The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club. Volume 2 of 2. Чарльз Диккенс
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-quarter 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 them 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 down-stairs, 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 up-stairs, 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 up-stairs, 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 – very fair case indeed.”
“Do you mean that the patient is in a fair way to recover?” inquired Mr. Pickwick.
“No,” replied 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