricordato in un angolo della stanza, prese un bicchiere e, con grande attenzione, vi mise quattro zollette di zucchero. Una volta fatto ciò, si guardò ancora intorno e sospirò profondamente; quindi entrò nel bar e poco dopo tornò con il bicchiere mezzo pieno di rum al ananas. Si avvicinò alla pentola che bolliva allegramente sul fornello, mescolò il suo drink, lo agitò, ne bevve un sorso, si sedette e tracannò a lungo quel liquido; poi fece una pausa per riprendere fiato.

Il più anziano signor Weller, che continuava a fare vari tentativi strani e goffi per sembrare addormentato, non pronunciò una parola durante tutta questa scena; ma quando Stiggins si fermò per riprendere fiato, gli si avventò addosso, gli strappò il bicchiere di mano, versò il resto del rum e dell’acqua sul suo viso e gettò il bicchiere stesso nella grata. Poi, afferrando saldamente il signor Weller per il colletto, iniziò a calciarlo con furia, accompagnando ogni calcio con violenti e incoerenti maledizioni rivolte alle sue gambe, ai suoi occhi e al suo corpo intero.

“Sammy,” disse il signor Weller, “mettimi il cappello bene in testa.”

Sam sistemò con cura il cappello con la lunga fascia sulla testa di suo padre; l’anziano signore, riprendendo i suoi calci con maggiore agilità di prima, rotolò insieme a Mr. Stiggins attraverso la barriera, poi lungo il corridoio, fino alla porta d’ingresso e fuori in strada. I calci continuarono per tutto il tragitto, diventando sempre più violenti ogni volta che la scarpa veniva sollevata.

Era uno spettacolo bellissimo e emozionante vedere quell’uomo dal naso rosso contorcersi sotto la stretta di Mr. Weller, il suo corpo intero tremare per il dolore a causa dei calci che gli venivano inflitti uno dopo l’altro; ancora più eccitante era osservare come, dopo una strenua lotta, Mr. Weller immergesse la testa di Mr. Stiggins in un secchio pieno d’acqua e la tenesse lì fino a quando quest’ultimo non rischiava quasi di soffocare.

“Eccolo lì!” disse il signor Weller, mettendo tutta la sua energia in un calcio particolarmente complicato; finalmente riuscì a far uscire la testa del signor Stiggins dal secchio. “Mandate qui uno di quei pigri pastori. Io lo ridurrò in polpette prima ancora che possa fare qualcosa, e poi lo annegherò! Sammy, aiutami. E dammi un bicchiere di brandy: sono senza fiato, ragazzo mio.”

CHAPTER LIII. COMPRISING THE FINAL EXIT OF MR. JINGLE AND JOB TROTTER, WITH A GREAT MORNING OF BUSINESS IN GRAY’S INN SQUARE—CONCLUDING WITH A DOUBLE KNOCK AT MR. PERKER’S DOOR

When Arabella, after some gentle preparation and many assurances that there was not the least occasion for being low-spirited, was at length made acquainted by Mr. Pickwick with the unsatisfactory result of his visit to Birmingham, she burst into tears, and sobbing aloud, lamented in moving terms that she should have been the unhappy cause of any estrangement between a father and his son.

‘My dear girl,’ said Mr. Pickwick kindly, ‘it is no fault of yours. It was impossible to foresee that the old gentleman would be so strongly prepossessed against his son’s marriage, you know. I am sure,’ added Mr. Pickwick, glancing at her pretty face, ‘he can have very little idea of the pleasure he denies himself.’

‘Oh, my dear Mr. Pickwick,’ said Arabella, ‘what shall we do, if he continues to be angry with us?’

‘Why, wait patiently, my dear, until he thinks better of it,’ replied Mr. Pickwick cheerfully.

‘But, dear Mr. Pickwick, what is to become of Nathaniel if his father withdraws his assistance?’ urged Arabella.

‘In that case, my love,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick, ‘I will venture to prophesy that he will find some other friend who will not be backward in helping him to start in the world.’

The significance of this reply was not so well disguised by Mr. Pickwick but that Arabella understood it. So, throwing her arms round his neck, and kissing him affectionately, she sobbed louder than before.

‘Come, come,’ said Mr. Pickwick taking her hand, ‘we will wait here a few days longer, and see whether he writes or takes any other notice of your husband’s communication. If not, I have thought of half a dozen plans, any one of which would make you happy at once. There, my dear, there!’

With these words, Mr. Pickwick gently pressed Arabella’s hand, and bade her dry her eyes, and not distress her husband. Upon which, Arabella, who was one of the best little creatures alive, put her handkerchief in her reticule, and by the time Mr. Winkle joined them, exhibited in full lustre the same beaming smiles and sparkling eyes that had originally captivated him.

‘This is a distressing predicament for these young people,’ thought Mr. Pickwick, as he dressed himself next morning. ‘I’ll walk up to Perker’s, and consult him about the matter.’

As Mr. Pickwick was further prompted to betake himself to Gray’s Inn Square by an anxious desire to come to a pecuniary settlement with the kind-hearted little attorney without further delay, he made a hurried breakfast, and executed his intention so speedily, that ten o’clock had not struck when he reached Gray’s Inn.

It still wanted ten minutes to the hour when he had ascended the staircase on which Perker’s chambers were. The clerks had not arrived yet, and he beguiled the time by looking out of the staircase window.

The healthy light of a fine October morning made even the dingy old houses brighten up a little; some of the dusty windows actually looking almost cheerful as the sun’s rays gleamed upon them. Clerk after clerk hastened into the square by one or other of the entrances, and looking up at the Hall clock, accelerated or decreased his rate of walking according to the time at which his office hours nominally commenced; the half-past nine o’clock people suddenly becoming very brisk, and the ten o’clock gentlemen falling into a pace of most aristocratic slowness. The clock struck ten, and clerks poured in faster than ever, each one in a greater perspiration than his predecessor. The noise of unlocking and opening doors echoed and re-echoed on every side; heads appeared as if by magic in every window; the porters took up their stations for the day; the slipshod laundresses hurried off; the postman ran from house to house; and the whole legal hive was in a bustle.

‘You’re early, Mr. Pickwick,’ said a voice behind him.

‘Ah, Mr. Lowten,’ replied that gentleman, looking round, and recognising his old acquaintance.

‘Precious warm walking, isn’t it?’ said Lowten, drawing a Bramah key from his pocket, with a small plug therein, to keep the dust out.

‘You appear to feel it so,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick, smiling at the clerk, who was literally red-hot.

‘I’ve come along, rather, I can tell you,’ replied Lowten. ‘It went the half hour as I came through the Polygon. I’m here before him, though, so I don’t mind.’

Comforting himself with this reflection, Mr. Lowten extracted the plug from the door-key; having opened the door, replugged and repocketed his Bramah, and picked up the letters which the postman had dropped through the box, he ushered Mr. Pickwick into the office. Here, in the twinkling of an eye, he divested himself of his coat, put on a threadbare garment, which he took out of a desk, hung up his hat, pulled forth a few sheets of cartridge and blotting-paper in alternate layers, and, sticking a pen behind his ear, rubbed his hands with an air of great satisfaction.

‘There, you see, Mr. Pickwick,’ he said, ‘now I’m complete. I’ve got my office coat on, and my pad out, and let him come as soon as he likes. You haven’t got a pinch of snuff about you, have you?’

‘No, I have not,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘I’m sorry for it,’ said Lowten. ‘Never mind. I’ll run out presently, and get a bottle of soda. Don’t I look rather queer about the eyes, Mr. Pickwick?’

The individual appealed to, surveyed Mr. Lowten’s eyes from a distance, and expressed his opinion that no unusual queerness was perceptible in those features.

‘I’m glad of it,’ said Lowten. ‘We were keeping it up pretty tolerably at the Stump last night, and I’m rather out of sorts this morning. Perker’s been about that business of yours, by the bye.’

CAPITOLO LIII. Che comprende l’uscita finale del signor Jingle e di Job Trotter, nonché una movimentata mattinata di attività in Gray’s Inn Square – concludendosi con un doppio bussare alla porta del signor Perker.

Quando Arabella, dopo alcune dolci rassicurazioni e molte promesse che non c’era assolutamente motivo di essere depressa, fu finalmente informata da Mr. Pickwick sul risultato insoddisfacente della sua visita a Birmingham, scoppiò in lacrime e, singhiozzando ad alta voce, esprime con parole commoventi il proprio rammarico per essere stata la causa di qualsiasi distacco tra un padre e suo figlio.

“Mia cara ragazza,” disse gentilmente il signor Pickwick, “non è colpa tua. Era impossibile prevedere che quell’anziano signore fosse così fermamente contrario al matrimonio di suo figlio, capisci? Sono sicuro,” aggiunse il signor Pickwick, guardando il suo bel viso, “che lui non abbia la minima idea del piacere che si sta negando.”

“Oh, mio caro signor Pickwick”, disse Arabella, “cosa dovremmo fare se continuerà ad essere arrabbiato con noi?”

“Perché, aspetta pazientemente, mia cara, finché non cambierà idea,” rispose felicemente il signor Pickwick.

“Ma, caro signor Pickwick, cosa ne sarà di Nathaniel se suo padre ritira il proprio aiuto?” insistette Arabella.

“In quel caso, mio amore”, riprese il signor Pickwick, “oserei predire che troverà un altro amico disposto ad aiutarlo a cominciare la sua vita nel mondo”.

L’importanza di questa risposta non fu affatto ben nascosta dal signor Pickwick, ma Arabella la capì comunque. Così, gettandogli le braccia al collo e baciandolo con affetto, iniziò a singhiozzare ancora più forte di prima.

“Come, come,” disse il signor Pickwick prendendole la mano, “aspetteremo qui ancora qualche giorno e vedremo se scriverà o darà qualche segno di aver ricevuto la comunicazione di tuo marito. Se non lo farà, ho pensato a mezza dozzina di piani, qualsiasi uno di essi ti renderebbe immediatamente felice. Ecco, cara mia, ecco!”

Con queste parole, il signor Pickwick prese dolcemente la mano di Arabella e le disse di asciugarsi gli occhi e di non addolorare suo marito. Allora Arabella, che era una delle più gentili e adorabili creature esistenti, mise il fazzoletto nella sua reticella; quando il signor Winkle li raggiunse, mostrava ancora quegli stessi sorrisi radiosi e occhi scintillanti che inizialmente lo avevano affascinato.

“Questa è una situazione davvero angosciante per questi giovani,” pensò il signor Pickwick mentre si vestiva la mattina seguente. “Andrò da Perker e ne parlerò con lui.”

Poiché il signor Pickwick era spinto da un ansioso desiderio di giungere a una soluzione finanziaria con quel gentile e premuroso avvocato senza ulteriori ritardi, si affrettò a fare colazione e portò a termine i suoi preparativi con tale rapidità che non erano ancora passate le dieci quando arrivò a Gray’s Inn.

Mancavano ancora dieci minuti all’ora quando salì la scala che conduceva alle stanze di Perker. Gli impiegati non erano ancora arrivati, quindi passò il tempo guardando fuori dalla finestra della scala.

La luce serena di una bella mattina d’ottobre rendeva anche le vecchie case, un po’ trasandate, più luminose; alcune delle finestre polverose sembravano persino allegramente illuminate dai raggi del sole. Impiegati dopo impiegati si affrettavano verso la piazza attraverso varie entrate, e guardando l’orologio della sala aumentavano o rallentavano il passo a seconda dell’ora in cui ufficialmente iniziava il loro turno di lavoro: alle nove e mezza diventavano molto più veloci, mentre alle dieci assumevano un passo estremamente lento, tipico della nobiltà. Alle dieci in punto gli impiegati affluirono ancora più numerosi di prima, ognuno sudato più del precedente. Il rumore di chiavi che si aprivano e porte che si chiudevano risuonava ovunque; teste apparivano magicamente in ogni finestra; i portieri prendevano posizione per la giornata; le lavandaie si affrettavano a terminare il loro lavoro; il postino correva da una casa all’altra. E l’intero ambiente legale era nel caos più totale.

“Siete arrivato presto, signor Pickwick”, disse una voce dietro di lui.

“Ah, signor Lowten,” rispose quel gentiluomo, guardandosi intorno e riconoscendo il suo vecchio conoscente.

“Un caldo e piacevole modo di spostarsi, non è vero?”, disse Lowten, tirando fuori dalla tasca una chiave Bramah munita di un piccolo tappo all’interno, per impedire l’ingresso della polvere.

“Sembra che la pensiate davvero così,” ribatté il signor Pickwick sorridendo al commesso,
che era letteralmente rosso in viso per l’imbarazzo.

“Anzi, posso dirvi che sono arrivato insieme a lui,” rispose Lowten. “Il viaggio è durato mezz’ora mentre attraversavo il Polygon. Sono qui prima di lui, quindi non mi dispiace.”

Rassicurandosi con questo pensiero, il signor Lowten estrasse la spina dalla chiave di casa; dopo aver aperto la porta, reinserì la spina e ripose il suo strumento nella tasca, quindi raccolse le lettere che il postino aveva lasciato nella cassetta della posta e fece entrare il signor Pickwick nell’ufficio. Lì, in un attimo, si tolse il cappotto, indossò un abito logoro che tirò fuori da un armadio, appese il cappello, estrasse alcune pagine di carta da lettere e di carta assorbente sovrapponendole l’una all’altra, e, infilando una penna dietro l’orecchio, si strofinò le mani con aria di grande soddisfazione.

“Ecco, vedete, signor Pickwick,” disse, “adesso sono pronto. Ho indossato il mio cappotto da ufficio e ho preparato tutto il necessario; possa venire quando vuole. Non avete nemmeno un pizzico di tabacco con voi, vero?”

“No, non l’ho fatto,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

“Mi dispiace molto,” disse Lowten. “Nessun problema. Tra poco esco e vado a prendere una bottiglia di soda. Non sembro un po’ strano negli occhi, signor Pickwick?”

Quell’individuo, osservando da lontano gli occhi di Mr. Lowten, esprimette l’opinione che in quei tratti non si percepisse alcuna stranezza insolita.

“Sono contento di questo,” disse Lowten. “Ieri sera al Stump le cose sono andate abbastanza bene, ma stamattina mi sento un po’ male. A proposito, Perker si è occupato di quella tua faccenda.”

‘What business?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick. ‘Mrs. Bardell’s costs?’

‘No, I don’t mean that,’ replied Mr. Lowten. ‘About getting that customer that we paid the ten shillings in the pound to the bill- discounter for, on your account—to get him out of the Fleet, you know— about getting him to Demerara.’

‘Oh, Mr. Jingle,’ said Mr. Pickwick hastily. ‘Yes. Well?’

‘Well, it’s all arranged,’ said Lowten, mending his pen. ‘The agent at Liverpool said he had been obliged to you many times when you were in business, and he would be glad to take him on your recommendation.’

‘That’s well,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘I am delighted to hear it.’

‘But I say,’ resumed Lowten, scraping the back of the pen preparatory to making a fresh split, ‘what a soft chap that other is!’

‘Which other?’

‘Why, that servant, or friend, or whatever he is; you know, Trotter.’

‘Ah!’ said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile. ‘I always thought him the reverse.’

‘Well, and so did I, from what little I saw of him,’ replied Lowten, ‘it only shows how one may be deceived. What do you think of his going to Demerara, too?’

‘What! And giving up what was offered him here!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

‘Treating Perker’s offer of eighteen bob a week, and a rise if he behaved himself, like dirt,’ replied Lowten. ‘He said he must go along with the other one, and so they persuaded Perker to write again, and they’ve got him something on the same estate; not near so good, Perker says, as a convict would get in New South Wales, if he appeared at his trial in a new suit of clothes.’

‘Foolish fellow,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with glistening eyes. ‘Foolish fellow.’

‘Oh, it’s worse than foolish; it’s downright sneaking, you know,’ replied Lowten, nibbing the pen with a contemptuous face. ‘He says that he’s the only friend he ever had, and he’s attached to him, and all that. Friendship’s a very good thing in its way—we are all very friendly and comfortable at the Stump, for instance, over our grog, where every man pays for himself; but damn hurting yourself for anybody else, you know! No man should have more than two attachments—the first, to number one, and the second to the ladies; that’s what I say—ha! ha!’ Mr. Lowten concluded with a loud laugh, half in jocularity, and half in derision, which was prematurely cut short by the sound of Perker’s footsteps on the stairs, at the first approach of which, he vaulted on his stool with an agility most remarkable, and wrote intensely.

The greeting between Mr. Pickwick and his professional adviser was warm and cordial; the client was scarcely ensconced in the attorney’s arm- chair, however, when a knock was heard at the door, and a voice inquired whether Mr. Perker was within.

‘Hark!’ said Perker, ‘that’s one of our vagabond friends—Jingle himself, my dear Sir. Will you see him?’

‘What do you think?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, hesitating.

‘Yes, I think you had better. Here, you Sir, what’s your name, walk in, will you?’

In compliance with this unceremonious invitation, Jingle and Job walked into the room, but, seeing Mr. Pickwick, stopped short in some confusion.

‘Well,’ said Perker, ‘don’t you know that gentleman?’

‘Good reason to,’ replied Mr. Jingle, stepping forward. ‘Mr. Pickwick— deepest obligations—life preserver—made a man of me—you shall never repent it, Sir.’

‘I am happy to hear you say so,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘You look much better.’

‘Thanks to you, sir—great change—Majesty’s Fleet—unwholesome place— very,’ said Jingle, shaking his head. He was decently and cleanly dressed, and so was Job, who stood bolt upright behind him, staring at Mr. Pickwick with a visage of iron.

‘When do they go to Liverpool?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, half aside to Perker.

‘This evening, Sir, at seven o’clock,’ said Job, taking one step forward. ‘By the heavy coach from the city, Sir.’

‘Are your places taken?’

‘They are, sir,’ replied Job.

‘You have fully made up your mind to go?’

‘I have sir,’ answered Job.

‘With regard to such an outfit as was indispensable for Jingle,’ said Perker, addressing Mr. Pickwick aloud. ‘I have taken upon myself to make an arrangement for the deduction of a small sum from his quarterly salary, which, being made only for one year, and regularly remitted, will provide for that expense. I entirely disapprove of your doing anything for him, my dear sir, which is not dependent on his own exertions and good conduct.’

‘Certainly,’ interposed Jingle, with great firmness. ‘Clear head—man of the world—quite right—perfectly.’

‘By compounding with his creditor, releasing his clothes from the pawnbroker’s, relieving him in prison, and paying for his passage,’ continued Perker, without noticing Jingle’s observation, ‘you have already lost upwards of fifty pounds.’

‘Not lost,’ said Jingle hastily, ‘Pay it all—stick to business—cash up—every farthing. Yellow fever, perhaps—can’t help that—if not—’ Here Mr. Jingle paused, and striking the crown of his hat with great violence, passed his hand over his eyes, and sat down.

‘He means to say,’ said Job, advancing a few paces, ‘that if he is not carried off by the fever, he will pay the money back again. If he lives, he will, Mr. Pickwick. I will see it done. I know he will, Sir,’ said Job, with energy. ‘I could undertake to swear it.’

‘Well, well,’ said Mr. Pickwick, who had been bestowing a score or two of frowns upon Perker, to stop his summary of benefits conferred, which the little attorney obstinately disregarded, ‘you must be careful not to play any more desperate cricket matches, Mr. Jingle, or to renew your acquaintance with Sir Thomas Blazo, and I have little doubt of your preserving your health.’

Mr. Jingle smiled at this sally, but looked rather foolish notwithstanding; so Mr. Pickwick changed the subject by saying—

‘You don’t happen to know, do you, what has become of another friend of yours—a more humble one, whom I saw at Rochester?’

“Di che si tratta?”, chiese il signor Pickwick. “I costi della signora Bardell?”

“No, non intendo quello,” rispose il signor Lowten. “Intanto per ottenere quel cliente per cui abbiamo pagato dieci scellini a libbra al discounter di fatture, a vostro nome, per farlo uscire dal carcere, capite, per portarlo a Demerara.”

“Ah, signor Jingle,” disse precipitosamente il signor Pickwick. “Sì. Ebbene?”

“Beh, è tutto sistemato,” disse Lowten, aggiustando la sua penna. “L’agente di Liverpool ha detto che ti deve molto grazie ai tuoi aiuti quando eri nel settore degli affari, e sarebbe felice di accettare il lavoro su tua raccomandazione.”

“Beh, è molto bello,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Sono davvero felice di saperlo.”

“Ma dico,” riprese Lowten, raschiando la parte posteriore della penna in preparazione a fare un’altra incisione, “che ragazzo mite è quello là!”

“Quale altro?”

“Beh, quel servitore, o amico, o comunque si chiami; sai, Trotter.”

“Ah!”, disse il signor Pickwick sorridendo. “Sempre ho pensato che fosse il contrario.”

“Beh, anch’io lo pensavo,” rispose Lowten, “da quello che ho visto di lui. Questo dimostra solo quanto si possa essere ingannati. Che ne pensi tu del fatto che sia andato anche a Demerara?”

“Che cosa! Abbandonare tutto ciò che gli è stato offerto qui!” esclamò il signor Pickwick.

“Rifiutare l’offerta di Perker, che proponeva diciotto scellini a settimana più un aumento se si comportava bene, è come trattarlo come spazzatura,” rispose Lowten. “Ha detto che doveva accettare anche l’altra offerta, così loro lo hanno convinto a scrivere di nuovo, e ora gli hanno trovato un lavoro nella stessa tenuta; ma non è affatto paragonabile, secondo Perker, a quello che un condannato potrebbe ottenere in Nuova Galle del Sud se si presentasse al processo indossando abiti nuovi.”

“Stupido individuo,” disse il signor Pickwick con gli occhi che brillavano. “Stupido individuo.”

“Oh, è peggio che essere sciocchi; è proprio una comportamento meschino, sai,” rispose Lowten, mordicchiando la penna con un’espressione di disprezzo. “Lui dice di essere l’unico amico che abbia mai avuto, e che ci tenga molto. L’amicizia è una cosa molto bella, a modo suo: tutti noi siamo molto amichevoli e a nostro agio al Stump, per esempio, mentre beviamo il nostro grog. Ognuno paga per sé; ma dannazione, non bisognerebbe mai soffrire così tanto per qualcun altro, capisci? Nessun uomo dovrebbe avere più di due legami importanti: il primo, ovviamente, con la propria famiglia o i propri amici. E il secondo, beh, con le donne. È quello che dico io, ahah!” Concluse Lowten con una risata forte, metà scherzosa e metà derisoria. Ma quella risata fu interrotta prematuramente dal suono dei passi di Perker sulle scale. Non appena li sentì, balzò sul suo sgabello con un’agilità davvero notevole e iniziò a scrivere con grande concentrazione.

Il saluto tra il signor Pickwick e il suo consulente professionista fu caloroso e cordiale; tuttavia, non appena il cliente si fu sistemato nella poltrona dell’avvocato, si sentì bussare alla porta e una voce chiese se il signor Perker fosse dentro.

“Ascoltate!” disse Perker, “quello è uno dei nostri amici vagabondi. È proprio Jingle in persona, caro signore. Lo volete incontrare?”

“Che ne pensi?” chiese esitando il signor Pickwick.

“Sì, penso che sia meglio così. Ecco, signore, come si chiama? Entri pure, per favore.”

In risposta a questa invito così diretta, Jingle e Job entrarono nella stanza, ma, vedendo il signor Pickwick, si fermarono immediatamente, un po’ confusi.

“Beh,” disse Perker, “non conosci quel signore?”

“Un ottimo motivo per farlo,” rispose il signor Jingle, facendo un passo avanti. “Signor Pickwick, obblighi profondi, una vera salvezza nella mia vita, mi hanno reso una persona migliore. Non se ne pentirà mai, signore.”

“Sono felice di sentirti dire questo,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Sembri molto meglio.”

“Grazie a voi, signore, un grande cambiamento. La Flotta della Maestà, un posto poco salutare, davvero,” disse Jingle scuotendo la testa. Era vestito in modo decente e pulito, così come Job, che stava fermo dietro di lui, fissando il signor Pickwick con uno sguardo deciso.

“Quando partono per Liverpool?”, chiese il signor Pickwick, parlando a mezza voce con Perker.

“Stasera, signore, alle sette in punto,” disse Job facendo un passo avanti. “Con il pesante cocchio che arriva dalla città, signore.”

“Sono già occupati i vostri posti?”

“Sì, signore,” rispose Giobbe.

“Hai davvero deciso di andartene?”

“Lo ho, signore,” rispose Giobbe.

“Per quanto riguarda un abbigliamento del genere, indispensabile per Jingle,” disse Perker ad alta voce rivolgendosi al signor Pickwick, “ho deciso di organizzare la sottrazione di una piccola somma dal suo stipendio trimestrale. Poiché questa misura sarà applicata soltanto per un anno e verrà effettuata regolarmente, sarà sufficiente a coprire tale spesa. Non approvo affatto che lei faccia qualcosa per lui, mio caro signore, se ciò non dipende dai suoi propri sforzi e dal suo buon comportamento.”

“Certamente,” intervenne Jingle con grande fermezza. “Testa fredda, un uomo di mondo, assolutamente giusto, perfetto.”

“Compensando il suo creditore, recuperando i suoi vestiti dal pegniere, facendolo uscire dalla prigione e pagandogli il viaggio,” continuò Perker, senza notare l’osservazione di Jingle, “avete già perso più di cinquanta sterline.”

“Non è perso,” disse Jingle in fretta, “Paga tutto, concentrati sul lavoro, raccogli ogni singola moneta. Forse si tratta di febbre gialla, non ci si può fare nulla, altrimenti, ” Qui il signor Jingle fece una pausa, colpì con forza la tesa del suo cappello, si passò la mano sugli occhi e si sedette.

“Voleva dire,” disse Job, facendo qualche passo avanti, “che se non muore a causa della febbre, restituirà i soldi. Se sopravvive, lo farà, signor Pickwick. Ci penso io che si faccia. So che lo farà, signore,” disse Job con decisione. “Potrei giurarlo.”

‘Beh, beh, ’ disse il signor Pickwick, che aveva già fatto un paio di smorfie a Perker per farlo smettere di elencare i benefici ricevuti – cosa che l’avvocatino, ostinatamente, continuava a ignorare – ‘dovete fare attenzione a non giocare più a cricket in modo così rischioso, signor Jingle, e anche a non riallacciare i vostri rapporti con Sir Thomas Blazo. Non ho alcun >dubbio che riusciate a preservare la vostra salute.’

Il signor Jingle sorrise a questa battuta, ma sembrava piuttosto ridicolo nonostante ciò; così il signor Pickwick cambiò argomento dicendo.

“Non sapresti per caso cosa sia successo a un altro tuo amico, uno più umile, che ho visto a Rochester, ”

‘Dismal Jemmy?’ inquired Jingle.

‘Yes.’

Jingle shook his head.

‘Clever rascal—queer fellow, hoaxing genius—Job’s brother.’

‘Job’s brother!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. ‘Well, now I look at him closely, there is a likeness.’

‘We were always considered like each other, Sir,’ said Job, with a cunning look just lurking in the corners of his eyes, ‘only I was really of a serious nature, and he never was. He emigrated to America, Sir, in consequence of being too much sought after here, to be comfortable; and has never been heard of since.’

‘That accounts for my not having received the “page from the romance of real life,” which he promised me one morning when he appeared to be contemplating suicide on Rochester Bridge, I suppose,’ said Mr. Pickwick, smiling. ‘I need not inquire whether his dismal behaviour was natural or assumed.’

‘He could assume anything, Sir,’ said Job. ‘You may consider yourself very fortunate in having escaped him so easily. On intimate terms he would have been even a more dangerous acquaintance than—’ Job looked at Jingle, hesitated, and finally added, ‘than—than-myself even.’

‘A hopeful family yours, Mr. Trotter,’ said Perker, sealing a letter which he had just finished writing.

‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Job. ‘Very much so.’

‘Well,’ said the little man, laughing, ‘I hope you are going to disgrace it. Deliver this letter to the agent when you reach Liverpool, and let me advise you, gentlemen, not to be too knowing in the West Indies. If you throw away this chance, you will both richly deserve to be hanged, as I sincerely trust you will be. And now you had better leave Mr. Pickwick and me alone, for we have other matters to talk over, and time is precious.’ As Perker said this, he looked towards the door, with an evident desire to render the leave-taking as brief as possible.

It was brief enough on Mr. Jingle’s part. He thanked the little attorney in a few hurried words for the kindness and promptitude with which he had rendered his assistance, and, turning to his benefactor, stood for a few seconds as if irresolute what to say or how to act. Job Trotter relieved his perplexity; for, with a humble and grateful bow to Mr. Pickwick, he took his friend gently by the arm, and led him away.

‘A worthy couple!’ said Perker, as the door closed behind them.

‘I hope they may become so,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘What do you think? Is there any chance of their permanent reformation?’

Perker shrugged his shoulders doubtfully, but observing Mr. Pickwick’s anxious and disappointed look, rejoined—

‘Of course there is a chance. I hope it may prove a good one. They are unquestionably penitent now; but then, you know, they have the recollection of very recent suffering fresh upon them. What they may become, when that fades away, is a problem that neither you nor I can solve. However, my dear Sir,’ added Perker, laying his hand on Mr. Pickwick’s shoulder, ‘your object is equally honourable, whatever the result is. Whether that species of benevolence which is so very cautious and long-sighted that it is seldom exercised at all, lest its owner should be imposed upon, and so wounded in his self-love, be real charity or a worldly counterfeit, I leave to wiser heads than mine to determine. But if those two fellows were to commit a burglary to-morrow, my opinion of this action would be equally high.’

With these remarks, which were delivered in a much more animated and earnest manner than is usual in legal gentlemen, Perker drew his chair to his desk, and listened to Mr. Pickwick’s recital of old Mr. Winkle’s obstinacy.

‘Give him a week,’ said Perker, nodding his head prophetically.

‘Do you think he will come round?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘I think he will,’ rejoined Perker. ‘If not, we must try the young lady’s persuasion; and that is what anybody but you would have done at first.’

Mr. Perker was taking a pinch of snuff with various grotesque contractions of countenance, eulogistic of the persuasive powers appertaining unto young ladies, when the murmur of inquiry and answer was heard in the outer office, and Lowten tapped at the door.

‘Come in!’ cried the little man.

The clerk came in, and shut the door after him, with great mystery.

‘What’s the matter?’ inquired Perker.

‘You’re wanted, Sir.’

‘Who wants me?’

Lowten looked at Mr. Pickwick, and coughed.

‘Who wants me? Can’t you speak, Mr. Lowten?’

‘Why, sir,’ replied Lowten, ‘it’s Dodson; and Fogg is with him.’

‘Bless my life!’ said the little man, looking at his watch, ‘I appointed them to be here at half-past eleven, to settle that matter of yours, Pickwick. I gave them an undertaking on which they sent down your discharge; it’s very awkward, my dear Sir; what will you do? Would you like to step into the next room?’

The next room being the identical room in which Messrs. Dodson & Fogg were, Mr. Pickwick replied that he would remain where he was: the more especially as Messrs. Dodson & Fogg ought to be ashamed to look him in the face, instead of his being ashamed to see them. Which latter circumstance he begged Mr. Perker to note, with a glowing countenance and many marks of indignation.

‘Very well, my dear Sir, very well,’ replied Perker, ‘I can only say that if you expect either Dodson or Fogg to exhibit any symptom of shame or confusion at having to look you, or anybody else, in the face, you are the most sanguine man in your expectations that I ever met with. Show them in, Mr. Lowten.’

Mr. Lowten disappeared with a grin, and immediately returned ushering in the firm, in due form of precedence—Dodson first, and Fogg afterwards.

‘You have seen Mr. Pickwick, I believe?’ said Perker to Dodson, inclining his pen in the direction where that gentleman was seated.

“Dismal Jemmy?”, chiese Jingle.

“Sì, davvero.”

Jingle scosse la testa.

“Maledetto furfante, strano individuo, genio delle truffe, il fratello di Giobbe.”

“Il fratello di Job!”, esclamò il signor Pickwick. “Beh, ora che lo guardo bene, c’è davvero una somiglianza.”

“Siamo sempre stati considerati come fratelli, signore,” disse Job, con uno sguardo astuto che si nascondeva negli angoli dei suoi occhi, “solo che io avevo davvero una natura seria, mentre lui mai. È emigrato in America, signore, perché qui veniva troppo corteggiato e non riusciva a vivere tranquillamente; da allora non si è più sentito parlare di lui.”

“Questo spiega perché non ho ricevuto quella ‘pagina tratta dal romanzo della vita reale’ che mi aveva promesso una mattina, quando sembrava sul punto di compiere il suicidio sul Ponte Rochester,” disse il signor Pickwick sorridendo. “Non c’è bisogno di chiedersi se quel suo comportamento cupo fosse naturale o simulato.”

“Potrebbe assumere qualsiasi ruolo, signore,” disse Giobbe. “Dovreste considerarvi molto fortunati ad essere riusciti a sfuggirgli così facilmente. Se avesse instaurato con voi un rapporto più stretto, sarebbe diventato un nemico ancora più pericoloso di, ”, si interruppe, guardando Jingle, esitò per un momento e poi aggiunse: “di me stesso.”

“Una famiglia piena di speranza, signor Trotter,” disse Perker, sigillando una lettera che aveva appena finito di scrivere.

“Sì, signore,” rispose Giobbe. “Assolutamente.”

