Bardell v. Pickwick. Чарльз Диккенс
– and in his blind fury gratuitously assumed that they had “conspired” to harass him in this way. True, he had overheard how they had treated poor Ramsey.
This very malapropos visit of Mr. Pickwick to the firm was, as I said, a mistake and damaged his case. It showed that he was nervous and anxious, and insecure. He took nothing by it. There was in truth much short-sighted cunning in his ways, which came of his overweening vanity. But this was only one of several attempts he made to worm out something to his own advantage.
Another of Mr. Pickwick’s foolish manœuvres was his sending his man to his old lodgings to his landlady – ostensibly to fetch away his “things,” when this dialogue passed:
‘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.’
‘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 your doing this, if you wish it, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick. Sam gave a short nod of intelligence and left the room.
Now this was very artful on the part of Mr. Pickwick, but it was a very shallow sort of artfulness, and it was later to recoil on himself. Sam of course saw through it at once. It never dawned on this simple-minded man what use the Plaintiff’s solicitors would make of his demarche.
When the subpœnas were served he rushed off to Perker:
‘They have subpœna’d my servant too,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘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 intrusting 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.
The minutiæ of legal process are prosaic and uninteresting, and it might seem impossible to invest them with any dramatic interest; but how admirably has Boz lightened up and coloured the simple incident of an attorney’s clerk – a common, vulgar fellow of the lowest type, arriving to serve his subpœnas on the witnesses – all assumed to be hostile. The scene is full of touches of light comedy.
‘How de do, sir?’ said Mr. Jackson, nodding to Mr. Pickwick.
That gentlemen 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?’
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 got a little something to trouble you with, sir.’
‘Me!’ exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass.
‘It’s only a subpœna 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 affraid 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 subpœnas 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.’ (Imagine a modern solicitor’s clerk “Taking a grinder!”)
‘No, no, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Jackson, in conclusion; ‘Perker’s people must guess what we served these subpœnas 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 and Fogg, had not Sam’s entrance at the instant interrupted him.
‘Samuel Weller?’ said Mr. Jackson, inquiringly.
‘Vun