The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club. Volume 1 of 2. Чарльз Диккенс
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 Dr. 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 Dr. 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!”
“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 three last 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 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 from 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 numbers, 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 conscience, 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 manœuvres 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 a-foot, 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