“Beh,” disse il piccolo uomo ridendo, “spero che riusciate a metterlo in imbarazzo. Portate questa lettera all’agente non appena arriverete a Liverpool, e lasciate che vi dia un consiglio: non fatevi troppo sapienti nelle Indie Occidentali. Se sprecate quest’opportunità, meriterete davvero di essere impiccati. E ora è meglio che lasciate da soli il signor Pickwick e me, perché abbiamo altre cose da discutere, e il tempo è prezioso.” Mentre diceva queste parole, Perker guardò verso la porta, con evidente desiderio di concludere rapidamente l’incontro.

La dichiarazione del signor Jingle fu abbastanza breve. Ringraziò l’avvocatino con poche parole affrettate per la gentilezza e la prontezza con cui gli aveva fornito aiuto, poi, rivolgendosi al suo benefattore, rimase fermo per qualche secondo, come se non sapesse cosa dire o cosa fare. Job Trotter risolse la sua incertezza: con un umile e grato inchino al signor Pickwick, prese gentilmente il suo amico per il braccio e lo portò via.

“Una coppia meritevole!”, disse Perker quando la porta si chiuse alle loro spalle.

“Spero che possano diventare così,” rispose il signor Pickwick. “Che ne pensi? C’è qualche possibilità che si riformino definitivamente?”

Perker alzò le spalle con esitazione, ma notando l’espressione ansiosa e delusa di Mr. Pickwick, riprese a dire.

“Certo che c’è una possibilità. Spero che si riveli positiva. Ora sono senza dubbio pentiti; ma, come sapete, hanno ancora fresca nella memoria la sofferenza appena vissuta. Quello che diventeranno quando questa sensazione svanirà è un problema che né voi né io possiamo risolvere. Tuttavia, mio caro signore,” aggiunse Perker, posando una mano sulla spalla del signor Pickwick, “lo scopo che vi guidate è ugualmente nobile, indipendentemente dall’esito. Se quel tipo di benevolenza – così cauta e lungimirante da essere quasi mai messa in pratica, per evitare che chi la manifesta venga considerato importuno e quindi ferito nel proprio amor proprio – sia davvero vera carità o soltanto una simulazione mondana, lascio che siano menti più sagge delle mie a decidere. Ma anche se quei due uomini commettessero un furto domani, la mia stima per questo loro atto rimarrebbe altrettanto positiva.”

Con queste osservazioni, espresse in modo molto più animato e serio del solito da parte di un gentiluomo legale, Perker si avvicinò con la sedia al proprio tavolo e ascoltò il racconto di Mr. Pickwick riguardo all’ostinazione del vecchio signor Winkle.

“Dategli una settimana,” disse Perker, annuendo con aria profetica.

“Pensa che si riprenderà?” chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Penso che lo farà,” ribatté Perker. “Altrimenti, dobbiamo provare con la persuasione della giovane signora; ed è proprio quello che chiunque altro, tranne te, avrebbe fatto per prima cosa.”

Il signor Perker stava sniffando tabacco, con varie espressioni grottesche sul viso, lodando le capacità persuasive delle giovani donne, quando si udì il mormorio di voci nell’ufficio esterno; poi Lowten bussò alla porta.

“Entra!” gridò il piccolo uomo.

Il commesso entrò e chiuse la porta dietro di sé, con grande mistero.

“Che c’è che non va?” chiese Perker.

“Vi cercano, signore.”

“Chi mi vuole?”

Lowten guardò il signor Pickwick e tossì.

“Chi mi vuole? Non riesce a parlare, signor Lowten?”

“Beh, signore,” rispose Lowten, “è Dodson; e Fogg è con lui.”

“Mio Dio!” disse il piccolo uomo guardando l’orologio. “Ho fissato loro l’appuntamento alle undici e mezza per risolvere quella questione tua, Pickwick. Ho dato loro la mia garanzia, ed è grazie a questo che hanno inviato il tuo certificato di dimissioni. È davvero imbarazzante, caro signore. Cosa farai ora? Vuoi andare nella stanza accanto?”

La stanza successiva era esattamente la stessa in cui si trovavano i signori Dodson & Fogg; quindi il signor Pickwick rispose che avrebbe rimasto lì dove si trovava: soprattutto perché i signori Dodson & Fogg avrebbero dovuto vergognarsi di guardarlo in faccia, piuttosto che lui dovesse vergognarsi di vederli. Quest’ultima circostanza la pregò il signor Perker di prendere atto, con un volto acceso e molte espressioni di indignazione.

“Molto bene, mio caro signore, molto bene,” rispose Perker, “posso solo dire che, se vi aspettate che Dodson o Fogg mostrino anche solo un minimo di vergogna o confusione all’idea di dovervi guardare in faccia, o a chiunque altro, allora siete davvero l’uomo più ottimista che abbia mai incontrato. Fateli entrare, signor Lowten.”

Il signor Lowten scomparve con un sorriso e tornò subito dopo, facendo entrare i due individui in questione, seguendo un ordine preciso: prima Dodson, poi Fogg.

“Avete visto il signor Pickwick, vero?”, chiese Perker a Dodson, indicando con la penna nella direzione in cui quel gentiluomo era seduto.

‘How do you do, Mr. Pickwick?’ said Dodson, in a loud voice.

‘Dear me,’ cried Fogg, ‘how do you do, Mr. Pickwick? I hope you are well, Sir. I thought I knew the face,’ said Fogg, drawing up a chair, and looking round him with a smile.

Mr. Pickwick bent his head very slightly, in answer to these salutations, and, seeing Fogg pull a bundle of papers from his coat pocket, rose and walked to the window.

‘There’s no occasion for Mr. Pickwick to move, Mr. Perker,’ said Fogg, untying the red tape which encircled the little bundle, and smiling again more sweetly than before. ‘Mr. Pickwick is pretty well acquainted with these proceedings. There are no secrets between us, I think. He! he! he!’

‘Not many, I think,’ said Dodson. ‘Ha! ha! ha!’ Then both the partners laughed together—pleasantly and cheerfully, as men who are going to receive money often do.

‘We shall make Mr. Pickwick pay for peeping,’ said Fogg, with considerable native humour, as he unfolded his papers. ‘The amount of the taxed costs is one hundred and thirty-three, six, four, Mr. Perker.’

There was a great comparing of papers, and turning over of leaves, by Fogg and Perker, after this statement of profit and loss. Meanwhile, Dodson said, in an affable manner, to Mr. Pickwick—

‘I don’t think you are looking quite so stout as when I had the pleasure of seeing you last, Mr. Pickwick.’

‘Possibly not, Sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, who had been flashing forth looks of fierce indignation, without producing the smallest effect on either of the sharp practitioners; ‘I believe I am not, Sir. I have been persecuted and annoyed by scoundrels of late, Sir.’

Perker coughed violently, and asked Mr. Pickwick whether he wouldn’t like to look at the morning paper. To which inquiry Mr. Pickwick returned a most decided negative.

‘True,’ said Dodson, ‘I dare say you have been annoyed in the Fleet; there are some odd gentry there. Whereabouts were your apartments, Mr. Pickwick?’

‘My one room,’ replied that much-injured gentleman, ‘was on the coffee- room flight.’

‘Oh, indeed!’ said Dodson. ‘I believe that is a very pleasant part of the establishment.’

‘Very,’ replied Mr. Pickwick drily.

There was a coolness about all this, which, to a gentleman of an excitable temperament, had, under the circumstances, rather an exasperating tendency. Mr. Pickwick restrained his wrath by gigantic efforts; but when Perker wrote a cheque for the whole amount, and Fogg deposited it in a small pocket-book, with a triumphant smile playing over his pimply features, which communicated itself likewise to the stern countenance of Dodson, he felt the blood in his cheeks tingling with indignation.

‘Now, Mr. Dodson,’ said Fogg, putting up the pocket-book and drawing on his gloves, ‘I am at your service.’

‘Very good,’ said Dodson, rising; ‘I am quite ready.’

‘I am very happy,’ said Fogg, softened by the cheque, ‘to have had the pleasure of making Mr. Pickwick’s acquaintance. I hope you don’t think quite so ill of us, Mr. Pickwick, as when we first had the pleasure of seeing you.’

‘I hope not,’ said Dodson, with the high tone of calumniated virtue. ‘Mr. Pickwick now knows us better, I trust; whatever your opinion of gentlemen of our profession may be, I beg to assure you, sir, that I bear no ill-will or vindictive feeling towards you for the sentiments you thought proper to express in our office in Freeman’s Court, Cornhill, on the occasion to which my partner has referred.’

‘Oh, no, no; nor I,’ said Fogg, in a most forgiving manner.

‘Our conduct, Sir,’ said Dodson, ‘will speak for itself, and justify itself, I hope, upon every occasion. We have been in the profession some years, Mr. Pickwick, and have been honoured with the confidence of many excellent clients. I wish you good-morning, Sir.’

‘Good-morning, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Fogg. So saying, he put his umbrella under his arm, drew off his right glove, and extended the hand of reconciliation to that most indignant gentleman; who, thereupon, thrust his hands beneath his coat tails, and eyed the attorney with looks of scornful amazement.

‘Lowten!’ cried Perker, at this moment. ‘Open the door.’

‘Wait one instant,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Perker, I _will _speak.’

‘My dear Sir, pray let the matter rest where it is,’ said the little attorney, who had been in a state of nervous apprehension during the whole interview; ‘Mr. Pickwick, I beg—’

‘I will not be put down, Sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick hastily. ‘Mr. Dodson, you have addressed some remarks to me.’

Dodson turned round, bent his head meekly, and smiled.

‘Some remarks to me,’ repeated Mr. Pickwick, almost breathless; ‘and your partner has tendered me his hand, and you have both assumed a tone of forgiveness and high-mindedness, which is an extent of impudence that I was not prepared for, even in you.’

‘What, sir!’ exclaimed Dodson.

‘What, sir!’ reiterated Fogg.

‘Do you know that I have been the victim of your plots and conspiracies?’ continued Mr. Pickwick. ‘Do you know that I am the man whom you have been imprisoning and robbing? Do you know that you were the attorneys for the plaintiff, in Bardell and Pickwick?’

‘Yes, sir, we do know it,’ replied Dodson.

‘Of course we know it, Sir,’ rejoined Fogg, slapping his pocket—perhaps by accident.

‘I see that you recollect it with satisfaction,’ said Mr. Pickwick, attempting to call up a sneer for the first time in his life, and failing most signally in so doing. ‘Although I have long been anxious to tell you, in plain terms, what my opinion of you is, I should have let even this opportunity pass, in deference to my friend Perker’s wishes, but for the unwarrantable tone you have assumed, and your insolent familiarity. I say insolent familiarity, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, turning upon Fogg with a fierceness of gesture which caused that person to retreat towards the door with great expedition.

“Come sta, signor Pickwick?”, disse Dodson ad alta voce.

“Mio Dio,” esclamò Fogg, “come state, signor Pickwick? Spero che siate in buona salute, signore. Pensavo di conoscere quel volto, ” disse Fogg, avvicinando una sedia e guardandosi intorno con un sorriso.

Il signor Pickwick inclinò leggermente la testa in risposta a questi saluti; vedendo poi Fogg estrarre un mazzo di documenti dalla tasca del suo cappotto, si alzò e andò verso la finestra.

“Non c’è alcuna ragione perché il signor Pickwick debba muoversi, signor Perker,” disse Fogg, sciogliendo i lacci rossi che avvolgevano il piccolo fagottino e sorridendo di nuovo in modo ancora più dolce del solito. “Il signor Pickwick conosce molto bene queste procedure. Penso che non ci siano alcun segreti tra noi. He! he! he!”

“Non molte, penso,” disse Dodson. “Ahahah!” Poi entrambi i soci risero insieme: in modo piacevole e allegramente, come fanno spesso gli uomini che stanno per ricevere del denaro.

“Farò in modo che il signor Pickwick paghi per aver spiarato,” disse Fogg, con un notevole senso dell’umorismo, mentre dispiegava i suoi documenti. “L’importo delle spese soggette a tassa ammonta a centotrentatré, sei, quattro, signor Perker.”

Ci fu un intenso confronto di documenti e una minuziosa esaminazione delle pagine da parte di Fogg e Perker, dopo questa dichiarazione dei profitti e delle perdite. Nel frattempo, Dodson disse, in tono amichevole, al signor Pickwick.

“Non credo che siate più così in carne come l’ultima volta che ho avuto il piacere di vedervi, signor Pickwick.”

“Probabilmente no, signore,” rispose il signor Pickwick, che aveva continuato a mostrare espressioni di feroce indignazione, senza però ottenere la minima reazione da parte dei due individui astuti; “Credo proprio di no, signore. Ultimamente sono stato perseguitato e infastidito da alcuni scellerati, signore.”

Perker tossì violentemente e chiese al signor Pickwick se volesse dare un’occhiata al giornale del mattino. Alla quale domanda il signor Pickwick rispose con un deciso no.

“Vero,” disse Dodson, “oserei dire che siate stato infastidito nella Flotta; ci sono alcuni individui davvero strani lì. Dove si trovavano le vostre stanze, signor Pickwick?”

“La mia unica stanza,” rispose quel gentiluomo così malconcio, “si trovava sul volo per la sala da caffè.”

“Ah, davvero!” disse Dodson. “Credo che sia una parte molto piacevole di quell’insieme.”

“Molto bene,” rispose il signor Pickwick in tono secco.

C’era una sorta di freddezza in tutto ciò che accadeva, e questa, per un gentiluomo dal temperamento eccitabile, aveva, in quelle circostanze, una tendenza piuttosto esasperante. Il signor Pickwick fece enormi sforzi per trattenere la sua rabbia; ma quando Perker compilò un assegno per l’intera somma e Fogg lo mise in una piccola borsa, con un sorriso trionfante sul viso, quel sorriso si rifletté anche sul volto severo di Dodson. Il signor Pickwick sentì il sangue salirgli alle guance per l’indignazione.

“Ora, signor Dodson,” disse Fogg, mettendo via il portafoglio e infilando i guanti, “sono a sua disposizione.”

“Molto bene,” disse Dodson alzandosi; “Sono completamente pronto.”

“Sono molto felice,” disse Fogg, raddolcito dal assegno, “di aver avuto il piacere di conoscere il signor Pickwick. Spero che non pensi troppo male di noi, signor Pickwick, rispetto a quando abbiamo avuto la fortuna di incontrarla per la prima volta.”

“Spero di no,” disse Dodson, con quel tono altezzoso tipico della virtù calunniata.
“Credo che il signor Pickwick ci conosca ormai meglio; qualunque possa essere la sua opinione sugli uomini della nostra professione, le assicuro, signore, che non provo alcuna animosità o desiderio di vendetta nei suoi confronti per i sentimenti che ha ritenuto opportuno esprimere nel nostro ufficio in Freeman’s Court, a Cornhill, nell’occasione di cui ha parlato il mio socio.”

“Oh, no, no; nemmeno io,” disse Fogg, con un tono estremamente indulgente.

“Il nostro comportamento, signore,” disse Dodson, “parlerà da solo e, spero, si giustificherà in ogni occasione. Siamo nel settore da alcuni anni ormai, signor Pickwick, ed abbiamo avuto l’onore di guadagnarci la fiducia di molti clienti eccellenti. Buongiorno, signore.”

“Buongiorno, signor Pickwick,” disse Fogg. Detto ciò, mise l’ombrello sotto il braccio, si tolse il guanto destro e tese la mano in segno di riconciliazione a quel gentiluomo così indignato; il quale, a sua volta, infilò le mani sotto le falde del suo cappotto e guardò l’avvocato con occhi pieni di disprezzo e meraviglia.

“Lowten!”, gridò Perker in quel momento. “Apri la porta.”

“Aspetti un attimo,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Perker, io parlerò.”

“Mio caro signore, la prego, lasci che le cose rimangano com’erano,” disse il piccolo avvocato, che aveva trascorso l’intera conversazione in uno stato di ansia e apprensione; “Signor Pickwick, la supplico, ”

“Non mi faranno abbattere, signore,” rispose prontamente il signor Pickwick. “Signor Dodson, lei mi ha rivolto alcune osservazioni.”

Dodson si girò, abbassò umilmente la testa e sorrise.

“Alcune osservazioni rivolte a me,” ripeté il signor Pickwick, quasi senza fiato; “e il vostro compagno mi ha teso la mano; entrambi avete assunto un tono di perdono e nobiltà d’animo, che rappresenta una forma di audacia alla quale non mi aspettavo, nemmeno da voi.”

“Cosa, signore!”, esclamò Dodson.

“Cosa, signore!”, ripeté Fogg.

“Sapete che sono stato vittima delle vostre macchinazioni e congiure?” continuò il signor Pickwick. “Sapete che sono l’uomo che avete imprigionato e derubato? Sapete che siete stati gli avvocati del querelante in causa Bardell contro Pickwick?”

“Sì, signore, lo sappiamo,” rispose Dodson.

“Certo che lo sappiamo, signore,” rispose Fogg, dandosi una pacca sulla tasca, forse per caso.

“Vedo che lo ricordate con soddisfazione,” disse il signor Pickwick, cercando per la prima volta nella sua vita di esprimere un sorriso beffardo, ma fallendo miseramente nel farlo. “Anche se da tempo desideravo dirvi chiaramente cosa penso di voi, avrei lasciato passare anche questa opportunità, rispettando i desideri del mio amico Perker, se non fosse stato per il tono ingiustificato che avete assunto e la vostra insolenza. Dico insolenza, signore,” aggiunse il signor Pickwick, rivolgendosi a Fogg con un gesto così feroce da farlo ritirare rapidamente verso la porta.

‘Take care, Sir,’ said Dodson, who, though he was the biggest man of the party, had prudently entrenched himself behind Fogg, and was speaking over his head with a very pale face. ‘Let him assault you, Mr. Fogg; don’t return it on any account.’

‘No, no, I won’t return it,’ said Fogg, falling back a little more as he spoke; to the evident relief of his partner, who by these means was gradually getting into the outer office.

‘You are,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, resuming the thread of his discourse- -’you are a well-matched pair of mean, rascally, pettifogging robbers.’

‘Well,’ interposed Perker, ‘is that all?’

‘It is all summed up in that,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick; ‘they are mean, rascally, pettifogging robbers.’

‘There!’ said Perker, in a most conciliatory tone. ‘My dear sirs, he has said all he has to say. Now pray go. Lowten, is that door open?’

Mr. Lowten, with a distant giggle, replied in the affirmative.

‘There, there—good-morning—good-morning—now pray, my dear sirs—Mr. Lowten, the door!’ cried the little man, pushing Dodson & Fogg, nothing loath, out of the office; ‘this way, my dear sirs—now pray don’t prolong this—Dear me—Mr. Lowten—the door, sir—why don’t you attend?’

‘If there’s law in England, sir,’ said Dodson, looking towards Mr. Pickwick, as he put on his hat, ‘you shall smart for this.’

‘You are a couple of mean—’

‘Remember, sir, you pay dearly for this,’ said Fogg.

‘—Rascally, pettifogging robbers!’ continued Mr. Pickwick, taking not the least notice of the threats that were addressed to him.

‘Robbers!’ cried Mr. Pickwick, running to the stair-head, as the two attorneys descended.

‘Robbers!’ shouted Mr. Pickwick, breaking from Lowten and Perker, and thrusting his head out of the staircase window.

When Mr. Pickwick drew in his head again, his countenance was smiling and placid; and, walking quietly back into the office, he declared that he had now removed a great weight from his mind, and that he felt perfectly comfortable and happy.

Perker said nothing at all until he had emptied his snuff-box, and sent Lowten out to fill it, when he was seized with a fit of laughing, which lasted five minutes; at the expiration of which time he said that he supposed he ought to be very angry, but he couldn’t think of the business seriously yet—when he could, he would be.

‘Well, now,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘let me have a settlement with you.’

Of the same kind as the last?’ inquired Perker, with another laugh.

‘Not exactly,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick, drawing out his pocket-book, and shaking the little man heartily by the hand, ‘I only mean a pecuniary settlement. You have done me many acts of kindness that I can never repay, and have no wish to repay, for I prefer continuing the obligation.’

With this preface, the two friends dived into some very complicated accounts and vouchers, which, having been duly displayed and gone through by Perker, were at once discharged by Mr. Pickwick with many professions of esteem and friendship.

They had no sooner arrived at this point, than a most violent and startling knocking was heard at the door; it was not an ordinary double- knock, but a constant and uninterrupted succession of the loudest single raps, as if the knocker were endowed with the perpetual motion, or the person outside had forgotten to leave off.

‘Dear me, what’s that?’ exclaimed Perker, starting.

‘I think it is a knock at the door,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as if there could be the smallest doubt of the fact.

The knocker made a more energetic reply than words could have yielded, for it continued to hammer with surprising force and noise, without a moment’s cessation.

‘Dear me!’ said Perker, ringing his bell, ‘we shall alarm the inn. Mr. Lowten, don’t you hear a knock?’

‘I’ll answer the door in one moment, Sir,’ replied the clerk.

The knocker appeared to hear the response, and to assert that it was quite impossible he could wait so long. It made a stupendous uproar.

‘It’s quite dreadful,’ said Mr. Pickwick, stopping his ears.

‘Make haste, Mr. Lowten,’ Perker called out; ‘we shall have the panels beaten in.’

Mr. Lowten, who was washing his hands in a dark closet, hurried to the door, and turning the handle, beheld the appearance which is described in the next chapter.

CHAPTER LIV. CONTAINING SOME PARTICULARS RELATIVE TO THE DOUBLE KNOCK, AND OTHER MATTERS: AMONG WHICH CERTAIN INTERESTING DISCLOSURES RELATIVE TO MR. SNODGRASS AND A YOUNG LADY ARE BY NO MEANS IRRELEVANT TO THIS HISTORY

The object that presented itself to the eyes of the astonished clerk, was a boy—a wonderfully fat boy—habited as a serving lad, standing upright on the mat, with his eyes closed as if in sleep. He had never seen such a fat boy, in or out of a travelling caravan; and this, coupled with the calmness and repose of his appearance, so very different from what was reasonably to have been expected of the inflicter of such knocks, smote him with wonder.

‘What’s the matter?’ inquired the clerk.

The extraordinary boy replied not a word; but he nodded once, and seemed, to the clerk’s imagination, to snore feebly.

‘Where do you come from?’ inquired the clerk.

The boy made no sign. He breathed heavily, but in all other respects was motionless.

The clerk repeated the question thrice, and receiving no answer, prepared to shut the door, when the boy suddenly opened his eyes, winked several times, sneezed once, and raised his hand as if to repeat the knocking. Finding the door open, he stared about him with astonishment, and at length fixed his eyes on Mr. Lowten’s face.

‘What the devil do you knock in that way for?’ inquired the clerk angrily.

‘Which way?’ said the boy, in a slow and sleepy voice.

‘Why, like forty hackney-coachmen,’ replied the clerk.

‘Because master said, I wasn’t to leave off knocking till they opened the door, for fear I should go to sleep,’ said the boy.

“Stia attento, signore,” disse Dodson, che, sebbene fosse l’uomo più alto del gruppo, si era saggiamente nascosto dietro a Fogg e parlava guardando verso l’alto, con il viso molto pallido. “Lasci che lui attacchi lei, signor Fogg; per nessun motivo contraccambi il colpo.”

“No, no, non lo restituirò,” disse Fogg, indietreggiando ancora un po’ mentre parlava; con evidente sollievo del suo compagno, che in questo modo riusciva gradualmente a raggiungere l’ufficio esterno.

“Voi siete,” continuò il signor Pickwick, riprendendo il filo del suo discorso, “una coppia ben assortita di ladri meschini, disonesti e sempre pronti a litigare.”

“Beh,” intervenne Perker, “è tutto qui?”

“Tutto si riduce a questo,” ribatté il signor Pickwick; “sono persone meschine, disoneste, ladri che si dedicano solo a piccole rapine.”

“Eccolo!” disse Perker con un tono estremamente accomodante. “Cari signori, ha detto tutto ciò che aveva da dire. Ora per favore andatevene. Lowten, quella porta è aperta?”

Il signor Lowten, con una risata distante, rispose affermativamente.

“Ecco, ecco, buongiorno, buongiorno, ora per favore, signori miei. Signor Lowten, la porta!” gridò il piccolo uomo, spingendo senza alcuna esitazione Dodson & Fogg fuori dall’ufficio; “Da questa parte, signori miei, per favore non prolunghiate questa situazione. Oddio. Signor Lowten, la porta, per favore, perché non vi occupate voi?”

“Se in Inghilterra ci fosse la legge, signore,” disse Dodson, guardando il signor Pickwick mentre questi si metteva il cappello, “vi capiteranno dei guai per questo.”

“Siete davvero due individui meschini, ”

“Ricordatelo, signore: pagherete un prezzo molto alto per questo,” disse Fogg.

“– Ladri disonesti e meschini!” continuò il signor Pickwick, senza prestare la minima attenzione alle minacce rivolte a lui.

“Banditi!” gridò il signor Pickwick, correndo verso l’inizio delle scale mentre i due avvocati scendevano.

“Banditi!” gridò il signor Pickwick, liberandosi di Lowten e Perker e sporgendo la testa dalla finestra della scala.

Quando il signor Pickwick riprese a riflettere, il suo volto era sorridente e sereno; rientrato silenziosamente nell’ufficio, dichiarò di aver finalmente sciolto un grande peso dal proprio cuore e di sentirsi completamente a suo agio e felice.

Perker non disse nulla fino a quando non ebbe svuotato del tutto la sua scatola di tabacco e mandò Lowten a riempirla; poi scoppiò in una risata che durò cinque minuti. Alla fine di quel lasso di tempo, disse che probabilmente avrebbe dovuto arrabbiarsi molto, ma non riusciva ancora a prendere la cosa sul serio. Quando ci riuscirebbe, allora lo avrebbe fatto.

“Bene,” disse il signor Pickwick, “adesso lasciate che mi accordi con voi.”

“Dello stesso tipo del precedente?” chiese Perker, ridendo di nuovo.

“Non esattamente,” ribatté il signor Pickwick, estraendo il suo portafoglio e stringendo calorosamente la mano dell’uomo. “Intendo soltanto una regolamentazione finanziaria. Mi avete reso molti favori che non potrò mai ripagare, e non desidero nemmeno farlo, poiché preferisco mantenere questa gratitudine.”

Con questa prefazione, i due amici si immersero in alcuni conti e documenti molto complicati; dopo che questi furono debitamente esaminati da Perker, il signor Pickwick li approvò immediatamente, esprimendo molta stima e affetto.

Appena arrivarono in quel punto, si udì alla porta un bussare violento e sorprendente; non era un normale doppio colpo, ma una sequenza continua e ininterrotta di colpi sonori e forti, come se il battitore avesse la capacità di muoversi continuamente, o come se la persona all’esterno avesse dimenticato di smettere.

“Mio Dio, cos’è quello?” esclamò Perker, allibito.

“Penso che sia qualcuno che bussa alla porta,” disse il signor Pickwick, come se non potesse esserci la minima >dubbio al riguardo.

Il bussatore rispose in modo più efficace di quanto le parole avrebbero potuto fare: continuò a bussare con una forza e un rumore sorprendenti, senza mai fermarsi nemmeno per un istante.

“Mio Dio!”, disse Perker, suonando la campanella, “sveglieremo tutta l’osteria. Signor Lowten, non sente nessun bussare?”

“Risponderò alla porta tra un momento, signore,” rispose il impiegato.

Il bussatore sembrò aver sentito la risposta e affermò che fosse assolutamente impossibile per lui aspettare così a lungo. Fece un rumore terribile.

“È davvero terribile,” disse il signor Pickwick, coprendosi le orecchie.

“Si sbrighi, signor Lowten!”, gridò Perker; “se non ci affrettiamo, le tavole verranno distrutte”.

Il signor Lowten, che stava lavandosi le mani in un armadio buio, si affrettò verso la porta; girando la maniglia, vide quella scena descritta nel capitolo successivo.

CAPITOLO XLIV. CHE CONTENDE ALGUNI DETTAGLI RELATIVI AL >DUO BATTITI ALLA PORTA, E ALTRE QUESTIONI: Tra cui alcune rivelazioni interessanti riguardo al signor Snodgrass e a una giovane signora che non sono affatto irrilevanti per questa >STORIA.

L’oggetto che si presentò agli occhi del commesso stupito era un ragazzo, un ragazzo straordinariamente grasso, vestito come un servitore, in piedi dritto sul tappetino, con gli occhi chiusi, come se stesse dormendo. Non aveva mai visto un ragazzo così grasso, né dentro né fuori una carovana itinerante; e questo, unito alla calma e al riposo del suo aspetto – così diversi da ciò che si sarebbe potuto ragionevolmente aspettare da colui che aveva causato tali colpi – lo lasciò sbalordito.

“Che c’è che non va?” chiese il commesso.

Il ragazzo straordinario non disse una parola; ma annuì una volta, e sembrò, nell’immaginazione del commesso, russare debolmente.

“Da dove vieni?” chiese il commesso.

Il ragazzo non fece alcun segno. Respirava affannosamente, ma per il resto rimase immobile.

Il commesso ripeté la domanda per tre volte e, non ricevendo risposta, si preparò a chiudere la porta; in quel momento il ragazzo aprì improvvisamente gli occhi, batté più volte le palpebre, starnutì una volta e alzò la mano come se volesse ripetere il gesto di bussare. Trovando la porta aperta, si guardò intorno con stupore e infine fissò lo sguardo sul viso del signor Lowten.

“Perché diavolo bussate in quel modo?”, chiese il commesso con rabbia.

“In quale direzione?” chiese il ragazzo, con voce lenta e assonnata.

“Beh, tipo quaranta cocchieri,” rispose il commesso.

“Perché il maestro ha detto che non dovevo smettere di bussare finché non avessero aperto la porta, per paura che andassi a dormire,” disse il ragazzo.

‘Well,’ said the clerk, ‘what message have you brought?’

‘He’s downstairs,’ rejoined the boy.

‘Who?’

‘Master. He wants to know whether you’re at home.’

Mr. Lowten bethought himself, at this juncture, of looking out of the window. Seeing an open carriage with a hearty old gentleman in it, looking up very anxiously, he ventured to beckon him; on which, the old gentleman jumped out directly.

‘That’s your master in the carriage, I suppose?’ said Lowten.

The boy nodded.

All further inquiries were superseded by the appearance of old Wardle, who, running upstairs and just recognising Lowten, passed at once into Mr. Perker’s room.

‘Pickwick!’ said the old gentleman. ‘Your hand, my boy! Why have I never heard until the day before yesterday of your suffering yourself to be cooped up in jail? And why did you let him do it, Perker?’

‘I couldn’t help it, my dear Sir,’ replied Perker, with a smile and a pinch of snuff; ‘you know how obstinate he is?’

‘Of course I do; of course I do,’ replied the old gentleman. ‘I am heartily glad to see him, notwithstanding. I will not lose sight of him again, in a hurry.’

With these words, Wardle shook Mr. Pickwick’s hand once more, and, having done the same by Perker, threw himself into an arm-chair, his jolly red face shining again with smiles and health.

‘Well!’ said Wardle. ‘Here are pretty goings on—a pinch of your snuff, Perker, my boy—never were such times, eh?’

‘What do you mean?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Mean!’ replied Wardle. ‘Why, I think the girls are all running mad; that’s no news, you’ll say? Perhaps it’s not; but it’s true, for all that.’

‘You have not come up to London, of all places in the world, to tell us that, my dear Sir, have you?’ inquired Perker.

‘No, not altogether,’ replied Wardle; ‘though it was the main cause of my coming. How’s Arabella?’

‘Very well,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘and will be delighted to see you, I am sure.’

‘Black-eyed little jilt!’ replied Wardle. ‘I had a great idea of marrying her myself, one of these odd days. But I am glad of it too, very glad.’

‘How did the intelligence reach you?’ asked Mr. Pickwick.

‘Oh, it came to my girls, of course,’ replied Wardle. ‘Arabella wrote, the day before yesterday, to say she had made a stolen match without her husband’s father’s consent, and so you had gone down to get it when his refusing it couldn’t prevent the match, and all the rest of it. I thought it a very good time to say something serious to my girls; so I said what a dreadful thing it was that children should marry without their parents’ consent, and so forth; but, bless your hearts, I couldn’t make the least impression upon them. They thought it such a much more dreadful thing that there should have been a wedding without bridesmaids, that I might as well have preached to Joe himself.’

Here the old gentleman stopped to laugh; and having done so to his heart’s content, presently resumed—

‘But this is not the best of it, it seems. This is only half the love- making and plotting that have been going forward. We have been walking on mines for the last six months, and they’re sprung at last.’

‘What do you mean?’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, turning pale; ‘no other secret marriage, I hope?’

‘No, no,’ replied old Wardle; ‘not so bad as that; no.’

‘What then?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick; ‘am I interested in it?’

‘Shall I answer that question, Perker?’ said Wardle.

‘If you don’t commit yourself by doing so, my dear Sir.’

‘Well then, you are,’ said Wardle.

‘How?’ asked Mr. Pickwick anxiously. ‘In what way?’

‘Really,’ replied Wardle, ‘you’re such a fiery sort of a young fellow that I am almost afraid to tell you; but, however, if Perker will sit between us to prevent mischief, I’ll venture.’

Having closed the room door, and fortified himself with another application to Perker’s snuff-box, the old gentleman proceeded with his great disclosure in these words—

‘The fact is, that my daughter Bella—Bella, who married young Trundle, you know.’

‘Yes, yes, we know,’ said Mr. Pickwick impatiently.

