WHEN I am in a thoughtful mood, I often succeed in diverting the current
of some mournful reflections, by conjuring up a number of fanciful
associations with the objects that surround me, and dwelling upon the
scenes and characters they suggest.
I have been led by this habit to assign to every room in my house and
every old staring portrait on its walls a separate interest of its own.
Thus, I am persuaded that a stately dame, terrible to behold in her rigid
modesty, who hangs above the chimney-piece of my bedroom, is the former
lady of the mansion. In the courtyard below is a stone face of
surpassing ugliness, which I have somehow—in a kind of jealousy, I am
afraid—associated with her husband. Above my study is a little room with
ivy peeping through the lattice, from which I bring their daughter, a
lovely girl of eighteen or nineteen years of age, and dutiful in all
respects save one, that one being her devoted attachment to a young
gentleman on the stairs, whose grandmother (degraded to a disused laundry
in the garden) piques herself upon an old family quarrel, and is the
implacable enemy of their love. With such materials as these I work out
many a little drama, whose chief merit is, that I can bring it to a happy
end at will. I have so many of them on hand, that if on my return home
one of these evenings I were to find some bluff old wight of two
centuries ago comfortably seated in my easy chair, and a lovelorn damsel
vainly appealing to his heart, and leaning her white arm upon my clock
itself, I verily believe I should only express my surprise that they had
kept me waiting so long, and never honoured me with a call before.
I was in such a mood as this, sitting in my garden yesterday morning
under the shade of a favourite tree, revelling in all the bloom and
brightness about me, and feeling every sense of hope and enjoyment
quickened by this most beautiful season of Spring, when my meditations
were interrupted by the unexpected appearance of my barber at the end of
the walk, who I immediately saw was coming towards me with a hasty step
that betokened something remarkable.
My barber is at all times a very brisk, bustling, active little man,—for
he is, as it were, chubby all over, without being stout or unwieldy,—but
yesterday his alacrity was so very uncommon that it quite took me by
surprise. For could I fail to observe when he came up to me that his
gray eyes were twinkling in a most extraordinary manner, that his little
red nose was in an unusual glow, that every line in his round bright face
was twisted and curved into an expression of pleased surprise, and that
his whole countenance was radiant with glee? I was still more surprised
to see my housekeeper, who usually preserves a very staid air, and stands
somewhat upon her dignity, peeping round the hedge at the bottom of the
walk, and exchanging nods and smiles with the barber, who twice or thrice
looked over his shoulder for that purpose. I could conceive no
announcement to which these appearances could be the prelude, unless it
were that they had married each other that morning.
I was, consequently, a little disappointed when it only came out that
there was a gentleman in the house who wished to speak with me.
‘And who is it?’ said I.
The barber, with his face screwed up still tighter than before, replied
that the gentleman would not send his name, but wished to see me. I
pondered for a moment, wondering who this visitor might be, and I
remarked that he embraced the opportunity of exchanging another nod with
the housekeeper, who still lingered in the distance.
‘Well!’ said I, ‘bid the gentleman come here.’
This seemed to be the consummation of the barber’s hopes, for he turned
sharp round, and actually ran away.
Now, my sight is not very good at a distance, and therefore when the
gentleman first appeared in the walk, I was not quite clear whether he
was a stranger to me or otherwise. He was an elderly gentleman, but came
tripping along in the pleasantest manner conceivable, avoiding the
garden-roller and the borders of the beds with inimitable dexterity,
picking his way among the flower-pots, and smiling with unspeakable good
humour. Before he was half-way up the walk he began to salute me; then I
thought I knew him; but when he came towards me with his hat in his hand,
the sun shining on his bald head, his bland face, his bright spectacles,
his fawn-coloured tights, and his black gaiters,—then my heart warmed
towards him, and I felt quite certain that it was Mr. Pickwick.
‘My dear sir,’ said that gentleman as I rose to receive him, ‘pray be
seated. Pray sit down. Now, do not stand on my account. I must insist
upon it, really.’ With these words Mr. Pickwick gently pressed me down
into my seat, and taking my hand in his, shook it again and again with a
warmth of manner perfectly irresistible. I endeavoured to express in my
welcome something of that heartiness and pleasure which the sight of him
awakened, and made him sit down beside me. All this time he kept
alternately releasing my hand and grasping it again, and surveying me
through his spectacles with such a beaming countenance as I never till
then beheld.
[Picture: Mr. Pickwick introduces himself to Master Humphrey]
‘You knew me directly!’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘What a pleasure it is to
think that you knew me directly!’
I remarked that I had read his adventures very often, and his features
were quite familiar to me from the published portraits. As I thought it
a good opportunity of adverting to the circumstance, I condoled with him
upon the various libels on his character which had found their way into
print. Mr. Pickwick shook his head, and for a moment looked very
indignant, but smiling again directly, added that no doubt I was
acquainted with Cervantes’s introduction to the second part of Don
Quixote, and that it fully expressed his sentiments on the subject.
‘But now,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘don’t you wonder how I found you out?’
‘I shall never wonder, and, with your good leave, never know,’ said I,
smiling in my turn. ‘It is enough for me that you give me this
gratification. I have not the least desire that you should tell me by
what means I have obtained it.’
‘You are very kind,’ returned Mr. Pickwick, shaking me by the hand again;
‘you are so exactly what I expected! But for what particular purpose do
you think I have sought you, my dear sir? Now what _do_ you think I have
come for?’
Mr. Pickwick put this question as though he were persuaded that it was
morally impossible that I could by any means divine the deep purpose of
his visit, and that it must be hidden from all human ken. Therefore,
although I was rejoiced to think that I had anticipated his drift, I
feigned to be quite ignorant of it, and after a brief consideration shook
my head despairingly.
