“And now,” said 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 question is, Where shall we go to-night?”
With the faithful Sam in attendance behind his chair, he was seated at
the head of his own table, with Mr. Snodgrass on his left and Mr. Winkle
on his right and Mr. Alfred Jingle opposite him; his face was rosy with
jollity, for they had just dispatched a hearty meal of chops and tomato
sauce, with bottled ale and Madeira, and a special allowance of milk
punch for the host.
Mr. Jingle proposed Mr. Pickwick; and Mr. Pickwick proposed Mr. Jingle.
Mr. Snodgrass proposed Mr. Winkle; and Mr. Winkle proposed Mr. Snodgrass;
while Sam, taking a deep pull at the stone bottle of milk punch behind
his master’s chair, silently proposed himself.
“And where,” said Mr. Pickwick, “shall we go to-night?” Mr. Snodgrass,
as modest as all great geniuses are, was silent. Mr. Winkle, who had
been thinking of Arabella, started violently, looked knowing, and was
beginning to stammer something, when he was interrupted by Mr. Jingle—“A
musical comedy, old boy—no plot—fine women—gags—go by-by—wake up for
chorus—entertaining, very.”
“And lyrics,” said Mr. Snodgrass, with poetic rapture.
“I was just going to suggest it,” said Mr. Winkle, “when this individual”
(scowling at Mr. Jingle, who laid his hand on his heart, with a derisive
smile), “when, I repeat, this individual interrupted me.”
“A musical comedy, with all my heart,” said Mr. Pickwick. “Sam, give me
the paper. H’m, h’m, what’s this? _The Eclipse_, a farce with songs—will
that do?”
“But is a farce with songs a musical comedy?” objected Mr. Winkle.
“Bless my soul,” said Mr. Pickwick, “this is very puzzling.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” said Sam, touching his forelock, “it’s a
distinction without a difference—as the pork pieman remarked when they
asked him if his pork wasn’t kittens.”
“Then,” said Mr. Pickwick, with a benevolent twinkle, “by all means let
us go to _The Eclipse_.”
“Beg pardon, sir,” said Sam again, doubtfully, “there ain’t no
astrongomies in it, is there?” Sam had not forgotten his adventure with
the scientific gentleman at Clifton. But, as nobody knew, they set off
for the Garrick Theatre, and were soon ensconced in a box.
They found the stage occupied by a waiter, who was the very image of the
waiter Mr. Pickwick had seen at the Old Royal Hotel at Birmingham, except
that he didn’t imperceptibly melt away. Waiters, in general, never walk
or run; they have a peculiar and mysterious power of skimming out of
rooms which other mortals possess not. But this waiter, unlike his kind,
couldn’t “get off” anyhow. He explained that it was because the composer
had given him no music to “get off” with.
“Poor fellow,” said Mr. Pickwick, greatly distressed; “will he have to
stop there all night?”
“Not,” muttered Sam to himself, “if I wos behind ’im with a bradawl.”
However, the waiter did at last get off, and then came on again and sang
another verse, amid loud hoorays, until Mr. Pickwick’s eyes were wet with
gratification at the universal jollity.
“Fine fellow, fine fellow,” cried Mr. Pickwick; “what is his name?”
“Hush-h-h, my dear sir,” whispered a charming young man of not much more
than fifty in the next box, in whom Mr. Pickwick, abashed, recognized Mr.
Angelo Cyrus Bantam, “_that_ is Mr. Alfred Lester.”
“A born waiter,” interjected Mr. Jingle, “once a waiter always
a waiter—stage custom—Medes and Persians—wears his napkin for a
nightcap—droll fellow, very.”
By and by there was much talk of a mysterious Tubby Haig, and they even
sang a song about him; but he did not appear on the stage, and Mr.
Pickwick, whose curiosity was excited, asked who this Tubby Haig was.
Sam guessed he might be own brother to Mr. Wardle’s Fat Boy, Joe, or
perhaps “the old gen’l’m’n as wore the pigtail—reg’lar fat man, as hadn’t
caught a glimpse of his own shoes for five-and-forty year,” but Mr.
Bantam again leaned over from his box and whispered:—
“Hush-h-h, my dear sir, nobody is fat or old in Ba-a——I mean in literary
circles. Mr. Tubby Haig is a popular author of detective stories, much
prized, along with alleytors and commoneys, by the youth of this town.”
But a sudden start of Mr. Winkle’s and a rapturous exclamation from Mr.
Snodgrass again directed Mr. Pickwick’s attention to the scene. He almost
fainted with dismay. Standing in the middle of the stage, in the full
glare of the lights, was a lady with her shoulders and back (which she
kept turning to the lights) bare to the waist!
“Bless my soul,” cried Mr. Pickwick, shrinking behind the curtain of the
box, “what a dreadful thing!”
He mustered up courage, and looked out again. The lady was still there,
not a bit discomposed.
“Most extraordinary female, this,” thought Mr. Pickwick, popping in
again.
She still remained, however, and even threw an arch glance in Mr.
Pickwick’s direction, as much as to say, “You old dear.”
“But—but—” cried Mr. Pickwick, in an agony, “won’t she catch cold?”
“Bless your heart, no, sir,” said Sam, “she’s quite used to it, and it’s
done with the very best intentions, as the gen’l’man said ven he run away
from his wife, ’cos she seemed unhappy with him.”
If Mr. Pickwick was distressed, very different was the effect of the
lovely vision upon Mr. Winkle. Alas for the weakness of human nature!
he forgot for the moment all about Arabella. Suddenly grasping his hat,
he rose from his seat, said “Good-night, my dear sir,” to Mr. Pickwick
between his set teeth, added brokenly, “My friend, my benefactor, my
honoured companion, do not judge me harshly”—and dashed out of the box.
“Very extraordinary,” said Mr. Pickwick to himself, “what _can_ that
young man be going to do?”
Meanwhile, for Mr. Winkle to rush downstairs, into the street, round
the corner, as far as the stage-door, was the work of a moment. Taking
out a card engraved “NATHANIEL WINKLE, M.P.C.,” he hastily pencilled a
few fervent words on it and handed it to the door-keeper, requiring him
instantly to convey it to Miss Teddie Gerard.
“What now, imperence,” said the man, roughly pushing him from the door
and knocking his hat over his eyes.
At the same moment Mr. Winkle found his arms pinioned from behind by Sam
Weller, who led him, crestfallen, back into the street and his senses.
The public were now leaving the theatre, and Mr. Pickwick, beckoning Mr.
Winkle 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.”
With these words, Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on his heel, and rejoined
his friends.