‘Don’t alarm me at the very beginning. My daughter Bella—Emily having gone to bed with a headache after she had read Arabella’s letter to me— sat herself down by my side the other evening, and began to talk over this marriage affair. “Well, pa,” she says, “what do you think of it?” “Why, my dear,” I said, “I suppose it’s all very well; I hope it’s for the best.” I answered in this way because I was sitting before the fire at the time, drinking my grog rather thoughtfully, and I knew my throwing in an undecided word now and then, would induce her to continue talking. Both my girls are pictures of their dear mother, and as I grow old I like to sit with only them by me; for their voices and looks carry me back to the happiest period of my life, and make me, for the moment, as young as I used to be then, though not quite so light-hearted. “It’s quite a marriage of affection, pa,” said Bella, after a short silence. “Yes, my dear,” said I, “but such marriages do not always turn out the happiest.”’

‘I question that, mind!’ interposed Mr. Pickwick warmly.

‘Very good,’ responded Wardle, ‘question anything you like when it’s your turn to speak, but don’t interrupt me.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Granted,’ replied Wardle. ‘“I am sorry to hear you express your opinion against marriages of affection, pa,” said Bella, colouring a little. “I was wrong; I ought not to have said so, my dear, either,” said I, patting her cheek as kindly as a rough old fellow like me could pat it, “for your mother’s was one, and so was yours.” “It’s not that I meant, pa,” said Bella. “The fact is, pa, I wanted to speak to you about Emily.”’

Mr. Pickwick started.

‘What’s the matter now?’ inquired Wardle, stopping in his narrative.

“Beh,” disse il commesso, “qual è il messaggio che avete portato?”

“È al piano di sotto,” rispose il ragazzo.

“Chi?”

“Maestro. Vuole sapere se siate a >casa.”

A questo punto, il signor Lowten pensò di guardare fuori dalla finestra. Vedendo una carrozza aperta con un anziano gentiluomo dentro che guardava fuori con grande ansia, osò fargli segno; allora l’anziano gentiluomo saltò immediatamente fuori.

“Quello deve essere il tuo padrone nella carrozza, giusto?” disse Lowten.

Il ragazzo annuì.

Tutti gli ulteriori interrogatori furono soppiantati dall’arrivo di vecchio Wardle, il quale, correndo su per le scale e riconoscendo immediatamente Lowten, entrò subito nella stanza di Mr. Perker.

‘Pickwick!’ disse il vecchio gentiluomo. ‘Dammi la mano, mio ragazzo! Perché mai non ho saputo nulla, fino al giorno prima di ieri, del fatto che ti fossi rassegnato a stare in prigione? E perché hai permesso che lui lo facesse, Perker?’

“Non ho potuto farci nulla, mio caro Signore,” rispose Perker, sorridendo e prendendo un pizzico di tabacco da fiuto; “sa quanto sia testardo, vero?”

“Certo che sì; certo che sì,” rispose il vecchio signore. “Anche così, sono molto felice di vederlo. Non lo perderò di vista più, questa volta.”

Con queste parole, Wardle strinse nuovamente la mano del signor Pickwick, fece lo stesso con Perker, poi si lasciò cadere in una poltrona; il suo viso rosso e sorridente brillava di nuovo, segno di felicità e buona salute.

“Beh!”, disse Wardle. “Qui stanno succedendo cose davvero interessanti. Prendi un po’ di tabacco, Perker, ragazzo mio. Non ci sono mai stati momenti del genere, vero?”

“Cosa intendi dire?”, chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Orribile!”, rispose Wardle. “Beh, penso che tutte le ragazze siano impazzite. Non è certo una novità, dirai tu. Forse non lo è davvero; ma è la verità, comunque.”

“Non siete venuto proprio a Londra, tra tutti i posti del mondo, per dirci questo, mio caro signore, vero?” chiese Perker.

“No, non del tutto,” rispose Wardle; “anche se era la ragione principale della mia venuta. Come sta Arabella?”

“Molto bene,” rispose il signor Pickwick, “e sono sicuro che sarà felice di vedervi.”

“Piccola traditrice dagli occhi neri!” rispose Wardle. “Avevo davvero l’idea di sposarla io stesso, uno di questi giorni. Ma sono anche contento così, molto contento.”

“Come ha fatto l’intelligence ad arrivare fino a voi?” chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Oh, naturalmente riguardava le mie figlie,” rispose Wardle. “Arabella ha scritto ieri l’altro giorno dicendo di aver preparato un anello nuziale senza il consenso del padre di suo marito; quindi tu sei andata a prenderlo, poiché il rifiuto da parte di lui non poteva impedire il matrimonio. Ho pensato che fosse il momento giusto per parlare seriamente con le mie figlie; ho detto loro quanto fosse terribile che i bambini si sposassero senza il consenso dei genitori, e così via. Ma, perbacco, non sono riuscito a influenzarle minimamente. Per loro era molto più grave il fatto che ci fosse stato un matrimonio senza damigelle d’onore. Così tanto che avrei potuto anche predicare direttamente a Joe stesso.”

Qui il vecchio signore si fermò per ridere; e dopo essersi divertito a sazietà, riprese subito.

“Ma a quanto pare questo non è nemmeno il peggio. Questo rappresenta soltanto metà di tutte le azioni e i complotti finalizzati a creare amore che sono stati intrapresi in questi mesi. Negli ultimi sei mesi abbiamo continuato a camminare su mine, e ora queste sono finalmente esplose.”

“Cosa intendi dire?”, esclamò il signor Pickwick, impallidendo; “nessun altro matrimonio segreto, spero, ”.

“No, no,” rispose il vecchio Wardle; “non è così grave; no.”

“E allora?” chiese il signor Pickwick; “sono interessato a questo?”

“Devo rispondere a quella domanda, Perker?” disse Wardle.

“Se non si impegna a farlo, mio caro signore, ”

“Allora, sei proprio tu,” disse Wardle.

“Come?” chiese ansiosamente il signor Pickwick. “In che modo?”

“Davvero,” rispose Wardle, “sei un giovane così appassionato che quasi non oso dirtelo. Ma se Perker si siederà tra noi per evitare problemi, allora oserò.”

Dopo aver chiuso la porta della stanza e essersi rifornito di un’altra dose di tabacco da fiuto di Perker, il vecchio signore proseguì con la sua importante rivelazione, dicendo:

“La verità è che mia figlia Bella. Bella, quella che si è sposata giovane con Trundle, lo sai.”

“Sì, sì, lo sappiamo,” disse il signor Pickwick con impazienza.

“Non allarmarmi fin dall’inizio. Mia figlia Bella. Emily, che si era addormentata con il mal di testa dopo aver letto la lettera di Arabella a me, una sera si è seduta accanto a me e ha iniziato a parlare di questo matrimonio. ‘Beh, papà,’ mi ha detto, ‘che ne pensi?’ ‘Beh, cara,’ le ho risposto, ‘penso che vada tutto molto bene. Spero sia per il meglio.’ Ho risposto in questo modo perché ero seduto davanti al focolare, bevevo il mio grog e riflettevo. Sapevo che se avessi detto qualcosa di incerto, lei avrebbe continuato a parlare. Entrambe le mie figlie assomigliano molto alla loro cara madre. Con l’avanzare dell’età mi piace stare solo con loro: le loro voci e i loro volti mi riportano ai momenti più felici della mia vita. Per un attimo, mi sento di nuovo giovane come allora, anche se non più così spensierato. ‘È davvero un matrimonio basato sull’affetto, papà,’ ha detto Bella dopo un breve silenzio. ‘Sì, cara, ’ ho risposto, ‘ma questi matrimoni non sempre si rivelano i più felici.’”

“Lo metto in dubbio, perbene!” intervenne calorosamente il signor Pickwick.

“Molto bene,” rispose Wardle, “puoi porre qualsiasi domanda tu voglia quando sarà il tuo turno di parlare, ma non interrompermi.”

“Perdonatemi,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Va bene,” rispose Wardle. “‘Mi dispiace molto sentirti esprimere quest’opinione contro i matrimoni d’amore, papà,’ disse Bella, arrossendo leggermente. ‘Ho sbagliato; non avrei dovuto dirlo, cara,’ le risposi, accarezzandole la guancia nel modo più gentile che un vecchio ruvido come me potesse permettersi, ‘perché il matrimonio di tua madre è stato un matrimonio d’amore, e lo stesso vale per il tuo.’ ‘Non è questo che volevo dire, papà,’ disse Bella. ‘In realtà, volevo parlarti di Emily.’”

Il signor Pickwick iniziò.

“Che c’è adesso?” chiese Wardle, interrompendo il suo racconto.

‘Nothing,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘Pray go on.’

‘I never could spin out a story,’ said Wardle abruptly. ‘It must come out, sooner or later, and it’ll save us all a great deal of time if it comes at once. The long and the short of it is, then, that Bella at last mustered up courage to tell me that Emily was very unhappy; that she and your young friend Snodgrass had been in constant correspondence and communication ever since last Christmas; that she had very dutifully made up her mind to run away with him, in laudable imitation of her old friend and school-fellow; but that having some compunctions of conscience on the subject, inasmuch as I had always been rather kindly disposed to both of them, they had thought it better in the first instance to pay me the compliment of asking whether I would have any objection to their being married in the usual matter-of-fact manner. There now, Mr. Pickwick, if you can make it convenient to reduce your eyes to their usual size again, and to let me hear what you think we ought to do, I shall feel rather obliged to you!’

The testy manner in which the hearty old gentleman uttered this last sentence was not wholly unwarranted; for Mr. Pickwick’s face had settled down into an expression of blank amazement and perplexity, quite curious to behold.

‘Snodgrass!—since last Christmas!’ were the first broken words that issued from the lips of the confounded gentleman.

‘Since last Christmas,’ replied Wardle; ‘that’s plain enough, and very bad spectacles we must have worn, not to have discovered it before.’

‘I don’t understand it,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ruminating; ‘I cannot really understand it.’

‘It’s easy enough to understand it,’ replied the choleric old gentleman. ‘If you had been a younger man, you would have been in the secret long ago; and besides,’ added Wardle, after a moment’s hesitation, ‘the truth is, that, knowing nothing of this matter, I have rather pressed Emily for four or five months past, to receive favourably (if she could; I would never attempt to force a girl’s inclinations) the addresses of a young gentleman down in our neighbourhood. I have no doubt that, girl- like, to enhance her own value and increase the ardour of Mr. Snodgrass, she has represented this matter in very glowing colours, and that they have both arrived at the conclusion that they are a terribly-persecuted pair of unfortunates, and have no resource but clandestine matrimony, or charcoal. Now the question is, what’s to be done?’

‘What have _you _done?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘I!’

‘I mean what did you do when your married daughter told you this?’

‘Oh, I made a fool of myself of course,’ rejoined Wardle.

‘Just so,’ interposed Perker, who had accompanied this dialogue with sundry twitchings of his watch-chain, vindictive rubbings of his nose, and other symptoms of impatience. ‘That’s very natural; but how?’

‘I went into a great passion and frightened my mother into a fit,’ said Wardle.

‘That was judicious,’ remarked Perker; ‘and what else?’

‘I fretted and fumed all next day, and raised a great disturbance,’ rejoined the old gentleman. ‘At last I got tired of rendering myself unpleasant and making everybody miserable; so I hired a carriage at Muggleton, and, putting my own horses in it, came up to town, under pretence of bringing Emily to see Arabella.’

‘Miss Wardle is with you, then?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘To be sure she is,’ replied Wardle. ‘She is at Osborne’s Hotel in the Adelphi at this moment, unless your enterprising friend has run away with her since I came out this morning.’

‘You are reconciled then?’ said Perker.

‘Not a bit of it,’ answered Wardle; ‘she has been crying and moping ever since, except last night, between tea and supper, when she made a great parade of writing a letter that I pretended to take no notice of.’

‘You want my advice in this matter, I suppose?’ said Perker, looking from the musing face of Mr. Pickwick to the eager countenance of Wardle, and taking several consecutive pinches of his favourite stimulant.

‘I suppose so,’ said Wardle, looking at Mr. Pickwick.

‘Certainly,’ replied that gentleman.

‘Well then,’ said Perker, rising and pushing his chair back, ‘my advice is, that you both walk away together, or ride away, or get away by some means or other, for I’m tired of you, and just talk this matter over between you. If you have not settled it by the next time I see you, I’ll tell you what to do.’

‘This is satisfactory,’ said Wardle, hardly knowing whether to smile or be offended.

‘Pooh, pooh, my dear Sir,’ returned Perker. ‘I know you both a great deal better than you know yourselves. You have settled it already, to all intents and purposes.’

Thus expressing himself, the little gentleman poked his snuff-box first into the chest of Mr. Pickwick, and then into the waistcoat of Mr. Wardle, upon which they all three laughed, especially the two last-named gentlemen, who at once shook hands again, without any obvious or particular reason.

‘You dine with me to-day,’ said Wardle to Perker, as he showed them out.

‘Can’t promise, my dear Sir, can’t promise,’ replied Perker. ‘I’ll look in, in the evening, at all events.’

‘I shall expect you at five,’ said Wardle. ‘Now, Joe!’ And Joe having been at length awakened, the two friends departed in Mr. Wardle’s carriage, which in common humanity had a dickey behind for the fat boy, who, if there had been a footboard instead, would have rolled off and killed himself in his very first nap.

Driving to the George and Vulture, they found that Arabella and her maid had sent for a hackney-coach immediately on the receipt of a short note from Emily announcing her arrival in town, and had proceeded straight to the Adelphi. As Wardle had business to transact in the city, they sent the carriage and the fat boy to his hotel, with the information that he and Mr. Pickwick would return together to dinner at five o’clock.

“Niente,” rispose il signor Pickwick. “Per favore, continui.”

“Non sono mai stato capace di inventare storie,” disse Wardle bruscamente. “Deve pur uscire fuori, prima o poi. E ci risparmierebbe un sacco di tempo se venisse fuori subito. In breve, Bella alla fine ha trovato il coraggio di dirmi che Emily era molto infelice; che lei e la tua giovane amica Snodgrass avevano continuato a scambiarsi lettere da Natale scorso; che avevano deciso, con grande lealtà, di fuggire insieme, in lodevole imitazione della loro vecchia amica e compagna di scuola. Ma avendo dei rimorsi di conscienza, visto che io avevo sempre avuto una buona opinione di entrambe, hanno pensato fosse meglio chiedermi prima se avessi obiezioni al loro matrimonio in modo del tutto normale. Ora, signor Pickwick, se potesse gentilmente riportare i suoi occhi alla loro dimensione normale e dirmi cosa pensa che dovremmo fare. Le sarei molto grato!”

Il tono irritato con cui il cordiale vecchio signore pronunciò quest’ultima frase non era del tutto ingiustificato; infatti, il volto di Mr. Pickwick assumeva un’espressione di totale stupore e perplessità, davvero curiosa da osservare.

“Snodgrass, – da Natale scorso!” furono le prime parole che uscirono dalle labbra di quel gentiluomo confuso.

“Dall’ultimo Natale,” rispose Wardle; “è abbastanza evidente. E dobbiamo aver fatto davvero una brutta figura a non essercene accorti prima.”

“Non capisco,” disse il signor Pickwick, riflettendo; “veramente non riesco a comprenderlo.”

“È abbastanza facile da capire,” rispose il vecchio signore collerico. “Se fossi stato più giovane, avrei scoperto il segreto molto tempo fa; inoltre,” aggiunse Wardle dopo un attimo di esitazione, “la verità è che, non sapendo nulla di questa faccenda, ho insistito per quattro o cinque mesi affinché Emily accettasse con favore (se fosse stata possibile; non avrei mai cercato di forzare le inclinazioni di una ragazza) gli inviti di un giovane signore del nostro quartiere. Non ho alcun >dubbio che, da ragazza com’è, per aumentare il proprio valore e rafforzare l’interesse di Mr. Snodgrass, abbia descritto la situazione in termini molto lusinghieri; e che entrambi siano giunti alla conclusione di essere una coppia di sfortunati perseguitati senza speranza, con nessuna altra soluzione se non un matrimonio segreto. O il carbone.” “Ora la domanda è: cosa si deve fare?”

“Cosa hai fatto?” chiese il signor Pickwick.

‘I!’

“Cioè, cosa hai fatto quando tua figlia sposata ti ha detto una cosa del genere?”

“Ah, ovviamente ho fatto la figura dello idiota”, ribatté Wardle.

“Giusto così,” intervenne Perker, che aveva accompagnato questo dialogo con vari movimenti della catena dell’orologio, strofini vendicativi sul naso e altri segni di impazienza. “È molto naturale, ma come?”

“Sono caduto in un’emozione intensa e ho spaventato mia madre a tal punto che ha avuto un attacco,” disse Wardle.

“È stata una mossa saggia,” osservò Perker; “e poi?”

“Mi sono preoccupato e arrabbiato per tutto il giorno successivo, causando un gran trambusto,” rispose il vecchio signore. “Alla fine mi sono stancato di rendere me stesso sgradevole e di rendere tutti infelici; così ho noleggiato una carrozza a Muggleton, ci ho messo i miei cavalli e sono venuto in città, sotto pretesto di portare Emily da Arabella.”

“Allora, la signorina Wardle è con voi?” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Certo che lo è,” rispose Wardle. “In questo momento si trova all’Osborne’s Hotel nell’Adelphi, a meno che il tuo amico intraprendente non se la sia svignata con lei da quando sono uscito stamattina.”

“Allora siete riconciliati?” disse Perker.

“Assolutamente no,” rispose Wardle; “da allora non ha fatto altro che piangere e lamentarsi, tranne l’ultima notte, tra il tè e la cena, quando fece una gran scena scrivendo una lettera di cui fingetti di non accorgermi.”

“Suppongo che vogliate il mio consiglio su questa questione, vero?” disse Perker, guardando alternativamente il volto pensieroso del signor Pickwick e l’espressione ansiosa di Wardle, mentre si prendeva diverse dosi consecutive del suo stimolante preferito.

“Immagino di sì,” disse Wardle, guardando il signor Pickwick.

“Certamente,” rispose quel gentiluomo.

“Allora,” disse Perker alzandosi e spingendo indietro la sedia, “il mio consiglio è che voi due ve ne andiate insieme, in macchina o in qualsiasi altro modo. Sono stanco di voi e dovreste risolvere questa questione tra di voi. Se non l’avrete fatto entro la prossima volta che ci vediamo, vi dirò cosa fare.”

“È soddisfacente,” disse Wardle, senza sapere se sorridere o offendersi.

“Puf, puf, mio caro signore,” rispose Perker. “Vi conosco molto meglio di quanto voi stessi vi conosciate. In realtà, avete già deciso tutto.”

Esprimendosi in questo modo, il piccolo gentiluomo infilò prima la sua tabacchiera nel petto del signor Pickwick, e poi nel gilet del signor Wardle; tutti e tre risero, soprattutto i due ultimi menzionati, che immediatamente si strinsero di nuovo la mano, senza alcuna ragione evidente o particolare.

“Cenarete con me oggi,” disse Wardle a Perker mentre li accompagnava fuori.

“Non posso prometterlo, mio caro signore, non posso prometterlo,” rispose Perker. “Comunque, controllerò stasera.”

“Ti aspetto alle cinque,” disse Wardle. “Ora, Joe!” E dopo che Joe fu finalmente svegliato, i due amici partirono nella carrozza di Mr. Wardle; quella carrozza, per comune convenienza umana, aveva un sedile posteriore riservato al ragazzo grassoccio. Il quale, se ci fosse stato un bordo del sedile davanti, sarebbe rotolato giù e si sarebbe ucciso già durante il suo primo pisolino.

Guidando verso il George and Vulture, scoprirono che Arabella e la sua cameriera avevano immediatamente fatto chiamare una vettura non appena ricevuto un breve messaggio da Emily che annunciava il suo arrivo in città; erano quindi dirette direttamente all’Adelphi. Poiché Wardle aveva degli affari da sbrigare in città, inviarono la vettura e il ragazzo grasso al suo hotel, comunicando che lui e il signor Pickwick sarebbero tornati insieme per cena alle cinque in ora.

Charged with this message, the fat boy returned, slumbering as peaceably in his dickey, over the stones, as if it had been a down bed on watch springs. By some extraordinary miracle he awoke of his own accord, when the coach stopped, and giving himself a good shake to stir up his faculties, went upstairs to execute his commission.

Now, whether the shake had jumbled the fat boy’s faculties together, instead of arranging them in proper order, or had roused such a quantity of new ideas within him as to render him oblivious of ordinary forms and ceremonies, or (which is also possible) had proved unsuccessful in preventing his falling asleep as he ascended the stairs, it is an undoubted fact that he walked into the sitting-room without previously knocking at the door; and so beheld a gentleman with his arms clasping his young mistress’s waist, sitting very lovingly by her side on a sofa, while Arabella and her pretty handmaid feigned to be absorbed in looking out of a window at the other end of the room. At the sight of this phenomenon, the fat boy uttered an interjection, the ladies a scream, and the gentleman an oath, almost simultaneously.

‘Wretched creature, what do you want here?’ said the gentleman, who it is needless to say was Mr. Snodgrass.

To this the fat boy, considerably terrified, briefly responded, ‘Missis.’

‘What do you want me for,’ inquired Emily, turning her head aside, ‘you stupid creature?’

‘Master and Mr. Pickwick is a-going to dine here at five,’ replied the fat boy.

‘Leave the room!’ said Mr. Snodgrass, glaring upon the bewildered youth.

‘No, no, no,’ added Emily hastily. ‘Bella, dear, advise me.’

Upon this, Emily and Mr. Snodgrass, and Arabella and Mary, crowded into a corner, and conversed earnestly in whispers for some minutes, during which the fat boy dozed.

‘Joe,’ said Arabella, at length, looking round with a most bewitching smile, ‘how do you do, Joe?’

‘Joe,’ said Emily, ‘you’re a very good boy; I won’t forget you, Joe.’

‘Joe,’ said Mr. Snodgrass, advancing to the astonished youth, and seizing his hand, ‘I didn’t know you before. There’s five shillings for you, Joe!”

‘I’ll owe you five, Joe,’ said Arabella, ‘for old acquaintance sake, you know;’ and another most captivating smile was bestowed upon the corpulent intruder.

The fat boy’s perception being slow, he looked rather puzzled at first to account for this sudden prepossession in his favour, and stared about him in a very alarming manner. At length his broad face began to show symptoms of a grin of proportionately broad dimensions; and then, thrusting half-a-crown into each of his pockets, and a hand and wrist after it, he burst into a horse laugh: being for the first and only time in his existence.

‘He understands us, I see,’ said Arabella.

‘He had better have something to eat, immediately,’ remarked Emily.

The fat boy almost laughed again when he heard this suggestion. Mary, after a little more whispering, tripped forth from the group and said—

‘I am going to dine with you to-day, sir, if you have no objection.’

‘This way,’ said the fat boy eagerly. ‘There is such a jolly meat-pie!’

With these words, the fat boy led the way downstairs; his pretty companion captivating all the waiters and angering all the chambermaids as she followed him to the eating-room.

There was the meat-pie of which the youth had spoken so feelingly, and there were, moreover, a steak, and a dish of potatoes, and a pot of porter.

‘Sit down,’ said the fat boy. ‘Oh, my eye, how prime! I am so hungry.’

Having apostrophised his eye, in a species of rapture, five or six times, the youth took the head of the little table, and Mary seated herself at the bottom.

‘Will you have some of this?’ said the fat boy, plunging into the pie up to the very ferules of the knife and fork.

‘A little, if you please,’ replied Mary.

The fat boy assisted Mary to a little, and himself to a great deal, and was just going to begin eating when he suddenly laid down his knife and fork, leaned forward in his chair, and letting his hands, with the knife and fork in them, fall on his knees, said, very slowly—

‘I say! How nice you look!’

This was said in an admiring manner, and was, so far, gratifying; but still there was enough of the cannibal in the young gentleman’s eyes to render the compliment a double one.

‘Dear me, Joseph,’ said Mary, affecting to blush, ‘what do you mean?’

The fat boy, gradually recovering his former position, replied with a heavy sigh, and, remaining thoughtful for a few moments, drank a long draught of the porter. Having achieved this feat, he sighed again, and applied himself assiduously to the pie.

‘What a nice young lady Miss Emily is!’ said Mary, after a long silence.

The fat boy had by this time finished the pie. He fixed his eyes on Mary, and replied—

‘I knows a nicerer.’

‘Indeed!’ said Mary.

‘Yes, indeed!’ replied the fat boy, with unwonted vivacity.

‘What’s her name?’ inquired Mary.

‘What’s yours?’

‘Mary.’

‘So’s hers,’ said the fat boy. ‘You’re her.’ The boy grinned to add point to the compliment, and put his eyes into something between a squint and a cast, which there is reason to believe he intended for an ogle.

‘You mustn’t talk to me in that way,’ said Mary; ‘you don’t mean it.’

‘Don’t I, though?’ replied the fat boy. ‘I say?’

‘Well?’

‘Are you going to come here regular?’

‘No,’ rejoined Mary, shaking her head, ‘I’m going away again to-night. Why?’

‘Oh,’ said the fat boy, in a tone of strong feeling; ‘how we should have enjoyed ourselves at meals, if you had been!’

‘I might come here sometimes, perhaps, to see you,’ said Mary, plaiting the table-cloth in assumed coyness, ‘if you would do me a favour.’

The fat boy looked from the pie-dish to the steak, as if he thought a favour must be in a manner connected with something to eat; and then took out one of the half-crowns and glanced at it nervously.

Carico di questo messaggio, il ragazzo grassoccio tornò indietro e continuò a dormire serenamente nella sua brandina, sopra le pietre, come se si trovasse in un morbido letto con molle sotto di sé. Per qualche miracolo straordinario, si svegliò da solo quando il carro si fermò; si scosse energicamente per riprendersi e poi salì al piano di sopra per portare a termine la sua missione.

Ora, sia che quel movimento casuale avesse mescolato insieme le facoltà mentali di quel ragazzo grasso, invece di organizzarle in modo corretto, sia che gli avesse suscitato così tante nuove idee da fargli dimenticare le normali forme e cerimonie, o ancora (il che è anche possibile) che non fosse riuscito a impedirgli di addormentarsi mentre saliva le scale. È un fatto indubbiabile che sia entrato nel salotto senza bussare prima; e così vide un gentiluomo con le braccia intorno alla vita della sua giovane amante, seduto molto amorevolmente al suo fianco sul divano, mentre Arabella e la sua bella ancella fingevano di essere assorte a guardare fuori dalla finestra all’altra estremità della stanza. Alla vista di questa scena, il ragazzo grasso emise un’esclamazione; le signore gridarono; il gentiluomo pronunciò una bestemmia, quasi contemporaneamente.

“Misera creatura, cosa vuoi qui?” disse il gentiluomo, che, ovviamente, era il signor Snodgrass.

“Signora,” rispose brevemente il ragazzo grassoccio, piuttosto spaventato.

“Cosa vuoi da me”, chiese Emily, girando la testa da parte, “tu stupida creatura?”

“Il signor Pickwick e il suo amico verranno a cena qui alle cinque”, rispose il ragazzo grasso.

“Vattene dalla stanza!” disse il signor Snodgrass, fissando con occhi furibondi il giovane confuso.

“No, no, no,” aggiunse Emily in fretta. “Bella, cara, dammi un consiglio.”

A questo punto, Emily e il signor Snodgrass, insieme ad Arabella e Mary, si raggrupparono in un angolo e conversarono seriamente sussurrando per alcuni minuti; nel frattempo, il ragazzo grassoccio sonnecchiava.

“Joe,” disse finalmente Arabella, guardandosi intorno con un sorriso incantevole, “come stai, Joe?”

“Joe,” disse Emily, “sei un ragazzo molto bravo; non ti dimenticherò mai, Joe.”

“Joe,” disse il signor Snodgrass, avvicinandosi al giovane sorpreso e stringendogli la mano, “non ti conoscevo prima. Ecco cinque scellini per te, Joe!”

“Ti devo cinque, Joe,” disse Arabella, “per vecchia amicizia, capisci, ” E rivolse un altro sorriso incantevole a quell’intruso corpulento.

Essendo lento di percezione, il ragazzo grasso sembrò dapprima piuttosto perplesso nel tentativo di spiegare questa improvvisa preferenza nei suoi confronti; guardava intorno a sé in modo davvero allarmante. Alla fine, sul suo viso largo apparve un sorriso di dimensioni, proporzionalmente ampie; poi, infilando mezza corona in ogni tasca e seguendola con una mano e un polso, scoppiò a ridere a grande risate: era la prima e unica volta nella sua vita che lo faceva.

“Ci capisce, vedo,” disse Arabella.

“Dovrebbe assolutamente mangiare qualcosa, subito,” osservò Emily.

Il ragazzo grasso quasi rise di nuovo quando sentì questa proposta. Dopo aver sussurrato ancora un po’, Mary uscì dal gruppo e disse.

“Oggi verrò a cena da voi, signore, se non avete obiezioni.”

“Da questa parte,” disse con entusiasmo il ragazzo grassoccio. “C’è una deliziosa torta di carne!”

Con queste parole, il ragazzo grasso guidò la strada verso il piano di sotto; la sua bella compagna affascinò tutti i camerieri e infastidì tutte le cameriere di servizio mentre lo seguiva in sala da pranzo.

C’era quella torta di carne di cui il giovane aveva parlato con tanta emozione; inoltre, c’erano anche una bistecca, un piatto di patate e una pentola di birra porter.

“Siediti,” disse il ragazzo grasso. “Oh, mio Dio, che fame. Ho davvero molta fame.”

Dopo aver apostrofato il proprio occhio, in una sorta di estasi, cinque o sei volte, il giovane prese la testa del piccolo tavolo e Mary si sedette alla base dello stesso.

“Vuoi assaggiare anche tu?” disse il ragazzo grasso, infilzando la torta fino alle stesse impugnature del coltello e della forchetta.

“Un po’, se per favore,” rispose Mary.

Il ragazzo grasso aiutò Mary un po’, e se stesso molto di più; stava proprio per iniziare a mangiare quando improvvisamente posò coltello e forchetta, si sporse in avanti sulla sedia e, lasciando che le mani con dentro coltello e forchetta cadessero sulle ginocchia, disse molto lentamente.

“Che bello che sei!”

Questo fu detto in modo ammirativo, e fino a quel punto fu anche lusinghiero; tuttavia, negli occhi di quel giovane signore c’era ancora abbastanza del “cannibale” che era in lui, da rendere quel complimento, un complimento “doppio”.

“Mio Dio, Joseph,” disse Mary, fingendo di arrossire, “che cosa intendi?”

Il ragazzo grasso, riprendendo gradualmente la sua posizione precedente, rispose con un profondo sospiro; rimasto pensieroso per qualche momento, bevve poi un lungo sorso di birra. Dopo aver compiuto questo “atto”, sospirò di nuovo e si dedicò con impegno alla torta.

“Che bella giovane signorina è la signorina Emily!” disse Mary, dopo un lungo silenzio.

A quel punto, il ragazzo grasso aveva già finito la torta. Puntò lo sguardo su Mary e rispose.

“Conosco qualcuno che è ancora più carino.”

“Certamente!” disse Mary.

“Sì, davvero!” rispose il ragazzo grasso con un’allegria insolita per lui.

“Come si chiama?” chiese Mary.

“Cosa è tuo?”

“Mary.”

“È sua,” disse il ragazzo grasso. “Tu sei lei.” Sorrise per sottolineare ulteriormente quel complimento, e strinse gli occhi in un’espressione che sembrava un mezzo sorriso e un mezzo sguardo lascivo; c’è motivo di credere che volesse proprio essere provocatorio.

“Non devi parlarmi in quel modo”, disse Mary; “non lo pensi davvero”.

“Non è forse così?”, rispose il ragazzo grasso. “Che ne dici?”

“‘Beh?’”

“Verrai qui regolarmente?”

“No,” rispose Mary scuotendo la testa, “me ne andrò di nuovo stanotte. Perché?”

“Ah,” disse il ragazzo grasso, con un tono pieno di emozione; “quanto ci saremmo divertiti a tavola, se tu fossi stato con noi!”

“Forse verrò qui di tanto in tanto per vederti,” disse Mary, intrecciando la tovaglia con un atteggiamento apparentemente timido, “se mi fai questo favore.”

Il ragazzo grasso guardava alternativamente il piatto di torta e la bistecca, come se pensasse che un favore dovesse essere legato in qualche modo al cibo; poi tirò fuori una delle mezzo corone e la osservò con nervosismo.

‘Don’t you understand me?’ said Mary, looking slily in his fat face.

Again he looked at the half-crown, and said faintly, ‘No.’

‘The ladies want you not to say anything to the old gentleman about the young gentleman having been upstairs; and I want you too.’

‘Is that all?’ said the fat boy, evidently very much relieved, as he pocketed the half-crown again. ‘Of course I ain’t a-going to.’

‘You see,’ said Mary, ‘Mr. Snodgrass is very fond of Miss Emily, and Miss Emily’s very fond of him, and if you were to tell about it, the old gentleman would carry you all away miles into the country, where you’d see nobody.’

‘No, no, I won’t tell,’ said the fat boy stoutly.

‘That’s a dear,’ said Mary. ‘Now it’s time I went upstairs, and got my lady ready for dinner.’

‘Don’t go yet,’ urged the fat boy.

‘I must,’ replied Mary. ‘Good-bye, for the present.’

The fat boy, with elephantine playfulness, stretched out his arms to ravish a kiss; but as it required no great agility to elude him, his fair enslaver had vanished before he closed them again; upon which the apathetic youth ate a pound or so of steak with a sentimental countenance, and fell fast asleep.

