Чарльз Диккенс
The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club. Volume 1 of 2

“‘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 bed-clothes. 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 old chair looked like a very ugly old man, of the previous century, with his arms a-kimbo. 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 rails. 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 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 down-stairs, 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,’ replied 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 comforts 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. ’Tan’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 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 any one 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 after, and married the widow a month after. And he used to drive about the country, with the clay-coloured gig with 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 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 particklar; 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 an’t,” replied Mr. Weller.

“But this is a lady’s card,” said Mr. Pickwick.

“Given me by a gen’lm’n, hows’ever,” 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 fête champêtre– 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 acquaintance 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 breakfast.”

“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 Mr. 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 by-standers 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.

“Very 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 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, nor 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 Fairy-land 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 making 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.