‘What should you say,’ said Mr. Pickwick, laying the forefinger of his
left hand upon my coat-sleeve, and looking at me with his head thrown
back, and a little on one side,—‘what should you say if I confessed that
after reading your account of yourself and your little society, I had
come here, a humble candidate for one of those empty chairs?’
‘I should say,’ I returned, ‘that I know of only one circumstance which
could still further endear that little society to me, and that would be
the associating with it my old friend,—for you must let me call you
so,—my old friend, Mr. Pickwick.’
As I made him this answer every feature of Mr. Pickwick’s face fused
itself into one all-pervading expression of delight. After shaking me
heartily by both hands at once, he patted me gently on the back, and
then—I well understood why—coloured up to the eyes, and hoped with great
earnestness of manner that he had not hurt me.
If he had, I would have been content that he should have repeated the
offence a hundred times rather than suppose so; but as he had not, I had
no difficulty in changing the subject by making an inquiry which had been
upon my lips twenty times already.
‘You have not told me,’ said I, ‘anything about Sam Weller.’
‘O! Sam,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘is the same as ever. The same true,
faithful fellow that he ever was. What should I tell you about Sam, my
dear sir, except that he is more indispensable to my happiness and
comfort every day of my life?’
‘And Mr. Weller senior?’ said I.
‘Old Mr. Weller,’ returned Mr. Pickwick, ‘is in no respect more altered
than Sam, unless it be that he is a little more opinionated than he was
formerly, and perhaps at times more talkative. He spends a good deal of
his time now in our neighbourhood, and has so constituted himself a part
of my bodyguard, that when I ask permission for Sam to have a seat in
your kitchen on clock nights (supposing your three friends think me
worthy to fill one of the chairs), I am afraid I must often include Mr.
Weller too.’
I very readily pledged myself to give both Sam and his father a free
admission to my house at all hours and seasons, and this point settled,
we fell into a lengthy conversation which was carried on with as little
reserve on both sides as if we had been intimate friends from our youth,
and which conveyed to me the comfortable assurance that Mr. Pickwick’s
buoyancy of spirit, and indeed all his old cheerful characteristics, were
wholly unimpaired. As he had spoken of the consent of my friends as
being yet in abeyance, I repeatedly assured him that his proposal was
certain to receive their most joyful sanction, and several times
entreated that he would give me leave to introduce him to Jack Redburn
and Mr. Miles (who were near at hand) without further ceremony.
To this proposal, however, Mr. Pickwick’s delicacy would by no means
allow him to accede, for he urged that his eligibility must be formally
discussed, and that, until this had been done, he could not think of
obtruding himself further. The utmost I could obtain from him was a
promise that he would attend upon our next night of meeting, that I might
have the pleasure of presenting him immediately on his election.
Mr. Pickwick, having with many blushes placed in my hands a small roll of
paper, which he termed his ‘qualification,’ put a great many questions to
me touching my friends, and particularly Jack Redburn, whom he repeatedly
termed ‘a fine fellow,’ and in whose favour I could see he was strongly
predisposed. When I had satisfied him on these points, I took him up
into my room, that he might make acquaintance with the old chamber which
is our place of meeting.
‘And this,’ said Mr. Pickwick, stopping short, ‘is the clock! Dear me!
And this is really the old clock!’
I thought he would never have come away from it. After advancing towards
it softly, and laying his hand upon it with as much respect and as many
smiling looks as if it were alive, he set himself to consider it in every
possible direction, now mounting on a chair to look at the top, now going
down upon his knees to examine the bottom, now surveying the sides with
his spectacles almost touching the case, and now trying to peep between
it and the wall to get a slight view of the back. Then he would retire a
pace or two and look up at the dial to see it go, and then draw near
again and stand with his head on one side to hear it tick: never failing
to glance towards me at intervals of a few seconds each, and nod his head
with such complacent gratification as I am quite unable to describe. His
admiration was not confined to the clock either, but extended itself to
every article in the room; and really, when he had gone through them
every one, and at last sat himself down in all the six chairs, one after
another, to try how they felt, I never saw such a picture of good-humour
and happiness as he presented, from the top of his shining head down to
the very last button of his gaiters.
I should have been well pleased, and should have had the utmost enjoyment
of his company, if he had remained with me all day, but my favourite,
striking the hour, reminded him that he must take his leave. I could not
forbear telling him once more how glad he had made me, and we shook hands
all the way down-stairs.
We had no sooner arrived in the Hall than my housekeeper, gliding out of
her little room (she had changed her gown and cap, I observed), greeted
Mr. Pickwick with her best smile and courtesy; and the barber, feigning
to be accidentally passing on his way out, made him a vast number of
bows. When the housekeeper courtesied, Mr. Pickwick bowed with the
utmost politeness, and when he bowed, the housekeeper courtesied again;
between the housekeeper and the barber, I should say that Mr. Pickwick
faced about and bowed with undiminished affability fifty times at least.
I saw him to the door; an omnibus was at the moment passing the corner of
the lane, which Mr. Pickwick hailed and ran after with extraordinary
nimbleness. When he had got about half-way, he turned his head, and
seeing that I was still looking after him and that I waved my hand,
stopped, evidently irresolute whether to come back and shake hands again,
or to go on. The man behind the omnibus shouted, and Mr. Pickwick ran a
little way towards him: then he looked round at me, and ran a little way
back again. Then there was another shout, and he turned round once more
and ran the other way. After several of these vibrations, the man
settled the question by taking Mr. Pickwick by the arm and putting him
into the carriage; but his last action was to let down the window and
wave his hat to me as it drove off.
I lost no time in opening the parcel he had left with me. The following
were its contents:—