There was so much to say upstairs, and there were so many plans to concert for elopement and matrimony in the event of old Wardle continuing to be cruel, that it wanted only half an hour of dinner when Mr. Snodgrass took his final adieu. The ladies ran to Emily’s bedroom to dress, and the lover, taking up his hat, walked out of the room. He had scarcely got outside the door, when he heard Wardle’s voice talking loudly, and looking over the banisters beheld him, followed by some other gentlemen, coming straight upstairs. Knowing nothing of the house, Mr. Snodgrass in his confusion stepped hastily back into the room he had just quitted, and passing thence into an inner apartment (Mr. Wardle’s bedchamber), closed the door softly, just as the persons he had caught a glimpse of entered the sitting-room. These were Mr. Wardle, Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Nathaniel Winkle, and Mr. Benjamin Allen, whom he had no difficulty in recognising by their voices.

‘Very lucky I had the presence of mind to avoid them,’ thought Mr. Snodgrass with a smile, and walking on tiptoe to another door near the bedside; ‘this opens into the same passage, and I can walk quietly and comfortably away.’

There was only one obstacle to his walking quietly and comfortably away, which was that the door was locked and the key gone.

‘Let us have some of your best wine to-day, waiter,’ said old Wardle, rubbing his hands.

‘You shall have some of the very best, sir,’ replied the waiter.

‘Let the ladies know we have come in.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

Devoutly and ardently did Mr. Snodgrass wish that the ladies could know he had come in. He ventured once to whisper, ‘Waiter!’ through the keyhole, but the probability of the wrong waiter coming to his relief, flashed upon his mind, together with a sense of the strong resemblance between his own situation and that in which another gentleman had been recently found in a neighbouring hotel (an account of whose misfortunes had appeared under the head of ‘Police’ in that morning’s paper), he sat himself on a portmanteau, and trembled violently.

‘We won’t wait a minute for Perker,’ said Wardle, looking at his watch; ‘he is always exact. He will be here, in time, if he means to come; and if he does not, it’s of no use waiting. Ha! Arabella!’

‘My sister!’ exclaimed Mr. Benjamin Allen, folding her in a most romantic embrace.

‘Oh, Ben, dear, how you do smell of tobacco,’ said Arabella, rather overcome by this mark of affection.

‘Do I?’ said Mr. Benjamin Allen. ‘Do I, Bella? Well, perhaps I do.’

Perhaps he did, having just left a pleasant little smoking-party of twelve medical students, in a small back parlour with a large fire.

‘But I am delighted to see you,’ said Mr. Ben Allen. ‘Bless you, Bella!’

‘There,’ said Arabella, bending forward to kiss her brother; ‘don’t take hold of me again, Ben, dear, because you tumble me so.’

At this point of the reconciliation, Mr. Ben Allen allowed his feelings and the cigars and porter to overcome him, and looked round upon the beholders with damp spectacles.

‘Is nothing to be said to me?’ cried Wardle, with open arms.

‘A great deal,’ whispered Arabella, as she received the old gentleman’s hearty caress and congratulation. ‘You are a hard-hearted, unfeeling, cruel monster.’

‘You are a little rebel,’ replied Wardle, in the same tone, ‘and I am afraid I shall be obliged to forbid you the house. People like you, who get married in spite of everybody, ought not to be let loose on society. But come!’ added the old gentleman aloud, ‘here’s the dinner; you shall sit by me. Joe; why, damn the boy, he’s awake!’

To the great distress of his master, the fat boy was indeed in a state of remarkable vigilance, his eyes being wide open, and looking as if they intended to remain so. There was an alacrity in his manner, too, which was equally unaccountable; every time his eyes met those of Emily or Arabella, he smirked and grinned; once, Wardle could have sworn, he saw him wink.

This alteration in the fat boy’s demeanour originated in his increased sense of his own importance, and the dignity he acquired from having been taken into the confidence of the young ladies; and the smirks, and grins, and winks were so many condescending assurances that they might depend upon his fidelity. As these tokens were rather calculated to awaken suspicion than allay it, and were somewhat embarrassing besides, they were occasionally answered by a frown or shake of the head from Arabella, which the fat boy, considering as hints to be on his guard, expressed his perfect understanding of, by smirking, grinning, and winking, with redoubled assiduity.

‘Joe,’ said Mr. Wardle, after an unsuccessful search in all his pockets, ‘is my snuff-box on the sofa?’

“Non mi capisci?” disse Mary, guardandolo con un sorriso malizioso nel suo viso grassoccio.

Di nuovo guardò la mezza corona e disse debolmente: “No.”

“Le signore vogliono che non diciate nulla al vecchio gentiluomo riguardo al fatto che il giovane gentiluomo sia stato di sopra; e anch’io lo voglio.”

“È tutto qui?” disse il ragazzo grasso, chiaramente molto sollevato, mentre riponeva nella tasca quella mezza corona. “Certo che non intendo andare avanti.”

“Vedi,” disse Mary, “il signor Snodgrass è molto affezionato alla signorina Emily, e anche la signorina Emily lo ama molto. Se tu ne parlassi, quell’anziano gentiluomo ti porterebbe lontano, in campagna, dove non incontreresti nessuno.”

“No, no, non lo dirò,” disse risolutamente il ragazzo grasso.

“Che carino,” disse Mary. “Ora è ora che vada di sopra e prepari mia signora per la cena.”

“Non andartene ancora,” lo esortò il ragazzo grasso.

“Devo farlo,” rispose Mary. “Addio, per il momento.”

Il ragazzo grasso, con una giocosità simile a quella di un elefante, allungò le braccia per rubare un bacio; ma poiché non occorreva molta agilità per sfuggirgli, la sua bella “schiava” era già scomparsa prima che potesse richiudere le braccia; dopodiché il giovane apatico mangiò circa mezzo chilo di bistecca con un’espressione sentimentale e si addormentò immediatamente.

C’erano così tante cose da dire al piano di sopra, e così tanti piani da mettere in atto per una fuga e un matrimonio nel caso in cui il vecchio Wardle continuasse a essere crudele, che la cena durò soltanto mezz’ora quando il signor Snodgrass fece la sua ultima visita. Le signore corsero nella camera da letto di Emily per vestirsi, mentre l’innamorato, prendendo il cappello, uscì dalla stanza. Appena fuori dalla porta, sentì la voce di Wardle che parlava ad alta voce; guardando giù dal corrimano, lo vide insieme ad altri signori salire direttamente al piano di sopra. Non conoscendo affatto la struttura della casa, il signor Snodgrass, nel suo panico, tornò frettolosamente nella stanza che aveva appena lasciato e, passando in un’altra camera (la camera da letto del signor Wardle), chiuse silenziosamente la porta proprio nel momento in cui quelle persone entrarono nel salotto. Si trattava del signor Wardle, del signor Pickwick, del signor Nathaniel Winkle e del signor Benjamin Allen, che riconobbe facilmente dalle loro voci.

“Che fortuna che abbia avuto la presenza di spirito per evitarli,” pensò il signor Snodgrass sorridendo, e poi camminò in punta di piedi verso un’altra porta vicino al letto; “questa conduce nello stesso corridoio, quindi posso andarmene silenziosamente e senza problemi.”

C’era solo un ostacolo al suo poter andarsene in silenzio e comodamente: la porta era chiusa a chiave e la chiave era scomparsa.

“Portateci oggi il vino migliore che avete, cameriere,” disse il vecchio Wardle, strofinandosi le mani.

“Avrete sicuramente le cose migliori, signore,” rispose il cameriere.

“Fate sapere alle signore che siamo arrivati.”

“Sì, signore.”

Con devozione e fervore, il signor Snodgrass desiderava che le signore sapessero che era entrato. Una volta osò sussurrare “Cameriere!”, ma gli balenò in mente la possibilità che arrivasse il cameriere sbagliato; inoltre, si rese conto della forte somiglianza tra la sua situazione e quella di un altro gentiluomo che poco tempo prima era stato trovato in un hotel vicino (di cui le sfortune erano state riportate nella sezione “Polizia” del giornale di quel mattino). Allora si sedette su una valigia e iniziò a tremare violentemente.

“Non aspetteremo nemmeno un minuto per Perker,” disse Wardle, guardando l’orologio; “è sempre puntuale. Arriverà in tempo, se intende venire; e se non viene, non ha senso aspettare. Ah! Arabella!”

“Mia sorella!” esclamò il signor Benjamin Allen, abbracciandola con grande romanticismo.

“Oh, Ben, caro. Che forte odore di tabacco hai,” disse Arabella, piuttosto commossa da questo gesto d’affetto.

“Devo farlo?” disse il signor Benjamin Allen. “Davvero, Bella? Beh, forse sì.”

Forse sì, visto che aveva appena lasciato una piacevole e piccola festa con fumo, a cui partecipavano dodici studenti di medicina, in una piccola stanza sul retro con un grande focolare.

“Ma sono davvero felice di vederti”, disse il signor Ben Allen. “Che Dio ti benedica, Bella!”

“Ecco,” disse Arabella, chinandosi per baciare suo fratello; “non stringermi più, Ben, caro, mi fai cadere troppo spesso.”

In questo momento della riconciliazione, il signor Ben Allen si lasciò travolgere dai propri sentimenti, nonché dai sigari e dal porto, e guardò intorno agli astanti con gli occhiali umidi.

“Non c’è nulla da dire a me?”, gridò Wardle, aprendo le braccia.

“Molto,” sussurrò Arabella mentre riceveva le affettuose carezze e i complimenti del vecchio signore. “Sei un mostro spietato, senza cuore, crudele.”

“Sei un piccolo ribelle,” rispose Wardle, con lo stesso tono, “e temo che dovrò proibirti di entrare in questa >casa. Persone come te, che si sposano contro il parere di tutti, non dovrebbero essere lasciate libere di circolare nella società. Ma vieni!” aggiunse ad alta voce l’anziano gentiluomo, “ecco la cena; siederai accanto a me. Joe. Ma dove diavolo è finito quel ragazzo? È sveglio!”

Con grande preoccupazione da parte del suo padrone, il ragazzo grasso era effettivamente in uno stato di notevole allerta: aveva gli occhi ben aperti e sembrava intenzionato a tenerli così per tutto il tempo. C’era anche una certa frenesia nel suo comportamento, altrettanto inspiegabile; ogni volta che i suoi occhi incrociavano quelli di Emily o Arabella, lui sorrideva compiaciuto; una volta, Wardle avrebbe potuto giurarlo, lo vide persino ammiccare.

Questo cambiamento nel comportamento del ragazzo grassoccio derivava dal suo crescente senso di importanza e dalla dignità che gli derivava dal fatto di essere stato messo nella confidenza delle giovani signore; inoltre, quei sorrisetti, quelle risate e quegli occhiolini costituivano una sorta di conferma condiscendente, che gli faceva credere di poter contare sulla loro fedeltà. Tuttavia, poiché questi gesti sembravano più suscitare sospetti che dissiparli, e inoltre risultavano piuttosto imbarazzanti, Arabella rispondeva talvolta a essi con un cipiglio o scuotendo la testa; il ragazzo grassoccio, interpretando questi segnali come avvertimenti di stare attento, replicava con ancora maggiore insistenza con i suoi sorrisetti, le sue risate e i suoi occhiolini.

“Joe,” disse il signor Wardle, dopo aver cercato invano in tutte le sue tasche, “la mia scatola di tabacco è sul divano?”

‘No, sir,’ replied the fat boy.

‘Oh, I recollect; I left it on my dressing-table this morning,’ said Wardle. ‘Run into the next room and fetch it.’

The fat boy went into the next room; and, having been absent about a minute, returned with the snuff-box, and the palest face that ever a fat boy wore.

‘What’s the matter with the boy?’ exclaimed Wardle.

‘Nothen’s the matter with me,’ replied Joe nervously.

‘Have you been seeing any spirits?’ inquired the old gentleman.

‘Or taking any?’ added Ben Allen.

‘I think you’re right,’ whispered Wardle across the table. ‘He is intoxicated, I’m sure.’

Ben Allen replied that he thought he was; and, as that gentleman had seen a vast deal of the disease in question, Wardle was confirmed in an impression which had been hovering about his mind for half an hour, and at once arrived at the conclusion that the fat boy was drunk.

‘Just keep your eye upon him for a few minutes,’ murmured Wardle. ‘We shall soon find out whether he is or not.’

The unfortunate youth had only interchanged a dozen words with Mr. Snodgrass, that gentleman having implored him to make a private appeal to some friend to release him, and then pushed him out with the snuff- box, lest his prolonged absence should lead to a discovery. He ruminated a little with a most disturbed expression of face, and left the room in search of Mary.

But Mary had gone home after dressing her mistress, and the fat boy came back again more disturbed than before.

Wardle and Mr. Ben Allen exchanged glances.

‘Joe!’ said Wardle.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What did you go away for?’

The fat boy looked hopelessly in the face of everybody at table, and stammered out that he didn’t know.

‘Oh,’ said Wardle, ‘you don’t know, eh? Take this cheese to Mr. Pickwick.’

Now, Mr. Pickwick being in the very best health and spirits, had been making himself perfectly delightful all dinner-time, and was at this moment engaged in an energetic conversation with Emily and Mr. Winkle; bowing his head, courteously, in the emphasis of his discourse, gently waving his left hand to lend force to his observations, and all glowing with placid smiles. He took a piece of cheese from the plate, and was on the point of turning round to renew the conversation, when the fat boy, stooping so as to bring his head on a level with that of Mr. Pickwick, pointed with his thumb over his shoulder, and made the most horrible and hideous face that was ever seen out of a Christmas pantomime.

‘Dear me!’ said Mr. Pickwick, starting, ‘what a very—Eh?’ He stopped, for the fat boy had drawn himself up, and was, or pretended to be, fast asleep.

‘What’s the matter?’ inquired Wardle.

‘This is such an extremely singular lad!’ replied Mr. Pickwick, looking uneasily at the boy. ‘It seems an odd thing to say, but upon my word I am afraid that, at times, he is a little deranged.’

‘Oh! Mr. Pickwick, pray don’t say so,’ cried Emily and Arabella, both at once.

‘I am not certain, of course,’ said Mr. Pickwick, amidst profound silence and looks of general dismay; ‘but his manner to me this moment really was very alarming. Oh!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, suddenly jumping up with a short scream. ‘I beg your pardon, ladies, but at that moment he ran some sharp instrument into my leg. Really, he is not safe.’

‘He’s drunk,’ roared old Wardle passionately. ‘Ring the bell! Call the waiters! He’s drunk.’

‘I ain’t,’ said the fat boy, falling on his knees as his master seized him by the collar. ‘I ain’t drunk.’

‘Then you’re mad; that’s worse. Call the waiters,’ said the old gentleman.

‘I ain’t mad; I’m sensible,’ rejoined the fat boy, beginning to cry.

‘Then, what the devil did you run sharp instruments into Mr. Pickwick’s legs for?’ inquired Wardle angrily.

‘He wouldn’t look at me,’ replied the boy. ‘I wanted to speak to him.’

‘What did you want to say?’ asked half a dozen voices at once.

The fat boy gasped, looked at the bedroom door, gasped again, and wiped two tears away with the knuckle of each of his forefingers.

‘What did you want to say?’ demanded Wardle, shaking him.

‘Stop!’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘allow me. What did you wish to communicate to me, my poor boy?’

‘I want to whisper to you,’ replied the fat boy.

‘You want to bite his ear off, I suppose,’ said Wardle. ‘Don’t come near him; he’s vicious; ring the bell, and let him be taken downstairs.’

Just as Mr. Winkle caught the bell-rope in his hand, it was arrested by a general expression of astonishment; the captive lover, his face burning with confusion, suddenly walked in from the bedroom, and made a comprehensive bow to the company.

‘Hollo!’ cried Wardle, releasing the fat boy’s collar, and staggering back. ‘What’s this?’

‘I have been concealed in the next room, sir, since you returned,’ explained Mr. Snodgrass.

‘Emily, my girl,’ said Wardle reproachfully, ‘I detest meanness and deceit; this is unjustifiable and indelicate in the highest degree. I don’t deserve this at your hands, Emily, indeed!’

‘Dear papa,’ said Emily, ‘Arabella knows—everybody here knows—Joe knows—that I was no party to this concealment. Augustus, for Heaven’s sake, explain it!’

Mr. Snodgrass, who had only waited for a hearing, at once recounted how he had been placed in his then distressing predicament; how the fear of giving rise to domestic dissensions had alone prompted him to avoid Mr. Wardle on his entrance; how he merely meant to depart by another door, but, finding it locked, had been compelled to stay against his will. It was a painful situation to be placed in; but he now regretted it the less, inasmuch as it afforded him an opportunity of acknowledging, before their mutual friends, that he loved Mr. Wardle’s daughter deeply and sincerely; that he was proud to avow that the feeling was mutual; and that if thousands of miles were placed between them, or oceans rolled their waters, he could never for an instant forget those happy days, when first—et cetera, et cetera.

Having delivered himself to this effect, Mr. Snodgrass bowed again, looked into the crown of his hat, and stepped towards the door.

‘Stop!’ shouted Wardle. ‘Why, in the name of all that’s—’

‘Inflammable,’ mildly suggested Mr. Pickwick, who thought something worse was coming.

‘Well—that’s inflammable,’ said Wardle, adopting the substitute; ‘couldn’t you say all this to me in the first instance?’

‘Or confide in me?’ added Mr. Pickwick.

‘Dear, dear,’ said Arabella, taking up the defence, ‘what is the use of asking all that now, especially when you know you had set your covetous old heart on a richer son-in-law, and are so wild and fierce besides, that everybody is afraid of you, except me? Shake hands with him, and order him some dinner, for goodness gracious’ sake, for he looks half starved; and pray have your wine up at once, for you’ll not be tolerable until you have taken two bottles at least.’

The worthy old gentleman pulled Arabella’s ear, kissed her without the smallest scruple, kissed his daughter also with great affection, and shook Mr. Snodgrass warmly by the hand.

‘She is right on one point at all events,’ said the old gentleman cheerfully. ‘Ring for the wine!’

The wine came, and Perker came upstairs at the same moment. Mr. Snodgrass had dinner at a side table, and, when he had despatched it, drew his chair next Emily, without the smallest opposition on the old gentleman’s part.

The evening was excellent. Little Mr. Perker came out wonderfully, told various comic stories, and sang a serious song which was almost as funny as the anecdotes. Arabella was very charming, Mr. Wardle very jovial, Mr. Pickwick very harmonious, Mr. Ben Allen very uproarious, the lovers very silent, Mr. Winkle very talkative, and all of them very happy.

“No, signore,” rispose il ragazzo grasso.

“Oh, me ne ricordo; l’ho lasciato sul mio comodino stamattina,” disse Wardle. “Corri nella stanza accanto e portamelo.”

Il ragazzo grasso entrò nella stanza accanto; dopo essere stato assente per circa un minuto, tornò con la scatola di tabacco e il viso più pallido che un ragazzo grasso avesse mai avuto.

“Che cosa c’è che non va con quel ragazzo?” esclamò Wardle.

“Non c’è nulla che non vada in me,” rispose Joe, nervosamente.

“Avete visto qualche spirito ultimamente?”, chiese il vecchio signore.

“Oppure ne prendi qualcuna?” aggiunse Ben Allen.

“Penso che tu abbia ragione,” sussurrò Wardle dall’altra parte del tavolo. “È sicuramente ubriaco.”

Ben Allen rispose che pensava di sì; e poiché quel signore aveva osservato molti casi di quella malattia in questione, Wardle confermò l’impressione che gli era già balenata in mente da mezz’ora, e arrivò immediatamente alla conclusione che il ragazzo grasso fosse ubriaco.

“Basta tenerlo d’occhio per qualche minuto,” mormorò Wardle. “Tra poco scopriremo se è davvero lui o no.”

Il sfortunato giovane aveva scambiato soltanto una dozzina di parole con il signor Snodgrass; quel gentiluomo lo aveva supplicato di rivolgersi in privato a un amico affinché lo liberasse, e poi lo aveva spinto fuori con il suo fazzoletto da naso, per evitare che la sua lunga assenza potesse destare sospetti. Il giovane rimase per un momento a riflettere, con un’espressione molto turbata sul viso, e poi lasciò la stanza alla ricerca di Mary.

Ma Mary era già tornata a >casa dopo aver vestito la sua padrona, e il ragazzo grasso tornò di nuovo, ancora più turbato di prima.

Wardle e il signor Ben Allen si scambiarono uno sguardo.

“Joe!”, disse Wardle.

“Sì, signore.”

“Perché sei andato via?”

Il ragazzo grasso guardò con aria disperata tutti quelli seduti al tavolo e balbettò che non lo sapeva.

“Ah,” disse Wardle, “non lo sai, vero? Porta questo formaggio al signor Pickwick.”

Ora, il signor Pickwick, essendo in ottima salute e di buon umore, aveva reso la cena davvero deliziosa per tutti; in quel momento era immerso in una conversazione animata con Emily e il signor Winkle: annuiva cortesemente mentre parlava, agitando dolcemente la mano sinistra per enfatizzare le sue osservazioni, e il suo viso splendeva di sorrisi sereni. Prese un pezzo di formaggio dal piatto e stava per voltarsi di nuovo per continuare la conversazione, quando il ragazzo grassoccio, chinandosi in modo che la sua testa fosse allo stesso livello di quella del signor Pickwick, indicò qualcosa con il dito indice e fece una delle facce più orribili e spaventose che si fossero mai viste in una pantomima natalizia.

“Mio Dio!”, esclamò il signor Pickwick interrompendosi, “che cosa molto. Ehm?” Si fermò, perché il ragazzo grasso si era alzato in piedi e sembrava essere profondamente addormentato.

“Che c’è che non va?” chiese Wardle.

“Che ragazzo davvero straordinario!” rispose il signor Pickwick, guardando il ragazzo con aria preoccupata. “Sembra una cosa strana da dire, ma giuro su quanto è sacro per me che, a volte, lui sembra un po’ fuori di testa.”

“Oh! Signor Pickwick, per favore non dica così,” esclamarono contemporaneamente Emily e Arabella.

“Non ne sono certo, naturalmente,” disse il signor Pickwick in mezzo a un profondo silenzio e a sguardi di generale preoccupazione; “ma il suo comportamento in quel momento è stato davvero molto allarmante. Oh!” esclamò il signor Pickwick, alzandosi improvvisamente con un grido acuto. “Perdonatemi, signore, ma in quel momento mi ha conficcato qualche strumento affilato nella gamba. Davvero, non è sicuro.”

“È ubriaco,” gridò con passione il vecchio Wardle. “Suona la campanella! Chiamate i camerieri! È ubriaco.”

“Non lo sono,” disse il ragazzo grasso, cadendo in ginocchio mentre il suo padrone lo afferrava per il colletto. “Non sono ubriaco.”

“Allora sei pazzo; è ancora peggio. Chiami i camerieri,” disse il vecchio gentiluomo.

“Non sono arrabbiato; sono solo razionale,” rispose il ragazzo grasso, iniziando a piangere.

“Allora, per quale diavolo di motivo hai infilato degli strumenti affilati nelle gambe del signor Pickwick?” chiese Wardle con rabbia.

“Non voleva nemmeno guardarmi,” rispose il ragazzo. “Volevo parlare con lui.”

“Cosa volevi dire?”, chiesero contemporaneamente mezza dozzina di voci.

Il ragazzo grasso ansimò, guardò la porta della camera da letto, ansimò di nuovo e si asciugò due lacrime con le nocche delle dita delle mani.

“Cosa volevi dire?”, chiese Wardle, scuotendolo.

“Fermati!” disse il signor Pickwick; “lasciami fare. Cosa volevi dirmi, mio povero ragazzo?”

“Voglio sussurrarti qualcosa,” rispose il ragazzo grasso.

“Vorresti mordergli un orecchio, immagino,” disse Wardle. “Non avvicinartici; è pericoloso. Suona il campanello e fai portarlo giù.”

Proprio nel momento in cui il signor Winkle afferrò la corda del campanello, questa fu trattenuta da un’espressione generale di stupore; l’innamorato “catturato”, con il viso arrossito dal imbarazzo, entrò improvvisamente dalla camera da letto e fece un profondo inchino a tutti i presenti.

“Ehi!” esclamò Wardle, lasciando andare il colletto del ragazzo grasso e indietreggiando barcollando. “Che cos’è questo?”

“Sono nascosto nella stanza accanto da quando siete tornato, signore,” spiegò il signor Snodgrass.

“Emily, mia cara,” disse Wardle in tono di rimprovero, “disprezzo la meschinità e l’inganno; questo è totalmente ingiustificato e estremamente scortese da parte tua. Non merito davvero questo da te, Emily, ”

“Caro papà,” disse Emily, “Arabella lo sa, tutti qui lo sanno, anche Joe lo sa, che non ho avuto nulla a che fare con questa messinscena. Augustus, per l’amor del cielo, spiegaglielo!”

Il signor Snodgrass, che aveva aspettato soltanto l’occasione di parlare, raccontò immediatamente come fosse finito in quella difficile situazione; come la >paura di causare dissidi familiari lo avesse spinto, da solo, ad evitare il signor Wardle al suo arrivo; come avesse intenzione di andarsene da un’altra porta, ma, trovandola chiusa, fosse stato costretto a rimanere contro la sua volontà. Era una situazione davvero dolorosa. Ma ora se ne pentiva meno, poiché gli aveva offerto l’opportunità di ammettere, davanti ai loro amici comuni, quanto amasse profondamente e sinceramente la figlia del signor Wardle; quanto fosse orgoglioso di dichiarare che quel sentimento era reciproco; e che, anche se ci fossero stati migliaia di chilometri tra loro o oceani a separarli, non avrebbe mai dimenticato quei giorni felici. E così via.

Dopo aver espresso ciò che voleva dire, il signor Snodgrass si inchinò di nuovo, guardò all’interno della >tacca del suo cappello e si avviò verso la porta.

“Fermatevi!” gridò Wardle. “Perché, per nome di tutto ciò che è, ”

“Infiammabile, ”, suggerì dolcemente il signor Pickwick, pensando che qualcosa di peggio stesse per accadere.

“Beh, è infiammabile,” disse Wardle, utilizzando quel termine sostitutivo; “non potevi dirmelo fin dall’inizio?”

“O forse puoi confidarti in me?” aggiunse il signor Pickwick.

“Caro, caro,” disse Arabella, prendendo le sue difese, “a che serve chiedere tutte queste cose ora, soprattutto quando sai di aver messo gli occhi su un genero più ricco, e inoltre sei così irascibile e spaventosa che tutti ti temono, tranne me? Stringigli la mano e fagli preparare qualcosa da mangiare, per l’amor del cielo. Sembra quasi morire di fame; e per favore, fa portare subito il vino: non sarai tollerabile finché non ne avrai bevute almeno due bottiglie.”

Il nobile vecchio signore tirò l’orecchio di Arabella, la baciò senza il minimo imbarazzo, baciò anche sua figlia con grande affetto e strinse calorosamente la mano a Mr. Snodgrass.

“Comunque, su un punto ha perfettamente ragione,” disse il vecchio signore con allegria. “Chiamate qualcuno per portare il vino!”

Il vino fu servito, e nello stesso momento Perker salì al piano di sopra. Il signor Snodgrass aveva cenato a un tavolo laterale; una volta finito di mangiare, si avvicinò a Emily sedendosi accanto a lei, senza che l’anziano gentiluomo opponesse la minima obiezione.

La serata fu eccellente. Il piccolo signor Perker si comportò meravigliosamente: raccontò varie storie divertenti e cantò una canzone seria che era quasi altrettanto divertente delle sue aneddoti. Arabella fu molto affascinante, il signor Wardle molto allegro, il signor Pickwick molto armonioso, il signor Ben Allen molto vivace; i due innamorati rimasero in silenzio, il signor Winkle molto loquace, e tutti furono molto felici.

CHAPTER LV. MR. SOLOMON PELL, ASSISTED BY A SELECT COMMITTEE OF COACHMEN, ARRANGES THE AFFAIRS OF THE ELDER MR. WELLER

Samivel,’ said Mr. Weller, accosting his son on the morning after the funeral, ‘I’ve found it, Sammy. I thought it wos there.’

‘Thought wot wos there?’ inquired Sam.

‘Your mother-in-law’s vill, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘In wirtue o’ vich, them arrangements is to be made as I told you on, last night, respectin’ the funs.’

‘Wot, didn’t she tell you were it wos?’ inquired Sam.

‘Not a bit on it, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘We wos a adjestin’ our little differences, and I wos a-cheerin’ her spirits and bearin’ her up, so that I forgot to ask anythin’ about it. I don’t know as I should ha’ done it, indeed, if I had remembered it,’ added Mr. Weller, ‘for it’s a rum sort o’ thing, Sammy, to go a-hankerin’ arter anybody’s property, ven you’re assistin’ ‘em in illness. It’s like helping an outside passenger up, ven he’s been pitched off a coach, and puttin’ your hand in his pocket, vile you ask him, vith a sigh, how he finds his-self, Sammy.’

With this figurative illustration of his meaning, Mr. Weller unclasped his pocket-book, and drew forth a dirty sheet of letter-paper, on which were inscribed various characters crowded together in remarkable confusion.

‘This here is the dockyment, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘I found it in the little black tea-pot, on the top shelf o’ the bar closet. She used to keep bank-notes there, ‘fore she vos married, Samivel. I’ve seen her take the lid off, to pay a bill, many and many a time. Poor creetur, she might ha’ filled all the tea-pots in the house vith vills, and not have inconwenienced herself neither, for she took wery little of anythin’ in that vay lately, ‘cept on the temperance nights, ven they just laid a foundation o’ tea to put the spirits atop on!’

‘What does it say?’ inquired Sam.

‘Jist vot I told you, my boy,’ rejoined his parent. ‘Two hundred pound vurth o’ reduced counsels to my son-in-law, Samivel, and all the rest o’ my property, of ev’ry kind and description votsoever, to my husband, Mr. Tony Veller, who I appint as my sole eggzekiter.’

‘That’s all, is it?’ said Sam.

‘That’s all,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘And I s’pose as it’s all right and satisfactory to you and me as is the only parties interested, ve may as vell put this bit o’ paper into the fire.’

‘Wot are you a-doin’ on, you lunatic?’ said Sam, snatching the paper away, as his parent, in all innocence, stirred the fire preparatory to suiting the action to the word. ‘You’re a nice eggzekiter, you are.’

‘Vy not?’ inquired Mr. Weller, looking sternly round, with the poker in his hand.

‘Vy not?’ exclaimed Sam. ‘’Cos it must be proved, and probated, and swore to, and all manner o’ formalities.’

‘You don’t mean that?’ said Mr. Weller, laying down the poker.

Sam buttoned the will carefully in a side pocket; intimating by a look, meanwhile, that he did mean it, and very seriously too.

‘Then I’ll tell you wot it is,’ said Mr. Weller, after a short meditation, ‘this is a case for that ‘ere confidential pal o’ the Chancellorship’s. Pell must look into this, Sammy. He’s the man for a difficult question at law. Ve’ll have this here brought afore the Solvent Court, directly, Samivel.’

‘I never did see such a addle-headed old creetur!’ exclaimed Sam irritably; ‘Old Baileys, and Solvent Courts, and alleybis, and ev’ry species o’ gammon alvays a-runnin’ through his brain. You’d better get your out o’ door clothes on, and come to town about this bisness, than stand a-preachin’ there about wot you don’t understand nothin’ on.’

‘Wery good, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller, ‘I’m quite agreeable to anythin’ as vill hexpedite business, Sammy. But mind this here, my boy, nobody but Pell—nobody but Pell as a legal adwiser.’

‘I don’t want anybody else,’ replied Sam. ‘Now, are you a-comin’?’

‘Vait a minit, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller, who, having tied his shawl with the aid of a small glass that hung in the window, was now, by dint of the most wonderful exertions, struggling into his upper garments. ‘Vait a minit’ Sammy; ven you grow as old as your father, you von’t get into your veskit quite as easy as you do now, my boy.’

‘If I couldn’t get into it easier than that, I’m blessed if I’d vear vun at all,’ rejoined his son.

‘You think so now,’ said Mr. Weller, with the gravity of age, ‘but you’ll find that as you get vider, you’ll get viser. Vidth and visdom, Sammy, alvays grows together.’

As Mr. Weller delivered this infallible maxim—the result of many years’ personal experience and observation—he contrived, by a dexterous twist of his body, to get the bottom button of his coat to perform its office. Having paused a few seconds to recover breath, he brushed his hat with his elbow, and declared himself ready.

‘As four heads is better than two, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, as they drove along the London Road in the chaise-cart, ‘and as all this here property is a wery great temptation to a legal gen’l’m’n, ve’ll take a couple o’ friends o’ mine vith us, as’ll be wery soon down upon him if he comes anythin’ irreg’lar; two o’ them as saw you to the Fleet that day. They’re the wery best judges,’ added Mr. Weller, in a half-whisper- -’the wery best judges of a horse, you ever know’d.’

‘And of a lawyer too?’ inquired Sam.

‘The man as can form a ackerate judgment of a animal, can form a ackerate judgment of anythin’,’ replied his father, so dogmatically, that Sam did not attempt to controvert the position.

In pursuance of this notable resolution, the services of the mottled- faced gentleman and of two other very fat coachmen—selected by Mr. Weller, probably, with a view to their width and consequent wisdom—were put into requisition; and this assistance having been secured, the party proceeded to the public-house in Portugal Street, whence a messenger was despatched to the Insolvent Court over the way, requiring Mr. Solomon Pell’s immediate attendance.

CAPITOLO LV. IL SIGOR SOLOMON PELL, CON L’AIUTO DI UN COMITATO SELEZIONATO DI Allenatori, Gestisce gli Affari del Signor WELLER Più Vecchio

“Samivel,” disse il signor Weller avvicinandosi a suo figlio la mattina dopo il funerale, “l’ho trovato, Sammy. Pensavo che fosse lì.”

“Chissà cosa c’è là dentro?”, chiese Sam.

“Il villaggio di tua suocera, Sammy,” rispose il signor Weller. “Secondo le regole del villaggio, gli accordi dovranno essere fatti come ti ho detto l’ultima notte, riguardo alle celebrazioni.”

“Che cosa? Non ti ha detto che era proprio così?” chiese Sam.

“Niente affatto, Sammy,” rispose il signor Weller. “Stavamo sistemando le nostre piccole differenze, e io cercavo di tirarle su di morale, tanto che mi sono dimenticato di chiederglielo. In realtà, non so nemmeno se avrei dovuto farlo,” aggiunse il signor Weller, “perché è una cosa davvero indegna. Interessarsi alla proprietà altrui, anche quando si sta aiutando qualcuno in difficoltà. È come aiutare un passeggero che è stato gettato giù da un treno e poi mettere la mano nella sua tasca, chiedendogli con un sospiro come faccia a trovare se stesso. Capisci, Sammy?”

Con questa illustrazione metaforica del suo significato, il signor Weller aprì il suo portafoglio e ne estrasse un foglio di carta da lettere sporco, su cui erano scritti vari caratteri ammassati insieme in una notevole confusione.

“Ecco qui il documento, Sammy,” disse il signor Weller. “L’ho trovato nella piccola teiera nera, sullo scaffale in alto dell’armadietto del bar. Prima di sposarsi, lei teneva lì i biglietti da banca. L’ho vista togliere il coperchio molte volte, per pagare le bollette. Povera creatura. Avrebbe potuto riempire tutte le teiere di questa casa con soldi, senza mai avere problemi. Ultimamente prendeva davvero poco denaro, tranne durante quelle serate dedicate alla temperanza. Quando mettevano un po’ di tè come base, per poi aggiungere gli alcolici sopra, ”

“Cosa dice?” chiese Sam.

“Ecco, te l’avevo detto,” riprese il padre. “Duecento sterline in contanti, tutti i consigli utili per gestire la proprietà, e tutto il resto dei miei beni, di ogni tipo e natura che siano, vanno a mio marito, il signor Tony Veller, che ho nominato mio unico esecutore testamentario.”

“È tutto, vero?”, disse Sam.

“È tutto,” rispose il signor Weller. “E poiché per voi e per me, come pure per le uniche parti interessate, è tutto a posto e soddisfacente, possiamo benissimo gettare questo pezzo di carta nel fuoco.”

“Cosa diavolo stai facendo, pazzo?” disse Sam, strappandogli il foglio di mano; suo padre, con tutta la sua innocenza, stava infatti ravvivando il fuoco, pronto a mettere in atto quanto detto. “Sei proprio un bel pazzo, ”

“Non la vedi?” chiese il signor Weller, guardandosi intorno con aria severa, tenendo in mano il bastone da passeggio.

“Non capisci?” esclamò Sam. “Dovete provare tutto, farlo certificare, giurare su di esso e seguire un sacco di procedure formali.”

“Non lo dici sul serio?” disse il signor Weller, mettendo giù le carte da poker.

Sam infilò con cura il testamento nella tasca laterale; con uno sguardo, intanto, fece capire che parlava sul serio, e molto seriamente anche.

“Allora vi dirò di cosa si tratta,” disse il signor Weller dopo una breve riflessione. “Questo è un caso che richiede l’intervento di quel ‘caro amico confidenziale’ del Ministero della Giustizia. Pell deve occuparsene, Sammy. Lui è l’uomo giusto per affrontare questioni legali complesse. Farò portare questo caso immediatamente davanti al Tribunale dei Fallimenti, Samivel.”

“Non ho mai visto una vecchia testa di legno del genere!” esclamò Sam irritato; “Quel vecchio Baileys, i tribunali speciali, tutte quelle complicazioni legali. Sempre in mezzo ai suoi pensieri. È meglio che ti metta i vestiti e venga in città a parlare di questa faccenda, piuttosto che stare lì a predicare cose di cui non capisci assolutamente nulla.”

“Molto bene, Sammy,” rispose il signor Weller, “sono assolutamente d’accordo con qualsiasi cosa possa accelerare gli affari, Sammy. Ma ricorda una cosa: nessuno tranne Pell, nessuno tranne Pell come consulente legale.”

“Non voglio nessun altro,” rispose Sam. “Allora, vieni o no?”

“Aspetta un attimo, Sammy,” rispose il signor Weller. Dopo essersi legato lo scialle con l’aiuto di un piccolo bicchiere appeso alla finestra, stava ora facendo ogni sforzo possibile per infilarsi i vestiti. “Aspetta, Sammy. Quando diventerai grande come tuo padre, non riuscirai più a metterti il gilet con la stessa facilità di adesso, ragazzo mio.”

“Se non potessi entrarci in modo più facile di così, sarei davvero fortunato se riuscissi a farlo anche solo un po’”, ribatté suo figlio.

“Ora la pensi così,” disse il signor Weller con la gravità dell’età, “ma scoprirai che man mano che invecchi, acquisirai anche più saggezza. Saggezza e conoscenza, Sammy, crescono sempre insieme.”

Mentre il signor Weller enunciava questo principio infallibile – frutto di molti anni di esperienza personale e osservazione – egli riuscì, con un abile movimento del proprio corpo, a far sì che il bottone in basso del suo cappotto svolgesse la sua funzione. Dopo essersi fermato per qualche secondo per riprendere fiato, si sistemò il cappello con il gomito e dichiarò di essere pronto.

“Quattro teste sono meglio di due, Sammy,” disse il signor Weller mentre viaggiavano lungo la Strada di Londra in carrozza, “e poiché tutta questa proprietà rappresenta una grande tentazione per un avvocato, porteremo con noi alcuni dei miei amici; arriveranno presto qui se quell’uomo dovesse fare qualcosa di irregolare. Due di loro ti hanno accompagnato al carcere il giorno in cui sei stato portato lì. Sono i migliori giudici,” aggiunse il signor Weller sottovoce, “i migliori giudici di un cavallo che tu abbia mai conosciuto.”

“E anche un avvocato?” chiese Sam.

“Un uomo che è in grado di formulare un giudizio accurato su un animale, può formulare un giudizio accurato su qualsiasi altra cosa”, rispose suo padre in modo così dogmatico che Sam non tentò nemmeno di confutare quella affermazione.

Al fine di attuare questa importante decisione, si fecero ricorso ai servizi del gentiluomo dal viso maculato e di altri due cocchieri molto grassi – probabilmente selezionati da Mr. Weller proprio per la loro stazza e quindi la loro saggezza –; una volta ottenuta questa assistenza, il gruppo si recò presso l’edificio pubblico in Portugal Street, da dove fu inviato un messaggero presso il Tribunale dei Falliti situato nelle vicinanze, per richiedere la presenza immediata di Mr. Solomon Pell.

The messenger fortunately found Mr. Solomon Pell in court, regaling himself, business being rather slack, with a cold collation of an Abernethy biscuit and a saveloy. The message was no sooner whispered in his ear than he thrust them in his pocket among various professional documents, and hurried over the way with such alacrity that he reached the parlour before the messenger had even emancipated himself from the court.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Mr. Pell, touching his hat, ‘my service to you all. I don’t say it to flatter you, gentlemen, but there are not five other men in the world, that I’d have come out of that court for, to-day.’

‘So busy, eh?’ said Sam.

‘Busy!’ replied Pell; ‘I’m completely sewn up, as my friend the late Lord Chancellor many a time used to say to me, gentlemen, when he came out from hearing appeals in the House of Lords. Poor fellow; he was very susceptible to fatigue; he used to feel those appeals uncommonly. I actually thought more than once that he’d have sunk under ‘em; I did, indeed.’

Here Mr. Pell shook his head and paused; on which, the elder Mr. Weller, nudging his neighbour, as begging him to mark the attorney’s high connections, asked whether the duties in question produced any permanent ill effects on the constitution of his noble friend.

‘I don’t think he ever quite recovered them,’ replied Pell; ‘in fact I’m sure he never did. “Pell,” he used to say to me many a time, “how the blazes you can stand the head-work you do, is a mystery to me.”—“Well,” I used to answer, “I hardly know how I do it, upon my life.”—“Pell,” he’d add, sighing, and looking at me with a little envy—friendly envy, you know, gentlemen, mere friendly envy; I never minded it—“Pell, you’re a wonder; a wonder.” Ah! you’d have liked him very much if you had known him, gentlemen. Bring me three-penn’orth of rum, my dear.’

Addressing this latter remark to the waitress, in a tone of subdued grief, Mr. Pell sighed, looked at his shoes and the ceiling; and, the rum having by that time arrived, drank it up.

‘However,’ said Pell, drawing a chair to the table, ‘a professional man has no right to think of his private friendships when his legal assistance is wanted. By the bye, gentlemen, since I saw you here before, we have had to weep over a very melancholy occurrence.’

Mr. Pell drew out a pocket-handkerchief, when he came to the word weep, but he made no further use of it than to wipe away a slight tinge of rum which hung upon his upper lip.

‘I saw it in the ADVERTISER, Mr. Weller,’ continued Pell. ‘Bless my soul, not more than fifty-two! Dear me—only think.’

These indications of a musing spirit were addressed to the mottled-faced man, whose eyes Mr. Pell had accidentally caught; on which, the mottled- faced man, whose apprehension of matters in general was of a foggy nature, moved uneasily in his seat, and opined that, indeed, so far as that went, there was no saying how things was brought about; which observation, involving one of those subtle propositions which it is difficult to encounter in argument, was controverted by nobody.

‘I have heard it remarked that she was a very fine woman, Mr. Weller,’ said Pell, in a sympathising manner.

‘Yes, sir, she wos,’ replied the elder Mr. Weller, not much relishing this mode of discussing the subject, and yet thinking that the attorney, from his long intimacy with the late Lord Chancellor, must know best on all matters of polite breeding. ‘She wos a wery fine ‘ooman, sir, ven I first know’d her. She wos a widder, sir, at that time.’

‘Now, it’s curious,’ said Pell, looking round with a sorrowful smile; ‘Mrs. Pell was a widow.’

‘That’s very extraordinary,’ said the mottled-faced man.

‘Well, it is a curious coincidence,’ said Pell.

‘Not at all,’ gruffly remarked the elder Mr. Weller. ‘More widders is married than single wimin.’

‘Very good, very good,’ said Pell, ‘you’re quite right, Mr. Weller. Mrs. Pell was a very elegant and accomplished woman; her manners were the theme of universal admiration in our neighbourhood. I was proud to see that woman dance; there was something so firm and dignified, and yet natural, in her motion. Her cutting, gentlemen, was simplicity itself. Ah! well, well! Excuse my asking the question, Mr. Samuel,’ continued the attorney in a lower voice, ‘was your mother-in-law tall?’

‘Not wery,’ replied Sam.

‘Mrs. Pell was a tall figure,’ said Pell, ‘a splendid woman, with a noble shape, and a nose, gentlemen, formed to command and be majestic. She was very much attached to me—very much—highly connected, too. Her mother’s brother, gentlemen, failed for eight hundred pounds, as a law stationer.’

‘Vell,’ said Mr. Weller, who had grown rather restless during this discussion, ‘vith regard to bis’ness.’

The word was music to Pell’s ears. He had been revolving in his mind whether any business was to be transacted, or whether he had been merely invited to partake of a glass of brandy-and-water, or a bowl of punch, or any similar professional compliment, and now the doubt was set at rest without his appearing at all eager for its solution. His eyes glistened as he laid his hat on the table, and said—

‘What is the business upon which—um? Either of these gentlemen wish to go through the court? We require an arrest; a friendly arrest will do, you know; we are all friends here, I suppose?’

‘Give me the dockyment, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, taking the will from his son, who appeared to enjoy the interview amazingly. ‘Wot we rekvire, sir, is a probe o’ this here.’

‘Probate, my dear Sir, probate,’ said Pell.

‘Well, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller sharply, ‘probe and probe it, is wery much the same; if you don’t understand wot I mean, sir, I des-say I can find them as does.’

‘No offence, I hope, Mr. Weller,’ said Pell meekly. ‘You are the executor, I see,’ he added, casting his eyes over the paper.

Fortunatamente, il messaggero trovò il signor Solomon Pell nel giardino, dove si stava deliziando, poiché gli affari erano piuttosto stagnanti, con un semplice pasto a base di biscotti Abernethy e saveloy. Non appena il messaggio gli fu sussurrato all’orecchio, li infilò nella tasca insieme ad altri documenti professionali e si affrettò verso la sala da pranzo con tale rapidità che arrivò prima ancora che il messaggero potesse lasciare il giardino.

“Signori,” disse il signor Pell, toccandosi il cappello, “è un piacere servirvi tutti. Non lo dico per lusingarvi, ma non ci sono altri cinque uomini al mondo per i quali sarei uscito da quella corte oggi.”

“Sono molto occupato, eh?” disse Sam.

“Indaffarato!” rispose Pell; “Sono completamente assorbito dal lavoro, proprio come mio caro amico il defunto Lord Cancelliere usava spesso dirmi, signori, quando tornava dopo aver ascoltato le istanze presentate alla >Casa dei Lord. Poveretto, era molto soggetto alla stanchezza; quelle istanze lo influenzavano profondamente. Più di una volta ho pensato che non ce l’avrebbe fatta. E infatti, così è stato.”

A questo punto, il signor Pell scosse la testa e fece una pausa; allora il più anziano signor Weller, dandogli un colpetto di gomito come per chiedergli di sottolineare le importanti connessioni dell’avvocato, domandò se tali compiti avessero qualche effetto negativo permanente sulla salute del suo nobile amico.

“Non credo che sia mai riuscito davvero a superare quelle difficoltà,” rispose Pell; “anzi, sono sicuro che non ci sia mai riuscito. ‘Pell,’ mi diceva spesso, ‘è un mistero per me come tu riesca a sopportare tutto quel lavoro mentale.’ ‘Beh,’ rispondevo io, ‘anch’io non so proprio come faccia.’ ‘Pell,’ aggiungeva lui, sospirando e guardandomi con un po’ di invidia, una invidia amichevole, capite. Non mi dava fastidio affatto. ‘Pell, sei davvero straordinario.’ Ah! Vi sarebbe piaciuto molto se lo aveste conosciuto, signori.” Portatemi tre penny di rum, caro mio.

Rivolgendosi con un tono di tristezza contenuta a quella cameriera, il signor Pell sospirò, guardò i suoi scarpi e il soffitto; poi, poiché il rum era ormai arrivato, lo bevve tutto d’un fiato.

“Tuttavia,” disse Pell, avvicinando una sedia al tavolo, “un uomo professionista non ha il diritto di pensare alle sue amicizie personali quando gli viene chiesto di fornire assistenza legale. A proposito, signori, poiché vi ho già visti qui in precedenza, abbiamo dovuto piangere per un evento molto melanconico.”

Il signor Pell tirò fuori un fazzoletto di tasca quando arrivò alla parola “piangere”, ma non lo usò più se non per asciugare una leggera traccia di rum che gli era rimasta sulle labbra superiori.

“L’ho visto nell’annuncio pubblicitario, signor Weller,” continuò Pell. “Per la mia ‘anima, non più di cinquantadue! Mio Dio, solo pensateci.”

Queste indicazioni di uno spirito meditabondo erano rivolte all’uomo dal viso maculato, il cui sguardo il signor Pell aveva accidentalmente colto; a queste parole, l’uomo dal viso maculato, la cui comprensione delle cose in generale era di natura confusa e vaga, si agitò a disagio sulla sua sedia e opinò che, effettivamente, per quanto riguardava quel punto, non si poteva dire con certezza come fossero andate le cose; questa osservazione, che comportava una di quelle proposte sottili e difficili da affrontare in un dibattito, non fu contestata da nessuno.

“Ho sentito dire che era una donna davvero meravigliosa, signor Weller,” disse Pell, con tono comprensivo.

“Sì, signore, lo era,” rispose il più anziano dei signori Weller, non molto gradendo questo modo di discutere l’argomento, ma pensando comunque che l’avvocato, data la sua lunga intimità con il defunto Lord Cancelliere, dovesse sicuramente conoscere meglio di tutti le questioni relative alle buone maniere. “Era davvero una donna molto gentile, signore; quando l’ho conosciuta per la prima volta. Era anche una vedova, a quel tempo.”

“Ora, è curioso, ”, disse Pell, guardandosi intorno con un sorriso triste; “la signora Pell era una vedova.”

“È davvero straordinario,” disse l’uomo dal viso maculato.

“Beh, è una curiosa coincidenza,” disse Pell.

“Assolutamente no,” osservò bruscamente il signor Weller più anziano. “Ci sono più mariti che mogli single.”

“Molto bene, molto bene,” disse Pell, “ha perfettamente ragione, signor Weller. La signora Pell era una donna molto elegante e raffinata; i suoi modi erano oggetto di ammirazione generale nel nostro quartiere. Ero orgoglioso di vederla danzare. C’era qualcosa di così deciso e dignitoso, eppure naturale, nei suoi movimenti. La sua eleganza, signori, era davvero la semplicità stessa. Ah! Beh. Scusi se le pongo questa domanda, signor Samuel,” continuò l’avvocato a voce più bassa, “ma sua suocera era alta?”

“Non molto,” rispose Sam.

“La signora Pell era una donna alta,” disse Pell, “una donna splendida, con una figura nobile e un naso, un naso davvero fatto per comandare e apparire maestoso. Era molto legata a me, molto. Inoltre, aveva anche stretti legami familiari: il fratello di sua madre, signori, fallì per ottocento sterline, lavorando come commerciante di materiali legali.”

“Beh,” disse il signor Weller, che durante questa discussione era diventato piuttosto irrequieto, “per quanto riguarda gli affari tuoi, ”

Quella parola era musica per le orecchie di Pell. Aveva continuato a chiedersi se ci fosse davvero qualcosa da fare, oppure se fosse stato semplicemente invitato a partecipare a un bicchiere di brandy con acqua, o a una ciotola di punch, o a qualche altro gesto simile di cortesia professionale. Ora, quella >dubbio era stata dissipata, senza che lui mostrasse alcun desiderio di chiarirla. I suoi occhi brillavano mentre posava il cappello sul tavolo e disse:

“Di cosa si tratta? Uno di questi signori desidera procedere con un’azione legale in tribunale? Abbiamo bisogno di un arresto. Un arresto amichevole andrà bene, capite? Dopotutto siamo tutti amici qui, no?”

“Dammi il documento, Sammy,” disse il signor Weller, prendendo l’atto di volontà dal figlio, che sembrava divertirsi un mondo in quell’incontro. “Quello di cui abbiamo bisogno, signore, è una verifica accurata di questo documento.”

“Verificate, mio caro signore, verificate,” disse Pell.

“Beh, signore,” rispose prontamente il signor Weller, “indaghi pure quanto vuoi, ma è più o meno la stessa cosa; se non capite cosa intendo, beh, credo di potervi spiegare comunque.”

“Nessuna offesa, spero, signor Weller,” disse Pell in tono umile. “Vedo che lei è l’esecutore,” aggiunse, scorrendo il documento con lo sguardo.

‘I am, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘These other gentlemen, I presume, are legatees, are they?’ inquired Pell, with a congratulatory smile.

‘Sammy is a leg-at-ease,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘these other gen’l’m’n is friends o’ mine, just come to see fair; a kind of umpires.’

‘Oh!’ said Pell, ‘very good. I have no objections, I’m sure. I shall want a matter of five pound of you before I begin, ha! ha! ha!’

It being decided by the committee that the five pound might be advanced, Mr. Weller produced that sum; after which, a long consultation about nothing particular took place, in the course whereof Mr. Pell demonstrated to the perfect satisfaction of the gentlemen who saw fair, that unless the management of the business had been intrusted to him, it must all have gone wrong, for reasons not clearly made out, but no doubt sufficient. This important point being despatched, Mr. Pell refreshed himself with three chops, and liquids both malt and spirituous, at the expense of the estate; and then they all went away to Doctors’ Commons.

The next day there was another visit to Doctors’ Commons, and a great to-do with an attesting hostler, who, being inebriated, declined swearing anything but profane oaths, to the great scandal of a proctor and surrogate. Next week, there were more visits to Doctors’ Commons, and there was a visit to the Legacy Duty Office besides, and there were treaties entered into, for the disposal of the lease and business, and ratifications of the same, and inventories to be made out, and lunches to be taken, and dinners to be eaten, and so many profitable things to be done, and such a mass of papers accumulated that Mr. Solomon Pell, and the boy, and the blue bag to boot, all got so stout that scarcely anybody would have known them for the same man, boy, and bag, that had loitered about Portugal Street, a few days before.

At length all these weighty matters being arranged, a day was fixed for selling out and transferring the stock, and of waiting with that view upon Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, stock-broker, of somewhere near the bank, who had been recommended by Mr. Solomon Pell for the purpose.

It was a kind of festive occasion, and the parties were attired accordingly. Mr. Weller’s tops were newly cleaned, and his dress was arranged with peculiar care; the mottled-faced gentleman wore at his button-hole a full-sized dahlia with several leaves; and the coats of his two friends were adorned with nosegays of laurel and other evergreens. All three were habited in strict holiday costume; that is to say, they were wrapped up to the chins, and wore as many clothes as possible, which is, and has been, a stage-coachman’s idea of full dress ever since stage-coaches were invented.

Mr. Pell was waiting at the usual place of meeting at the appointed time; even he wore a pair of gloves and a clean shirt, much frayed at the collar and wristbands by frequent washings.

‘A quarter to two,’ said Pell, looking at the parlour clock. ‘If we are with Mr. Flasher at a quarter past, we shall just hit the best time.’

‘What should you say to a drop o’ beer, gen’l’m’n?’ suggested the mottled-faced man.

‘And a little bit o’ cold beef,’ said the second coachman.

‘Or a oyster,’ added the third, who was a hoarse gentleman, supported by very round legs.

‘Hear, hear!’ said Pell; ‘to congratulate Mr. Weller, on his coming into possession of his property, eh? Ha! ha!’

‘I’m quite agreeable, gen’l’m’n,’ answered Mr. Weller. ‘Sammy, pull the bell.’

Sammy complied; and the porter, cold beef, and oysters being promptly produced, the lunch was done ample justice to. Where everybody took so active a part, it is almost invidious to make a distinction; but if one individual evinced greater powers than another, it was the coachman with the hoarse voice, who took an imperial pint of vinegar with his oysters, without betraying the least emotion.

‘Mr. Pell, Sir,’ said the elder Mr. Weller, stirring a glass of brandy- and-water, of which one was placed before every gentleman when the oyster shells were removed—‘Mr. Pell, Sir, it wos my intention to have proposed the funs on this occasion, but Samivel has vispered to me—’

Here Mr. Samuel Weller, who had silently eaten his oysters with tranquil smiles, cried, ‘Hear!’ in a very loud voice.

‘—Has vispered to me,’ resumed his father, ‘that it vould be better to dewote the liquor to vishin’ you success and prosperity, and thankin’ you for the manner in which you’ve brought this here business through. Here’s your health, sir.’

‘Hold hard there,’ interposed the mottled-faced gentleman, with sudden energy; ‘your eyes on me, gen’l’m’n!’

Saying this, the mottled-faced gentleman rose, as did the other gentlemen. The mottled-faced gentleman reviewed the company, and slowly lifted his hand, upon which every man (including him of the mottled countenance) drew a long breath, and lifted his tumbler to his lips. In one instant, the mottled-faced gentleman depressed his hand again, and every glass was set down empty. It is impossible to describe the thrilling effect produced by this striking ceremony. At once dignified, solemn, and impressive, it combined every element of grandeur.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ said Mr. Pell, ‘all I can say is, that such marks of confidence must be very gratifying to a professional man. I don’t wish to say anything that might appear egotistical, gentlemen, but I’m very glad, for your own sakes, that you came to me; that’s all. If you had gone to any low member of the profession, it’s my firm conviction, and I assure you of it as a fact, that you would have found yourselves in Queer Street before this. I could have wished my noble friend had been alive to have seen my management of this case. I don’t say it out of pride, but I think—However, gentlemen, I won’t trouble you with that. I’m generally to be found here, gentlemen, but if I’m not here, or over the way, that’s my address. You’ll find my terms very cheap and reasonable, and no man attends more to his clients than I do, and I hope I know a little of my profession besides. If you have any opportunity of recommending me to any of your friends, gentlemen, I shall be very much obliged to you, and so will they too, when they come to know me. Your healths, gentlemen.’

“Sì, signore,” rispose il signor Weller.

“Suppongo che questi altri signori siano eredi, vero?”, chiese Pell, con un sorriso di congratulazioni.

“Sammy è una persona molto rilassata,” rispose il signor Weller; “quegli altri gentiluomini sono miei amici, sono venuti solo per fare un saluto; in un certo senso, possono essere considerati degli arbitri.”

“Oh!” disse Pell, “molto bene. Non ho obiezioni, ne sono sicuro. Prima di iniziare, avrò bisogno di cinque sterline da te, ahahah!”

Dopo che il comitato decise di concedere i cinque sterline richiesti, il signor Weller pagò quella somma; successivamente ebbe luogo una lunga discussione su argomenti non particolarmente importanti, durante la quale il signor Pell dimostrò, con piena soddisfazione dei presenti, che se la gestione dell’affare non fosse stata affidata a lui, tutto sarebbe andato storto, per motivi non chiaramente spiegati, ma comunque sufficientemente convincenti. Una volta risolto questo importante punto, il signor Pell si rinfrescò con tre porzioni di carne e bevande alcoliche, a spese della proprietà; dopodiché tutti andarono a Doctors’ Commons.

Il giorno dopo ci furono altre visite in Doctors’ Commons, e molte attività legate a un testimone che, essendo ubriaco, rifiutò di giurare qualsiasi cosa tranne osceni giuramenti, causando grande scandalo a un procuratore e a un sostituto. La settimana successiva ci furono ancora altre visite in Doctors’ Commons, oltre a una visita presso l’Ufficio per gli Affari Relativi ai Legati. Furono stipulati accordi riguardanti la cessione del contratto di affitto e delle attività commerciali, ne furono ratificate le condizioni, si redassero inventari, si consumarono pranzi e cene. Insomma, ci furono molte cose utili da fare, e tanta carta accumulata che il signor Solomon Pell, il ragazzo e la borsa blu finirono per ingrassare così tanto che a malapena qualcuno li avrebbe riconosciuti come lo stesso uomo, il stesso ragazzo e la stessa borsa che pochi giorni prima si aggiravano per Portugal Street.

Una volta sistemate tutte queste questioni importanti, fu fissato un giorno per la vendita e il trasferimento delle azioni; in attesa di tale evento, si aspettava Wilkins Flasher, gentiluomo e broker azionario residente nelle vicinanze della banca, che era stato raccomandato a tal scopo dal signor Solomon Pell.

Era una sorta di occasione festiva, e tutti si erano vestiti di conseguenza. I cappotti del signor Weller erano stati appena puliti, e il suo abito era stato sistemato con particolare cura; il gentiluomo dal viso maculato portava all’occhiello un dahlia intero, con diversi fogli; i cappotti dei suoi due amici erano adornati con mazzi di alloro e altre piante sempreverdi. Tutti e tre indossavano abiti tipici delle feste; in altre parole, si erano avvolti fino al mento e avevano addosso il maggior numero possibile di vestiti. Il che, da quando furono inventate le carrozze da viaggio, è sempre stato considerato dall’autista di una carrozza l’ideale dell’abbigliamento formale.

Il signor Pell stava aspettando nel solito luogo d’incontro all’ora stabilita; anche lui indossava un paio di guanti e una camicia pulita, sebbene quest’ultima fosse molto logora ai colletto e alle maniche a causa dei frequenti lavaggi.

“Quaranta minuti alle due,” disse Pell, guardando l’orologio del salotto. “Se arriviamo da Mr. Flasher alle venti e quindici, saremo esattamente nel miglior momento possibile.”

“Cosa dovresti dire a una goccia di birra, amico mio?”, suggerì l’uomo dal viso maculato.

“E anche un po’ di manzo freddo,” disse il secondo cocchiere.

“O un’ostrica,” aggiunse il terzo, un signore con la voce rauca, sostenuto da gambe molto rotonde.

“Sentite, sentite!” disse Pell; “per congratulare il signor Weller per l’acquisizione della sua proprietà, eh? Ah! ah!”

“Sono assolutamente d’accordo, signore”, rispose il signor Weller. “Sammy, suona la campanella.”

Sammy obbedì; e non appena il portiere, la carne fredda e le ostriche furono prontamente serviti, il pranzo fu deliziato appieno. In una situazione in cui tutti partecipavano così attivamente, sarebbe quasi ingiusto fare distinzioni; ma se c’era qualcuno che si distingueva dagli altri, era senz’altro il cocchiere dalla voce rauca, che bevve un intero pinta di aceto insieme alle sue ostriche, senza mostrare la minima emozione.

“Signor Pell, signore,” disse il più anziano dei signori Weller, mescolando un bicchiere di brandy e acqua; ogni gentiluomo riceveva questo bicchiere quando venivano rimossi i gusci d’ostrica – “Signor Pell, signore, in realtà era mia intenzione proporre queste celebrazioni per l’occasione, ma Samivel mi ha detto, ”

Ecco il signor Samuel Weller, che aveva mangiato le ostriche in silenzio, con un sorriso sereno, gridò: “Ascoltate!” a voce molto alta.

“Mi ha detto,” continuò suo padre, “che sarebbe meglio dedicare questa bevanda a invocare per te successo e prosperità, e ringraziarti per il modo in cui hai gestito questa faccenda. Ecco, brindiamo alla tua salute, signore.”

“Tenetevi forte lì,” intervenne all’improvviso il gentiluomo dal viso maculato, con energia; “tenete gli occhi su di me, generale!”

Dicendo questo, il gentiluomo dal viso maculato sollevò la mano, proprio come fecero anche gli altri gentiluomini. Il gentiluomo dal viso maculato scrutò l’assemblea e lentamente alzò la mano; tutti gli uomini (incluso lui stesso) trassero un lungo respiro e portarono i loro bicchieri alle labbra. In un istante, il gentiluomo dal viso maculato abbassò di nuovo la mano, e tutti i bicchieri furono posati vuoti. È impossibile descrivere l’effetto emozionante prodotto da questa straordinaria cerimonia: dignitosa, solenne e imponente, combinava in sé ogni elemento di grandezza.

“Beh, signori,” disse il signor Pell, “tutto ciò che posso dire è che simili segni di fiducia devono essere molto gratificanti per un professionista. Non voglio dire nulla che possa sembrare egoistico, ma sono davvero felice, per vostro bene, che siate venuti da me; nient’altro. Se foste andati da qualche individuo poco qualificato della mia professione, sono fermamente convinto – e ve lo assicuro come un fatto – che vi sareste trovati in difficoltà molto prima. Avrei voluto che il mio nobile amico fosse ancora vivo per vedere come ho gestito questo caso. Non lo dico per orgoglio, ma penso davvero così. Comunque, signori, non voglio disturbarvi con queste cose. Di solito mi trovate qui, ma se non ci sono o non sono nelle vicinanze, questa è la mia indirizzo. Troverete che le mie tariffe siano molto convenienti e ragionevoli; nessuno si prende più cura dei propri clienti di quanto faccia io. E spero davvero di conoscere abbastanza bene la mia professione. Se avete l’opportunità di consigliarmi a qualche vostro amico, vi sarò molto grato, e lo saranno anche loro quando mi conosceranno meglio. Salute a tutti, signori.”

With this expression of his feelings, Mr. Solomon Pell laid three small written cards before Mr. Weller’s friends, and, looking at the clock again, feared it was time to be walking. Upon this hint Mr. Weller settled the bill, and, issuing forth, the executor, legatee, attorney, and umpires, directed their steps towards the city.

The office of Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, of the Stock Exchange, was in a first floor up a court behind the Bank of England; the house of Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, was at Brixton, Surrey; the horse and stanhope of Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, were at an adjacent livery stable; the groom of Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, was on his way to the West End to deliver some game; the clerk of Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, had gone to his dinner; and so Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, himself, cried, ‘Come in,’ when Mr. Pell and his companions knocked at the counting-house door.

‘Good-morning, Sir,’ said Pell, bowing obsequiously. ‘We want to make a little transfer, if you please.’

‘Oh, just come in, will you?’ said Mr. Flasher. ‘Sit down a minute; I’ll attend to you directly.’

‘Thank you, Sir,’ said Pell, ‘there’s no hurry. Take a chair, Mr. Weller.’

Mr. Weller took a chair, and Sam took a box, and the umpires took what they could get, and looked at the almanac and one or two papers which were wafered against the wall, with as much open-eyed reverence as if they had been the finest efforts of the old masters.

‘Well, I’ll bet you half a dozen of claret on it; come!’ said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, resuming the conversation to which Mr. Pell’s entrance had caused a momentary interruption.

This was addressed to a very smart young gentleman who wore his hat on his right whisker, and was lounging over the desk, killing flies with a ruler. Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, was balancing himself on two legs of an office stool, spearing a wafer-box with a penknife, which he dropped every now and then with great dexterity into the very centre of a small red wafer that was stuck outside. Both gentlemen had very open waistcoats and very rolling collars, and very small boots, and very big rings, and very little watches, and very large guard-chains, and symmetrical inexpressibles, and scented pocket-handkerchiefs.

‘I never bet half a dozen!’ said the other gentleman. ‘I’ll take a dozen.’

‘Done, Simmery, done!’ said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire.

‘P. P., mind,’ observed the other.

‘Of course,’ replied Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, entered it in a little book, with a gold pencil-case, and the other gentleman entered it also, in another little book with another gold pencil-case.

‘I see there’s a notice up this morning about Boffer,’ observed Mr. Simmery. ‘Poor devil, he’s expelled the house!’

‘I’ll bet you ten guineas to five, he cuts his throat,’ said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire.

‘Done,’ replied Mr. Simmery.

‘Stop! I bar,’ said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps he may hang himself.’

‘Very good,’ rejoined Mr. Simmery, pulling out the gold pencil-case again. ‘I’ve no objection to take you that way. Say, makes away with himself.’

‘Kills himself, in fact,’ said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire.

‘Just so,’ replied Mr. Simmery, putting it down. ‘“Flasher—ten guineas to five, Boffer kills himself.” Within what time shall we say?’

‘A fortnight?’ suggested Wilkins Flasher, Esquire.

‘Con-found it, no,’ rejoined Mr. Simmery, stopping for an instant to smash a fly with the ruler. ‘Say a week.’

‘Split the difference,’ said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. ‘Make it ten days.’

‘Well; ten days,’ rejoined Mr. Simmery.

So it was entered down on the little books that Boffer was to kill himself within ten days, or Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, was to hand over to Frank Simmery, Esquire, the sum of ten guineas; and that if Boffer did kill himself within that time, Frank Simmery, Esquire, would pay to Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, five guineas, instead.

‘I’m very sorry he has failed,’ said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. ‘Capital dinners he gave.’

‘Fine port he had too,’ remarked Mr. Simmery. ‘We are going to send our butler to the sale to-morrow, to pick up some of that sixty-four.’

‘The devil you are!’ said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. ‘My man’s going too. Five guineas my man outbids your man.’

‘Done.’

Another entry was made in the little books, with the gold pencil-cases; and Mr. Simmery, having by this time killed all the flies and taken all the bets, strolled away to the Stock Exchange to see what was going forward.

Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, now condescended to receive Mr. Solomon Pell’s instructions, and having filled up some printed forms, requested the party to follow him to the bank, which they did: Mr. Weller and his three friends staring at all they beheld in unbounded astonishment, and Sam encountering everything with a coolness which nothing could disturb.

Crossing a courtyard which was all noise and bustle, and passing a couple of porters who seemed dressed to match the red fire engine which was wheeled away into a corner, they passed into an office where their business was to be transacted, and where Pell and Mr. Flasher left them standing for a few moments, while they went upstairs into the Will Office.

‘Wot place is this here?’ whispered the mottled-faced gentleman to the elder Mr. Weller.

‘Counsel’s Office,’ replied the executor in a whisper.

‘Wot are them gen’l’men a-settin’ behind the counters?’ asked the hoarse coachman.

‘Reduced counsels, I s’pose,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Ain’t they the reduced counsels, Samivel?’

‘Wy, you don’t suppose the reduced counsels is alive, do you?’ inquired Sam, with some disdain.

‘How should I know?’ retorted Mr. Weller; ‘I thought they looked wery like it. Wot are they, then?’

‘Clerks,’ replied Sam.

‘Wot are they all a-eatin’ ham sangwidges for?’ inquired his father.

‘’Cos it’s in their dooty, I suppose,’ replied Sam, ‘it’s a part o’ the system; they’re alvays a-doin’ it here, all day long!’

Con questa espressione dei suoi sentimenti, il signor Solomon Pell posò tre piccole carte scritte davanti agli amici del signor Weller; poi, guardando di nuovo l’orologio, temette che fosse arrivato il momento di andarsene. A questo segnale, il signor Weller pagò il conto e, insieme all’esecutore, al legatario, all’avvocato e agli altri presenti, si diresse verso la città.

L’ufficio di Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, alla Borsa Valori si trovava al primo piano, dietro a un cortile, alle spalle della Banca d’Inghilterra; la residenza di Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, era a Brixton, nel Surrey; il cavallo e lo stallone di Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, erano in uno stallo adiacente; il cocchiere di Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, era diretto al West End per consegnare della selvaggina; l’impiegato di Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, era andato a cena; e così, quando il signor Pell e i suoi compagni bussarono alla porta dell’ufficio, Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, stesso gridò: “Entrate”.

“Buongiorno, signore,” disse Pell, inchinandosi servilmente. “Vorremmo effettuare un piccolo trasferimento, se le è possibile.”

“Ah, entri pure, per favore,” disse il signor Flasher. “Siediti un attimo; ti occupo subito.”

“Grazie, signore,” disse Pell, “non c’è fretta. Si sieda, signor Weller.”

Il signor Weller prese una sedia, Sam prese una scatola; gli arbitri presero tutto ciò che riuscirono a trovare, poi esaminarono l’almanacco e uno o due giornali appoggiati al muro, con un rispetto profondo, come se si trattasse delle opere più preziose dei grandi maestri del passato.

“Beh, scommetto mezza dozzina di bottiglie di vino rosso su questo; vieni!” disse Wilkins.
Flasher, Esquire, riprese la conversazione che l’arrivo del signor Pell aveva interrotto per un momento.

Questo era indirizzato a un giovane gentiluomo molto intelligente che portava il cappello sulla guancia destra e si sdraiava sopra la scrivania, uccidendo le mosche con una riga. Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, si reggeva su due gambe di uno sgabello da ufficio, pungendo una scatola di wafer con un coltello a punta; di tanto in tanto, con grande abilità, faceva cadere il coltello proprio nel centro di un piccolo wafer rosso che si era attaccato alla superficie esterna della scatola. Entrambi i gentiluomini indossavano gilet molto aperti, colletti molto rigidi e svolazzanti, stivali molto piccoli, anelli molto grandi, orologi molto piccoli, catene da polso molto lunghe e simmetriche, e anche fazzoletti da tasca profumati.

“Mai scommetterei nemmeno sei volte!” disse l’altro signore. “Io scommetto dodici volte.”

“Fatto, Simmery, fatto!” disse Wilkins Flasher, gentiluomo.

“P.P., fai attenzione,” osservò l’altro.

“Certo,” rispose Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, lo annotò in un piccolo libro, usando una custodia per matite d’oro; anche l’altro gentiluomo lo registrò in un altro piccolo libro, utilizzando anch’egli una custodia per matite d’oro.

“Vedo che stamattina c’è un avviso riguardo a Boffer,” osservò il signor Simmery. “Poveretto, è stato espulso dalla scuola!”

“Scommetto dieci ghinee contro cinque che si taglierà la gola,” disse Wilkins Flasher, Esquire.

“Fatto,” rispose il signor Simmery.

“Fermatevi! Io lo impedirò”, disse pensosamente Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. “Forse si impiccherà”.

“Molto bene,” riprese il signor Simmery, estraendo di nuovo la custodia da pennini d’oro. “Non ho obiezioni ad accompagnarvi in quel modo. Diciamo, che se ne sia andato.”

“Si suicida, infatti,” disse Wilkins Flasher, Esquire.

“Proprio così,” rispose il signor Simmery, mettendolo giù. “‘Flasher: dieci ghinee a cinque, se Boffer si uccide.’ Entro quale tempo diremmo?”

“Due settimane?” suggerì Wilkins Flasher, Esquire.

“Assolutamente no,” ribatté il signor Simmery, fermandosi un attimo per schiacciare una mosca con la riga. “Diciamo una settimana.”

“Mettiamoci d’accordo su una data intermedia”, disse Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. “Facciamo dieci giorni.”

“Beh, dieci giorni,” rispose il signor Simmery.

Si sapeva che fosse stato annotato nei piccoli libri che Boffer doveva suicidarsi entro dieci giorni, oppure che Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, doveva consegnare a Frank Simmery, Esquire, la somma di dieci ghinee; inoltre, se Boffer si fosse suicidato entro quel periodo, Frank Simmery, Esquire, avrebbe pagato a Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, cinque ghinee al posto suo.

“Mi dispiace molto che abbia fallito,” disse Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. “Organizzava davvero cene squisite.”

“Anche un bel portafoglio aveva,” osservò il signor Simmery. “Domani manderemo il nostro maggiordomo all’asta per acquistare alcuni di quei sessantaquattro oggetti.”

“Sei davvero il diavolo!” disse Wilkins Flasher, signore. “Anche il mio uomo se ne va. Ha offerto cinque ghinee in più del tuo.”

“Fatto.”

Fu fatta un’altra annotazione nei piccoli libri, utilizzando le custodie per matite dorate; e il signor Simmery, avendo ormai ucciso tutte le mosche e raccolto tutti gli scommessi, si diresse verso la Borsa Valori per vedere cosa stesse succedendo.

Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, si degnò finalmente di ricevere le istruzioni del signor Solomon Pell; dopo aver compilato alcuni moduli stampati, chiese al gruppo di seguirlo in banca, cosa che fecero. Il signor Weller e i suoi tre amici osservavano tutto ciò che vedevano con immenso stupore, mentre Sam affrontava ogni situazione con una calma che nulla riusciva a turbare.

Attraversando un cortile pieno di rumore e movimento, e passando accanto a alcuni portieri che sembravano vestiti in modo da abbinarsi all’elicottero rosso per gli incendi che veniva spostato in un angolo, entrarono in un ufficio dove avrebbero dovuto svolgere le loro procedure. Pell e il signor Flasher li lasciarono lì ad aspettare per qualche momento, mentre salivano al piano di sopra, nell’Ufficio Testamenti.

“Che posto è questo?” sussurrò il signore dal viso maculato al più anziano signor Weller.

“Ufficio del Consigliere,” rispose l’esecutore sottovoce.

“Cosa stanno facendo quegli ufficiali dietro i banconi?” chiese il cocchiere con la voce rauca.

“Consigli ridotti, si può dire,” rispose il signor Weller. “Non sono forse consigli ridotti, Samivel?”

“Beh, non penserai mica che quel consigliere ridotto a dimensioni minime sia ancora vivo, vero?” chiese Sam, con un certo disprezzo.

“Come dovrei saperlo?” ribatté il signor Weller; “Pensavo che assomigliassero molto a quella. Allora, di cosa si tratta?”

“Clerchi,” rispose Sam.

“Perché stanno mangiando tutte quelle salsicce e polpette?” chiese suo padre.

“Suppongo che sia parte del loro compito,” rispose Sam, “fa parte del sistema; lo fanno sempre qui, tutto il giorno!”

Mr. Weller and his friends had scarcely had a moment to reflect upon this singular regulation as connected with the monetary system of the country, when they were rejoined by Pell and Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, who led them to a part of the counter above which was a round blackboard with a large ‘W.’ on it.

‘Wot’s that for, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Weller, directing Pell’s attention to the target in question.

‘The first letter of the name of the deceased,’ replied Pell.

‘I say,’ said Mr. Weller, turning round to the umpires, there’s somethin’ wrong here. We’s our letter—this won’t do.’

The referees at once gave it as their decided opinion that the business could not be legally proceeded with, under the letter W., and in all probability it would have stood over for one day at least, had it not been for the prompt, though, at first sight, undutiful behaviour of Sam, who, seizing his father by the skirt of the coat, dragged him to the counter, and pinned him there, until he had affixed his signature to a couple of instruments; which, from Mr. Weller’s habit of printing, was a work of so much labour and time, that the officiating clerk peeled and ate three Ribstone pippins while it was performing.

As the elder Mr. Weller insisted on selling out his portion forthwith, they proceeded from the bank to the gate of the Stock Exchange, to which Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, after a short absence, returned with a cheque on Smith, Payne, & Smith, for five hundred and thirty pounds; that being the money to which Mr. Weller, at the market price of the day, was entitled, in consideration of the balance of the second Mrs. Weller’s funded savings. Sam’s two hundred pounds stood transferred to his name, and Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, having been paid his commission, dropped the money carelessly into his coat pocket, and lounged back to his office.

Mr. Weller was at first obstinately determined on cashing the cheque in nothing but sovereigns; but it being represented by the umpires that by so doing he must incur the expense of a small sack to carry them home in, he consented to receive the amount in five-pound notes.

‘My son,’ said Mr. Weller, as they came out of the banking-house—‘my son and me has a wery partickler engagement this arternoon, and I should like to have this here bis’ness settled out of hand, so let’s jest go straight avay someveres, vere ve can hordit the accounts.’

A quiet room was soon found, and the accounts were produced and audited. Mr. Pell’s bill was taxed by Sam, and some charges were disallowed by the umpires; but, notwithstanding Mr. Pell’s declaration, accompanied with many solemn asseverations that they were really too hard upon him, it was by very many degrees the best professional job he had ever had, and one on which he boarded, lodged, and washed, for six months afterwards.

The umpires having partaken of a dram, shook hands and departed, as they had to drive out of town that night. Mr. Solomon Pell, finding that nothing more was going forward, either in the eating or drinking way, took a friendly leave, and Sam and his father were left alone.

‘There!’ said Mr. Weller, thrusting his pocket-book in his side pocket. ‘Vith the bills for the lease, and that, there’s eleven hundred and eighty pound here. Now, Samivel, my boy, turn the horses’ heads to the George and Wulter!’

CHAPTER LVI. AN IMPORTANT CONFERENCE TAKES PLACE BETWEEN MR. PICKWICK AND SAMUEL WELLER, AT WHICH HIS PARENT ASSISTS—AN OLD GENTLEMAN IN A SNUFF-COLOURED SUIT ARRIVES UNEXPECTEDLY

Mr. Pickwick was sitting alone, musing over many things, and thinking among other considerations how he could best provide for the young couple whose present unsettled condition was matter of constant regret and anxiety to him, when Mary stepped lightly into the room, and, advancing to the table, said, rather hastily—

‘Oh, if you please, Sir, Samuel is downstairs, and he says may his father see you?’

‘Surely,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Thank you, Sir,’ said Mary, tripping towards the door again.

‘Sam has not been here long, has he?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Oh, no, Sir,’ replied Mary eagerly. ‘He has only just come home. He is not going to ask you for any more leave, Sir, he says.’

Mary might have been conscious that she had communicated this last intelligence with more warmth than seemed actually necessary, or she might have observed the good-humoured smile with which Mr. Pickwick regarded her, when she had finished speaking. She certainly held down her head, and examined the corner of a very smart little apron, with more closeness than there appeared any absolute occasion for.

‘Tell them they can come up at once, by all means,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

Mary, apparently much relieved, hurried away with her message.

Mr. Pickwick took two or three turns up and down the room; and, rubbing his chin with his left hand as he did so, appeared lost in thought.

‘Well, well,’ said Mr. Pickwick, at length in a kind but somewhat melancholy tone, ‘it is the best way in which I could reward him for his attachment and fidelity; let it be so, in Heaven’s name. It is the fate of a lonely old man, that those about him should form new and different attachments and leave him. I have no right to expect that it should be otherwise with me. No, no,’ added Mr. Pickwick more cheerfully, ‘it would be selfish and ungrateful. I ought to be happy to have an opportunity of providing for him so well. I am. Of course I am.’

Mr. Pickwick had been so absorbed in these reflections, that a knock at the door was three or four times repeated before he heard it. Hastily seating himself, and calling up his accustomed pleasant looks, he gave the required permission, and Sam Weller entered, followed by his father.

‘Glad to see you back again, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘How do you do, Mr. Weller?’

Il signor Weller e i suoi amici avevano appena avuto il tempo di riflettere su questa strana regola in relazione al sistema monetario del paese, quando furono raggiunti da Pell e Wilkins Flasher, che li portarono in una parte del bancone dove c’era un grande cartellone nero con la lettera ‘W’ scritta sopra.

“Perché lo fate, signore?”, chiese il signor Weller, attirando l’attenzione di Pell sul bersaglio in questione.

“La prima lettera del nome della persona deceduta,” rispose Pell.

“Dico io,” disse il signor Weller, rivolgendosi agli arbitri, “c’è qualcosa che non va qui. Abbiamo seguito le regole, questo non può andare.”

Gli arbitri decisero immediatamente che l’operazione non potesse procedere legalmente, in base alle disposizioni della lettera W.; molto probabilmente sarebbe stata rinviata di almeno un giorno, se non fosse stato per il comportamento, a prima vista negligente, di Sam, che afferrò suo padre per la gonna del cappotto e lo trascinò fino al bancone, tenendolo fermo lì finché non firmò alcuni documenti. Data l’abitudine del signor Weller di scrivere con grande lentezza, l’operazione richiese molto tempo; il impiegato addetto alla stesura dei documenti, intanto, sbucciò e mangiò tre arance Ribstone mentre tutto ciò avveniva.

Poiché il signor Weller anziano insisteva per vendere immediatamente la sua quota, si diressero dalla banca verso l’ingresso della Borsa Valori. Dopo una breve assenza, Wilkins Flasher ritornò con un assegno intestato a Smith, Payne & Smith per cinquecentotrenta sterline: tale somma rappresentava esattamente ciò che il signor Weller aveva diritto di ricevere, calcolata secondo il prezzo di mercato del giorno, in cambio del resto dei risparmi della seconda moglie di Weller. Le duecento sterline di Sam furono trasferite a suo nome; dopo aver ricevuto la sua commissione, Wilkins Flasher infilò distrattamente i soldi nella tasca del cappotto e tornò tranquillamente nel suo ufficio.

All’inizio, il signor Weller era testardamente deciso a incassare quel assegno soltanto in sovrani; ma poiché gli fu spiegato che in questo modo avrebbe dovuto spendere del denaro per comprare un piccolo sacco in cui trasportarli a casa, acconsentì ad accettare l’importo in banconote da cinque sterline.

“Mio figlio,” disse il signor Weller mentre uscivano dalla banca, “mio figlio ed io abbiamo un appuntamento molto importante questo pomeriggio; vorrei quindi concludere subito questa faccenda, quindi andiamo pure dritti da qualche parte dove possiamo sistemare i conti.”

Fu presto trovata una stanza tranquilla; i conti furono prodotti e verificati. La fattura del signor Pell fu tassata da Sam, e alcune spese furono rifiutate dagli arbitri; tuttavia, nonostante le dichiarazioni del signor Pell, accompagnate da molte solenni affermazioni secondo cui quelle richieste fossero davvero troppo onerose per lui, si trattò comunque del lavoro professionale migliore che avesse mai svolto, e grazie a esso poté permettersi vitto, alloggio e pulizie per ben sei mesi successivi.

Gli arbitri, dopo aver bevuto un po’ di liquore, si strinsero la mano e se ne andarono, poiché quella notte dovevano lasciare la città. Il signor Solomon Pell, vedendo che non c’era più nulla da fare, né in termini di cibo né di bevande, si congedò amichevolmente, e Sam e suo padre rimasero soli.

“Ecco!” disse il signor Weller, infilando la sua borsa di tasca nella tasca laterale. “Con le bollette del contratto di affitto, ci sono centoventiotto sterline qui dentro. Ora, Samivel, ragazzo mio, dirigi i cavalli verso George and Wulter!”

CAPITOLO LVI. Si svolge un’importante conferenza tra il signor Pickwick e Samuel Weller, alla quale partecipa anche suo padre – un anziano gentiluomo in abito di colore marrone scuro – che arriva inaspettatamente.

Il signor Pickwick sedeva da solo, immerso in molti pensieri; tra le altre cose, rifletteva su come potesse aiutare al meglio quella giovane coppia la cui situazione precaria lo rattristava e preoccupava costantemente. In quel momento, Mary entrò nella stanza silenziosamente, si avvicinò al tavolo e disse, piuttosto in fretta.

“Ah, la prego signore. Samuel è al piano di sotto e dice che suo padre vorrebbe vederla.”

“Certamente,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

“Grazie, signore,” disse Mary, inciampando di nuovo verso la porta.

“Sam non è qui da molto tempo, vero?” chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Oh, no, Signore,” rispose Mary con ansia. “È appena tornato a >casa. Dice che non chiederà più permessi, Signore.”

Mary probabilmente si rendeva conto che aveva espresso quell’ultima informazione con un tono più caloroso di quanto fosse realmente necessario, oppure aveva notato il sorriso cordiale con cui il signor Pickwick la guardava dopo che aveva finito di parlare. Di certo abbassò lo sguardo e esaminò con attenzione l’angolo di un grembiule molto pulito, con una cura che non sembrava del tutto giustificata.

“Dite loro che possono venire su subito, senza problemi,” disse il signor Pickwick.

Mary, chiaramente molto sollevata, se ne andò in fretta con il suo messaggio.

Il signor Pickwick camminò avanti e indietro per la stanza due o tre volte; mentre lo faceva, si strofinava il mento con la mano sinistra, apparentemente immerso nei suoi pensieri.

“Beh, beh, ”, disse finalmente il signor Pickwick con tono gentile ma un po’ melanconico, “è il modo migliore in cui posso ricompensarlo per la sua lealtà e devozione; che sia così, per il nome del Cielo. È il destino di un vecchio solitario che coloro che lo circondano formino nuovi legami e lo lascino. Non ho il diritto di aspettarmi altro da me stesso. No, no”, aggiunse il signor Pickwick con maggiore allegria, “sarebbe egoistico e ingrato. Dovrei essere felice di avere l’opportunità di provvedere a lui in questo modo. Lo sono, naturalmente.”

Il signor Pickwick era così immerso in queste riflessioni che il bussare alla porta fu ripetuto tre o quattro volte prima che se ne accorgesse. Si sedette rapidamente e, assumendo il solito aspetto cordiale, concesse l’ingresso a Sam Weller, che entrò subito dopo suo padre.

“È bello rivederti di nuovo, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick. “Come va, signor Weller?”

‘Wery hearty, thank’ee, sir,’ replied the widower; ‘hope I see you well, sir.’

‘Quite, I thank you,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘I wanted to have a little bit o’ conwersation with you, sir,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘if you could spare me five minits or so, sir.’

‘Certainly,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘Sam, give your father a chair.’

‘Thank’ee, Samivel, I’ve got a cheer here,’ said Mr. Weller, bringing one forward as he spoke; ‘uncommon fine day it’s been, sir,’ added the old gentleman, laying his hat on the floor as he sat himself down.

‘Remarkably so, indeed,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘Very seasonable.’

‘Seasonablest veather I ever see, sir,’ rejoined Mr. Weller. Here, the old gentleman was seized with a violent fit of coughing, which, being terminated, he nodded his head and winked and made several supplicatory and threatening gestures to his son, all of which Sam Weller steadily abstained from seeing.

Mr. Pickwick, perceiving that there was some embarrassment on the old gentleman’s part, affected to be engaged in cutting the leaves of a book that lay beside him, and waited patiently until Mr. Weller should arrive at the object of his visit.

‘I never see sich a aggrawatin’ boy as you are, Samivel,’ said Mr. Weller, looking indignantly at his son; ‘never in all my born days.’

‘What is he doing, Mr. Weller?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘He von’t begin, sir,’ rejoined Mr. Weller; ‘he knows I ain’t ekal to ex-pressin’ myself ven there’s anythin’ partickler to be done, and yet he’ll stand and see me a-settin’ here taking up your walable time, and makin’ a reg’lar spectacle o’ myself, rayther than help me out vith a syllable. It ain’t filial conduct, Samivel,’ said Mr. Weller, wiping his forehead; ‘wery far from it.’

‘You said you’d speak,’ replied Sam; ‘how should I know you wos done up at the wery beginnin’?’

‘You might ha’ seen I warn’t able to start,’ rejoined his father; ‘I’m on the wrong side of the road, and backin’ into the palin’s, and all manner of unpleasantness, and yet you von’t put out a hand to help me. I’m ashamed on you, Samivel.’

‘The fact is, Sir,’ said Sam, with a slight bow, ‘the gov’nor’s been a- drawin’ his money.’

‘Wery good, Samivel, wery good,’ said Mr. Weller, nodding his head with a satisfied air, ‘I didn’t mean to speak harsh to you, Sammy. Wery good. That’s the vay to begin. Come to the pint at once. Wery good indeed, Samivel.’

Mr. Weller nodded his head an extraordinary number of times, in the excess of his gratification, and waited in a listening attitude for Sam to resume his statement.

‘You may sit down, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, apprehending that the interview was likely to prove rather longer than he had expected.

Sam bowed again and sat down; his father looking round, he continued—

‘The gov’nor, sir, has drawn out five hundred and thirty pound.’

‘Reduced counsels,’ interposed Mr. Weller, senior, in an undertone.

‘It don’t much matter vether it’s reduced counsels, or wot not,’ said Sam; ‘five hundred and thirty pounds is the sum, ain’t it?’

‘All right, Samivel,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘To vich sum, he has added for the house and bisness—’

‘Lease, good-vill, stock, and fixters,’ interposed Mr. Weller.

‘As much as makes it,’ continued Sam, ‘altogether, eleven hundred and eighty pound.’

‘Indeed!’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘I am delighted to hear it. I congratulate you, Mr. Weller, on having done so well.’

‘Vait a minit, Sir,’ said Mr. Weller, raising his hand in a deprecatory manner. ‘Get on, Samivel.’

‘This here money,’ said Sam, with a little hesitation, ‘he’s anxious to put someveres, vere he knows it’ll be safe, and I’m wery anxious too, for if he keeps it, he’ll go a-lendin’ it to somebody, or inwestin’ property in horses, or droppin’ his pocket-book down an airy, or makin’ a Egyptian mummy of his-self in some vay or another.’

‘Wery good, Samivel,’ observed Mr. Weller, in as complacent a manner as if Sam had been passing the highest eulogiums on his prudence and foresight. ‘Wery good.’

‘For vich reasons,’ continued Sam, plucking nervously at the brim of his hat—‘for vich reasons, he’s drawn it out to-day, and come here vith me to say, leastvays to offer, or in other vords—’

‘To say this here,’ said the elder Mr. Weller impatiently, ‘that it ain’t o’ no use to me. I’m a-goin’ to vork a coach reg’lar, and ha’n’t got noveres to keep it in, unless I vos to pay the guard for takin’ care on it, or to put it in vun o’ the coach pockets, vich ‘ud be a temptation to the insides. If you’ll take care on it for me, sir, I shall be wery much obliged to you. P’raps,’ said Mr. Weller, walking up to Mr. Pickwick and whispering in his ear—‘p’raps it’ll go a little vay towards the expenses o’ that ‘ere conwiction. All I say is, just you keep it till I ask you for it again.’ With these words, Mr. Weller placed the pocket-book in Mr. Pickwick’s hands, caught up his hat, and ran out of the room with a celerity scarcely to be expected from so corpulent a subject.

‘Stop him, Sam!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick earnestly. ‘Overtake him; bring him back instantly! Mr. Weller—here—come back!’

Sam saw that his master’s injunctions were not to be disobeyed; and, catching his father by the arm as he was descending the stairs, dragged him back by main force.

‘My good friend,’ said Mr. Pickwick, taking the old man by the hand, ‘your honest confidence overpowers me.’

‘I don’t see no occasion for nothin’ o’ the kind, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller obstinately.

‘I assure you, my good friend, I have more money than I can ever need; far more than a man at my age can ever live to spend,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘No man knows how much he can spend, till he tries,’ observed Mr. Weller.

‘Perhaps not,’ replied Mr. Pickwick; ‘but as I have no intention of trying any such experiments, I am not likely to come to want. I must beg you to take this back, Mr. Weller.’

Wery well,’ said Mr. Weller, with a discontented look. ‘Mark my vords, Sammy, I’ll do somethin’ desperate vith this here property; somethin’ desperate!’

“Molto gentile, grazie, signore,” rispose il vedovo; “spero di rivedervi in buona salute, signore.”

“Certamente, la ringrazio,” rispose il signor Pickwick.

“Vorrei scambiare due parole con voi, signore,” disse il signor Weller, “se poteste dedicarmi cinque minuti, per favore.”

“Certamente,” rispose il signor Pickwick. “Sam, dammi una sedia per tuo padre.”

“Grazie mille, Samivel,” disse il signor Weller, avvicinando una sedia mentre parlava; “è stata davvero una giornata meravigliosa, signore,” aggiunse l’anziano gentiluomo, posando il cappello a terra prima di sedersi.

“Straordinariamente così, davvero,” rispose il signor Pickwick. “Molto appropriato alla stagione.”

“Il tempo più mite che abbia mai visto, signore,” rispose il signor Weller. In quel momento, l’anziano gentiluomo fu colpito da un violento attacco di tosse; una volta passato, annuì con la testa, fece l’occhiolino e rivolse a suo figlio diversi gesti supplicanti e minacciosi, tutti quanti i quali Sam Weller si astenne fermamente dal notare.

Il signor Pickwick, notando che l’anziano gentiluomo sembrava imbarazzato, fece finta di essere impegnato a tagliare le pagine di un libro che aveva accanto a sé e aspettò pazientemente che il signor Weller arrivasse allo scopo della sua visita.

“Non ho mai visto un ragazzo così premuroso come te, Samivel,” disse il signor Weller, guardando con indignazione suo figlio; “mai in tutta la mia vita.”

“Cosa sta facendo, signor Weller?”, chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Non comincerà mica, signore,” rispose il signor Weller; “sa bene che non sono all’altezza di esprimermi quando c’è qualcosa di particolare da fare, eppure si ferma lì a guardarmi mentre spreco il suo prezioso tempo, facendo una vera e propria farsa, piuttosto che aiutarmi anche solo con una parola. Non è certo un comportamento filiale, Samivel,” disse il signor Weller, asciugandosi la fronte.

“Hai detto che saresti parlato,” rispose Sam; “come faccio a sapere se hai davvero mantenuto la tua promessa fin dall’inizio?”

“Forse avrai visto che non sono riuscito a partire,” ribatté suo padre; “sono sul lato sbagliato della strada, sto facendo retromarcia nel fossato e insomma mi trovo in mezzo a un sacco di problemi. Eppure tu non vuoi nemmeno tendermi una mano. Mi vergogno di te, Samivel.”

“La verità è, signore,” disse Sam, inchinandosi leggermente, “che il governatore ha continuato a ritirare i suoi soldi.”

“Molto bene, Samivel, davvero molto bene,” disse il signor Weller annuendo con aria soddisfatta. “Non volevo parlarti in modo duro, Sammy. Molto bene. È proprio così che bisogna iniziare. Andiamo subito al dunque. Davvero molto bene, Samivel.”

Il signor Weller annuì molte volte, per esprimere tutta la sua soddisfazione, e aspettò con attenzione che Sam continuasse il suo racconto.

“Puoi sederti, Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick, pensando che l’intervista sarebbe probabilmente durata più a lungo di quanto si aspettasse.

“Sam si inchinò di nuovo e si sedette; suo padre, guardandosi intorno, continuò, ”

Il governatore, signore, ha prelevato cinquecentotrenta sterline.

“Consigli ridotti, ”, intervenne il signor Weller, il padre, a bassa voce.

“Non importa molto se si tratta di consigli ridotti o meno,” disse Sam; “cinquecento e trenta sterline è la somma, giusto?”

“Va bene, Samivel,” rispose il signor Weller.

“Per completare la casa e l’attività commerciale, ”

“Affitti, beni, merci e personale tecnico,” intervenne il signor Weller.

“In totale, millecentottantotto libbre”, continuò Sam.

“Certamente!” disse il signor Pickwick. “Sono molto felice di saperlo. Congratulo voi, signor Weller, per aver fatto le cose in modo così bravo.”

“Un attimo, signore,” disse il signor Weller, alzando la mano in un gesto di supplica. “Andiamo, Samivel.”

“Questi soldi,” disse Sam, con un po’ di esitazione, “lui vuole investirli da qualche parte, sa bene che sarà sicuro. E anch’io sono molto preoccupato: se li tiene, finirà per prestarli a qualcuno, investirli in cavalli, o persino perderli, ”

“Molto bene, Samivel,” osservò il signor Weller con un tono compiaciuto, come se Sam avesse appena espresso le più alte lodi per la sua prudenza e previdenza. “Molto bene.”

“Per varie ragioni,” continuò Sam, tormentando nervosamente il bordo del suo cappello, “per varie ragioni, ha deciso di rimandare a oggi e è venuto qui con me per dire, almeno per offrire, o in altre parole, ”

“Dire una cosa del genere qui, ”, disse impazientemente il signor Weller più anziano, “non ha alcun senso per me. Intendo riprendere a lavorare come cocchiere regolarmente, e non ho altri mezzi per mantenerlo, a meno che non decida di pagare la guardia perché se ne prenda cura, oppure di metterlo in uno dei taschini del carro, il che rappresenterebbe una vera e propria tentazione per i miei bisogni personali. Se foste disposto a prendervene cura per me, signore, vi sarei molto grato. Forse, ”, aggiunse avvicinandosi al signor Pickwick e sussurrandogli all’orecchio, “forse questo potrebbe aiutare un po’ a coprire le spese di quella ‘certa condanna’. Quello che dico è: tenetelo semplicemente fino a quando non vi chiederò di restituirlo.” Con queste parole, il signor Weller mise il portafoglio nelle mani del signor Pickwick, si prese il cappello e uscì dalla stanza con una velocità davvero sorprendente, considerando la sua corporatura robusta.

“Fermatelo, Sam!” esclamò seriamente il signor Pickwick. “Inseguitelo; riportatelo subito qui! Signor Weller, venite qui, tornate indietro!”

Sam capì che gli ordini del suo padrone non potevano essere disattesi; così, afferrando suo padre per il braccio mentre questi scendeva le scale, lo trascinò indietro con la forza.

“Mio caro amico,” disse il signor Pickwick, prendendo l’uomo anziano per mano, “la tua sincera fiducia in me mi commuove profondamente.”

“Non vedo alcuna ragione per fare una cosa del genere, signore,” rispose ostinatamente il signor Weller.

“Vi assicuro, mio caro amico, che ho più denaro di quanto ne possa mai aver bisogno; molto di più di quanto un uomo della mia età possa mai spendere in tutta la sua vita,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Nessuno sa quanto possa spendere finché non ci prova,” osservò il signor Weller.

“Forse no,” rispose il signor Pickwick; “ma poiché non ho alcuna intenzione di provare simili esperimenti, è improbabile che ne abbia bisogno. Devo chiedervi di riprendere questa cosa, signor Weller.”

“Molto bene,” disse il signor Weller con un’espressione scontenta. “Ricorda le mie parole, Sammy: farò qualcosa di disperato riguardo a questa proprietà. Qualcosa di davvero disperato!”

‘You’d better not,’ replied Sam.

Mr. Weller reflected for a short time, and then, buttoning up his coat with great determination, said—

‘I’ll keep a pike.’

‘Wot!’ exclaimed Sam.

‘A pike!’ rejoined Mr. Weller, through his set teeth; ‘I’ll keep a pike. Say good-bye to your father, Samivel. I dewote the remainder of my days to a pike.’

This threat was such an awful one, and Mr. Weller, besides appearing fully resolved to carry it into execution, seemed so deeply mortified by Mr. Pickwick’s refusal, that that gentleman, after a short reflection, said—

‘Well, well, Mr. Weller, I will keep your money. I can do more good with it, perhaps, than you can.’

‘Just the wery thing, to be sure,’ said Mr. Weller, brightening up; ‘o’ course you can, sir.’

‘Say no more about it,’ said Mr. Pickwick, locking the pocket-book in his desk; ‘I am heartily obliged to you, my good friend. Now sit down again. I want to ask your advice.’

The internal laughter occasioned by the triumphant success of his visit, which had convulsed not only Mr. Weller’s face, but his arms, legs, and body also, during the locking up of the pocket-book, suddenly gave place to the most dignified gravity as he heard these words.

‘Wait outside a few minutes, Sam, will you?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

Sam immediately withdrew.

Mr. Weller looked uncommonly wise and very much amazed, when Mr. Pickwick opened the discourse by saying—

‘You are not an advocate for matrimony, I think, Mr. Weller?’

Mr. Weller shook his head. He was wholly unable to speak; vague thoughts of some wicked widow having been successful in her designs on Mr. Pickwick, choked his utterance.

‘Did you happen to see a young girl downstairs when you came in just now with your son?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes. I see a young gal,’ replied Mr. Weller shortly.

‘What did you think of her, now? Candidly, Mr. Weller, what did you think of her?’

‘I thought she wos wery plump, and vell made,’ said Mr. Weller, with a critical air.

‘So she is,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘so she is. What did you think of her manners, from what you saw of her?’

‘Wery pleasant,’ rejoined Mr. Weller. ‘Wery pleasant and comformable.’

The precise meaning which Mr. Weller attached to this last-mentioned adjective, did not appear; but, as it was evident from the tone in which he used it that it was a favourable expression, Mr. Pickwick was as well satisfied as if he had been thoroughly enlightened on the subject.

‘I take a great interest in her, Mr. Weller,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

Mr. Weller coughed.

‘I mean an interest in her doing well,’ resumed Mr. Pickwick; ‘a desire that she may be comfortable and prosperous. You understand?’

‘Wery clearly,’ replied Mr. Weller, who understood nothing yet.

‘That young person,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘is attached to your son.’

‘To Samivel Veller!’ exclaimed the parent.

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘It’s nat’ral,’ said Mr. Weller, after some consideration, ‘nat’ral, but rayther alarmin’. Sammy must be careful.’

‘How do you mean?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Wery careful that he don’t say nothin’ to her,’ responded Mr. Weller. ‘Wery careful that he ain’t led avay, in a innocent moment, to say anythin’ as may lead to a conwiction for breach. You’re never safe vith ‘em, Mr. Pickwick, ven they vunce has designs on you; there’s no knowin’ vere to have ‘em; and vile you’re a-considering of it, they have you. I wos married fust, that vay myself, Sir, and Sammy wos the consekens o’ the manoover.’

‘You give me no great encouragement to conclude what I have to say,’ observed Mr. Pickwick, ‘but I had better do so at once. This young person is not only attached to your son, Mr. Weller, but your son is attached to her.’

‘Vell,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘this here’s a pretty sort o’ thing to come to a father’s ears, this is!’

‘I have observed them on several occasions,’ said Mr. Pickwick, making no comment on Mr. Weller’s last remark; ‘and entertain no doubt at all about it. Supposing I were desirous of establishing them comfortably as man and wife in some little business or situation, where they might hope to obtain a decent living, what should you think of it, Mr. Weller?’

At first, Mr. Weller received with wry faces a proposition involving the marriage of anybody in whom he took an interest; but, as Mr. Pickwick argued the point with him, and laid great stress on the fact that Mary was not a widow, he gradually became more tractable. Mr. Pickwick had great influence over him, and he had been much struck with Mary’s appearance; having, in fact, bestowed several very unfatherly winks upon her, already. At length he said that it was not for him to oppose Mr. Pickwick’s inclination, and that he would be very happy to yield to his advice; upon which, Mr. Pickwick joyfully took him at his word, and called Sam back into the room.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, clearing his throat, ‘your father and I have been having some conversation about you.’

‘About you, Samivel,’ said Mr. Weller, in a patronising and impressive voice.

‘I am not so blind, Sam, as not to have seen, a long time since, that you entertain something more than a friendly feeling towards Mrs. Winkle’s maid,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘You hear this, Samivel?’ said Mr. Weller, in the same judicial form of speech as before.

‘I hope, Sir,’ said Sam, addressing his master, ‘I hope there’s no harm in a young man takin’ notice of a young ‘ooman as is undeniably good- looking and well-conducted.’

‘Certainly not,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Not by no means,’ acquiesced Mr. Weller, affably but magisterially.

‘So far from thinking there is anything wrong in conduct so natural,’ resumed Mr. Pickwick, ‘it is my wish to assist and promote your wishes in this respect. With this view, I have had a little conversation with your father; and finding that he is of my opinion—’

“Meglio di no,” rispose Sam.

Il signor Weller rifletté per un breve momento, poi, abbottonandosi il cappotto con grande determinazione, disse:

“Conserverò una lancia.”

“Che cosa!” esclamò Sam.

“Una lancia!” rispose il signor Weller, stringendo i denti; “Me ne occuperò io della lancia. Addio a tuo padre, Samivel. Dedicherò il resto dei miei giorni a una lancia.”

Questa minaccia era davvero terribile; inoltre, il signor Weller, non solo sembrava assolutamente deciso ad attuarla, ma appariva anche profondamente umiliato dal rifiuto del signor Pickwick, al punto che quest’ultimo, dopo un breve riflessione, disse.

‘Beh, beh, signor Weller, terrò i vostri soldi. Forse ne farò un uso più utile di quanto possiate farne voi.’

“Proprio la cosa giusta, senza dubbio,” disse il signor Weller, illuminandosi in volto; “certamente che potete farlo, signore.”

“Non c’è bisogno di dire altro,” disse il signor Pickwick chiudendo la borsa da tasca nel suo scrivio; “Sono davvero molto grato a voi, mio buon amico. Ora sedetevi di nuovo; voglio chiedervi un consiglio.”

La risata interna scatenata dal trionfale successo della sua visita – che aveva fatto tremare non solo il viso del signor Weller, ma anche le sue braccia, le gambe e l’intero corpo durante la procedura di chiusura della borsa a mano – si trasformò improvvisamente in una gravità estremamente dignitosa non appena egli udì quelle parole.

“Aspetta fuori per qualche minuto, Sam, va bene?” disse il signor Pickwick.

Sam si ritirò immediatamente.

Il signor Weller sembrava insolitamente saggio e molto sorpreso quando il signor Pickwick iniziò a parlare dicendo.

“Non credo che lei sia un sostenitore del matrimonio, vero, signor Weller?”

Il signor Weller scosse la testa. Era completamente incapace di parlare; vaghi pensieri riguardo al fatto che qualche malvagia vedova fosse riuscita nei suoi piani contro il signor Pickwick gli impedivano di pronunciare una parola.

“Per caso ha visto una ragazza giovane al piano di sotto quando è entrato poco fa con suo figlio?” chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Sì. Vedo una giovane ragazza,” rispose brevemente il signor Weller.

“Che ne pensa ora di lei, onestamente? Signor Weller, che ne ha pensato?”

“Pensavo che fosse molto grassoccia e piuttosto brutta,” disse il signor Weller con un tono critico.

“Lo so che lo è,” disse il signor Pickwick, “lo so che lo è. Cosa ne pensi delle sue maniere, in base a ciò che hai visto di lei?”

“Molto piacevole,” riprese il signor Weller. “Molto piacevole e confortevole.”

Il significato preciso che il signor Weller attribuiva a questo ultimo aggettivo non risultò chiaro; tuttavia, poiché era evidente dal tono con cui lo utilizzava che si trattava di un’espressione positiva, il signor Pickwick ne fu altrettanto soddisfatto, come se fosse stato completamente illuminato sull’argomento.

“Mi interesso molto a lei, signor Weller,” disse il signor Pickwick.

Il signor Weller tossì.

“Voglio dire, un interesse affinché lei stia bene,” continuò il signor Pickwick; “un desiderio che possa vivere in modo confortevole e prospero. Capite?”

“Molto chiaramente,” rispose il signor Weller, che ancora non capiva nulla.

“Quella giovane persona,” disse il signor Pickwick, “è legata a vostro figlio.”

“Per Samivel Veller!”, esclamò il genitore.

“Sì,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“È naturale,” disse il signor Weller dopo averci pensato un po’, “naturale, ma piuttosto allarmante. Sammy deve stare attento.”

“Cosa intendi dire?”, chiese il signor Pickwick.

“Fai molta attenzione che non le dica nulla,” rispose il signor Weller.
“Stai molto attento che, in un momento ‘innocente’, non gli venga in mente di dire qualcosa che possa portare a una condanna per violazione delle regole. Con loro non si è mai al sicuro, signor Pickwick. Anche se ora non hanno intenzioni negative nei tuoi confronti, non si può mai essere certi; e mentre tu ci pensi ancora, loro già ti hanno in pugno. Io stesso mi sono sposato per questo motivo, signore. E Sammy ne è stato la conseguenza.”

“Non mi date certo grandi motivi per continuare ciò che devo dire,” osservò il signor Pickwick, “ma è meglio che lo faccia subito. Questa giovane donna non è solo legata a vostro figlio, signor Weller, ma anche vostro figlio è legato a lei.”

“Beh,” disse il signor Weller, “che cosa piuttosto strana da sentire alle orecchie di un padre, ”

“Li ho osservati in diverse occasioni,” disse il signor Pickwick, senza fare alcun commento riguardo all’ultima osservazione del signor Weller; “e non ho affatto dubbi al riguardo. Supponendo che desiderassi aiutarli a stabilirsi in modo confortevole come marito e moglie, in qualche attività o situazione che potesse permetter loro di ottenere un reddito decente, cosa ne penserebbe, signor Weller?”

All’inizio, il signor Weller accolse con espressioni ironiche qualsiasi proposta che riguardasse il matrimonio di qualcuno che gli stesse a cuore; ma man mano che il signor Pickwick gli spiegava i motivi della sua richiesta, sottolineando in particolare il fatto che Mary non fosse vedova, lui divenne gradualmente più disponibile. Il signor Pickwick esercitava su di lui una grande influenza, e inoltre era molto colpito dall’aspetto di Mary; anzi, le aveva già fatto diversi gesti piuttosto inappropriati. Alla fine, il signor Weller dichiarò che non avrebbe mai opposto resistenza alle intenzioni del signor Pickwick e che sarebbe stato felice di seguire i suoi consigli; su questo, il signor Pickwick, molto soddisfatto, accettò la sua promessa e chiamò Sam di nuovo nella stanza.

“Sam,” disse il signor Pickwick schiarendosi la voce, “tuo padre ed io abbiamo avuto una conversazione su di te.”

“Riguardo a te, Samivel,” disse il signor Weller con voce condiscendente e imponente.

“Non sono così cieco, Sam, da non aver notato, da molto tempo ormai, che provi qualcosa di più di un semplice sentimento amichevole per la cameriera della signora Winkle,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Lo senti questo, Samivel?”, disse il signor Weller, usando lo stesso tono solenne e autoritario di prima.

“Spero, signore,” disse Sam rivolgendosi al suo padrone, “spero che non ci sia nulla di male nel fatto che un giovane presti attenzione a una ragazza indubbiamente attraente e ben educata.”

“Certamente no,” disse il signor Pickwick.

“Assolutamente no,” acconsentì il signor Weller, in tono amichevole ma autoritario.

“Lontano dall’considerare che ci sia qualcosa di sbagliato in un comportamento così naturale,” continuò il signor Pickwick, “è mio desiderio aiutare e promuovere i vostri desideri in questo senso. Per questo motivo, ho avuto una breve conversazione con vostro padre; e scoprendo che la sua opinione è identica alla mia, ”

‘The lady not bein’ a widder,’ interposed Mr. Weller in explanation.

‘The lady not being a widow,’ said Mr. Pickwick, smiling. ‘I wish to free you from the restraint which your present position imposes upon you, and to mark my sense of your fidelity and many excellent qualities, by enabling you to marry this girl at once, and to earn an independent livelihood for yourself and family. I shall be proud, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, whose voice had faltered a little hitherto, but now resumed its customary tone, ‘proud and happy to make your future prospects in life my grateful and peculiar care.’

There was a profound silence for a short time, and then Sam said, in a low, husky sort of voice, but firmly withal—

‘I’m very much obliged to you for your goodness, Sir, as is only like yourself; but it can’t be done.’

‘Can’t be done!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick in astonishment.

‘Samivel!’ said Mr. Weller, with dignity.

‘I say it can’t be done,’ repeated Sam in a louder key. ‘Wot’s to become of you, Sir?’

‘My good fellow,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘the recent changes among my friends will alter my mode of life in future, entirely; besides, I am growing older, and want repose and quiet. My rambles, Sam, are over.’

‘How do I know that ‘ere, sir?’ argued Sam. ‘You think so now! S’pose you wos to change your mind, vich is not unlikely, for you’ve the spirit o’ five-and-twenty in you still, what ‘ud become on you vithout me? It can’t be done, Sir, it can’t be done.’

‘Wery good, Samivel, there’s a good deal in that,’ said Mr. Weller encouragingly.

‘I speak after long deliberation, Sam, and with the certainty that I shall keep my word,’ said Mr. Pickwick, shaking his head. ‘New scenes have closed upon me; my rambles are at an end.’

‘Wery good,’ rejoined Sam. ‘Then, that’s the wery best reason wy you should alvays have somebody by you as understands you, to keep you up and make you comfortable. If you vant a more polished sort o’ feller, vell and good, have him; but vages or no vages, notice or no notice, board or no board, lodgin’ or no lodgin’, Sam Veller, as you took from the old inn in the Borough, sticks by you, come what may; and let ev’rythin’ and ev’rybody do their wery fiercest, nothin’ shall ever perwent it!’

At the close of this declaration, which Sam made with great emotion, the elder Mr. Weller rose from his chair, and, forgetting all considerations of time, place, or propriety, waved his hat above his head, and gave three vehement cheers.

‘My good fellow,’ said Mr. Pickwick, when Mr. Weller had sat down again, rather abashed at his own enthusiasm, ‘you are bound to consider the young woman also.’

‘I do consider the young ‘ooman, Sir,’ said Sam. ‘I have considered the young ‘ooman. I’ve spoke to her. I’ve told her how I’m sitivated; she’s ready to vait till I’m ready, and I believe she vill. If she don’t, she’s not the young ‘ooman I take her for, and I give her up vith readiness. You’ve know’d me afore, Sir. My mind’s made up, and nothin’ can ever alter it.’

Who could combat this resolution? Not Mr. Pickwick. He derived, at that moment, more pride and luxury of feeling from the disinterested attachment of his humble friends, than ten thousand protestations from the greatest men living could have awakened in his heart.

While this conversation was passing in Mr. Pickwick’s room, a little old gentleman in a suit of snuff-coloured clothes, followed by a porter carrying a small portmanteau, presented himself below; and, after securing a bed for the night, inquired of the waiter whether one Mrs. Winkle was staying there, to which question the waiter of course responded in the affirmative.

‘Is she alone?’ inquired the old gentleman.

‘I believe she is, Sir,’ replied the waiter; ‘I can call her own maid, Sir, if you—’

‘No, I don’t want her,’ said the old gentleman quickly. ‘Show me to her room without announcing me.’

‘Eh, Sir?’ said the waiter.

‘Are you deaf?’ inquired the little old gentleman.

‘No, sir.’

‘Then listen, if you please. Can you hear me now?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘That’s well. Show me to Mrs. Winkle’s room, without announcing me.’

As the little old gentleman uttered this command, he slipped five shillings into the waiter’s hand, and looked steadily at him.

‘Really, sir,’ said the waiter, ‘I don’t know, sir, whether—’

‘Ah! you’ll do it, I see,’ said the little old gentleman. ‘You had better do it at once. It will save time.’

There was something so very cool and collected in the gentleman’s manner, that the waiter put the five shillings in his pocket, and led him upstairs without another word.

‘This is the room, is it?’ said the gentleman. ‘You may go.’

The waiter complied, wondering much who the gentleman could be, and what he wanted; the little old gentleman, waiting till he was out of sight, tapped at the door.

‘Come in,’ said Arabella.

‘Um, a pretty voice, at any rate,’ murmured the little old gentleman; ‘but that’s nothing.’ As he said this, he opened the door and walked in. Arabella, who was sitting at work, rose on beholding a stranger—a little confused—but by no means ungracefully so.

‘Pray don’t rise, ma’am,’ said the unknown, walking in, and closing the door after him. ‘Mrs. Winkle, I believe?’

Arabella inclined her head.

‘Mrs. Nathaniel Winkle, who married the son of the old man at Birmingham?’ said the stranger, eyeing Arabella with visible curiosity.

Again Arabella inclined her head, and looked uneasily round, as if uncertain whether to call for assistance.

‘I surprise you, I see, ma’am,’ said the old gentleman.

‘Rather, I confess,’ replied Arabella, wondering more and more.

‘I’ll take a chair, if you’ll allow me, ma’am,’ said the stranger.

He took one; and drawing a spectacle-case from his pocket, leisurely pulled out a pair of spectacles, which he adjusted on his nose.

‘You don’t know me, ma’am?’ he said, looking so intently at Arabella that she began to feel alarmed.

“Poiché la signora non era vedova,” intervenne il signor Weller per spiegare.

“Poiché questa signora non è vedova,” disse il signor Pickwick sorridendo, “desidero liberarvi dalle restrizioni che la vostra attuale situazione vi impone, e dimostrare quanto apprezzi la vostra fedeltà e le vostre molte eccellenti qualità, permettendovi di sposare immediatamente questa ragazza e di guadagnare da vivere in modo indipendente per voi e per la vostra famiglia. Sarò orgoglioso, Sam,” continuò il signor Pickwick, la cui voce aveva un po’ tremolato fino ad allora, ma che ora riprese il suo tono abituale, “orgoglioso e felice di poter prendere cura del vostro futuro con particolare attenzione.”

Regnò un profondo silenzio per un breve momento, poi Sam disse, con una voce bassa e roca, ma comunque decisa.

“Sono davvero molto grato per la vostra gentilezza, signore, come è tipico di voi; ma non è possibile.”

“Impossibile!” esclamò il signor Pickwick, sbalordito.

“Samivel!”, disse il signor Weller con dignità.

“Dico che non è possibile farlo”, ripeté Sam a voce più alta. “Cosa ne sarà di voi, signore?”

“Mio caro amico,” rispose il signor Pickwick, “i recenti cambiamenti tra i miei amici cambieranno completamente il mio modo di vivere in futuro; inoltre, sto invecchiando e desidero riposo e tranquillità. Le mie escursioni, Sam, sono finite.”

“Come posso saperlo, ‘vero, signore?’ obiettò Sam. ‘Ora lo pensate così! Ma se cambiaste idea, il che non è affatto improbabile, visto che in voi c’è ancora lo spirito di un ventisettenne. Cosa diventereste senza di me? Non può succedere, signore, proprio non può.’”

“Molto bene, Samivel, c’è davvero del valore in quello che hai detto,” disse il signor Weller incoraggiandolo.

“Parlo dopo lunga riflessione, Sam, e con la certezza di mantenere la mia parola,” disse il signor Pickwick scuotendo la testa. “Nuove situazioni si sono presentate davanti a me; i miei vagabondaggi sono finiti.”

“Molto bene,” ribatté Sam. “Allora, questo è proprio il miglior motivo per cui dovresti sempre avere qualcuno al tuo fianco che ti capisca, che ti aiuti a rimanere sveglio e ti faccia sentire a tuo agio. Se vuoi un tipo più raffinato, benissimo, fallo pure; ma che ci siano o meno problemi, che tu lo voglia o no, con vitto o senza vitto, con alloggio o senza alloggio. Sam Veller, proprio come quello che hai preso dall’antica locanda nel Borough, sarà sempre al tuo fianco, qualunque cosa accada; e lascia che tutti e tutto facciano del loro peggio, niente riuscirà mai a separarci!”

Al termine di questa dichiarazione, pronunciata da Sam con grande emozione, il più anziano signor Weller si alzò dalla sedia e, dimenticando completamente ogni considerazione riguardante il tempo, il luogo o le convenzioni sociali, agitò il cappello sopra la testa e lanciò tre grida entusiastiche.

“Mio caro amico,” disse il signor Pickwick quando il signor Weller si fu nuovamente seduto, piuttosto imbarazzato per la propria entusiasmo, “dovete sicuramente prendere in considerazione anche quella giovane donna.”

“Considero davvero quella giovane donna, signore,” disse Sam. “L’ho presa in considerazione, ho parlato con lei. Le ho spiegato la mia situazione; è disposta ad aspettare che io sia pronto, e credo che lo farà davvero. Se non lo facesse, allora non sarebbe la giovane donna che penso sia. E in tal caso, la lascerei immediatamente. Mi conosce già, signore. Ho preso una decisione, e nulla potrà mai cambiarla.”

Chi avrebbe potuto opporsi a questa decisione? Certamente non il signor Pickwick. In quel momento, egli provava un senso di orgoglio e soddisfazione ancora maggiore grazie all’affetto disinteressato dei suoi umili amici, di quanto diecimila dichiarazioni da parte delle persone più importanti del mondo avrebbero potuto suscitare nel suo cuore.

Mentre questa conversazione aveva luogo nella stanza del signor Pickwick, un piccolo vecchio gentiluomo vestito con abiti di colore tabacco, seguito da un cameriere che portava una piccola valigetta, si presentò al piano di sotto; dopo essersi assicurato una camera per la notte, chiese al cameriere se vi soggiornasse una certa signora Winkle, a cui il cameriere rispose naturalmente affermativamente.

“È sola?” chiese il vecchio signore.

“Credo di sì, signore,” rispose il cameriere; “Posso chiamarla la sua domestica, se desiderate, ”

“No, non la voglio,” disse rapidamente il vecchio signore. “Portami nella sua stanza senza annunciarmi.”

“Ehm, signore?” disse il cameriere.

“Sei sordo?” chiese il piccolo vecchio gentiluomo.

“No, signore.”

“Ascolta attentamente, per favore. Riesci a sentirmi ora?”

“Sì, signore.”

“Bene. Portami nella stanza della signora Winkle, senza annunciarmi.”

Non appena il piccolo vecchio signore pronunciò questo ordine, infilò cinque scellini nella mano del cameriere e lo fissò con sguardo deciso.

“Davvero, signore,” disse il cameriere, “non so proprio, signore, se, ”

“Ah! Vedi che ce la farai,” disse il piccolo vecchio gentiluomo. “Farlo subito sarebbe meglio. Risparmierà tempo.”

C’era qualcosa di davvero affascinante e dignitoso nel modo di comportarsi di quell’uomo che fece sì che il cameriere mettesse i cinque scellini nella sua tasca e lo accompagnasse al piano di sopra senza dire una parola in più.

“Questa è la stanza, giusto?”, disse il gentiluomo. “Puoi andare.”

Il cameriere obbedì, chiedendosi chi potesse essere quel signore e cosa volesse; il piccolo vecchio gentiluomo, aspettando che lui non fosse più in vista, bussò alla porta.

“Entra pure,” disse Arabella.

“Uhm, una voce piuttosto bella, comunque,” mormorò il piccolo vecchio gentiluomo; “ma questo non è niente.” Mentre lo diceva, aprì la porta ed entrò. Arabella, che stava lavorando, si alzò in piedi alla vista di uno sconosciuto, un po’ confusa, ma assolutamente non in modo sgraziato.

“Per favore, non si alzi, signora,” disse l’uomo sconosciuto entrando e chiudendo la porta dietro di sé. “Lei è la signora Winkle, giusto?”

Arabella inclinò la testa.

“La signora Nathaniel Winkle, che ha sposato il figlio di quell’uomo anziano a Birmingham?” chiese lo sconosciuto, guardando Arabella con evidente curiosità.

Ancora una volta Arabella inclinò la testa e guardò intorno con inquietudine, come se non fosse sicura di dover chiamare aiuto.

“Vedo che vi sorprendo, signora,” disse il vecchio gentiluomo.

“Anzi, devo ammetterlo,” rispose Arabella, chiedendosi sempre di più.

“Prenderò una sedia, se mi permettete, signora,” disse lo sconosciuto.

Ne prese uno; poi, tirando fuori dalla tasca una custodia da occhiali, ne estrasse con calma un paio e se li sistemò sul naso.

“Non mi conosce, signora?” disse, guardando Arabella con tale intensità che lei iniziò a sentirsi allarmata.

‘No, sir,’ she replied timidly.

‘No,’ said the gentleman, nursing his left leg; ‘I don’t know how you should. You know my name, though, ma’am.’

‘Do I?’ said Arabella, trembling, though she scarcely knew why. ‘May I ask what it is?’

‘Presently, ma’am, presently,’ said the stranger, not having yet removed his eyes from her countenance. ‘You have been recently married, ma’am?’

‘I have,’ replied Arabella, in a scarcely audible tone, laying aside her work, and becoming greatly agitated as a thought, that had occurred to her before, struck more forcibly upon her mind.

‘Without having represented to your husband the propriety of first consulting his father, on whom he is dependent, I think?’ said the stranger.

Arabella applied her handkerchief to her eyes.

‘Without an endeavour, even, to ascertain, by some indirect appeal, what were the old man’s sentiments on a point in which he would naturally feel much interested?’ said the stranger.

‘I cannot deny it, Sir,’ said Arabella.

‘And without having sufficient property of your own to afford your husband any permanent assistance in exchange for the worldly advantages which you knew he would have gained if he had married agreeably to his father’s wishes?’ said the old gentleman. ‘This is what boys and girls call disinterested affection, till they have boys and girls of their own, and then they see it in a rougher and very different light!’

Arabella’s tears flowed fast, as she pleaded in extenuation that she was young and inexperienced; that her attachment had alone induced her to take the step to which she had resorted; and that she had been deprived of the counsel and guidance of her parents almost from infancy.

‘It was wrong,’ said the old gentleman in a milder tone, ‘very wrong. It was romantic, unbusinesslike, foolish.’

‘It was my fault; all my fault, Sir,’ replied poor Arabella, weeping.

‘Nonsense,’ said the old gentleman; ‘it was not your fault that he fell in love with you, I suppose? Yes it was, though,’ said the old gentleman, looking rather slily at Arabella. ‘It was your fault. He couldn’t help it.’

This little compliment, or the little gentleman’s odd way of paying it, or his altered manner—so much kinder than it was, at first—or all three together, forced a smile from Arabella in the midst of her tears.

‘Where’s your husband?’ inquired the old gentleman, abruptly; stopping a smile which was just coming over his own face.

‘I expect him every instant, sir,’ said Arabella. ‘I persuaded him to take a walk this morning. He is very low and wretched at not having heard from his father.’

‘Low, is he?’ said the old gentlemen. ‘Serve him right!’

‘He feels it on my account, I am afraid,’ said Arabella; ‘and indeed, Sir, I feel it deeply on his. I have been the sole means of bringing him to his present condition.’

‘Don’t mind it on his account, my dear,’ said the old gentleman. ‘It serves him right. I am glad of it—actually glad of it, as far as he is concerned.’

The words were scarcely out of the old gentleman’s lips, when footsteps were heard ascending the stairs, which he and Arabella seemed both to recognise at the same moment. The little gentleman turned pale; and, making a strong effort to appear composed, stood up, as Mr. Winkle entered the room.

‘Father!’ cried Mr. Winkle, recoiling in amazement.

‘Yes, sir,’ replied the little old gentleman. ‘Well, Sir, what have you got to say to me?’

Mr. Winkle remained silent.

‘You are ashamed of yourself, I hope, Sir?’ said the old gentleman.

Still Mr. Winkle said nothing.

‘Are you ashamed of yourself, Sir, or are you not?’ inquired the old gentleman.

‘No, Sir,’ replied Mr. Winkle, drawing Arabella’s arm through his. ‘I am not ashamed of myself, or of my wife either.’

‘Upon my word!’ cried the old gentleman ironically.

‘I am very sorry to have done anything which has lessened your affection for me, Sir,’ said Mr. Winkle; ‘but I will say, at the same time, that I have no reason to be ashamed of having this lady for my wife, nor you of having her for a daughter.’

‘Give me your hand, Nat,’ said the old gentleman, in an altered voice. ‘Kiss me, my love. You are a very charming little daughter-in-law after all!’

In a few minutes’ time Mr. Winkle went in search of Mr. Pickwick, and returning with that gentleman, presented him to his father, whereupon they shook hands for five minutes incessantly.

‘Mr. Pickwick, I thank you most heartily for all your kindness to my son,’ said old Mr. Winkle, in a bluff, straightforward way. ‘I am a hasty fellow, and when I saw you last, I was vexed and taken by surprise. I have judged for myself now, and am more than satisfied. Shall I make any more apologies, Mr. Pickwick?’

‘Not one,’ replied that gentleman. ‘You have done the only thing wanting to complete my happiness.’

Hereupon there was another shaking of hands for five minutes longer, accompanied by a great number of complimentary speeches, which, besides being complimentary, had the additional and very novel recommendation of being sincere.

Sam had dutifully seen his father to the Belle Sauvage, when, on returning, he encountered the fat boy in the court, who had been charged with the delivery of a note from Emily Wardle.

‘I say,’ said Joe, who was unusually loquacious, ‘what a pretty girl Mary is, isn’t she? I am so fond of her, I am!’

Mr. Weller made no verbal remark in reply; but eyeing the fat boy for a moment, quite transfixed at his presumption, led him by the collar to the corner, and dismissed him with a harmless but ceremonious kick. After which, he walked home, whistling.

CHAPTER LVII. IN WHICH THE PICKWICK CLUB IS FINALLY DISSOLVED, AND EVERYTHING CONCLUDED TO THE SATISFACTION OF EVERYBODY

For a whole week after the happy arrival of Mr. Winkle from Birmingham, Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller were from home all day long, only returning just in time for dinner, and then wearing an air of mystery and importance quite foreign to their natures. It was evident that very grave and eventful proceedings were on foot; but various surmises were afloat, respecting their precise character. Some (among whom was Mr. Tupman) were disposed to think that Mr. Pickwick contemplated a matrimonial alliance; but this idea the ladies most strenuously repudiated. Others rather inclined to the belief that he had projected some distant tour, and was at present occupied in effecting the preliminary arrangements; but this again was stoutly denied by Sam himself, who had unequivocally stated, when cross-examined by Mary, that no new journeys were to be undertaken. At length, when the brains of the whole party had been racked for six long days, by unavailing speculation, it was unanimously resolved that Mr. Pickwick should be called upon to explain his conduct, and to state distinctly why he had thus absented himself from the society of his admiring friends.

“No, signore,” rispose lei timidamente.

“No,” disse il gentiluomo, tenendosi la gamba sinistra; “non so proprio come potreste farlo. Comunque, conoscete il mio nome, signora.”

“Devo davvero farlo?”, disse Arabella, tremando, anche se quasi non sapeva il motivo. “Posso chiedere di cosa si tratta?”

“Subito, signora, subito,” disse lo sconosciuto, senza ancora distogliere lo sguardo dal suo volto. “Siete stata sposata di recente, vero, signora?”

“Sì,” rispose Arabella con un tono appena percettibile, mettendo da parte il suo lavoro e diventando molto agitata: un pensiero che le era già venuto in mente prima la colpiva ora ancora più forte.

“Senza aver spiegato a vostro marito l’importanza di consultare prima suo padre, da cui dipende, non è così?” disse lo sconosciuto.

Arabella si premette il fazzoletto sugli occhi.

“Senza nemmeno il tentativo di scoprire, attraverso qualche approccio indiretto, quali fossero i sentimenti dell’uomo anziano su una questione che naturalmente lo avrebbe molto interessato”, disse lo sconosciuto.

“Non posso negarlo, signore,” disse Arabella.

“E senza possedere proprietà sufficienti per poter fornire al proprio marito un aiuto permanente, in cambio dei vantaggi materiali che sapevi avrebbe ottenuto se si fosse sposato secondo i desideri di suo padre?” disse il vecchio signore. “Questo è ciò che ragazzi e ragazze chiamano affetto disinteressato, finché non hanno loro stessi figli, e allora lo vedono in modo molto diverso!”

Le lacrime di Arabella scorrevano copiose mentre si scusava sostenendo di essere giovane e inesperta; che fosse stata soltanto la sua devozione a spingerla a compiere quell’atto; e che le fossero stati negati il consiglio e la guida dei suoi genitori fin quasi dall’infanzia.

“Era sbagliato,” disse il vecchio signore con tono più dolce, “molto sbagliato. Era romantico, poco pratico, sciocco.”

“È stata tutta colpa mia; tutta colpa mia, signore,” rispose la povera Arabella, piangendo.

“Sciocchezze,” disse il vecchio signore; “non è stata colpa tua se si è innamorato di te, suppongo. No, in realtà sì,” aggiunse, guardando Arabella con un’aria piuttosto maliziosa. “È stata colpa tua. Lui non poteva farci nulla.”

Questo piccolo complimento, o il modo strano con cui quel gentiluomo lo esprimeva, o il suo comportamento cambiato – molto più gentile di quanto fosse all’inizio – o tutti e tre insieme, fecero sì che Arabella sorridesse nonostante le sue lacrime.

“Dove è suo marito?”, chiese all’improvviso il vecchio signore, trattenendo un sorriso che stava appena per apparire sul suo viso.

“Lo aspetto da un momento all’altro, signore,” disse Arabella. “L’ho convinto ad uscire a fare una passeggiata stamattina. È molto depresso e angosciato per non aver ricevuto notizie dal padre.”

“È davvero basso, vero? Che gli vada bene così!” dissero i vecchi signori.

“Temo che lui lo stia provando a causa mia,” disse Arabella; “e in effetti, signore, io lo provo profondamente a causa sua. Sono stata l’unica causa del suo attuale stato.”

“Non badare a causa sua, mia cara,” disse il vecchio signore. “Se lo merita. Ne sono felice, davvero felice, per quanto riguarda lui.”

Non appena quelle parole uscirono dalle labbra del vecchio signore, si sentirono dei passi salire le scale; sia lui che Arabella sembrarono riconoscerli nello stesso istante. Il piccolo signore impallidì e, facendo uno sforzo per apparire calmo, si alzò in piedi quando il signor Winkle entrò nella stanza.

“Padre!”, gridò il signor Winkle, indietreggiando per lo stupore.

“Sì, signore,” rispose il piccolo vecchio gentiluomo. “Bene, signore, cosa ha da dirmi?”

Il signor Winkle rimase in silenzio.

“Si vergogna di se stesso, spero, signore?”, disse il vecchio gentiluomo.

Tuttavia, il signor Winkle non disse nulla.

“Vi vergognate di voi stesso, signore, o no?”, chiese il vecchio gentiluomo.

“No, signore,” rispose il signor Winkle, prendendo il braccio di Arabella e infilandolo nel proprio. “Non mi vergogno di me stesso, né di mia moglie.”

“Per la mia parola!”, esclamò l’anziano signore in tono ironico.

“Mi dispiace molto di aver fatto qualcosa che possa aver diminuito il vostro affetto per me, signore,” disse il signor Winkle; “ma devo anche dire che non ho alcun motivo di vergognarmi di avere questa signora come moglie, né voi di averla come figlia.”

“Dammi la tua mano, Nat,” disse il vecchio signore con voce diversa.
“Baciami, mia amata. Alla fine, sei davvero una nuora molto affascinante!”

In pochi minuti, il signor Winkle andò a cercare il signor Pickwick e, tornando con lui, lo presentò a suo padre; dopodiché si strinsero la mano per ben cinque minuti senza sosta.

“Signor Pickwick, le ringrazio di cuore per tutta la sua gentilezza verso mio figlio,” disse il vecchio signor Winkle in modo schietto e diretto. “Sono una persona impulsiva, e quando vi ho visto l’ultima volta ero infastidito e sorpreso. Ora ho riflettuto e sono più che soddisfatto. Devo scusarmi ancora, signor Pickwick?”

“Nessuno,” rispose quel gentiluomo. “Avete fatto l’unica cosa necessaria per completare la mia felicità.”

A questo punto ci fu un altro scambio di strette di mano che durò altri cinque minuti, accompagnato da un gran numero di discorsi lusinghieri; tali discorsi, oltre ad essere lusinghieri, presentavano anche il vantaggio aggiuntivo – e molto innovativo – di essere sinceri.

Sam aveva accompagnato suo padre alla Belle Sauvage per compiere il proprio dovere; al ritorno, incontrò nel cortile quel ragazzo grasso incaricato di consegnare un biglietto da parte di Emily Wardle.

“Dico,” disse Joe, che quel giorno era insolitamente loquace, “che ragazza carina è Mary, non trovi? Mi piace davvero molto, sai?”

Il signor Weller non fece alcun commento verbale in risposta; ma dopo aver fissato per un momento quel ragazzo grassoccio, completamente sbalordito dalla sua presunzione, lo prese per il colletto e lo portò in un angolo, poi lo congedò con un calcio innocuo ma cerimonioso. Dopo di ciò, se ne andò a casa fischiando.

CAPITOLO LVII. IN CUI IL CLUB Pickwick VIENE FINALMENTE SCiolto E TUTTO CONCLUDE A PIACERE DI TUTTI

Per tutta una settimana, dopo l’arrivo felice del signor Winkle da Birmingham, il signor Pickwick e Sam Weller trascorsero l’intera giornata in casa, tornando soltanto in tempo per la cena. Avevano un’aria di mistero e importanza del tutto insolita per loro; era evidente che si stavano svolgendo eventi molto seri e significativi. Ma circolavano varie congetture riguardo al loro esatto contenuto. Alcuni, tra cui il signor Tupman, pensavano che il signor Pickwick stesse prendendo in considerazione l’idea di un matrimonio; ma quest’ipotesi fu fermamente respinta dalle signore. Altri ritenevano invece che avesse pianificato un viaggio lontano e che al momento fosse impegnato a organizzare i preparativi necessari. Ma anche questa ipotesi fu categoricamente negata da Sam stesso, il quale aveva dichiarato con chiarezza, durante un’interrogazione di Mary, che non erano previsti nuovi viaggi. Alla fine, dopo sei giorni interi trascorsi in vane speculazioni, tutti decisero unanimemente di chiedere al signor Pickwick di spiegare il proprio comportamento e di chiarire esattamente perché si fosse allontanato così a lungo dalla compagnia dei suoi amici.

With this view, Mr. Wardle invited the full circle to dinner at the Adelphi; and the decanters having been thrice sent round, opened the business.

‘We are all anxious to know,’ said the old gentleman, ‘what we have done to offend you, and to induce you to desert us and devote yourself to these solitary walks.’

‘Are you?’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘It is singular enough that I had intended to volunteer a full explanation this very day; so, if you will give me another glass of wine, I will satisfy your curiosity.’

The decanters passed from hand to hand with unwonted briskness, and Mr. Pickwick, looking round on the faces of his friends with a cheerful smile, proceeded—

‘All the changes that have taken place among us,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I mean the marriage that _has _taken place, and the marriage that WILL take place, with the changes they involve, rendered it necessary for me to think, soberly and at once, upon my future plans. I determined on retiring to some quiet, pretty neighbourhood in the vicinity of London; I saw a house which exactly suited my fancy; I have taken it and furnished it. It is fully prepared for my reception, and I intend entering upon it at once, trusting that I may yet live to spend many quiet years in peaceful retirement, cheered through life by the society of my friends, and followed in death by their affectionate remembrance.’

Here Mr. Pickwick paused, and a low murmur ran round the table.

‘The house I have taken,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘is at Dulwich. It has a large garden, and is situated in one of the most pleasant spots near London. It has been fitted up with every attention to substantial comfort; perhaps to a little elegance besides; but of that you shall judge for yourselves. Sam accompanies me there. I have engaged, on Perker’s representation, a housekeeper—a very old one—and such other servants as she thinks I shall require. I propose to consecrate this little retreat, by having a ceremony in which I take a great interest, performed there. I wish, if my friend Wardle entertains no objection, that his daughter should be married from my new house, on the day I take possession of it. The happiness of young people,’ said Mr. Pickwick, a little moved, ‘has ever been the chief pleasure of my life. It will warm my heart to witness the happiness of those friends who are dearest to me, beneath my own roof.’

Mr. Pickwick paused again: Emily and Arabella sobbed audibly.

‘I have communicated, both personally and by letter, with the club,’ resumed Mr. Pickwick, ‘acquainting them with my intention. During our long absence, it has suffered much from internal dissentions; and the withdrawal of my name, coupled with this and other circumstances, has occasioned its dissolution. The Pickwick Club exists no longer.

‘I shall never regret,’ said Mr. Pickwick in a low voice, ‘I shall never regret having devoted the greater part of two years to mixing with different varieties and shades of human character, frivolous as my pursuit of novelty may have appeared to many. Nearly the whole of my previous life having been devoted to business and the pursuit of wealth, numerous scenes of which I had no previous conception have dawned upon me—I hope to the enlargement of my mind, and the improvement of my understanding. If I have done but little good, I trust I have done less harm, and that none of my adventures will be other than a source of amusing and pleasant recollection to me in the decline of life. God bless you all!’

With these words, Mr. Pickwick filled and drained a bumper with a trembling hand; and his eyes moistened as his friends rose with one accord, and pledged him from their hearts.

There were few preparatory arrangements to be made for the marriage of Mr. Snodgrass. As he had neither father nor mother, and had been in his minority a ward of Mr. Pickwick’s, that gentleman was perfectly well acquainted with his possessions and prospects. His account of both was quite satisfactory to Wardle—as almost any other account would have been, for the good old gentleman was overflowing with hilarity and kindness—and a handsome portion having been bestowed upon Emily, the marriage was fixed to take place on the fourth day from that time—the suddenness of which preparations reduced three dressmakers and a tailor to the extreme verge of insanity.

Getting post-horses to the carriage, old Wardle started off, next day, to bring his mother back to town. Communicating his intelligence to the old lady with characteristic impetuosity, she instantly fainted away; but being promptly revived, ordered the brocaded silk gown to be packed up forthwith, and proceeded to relate some circumstances of a similar nature attending the marriage of the eldest daughter of Lady Tollimglower, deceased, which occupied three hours in the recital, and were not half finished at last.

Mrs. Trundle had to be informed of all the mighty preparations that were making in London; and, being in a delicate state of health, was informed thereof through Mr. Trundle, lest the news should be too much for her; but it was not too much for her, inasmuch as she at once wrote off to Muggleton, to order a new cap and a black satin gown, and moreover avowed her determination of being present at the ceremony. Hereupon, Mr. Trundle called in the doctor, and the doctor said Mrs. Trundle ought to know best how she felt herself, to which Mrs. Trundle replied that she felt herself quite equal to it, and that she had made up her mind to go; upon which the doctor, who was a wise and discreet doctor, and knew what was good for himself, as well as for other people, said that perhaps if Mrs. Trundle stopped at home, she might hurt herself more by fretting, than by going, so perhaps she had better go. And she did go; the doctor with great attention sending in half a dozen of medicine, to be drunk upon the road.

Con questo spirito, il signor Wardle invitò l’intero gruppo a cena all’Adelphi; e dopo che i bicchieri furono passati tre volte in giro, iniziarono a discutere dell’argomento in questione.

“Siamo tutti ansiosi di sapere,” disse il vecchio signore, “cosa abbiamo fatto per offendervi e spingervi a abbandonarci e dedicarvi a queste solitarie passeggiate.”

“Davvero?” disse il signor Pickwick. “È davvero strano che avessi intenzione di fornire una spiegazione completa proprio oggi; quindi, se mi date un altro bicchiere di vino, soddisferò la vostra curiosità.”

I decanter passavano di mano in mano con una vivacità insolita, e il signor Pickwick, guardando intorno i volti dei suoi amici con un sorriso allegro, continuò.

“Tutti i cambiamenti che si sono verificati tra di noi,” disse il signor Pickwick, “intendo dire il matrimonio che è già avvenuto e quello che avverrà in futuro, con tutti i cambiamenti che comportano, hanno reso necessario che io riflettessi seriamente e immediatamente sui miei futuri piani. Ho deciso di trasferirmi in un quartiere tranquillo e piacevole nei dintorni di Londra; ho trovato una casa che soddisfaceva esattamente i miei desideri; l’ho acquistata e arredata. È completamente pronta per il mio arrivo, e intendo stabilirmici immediatamente, nella speranza di poter trascorrere molti anni tranquilli in ritiro, circondato dall’affetto dei miei amici e ricordato con affetto anche dopo la mia morte.”

A questo punto il signor Pickwick fece una pausa, e un sommesso mormorio si diffuse intorno al tavolo.

“La casa che ho preso,” disse il signor Pickwick, “si trova a Dulwich. Ha un grande giardino ed è situata in uno dei luoghi più piacevoli vicino a Londra. È stata arredata con ogni cura per garantire il massimo comfort; forse anche una certa eleganza, ma di questo potrete giudicare da soli. Sam mi accompagna lì. Su raccomandazione di Perker, ho assunto una governante – molto anziana – e altri domestici che lei ritiene possano essermi necessari. Intendo dedicare questo piccolo rifugio organizzando una cerimonia a cui tengo molto. Se il mio amico Wardle non ha obiezioni, vorrei che sua figlia si sposasse nella mia nuova casa proprio il giorno in cui vi prenderò possesso. La felicità dei giovani,” disse il signor Pickwick, un po’ commosso, “è sempre stata la principale gioia della mia vita. Mi riscalderà il cuore vedere la felicità di quegli amici che mi sono più cari sotto il mio stesso tetto.”

Il signor Pickwick fece di nuovo una pausa: Emily e Arabella singhiozzavano ad alta voce.

“Ho comunicato, sia personalmente che per iscritto, con il club,” continuò il signor Pickwick, “informandoli delle mie intenzioni. Durante la nostra lunga assenza, il club ha sofferto molto a causa di dissidi interni; e la mia decisione di ritirare il mio nome, unita ad altre circostanze, ha portato alla sua dissoluzione. Il Pickwick Club non esiste più.”

“Non mi pentirò mai,” disse il signor Pickwick a bassa voce, “non mi pentirò mai di aver dedicato la maggior parte di due anni ad osservare le diverse caratteristiche e sfumature del carattere umano, per quanto la mia ricerca della novità possa essere apparsa frivola ad alcuni. Poiché quasi tutta la mia vita precedente era stata dedicata agli affari e alla ricerca della ricchezza, molte situazioni di cui prima non avevo alcuna idea mi sono ora diventate chiare. Spero che tutto ciò abbia contribuito all’arricchimento della mia mente e al miglioramento della mia comprensione. Anche se forse non ho fatto molto di buono, spero comunque di non aver causato danni, e che tutte le mie avventure possano diventare per me fonte di ricordi divertenti e piacevoli nella vecchiaia. Che Dio vi benedica tutti!”

Con queste parole, il signor Pickwick riempì e svuotò un bicchiere con mano tremante; i suoi occhi si inumidirono mentre i suoi amici, all’unisono, gli fecero giuramento dal profondo del cuore.

C’erano poche preparazioni da fare per il matrimonio del signor Snodgrass. Poiché non aveva né padre né madre e, essendo minorenne, era stato affidato al signor Pickwick, quest’ultimo conosceva perfettamente i suoi beni e le sue prospettive future. La descrizione che il signor Pickwick ne diede fu del tutto soddisfacente per Wardle – come sarebbe stata del resto qualsiasi altra descrizione, poiché quel buon vecchio gentiluomo era davvero pieno di umorismo e gentilezza. Poiché una considerevole somma di denaro era stata destinata a Emily, il matrimonio fu fissato per il quarto giorno successivo; la rapidità con cui furono effettuate le preparazioni portò tre sartorie e un sarto sull’orlo della follia.

Dopo aver fatto preparare i cavalli per la carrozza, il vecchio Wardle partì il giorno seguente per riportare sua madre in città. Comunicando le novità alla vecchia signora con la solita impetuosità, lei svenne all’istante; ma ripresasi rapidamente, ordinò che l’abito di seta broccata venisse immediatamente imballato e iniziò a raccontare alcuni episodi simili accaduti durante il matrimonio della figlia maggiore di Lady Tollimglower, defunta. Il racconto durò tre ore intere, e alla fine non fu nemmeno terminato del tutto.

Fu necessario informare la signora Trundle di tutte le imponenti preparazioni in corso a Londra; essendo in uno stato di salute delicato, le vennero comunicate tramite il signor Trundle, per evitare che la notizia le causasse troppo stress; ma non fu affatto così: lei immediatamente scrisse a Muggleton per ordinare un nuovo cappello e un abito di seta nera, dichiarando inoltre la sua determinazione ad essere presente alla cerimonia. A questo punto, il signor Trundle chiamò il dottore, il quale disse che la signora Trundle avrebbe dovuto essere lei stessa a valutare come si sentiva; lei rispose di sentirsi completamente in grado di affrontare la situazione e di aver deciso comunque di partecipare. Il dottore, un uomo saggio e discreto che sapeva bene cosa fosse meglio per sé e per gli altri, suggerì che forse rimanendo a >casa, lei avrebbe potuto farsi più male a causa dell’ansia che dell’andare; quindi probabilmente era meglio che partisse. E così fece; il dottore, con grande premura, le fornì mezza dozzina di medicine da assumere lungo la strada.

In addition to these points of distraction, Wardle was intrusted with two small letters to two small young ladies who were to act as bridesmaids; upon the receipt of which, the two young ladies were driven to despair by having no ‘things’ ready for so important an occasion, and no time to make them in—a circumstance which appeared to afford the two worthy papas of the two small young ladies rather a feeling of satisfaction than otherwise. However, old frocks were trimmed, and new bonnets made, and the young ladies looked as well as could possibly have been expected of them. And as they cried at the subsequent ceremony in the proper places, and trembled at the right times, they acquitted themselves to the admiration of all beholders.

How the two poor relations ever reached London—whether they walked, or got behind coaches, or procured lifts in wagons, or carried each other by turns—is uncertain; but there they were, before Wardle; and the very first people that knocked at the door of Mr. Pickwick’s house, on the bridal morning, were the two poor relations, all smiles and shirt collar.

They were welcomed heartily though, for riches or poverty had no influence on Mr. Pickwick; the new servants were all alacrity and readiness; Sam was in a most unrivalled state of high spirits and excitement; Mary was glowing with beauty and smart ribands.

The bridegroom, who had been staying at the house for two or three days previous, sallied forth gallantly to Dulwich Church to meet the bride, attended by Mr. Pickwick, Ben Allen, Bob Sawyer, and Mr. Tupman; with Sam Weller outside, having at his button-hole a white favour, the gift of his lady-love, and clad in a new and gorgeous suit of livery invented for the occasion. They were met by the Wardles, and the Winkles, and the bride and bridesmaids, and the Trundles; and the ceremony having been performed, the coaches rattled back to Mr. Pickwick’s to breakfast, where little Mr. Perker already awaited them.

Here, all the light clouds of the more solemn part of the proceedings passed away; every face shone forth joyously; and nothing was to be heard but congratulations and commendations. Everything was so beautiful! The lawn in front, the garden behind, the miniature conservatory, the dining-room, the drawing-room, the bedrooms, the smoking-room, and, above all, the study, with its pictures and easy- chairs, and odd cabinets, and queer tables, and books out of number, with a large cheerful window opening upon a pleasant lawn and commanding a pretty landscape, dotted here and there with little houses almost hidden by the trees; and then the curtains, and the carpets, and the chairs, and the sofas! Everything was so beautiful, so compact, so neat, and in such exquisite taste, said everybody, that there really was no deciding what to admire most.

And in the midst of all this, stood Mr. Pickwick, his countenance lighted up with smiles, which the heart of no man, woman, or child, could resist: himself the happiest of the group: shaking hands, over and over again, with the same people, and when his own hands were not so employed, rubbing them with pleasure: turning round in a different direction at every fresh expression of gratification or curiosity, and inspiring everybody with his looks of gladness and delight.

Breakfast is announced. Mr. Pickwick leads the old lady (who has been very eloquent on the subject of Lady Tollimglower) to the top of a long table; Wardle takes the bottom; the friends arrange themselves on either side; Sam takes his station behind his master’s chair; the laughter and talking cease; Mr. Pickwick, having said grace, pauses for an instant and looks round him. As he does so, the tears roll down his cheeks, in the fullness of his joy.

Let us leave our old friend in one of those moments of unmixed happiness, of which, if we seek them, there are ever some, to cheer our transitory existence here. There are dark shadows on the earth, but its lights are stronger in the contrast. Some men, like bats or owls, have better eyes for the darkness than for the light. We, who have no such optical powers, are better pleased to take our last parting look at the visionary companions of many solitary hours, when the brief sunshine of the world is blazing full upon them.

It is the fate of most men who mingle with the world, and attain even the prime of life, to make many real friends, and lose them in the course of nature. It is the fate of all authors or chroniclers to create imaginary friends, and lose them in the course of art. Nor is this the full extent of their misfortunes; for they are required to furnish an account of them besides.

In compliance with this custom—unquestionably a bad one—we subjoin a few biographical words, in relation to the party at Mr. Pickwick’s assembled.

Mr. and Mrs. Winkle, being fully received into favour by the old gentleman, were shortly afterwards installed in a newly-built house, not half a mile from Mr. Pickwick’s. Mr. Winkle, being engaged in the city as agent or town correspondent of his father, exchanged his old costume for the ordinary dress of Englishmen, and presented all the external appearance of a civilised Christian ever afterwards.

Mr. and Mrs. Snodgrass settled at Dingley Dell, where they purchased and cultivated a small farm, more for occupation than profit. Mr. Snodgrass, being occasionally abstracted and melancholy, is to this day reputed a great poet among his friends and acquaintance, although we do not find that he has ever written anything to encourage the belief. There are many celebrated characters, literary, philosophical, and otherwise, who hold a high reputation on a similar tenure.

Mr. Tupman, when his friends married, and Mr. Pickwick settled, took lodgings at Richmond, where he has ever since resided. He walks constantly on the terrace during the summer months, with a youthful and jaunty air, which has rendered him the admiration of the numerous elderly ladies of single condition, who reside in the vicinity. He has never proposed again.

Oltre a questi elementi che distoglievano l’attenzione, a Wardle fu affidato l’incombenza di consegnare due piccole lettere a due giovani signorine che avrebbero dovuto fare da damigelle d’onore; al riceverle, le due ragazze caddero nel dispero perché non avevano nulla pronto per un’occasione così importante e non avevano nemmeno il tempo di preparare tutto. Una situazione che, in realtà, sembrò dare ai due rispettabili padri delle ragazze una certa soddisfazione. Comunque sia, vecchi abiti furono modificati e nuovi cappelli fatti; le giovani signorine apparvero quindi il più possibile a loro agio. E poiché durante la cerimonia piangevano nei momenti giusti e tremavano al momento opportuno, riuscirono ad attirare l’ammirazione di tutti i presenti.

Come quei due poveretti siano mai riusciti ad arrivare a Londra – se abbiano camminato, preso dei cocchi, trovato qualcuno che li portasse in carrozza, o si siano aiutati a vicenda – non è certo; ma eccoli lì, davanti a Wardle. Le prime persone ad bussare alla porta della casa di Pickwick la mattina del matrimonio furono proprio quei due poveretti, con i loro sorrisi e le cravatte bianche.

Tuttavia furono accolti con grande calore, perché né la ricchezza né la povertà influenzavano il signor Pickwick; i nuovi servitori erano tutti pronti e disponibili ad aiutare; Sam era nel massimo stato di allegria ed eccitazione; Mary brillava di bellezza e indossava nastri eleganti.

Lo sposo, che aveva soggiornato nella >casa per due o tre giorni prima, uscì con eleganza verso la chiesa di Dulwich per incontrare la sposa, accompagnato da Mr. Pickwick, Ben Allen, Bob Sawyer e Mr. Tupman; mentre Sam Weller aspettava fuori, con un fazzoletto bianco attaccato al bottone del colletto, regalo della sua amata, e indossando un abito nuovo e splendido appositamente confezionato per l’occasione. Li accolsero i Wardles, i Winkles, la sposa e le damigelle d’onore; dopo la cerimonia, le carrozze si diressero verso la casa di Mr. Pickwick per colazione, dove li aspettava già il piccolo Mr. Perker.

Qui, tutte le nuvole di luce legate alla parte più solenne della cerimonia svanirono; ogni volto brillava di gioia; non si udiva altro che congratulazioni e elogi. Tutto era così bello! Il prato davanti, il giardino dietro, il piccolo conservatorio, la sala da pranzo, il salotto, le camere da letto, la sala fumatori. E soprattutto lo studio, con i suoi dipinti, le poltrone comode, gli armadi strani, i tavoli bizzarri e un numero infinito di libri; inoltre, una grande finestra che si affacciava su un piacevole prato e offriva una vista incantevole su un paesaggio pittoresco, punteggiato qua e là da piccole case quasi nascoste tra gli alberi. E poi le tende, i tappeti, le sedie, i divani. Tutto era così bello, così ordinato, così curatissimo nel gusto. Che davvero non si sapeva cosa ammirare di più.

E in mezzo a tutto questo, c’era il signor Pickwick, il cui volto era illuminato da sorrisi che nessun uomo, donna o bambino avrebbe potuto resistere: lui stesso l’uomo più felice del gruppo; stringeva le mani, ancora e ancora, alle stesse persone, e quando le sue mani non erano impegnate in questo compito, se le strofinava con piacere; si girava nella direzione opposta ogni volta che appariva un’espressione di gratitudine o curiosità, e con il suo sguardo gioioso e felice ispirava tutti quanti intorno a lui.

È stato annunciato il breakfast. Il signor Pickwick conduce la vecchia signora (che si è espressa molto eloquentemente sull’argomento della Lady Tollimglower) in cima a un lungo tavolo; Wardle si siede all’ultimo posto; gli amici si sistemano su entrambi i lati del tavolo; Sam prende posizione dietro la sedia del suo padrone; le risate e le chiacchiere cessano; il signor Pickwick, dopo aver detto la preghiera, fa una pausa e guarda intorno a sé. Mentre lo fa, le lacrime gli scorrono lungo le guance, a segno della sua grande gioia.

Lasciamo il nostro vecchio amico in uno di quei momenti di felicità pura e semplice; tali momenti, se li cerchiamo, esistono sempre, per rallegrare la nostra esistenza effimera in questo mondo. Ci sono ombre scure sulla terra, ma le sue luci risultano ancora più intense nel contrasto. Alcuni uomini, come i pipistrelli o gli uccelli notturni, hanno occhi più acuti per l’oscurità che per la luce. Noi, che non possediamo tali capacità visive, ci compiacciamo di gettare un ultimo sguardo ai compagni di molte ore solitarie, quando il breve sole del mondo li illumina pienamente.

È destino della maggior parte degli uomini che, mescolandosi con il mondo e raggiungendo persino l’apice della vita, fanno molti veri amici per poi perderli nel corso delle vicende naturali. È destino di tutti gli autori o dei cronisti creare amici immaginari per poi perderli nel processo creativo stesso. E questa non è nemmeno la totalità delle loro sfortune: infatti, sono costretti anche a fornire una spiegazione di tali personaggi e situazioni.

In conformità con questa usanza – senza dubbio una cattiva usanza – aggiungiamo alcune parole biografiche riguardanti il gruppo riunitosi presso la casa del signor Pickwick.

Il signor e la signora Winkle, essendo stati pienamente accettati dall’anziano gentiluomo, furono poco dopo sistemati in una casa appena costruita, situata a meno di mezzo miglio dalla residenza del signor Pickwick. Il signor Winkle, essendo impegnato nella città come agente o corrispondente del padre, sostituì il proprio abito vecchio con l’abbigliamento comune degli inglesi, assumendo da allora un aspetto esteriore completamente quello di un cristiano civile.

Il signor e la signora Snodgrass si stabilirono a Dingley Dell, dove acquistarono e coltivarono una piccola fattoria, più per occupazione che per profitto. Il signor Snodgrass, essendo talvolta assorto nei suoi pensieri e di carattere melanconico, è ancora oggi considerato un grande poeta tra i suoi amici e conoscenti, sebbene non si abbia trovato nulla che possa confermare questa credenza. Ci sono molte figure celebri, in ambito letterario, filosofico o altro, che godono di una simile reputazione.

Il signor Tupman, quando i suoi amici si sposarono e il signor Pickwick trovò una sistemazione stabile, prese in affitto una casa a Richmond, dove da allora risiede. Durante i mesi estivi passeggia costantemente sul terrazzo, con un’aria giovane e vivace che gli ha guadagnato l’ammirazione di molte signore anziane single che abitano nelle vicinanze. Non ha mai più fatto proposte di matrimonio.

Mr. Bob Sawyer, having previously passed through the Gazette, passed over to Bengal, accompanied by Mr. Benjamin Allen; both gentlemen having received surgical appointments from the East India Company. They each had the yellow fever fourteen times, and then resolved to try a little abstinence; since which period, they have been doing well. Mrs. Bardell let lodgings to many conversable single gentlemen, with great profit, but never brought any more actions for breach of promise of marriage. Her attorneys, Messrs. Dodson & Fogg, continue in business, from which they realise a large income, and in which they are universally considered among the sharpest of the sharp.

Sam Weller kept his word, and remained unmarried, for two years. The old housekeeper dying at the end of that time, Mr. Pickwick promoted Mary to the situation, on condition of her marrying Mr. Weller at once, which she did without a murmur. From the circumstance of two sturdy little boys having been repeatedly seen at the gate of the back garden, there is reason to suppose that Sam has some family.

The elder Mr. Weller drove a coach for twelve months, but being afflicted with the gout, was compelled to retire. The contents of the pocket-book had been so well invested for him, however, by Mr. Pickwick, that he had a handsome independence to retire on, upon which he still lives at an excellent public-house near Shooter’s Hill, where he is quite reverenced as an oracle, boasting very much of his intimacy with Mr. Pickwick, and retaining a most unconquerable aversion to widows.

Mr. Pickwick himself continued to reside in his new house, employing his leisure hours in arranging the memoranda which he afterwards presented to the secretary of the once famous club, or in hearing Sam Weller read aloud, with such remarks as suggested themselves to his mind, which never failed to afford Mr. Pickwick great amusement. He was much troubled at first, by the numerous applications made to him by Mr. Snodgrass, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Trundle, to act as godfather to their offspring; but he has become used to it now, and officiates as a matter of course. He never had occasion to regret his bounty to Mr. Jingle; for both that person and Job Trotter became, in time, worthy members of society, although they have always steadily objected to return to the scenes of their old haunts and temptations. Mr. Pickwick is somewhat infirm now; but he retains all his former juvenility of spirit, and may still be frequently seen, contemplating the pictures in the Dulwich Gallery, or enjoying a walk about the pleasant neighbourhood on a fine day. He is known by all the poor people about, who never fail to take their hats off, as he passes, with great respect. The children idolise him, and so indeed does the whole neighbourhood. Every year he repairs to a large family merry-making at Mr. Wardle’s; on this, as on all other occasions, he is invariably attended by the faithful Sam, between whom and his master there exists a steady and reciprocal attachment which nothing but death will terminate.

Il signor Bob Sawyer, dopo essere stato in precedenza in Bengala, vi tornò accompagnato dal signor Benjamin Allen; entrambi avevano ricevuto incarichi chirurgici dalla Compagnia delle Indie Orientali. Avevano contratto la febbre gialla quattordici volte ciascuno, e allora decisero di provare a astenersi da certe abitudini; da quel momento in poi, stanno bene. La signora Bardell affittava stanze a molti gentiluomini single e piacevoli da conversare, ottenendo grandi profitti, ma non ebbe più problemi legali legati a promesse di matrimonio non mantenute. I suoi avvocati, i signori Dodson & Fogg, continuano la loro attività, ottenendo un reddito considerevole e essere universalmente riconosciuti come tra i più abili nel loro campo.

Sam Weller mantenne la sua promessa e rimase single per due anni. Alla fine di quel periodo, quando la vecchia domestica morì, il signor Pickwick promosse Mary a una posizione più elevata, a condizione che sposasse immediatamente Sam Weller, cosa che lei fece senza alcuna obiezione. Data la frequente apparizione di due robusti bambini alla porta del giardino posteriore, si può presumere che Sam abbia una famiglia.

Il più anziano signor Weller guidò una carrozza per dodici mesi, ma essendo affetto dall’ gotta, fu costretto a ritirarsi. Tuttavia, i soldi contenuti nel suo portafoglio erano stati così bene investiti dal signor Pickwick che egli poté andare in pensione con una discreta agiatezza. Oggi vive ancora in un ottimo ostello pubblico vicino a Shooter’s Hill, dove è molto rispettato come “oracolo”; si vanta molto della sua intimità con il signor Pickwick e mantiene un’irriducibile avversione per le vedove.

Il signor Pickwick continuò ad abitare nella sua nuova casa, impiegando i suoi momenti di tempo libero nell’organizzare i documenti che in seguito presentò al segretario di quel famoso club, o ascoltando Sam Weller leggerli ad alta voce, aggiungendo commenti che gli venivano in mente e che sempre procuravano grande divertimento al signor Pickwick. All’inizio fu molto disturbato dalle numerose richieste di Mr. Snodgrass, Mr. Winkle e Mr. Trundle di fare da padrino ai loro figli; ma ormai ci è abituato e lo fa senza pensarci due volte. Non ebbe mai motivo di pentirsi della sua generosità verso il signor Jingle: sia quell’uomo che Job Trotter divennero, col tempo, membri rispettabili della società, anche se si rifiutarono sempre categoricamente di tornare nei luoghi dove un tempo erano esposti a tentazioni. Il signor Pickwick è ora un po’ malato; ma mantiene tutta la sua precedente vivacità d’animo e si può ancora vederlo spesso ammirare i dipinti della Dulwich Gallery o godersi una passeggiata in quel piacevole quartiere nei giorni di bel tempo. Tutti i poveri del posto gli togliono sempre il cappello con grande rispetto quando lo incontrano; i bambini lo adorano, e così fa l’intera comunità. Ogni anno partecipa alle festeggiamenti di una grande famiglia a casa del signor Wardle; in queste occasioni, come in tutte le altre, è sempre accompagnato dal fedele Sam, con il quale esiste un legame profondo e reciproco che solo la morte potrà interrompere.