AS we were going up-stairs, Mr. Pickwick put on his spectacles, which he
had held in his hand hitherto; arranged his neckerchief, smoothed down
his waistcoat, and made many other little preparations of that kind which
men are accustomed to be mindful of, when they are going among strangers
for the first time, and are anxious to impress them pleasantly. Seeing
that I smiled, he smiled too, and said that if it had occurred to him
before he left home, he would certainly have presented himself in pumps
and silk stockings.
‘I would, indeed, my dear sir,’ he said very seriously; ‘I would have
shown my respect for the society, by laying aside my gaiters.’
‘You may rest assured,’ said I, ‘that they would have regretted your
doing so very much, for they are quite attached to them.’
‘No, really!’ cried Mr. Pickwick, with manifest pleasure. ‘Do you think
they care about my gaiters? Do you seriously think that they identify me
at all with my gaiters?’
‘I am sure they do,’ I replied.
‘Well, now,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘that is one of the most charming and
agreeable circumstances that could possibly have occurred to me!’
I should not have written down this short conversation, but that it
developed a slight point in Mr. Pickwick’s character, with which I was
not previously acquainted. He has a secret pride in his legs. The
manner in which he spoke, and the accompanying glance he bestowed upon
his tights, convince me that Mr. Pickwick regards his legs with much
innocent vanity.
‘But here are our friends,’ said I, opening the door and taking his arm
in mine; ‘let them speak for themselves.—Gentlemen, I present to you Mr.
Pickwick.’
Mr. Pickwick and I must have been a good contrast just then. I, leaning
quietly on my crutch-stick, with something of a care-worn, patient air;
he, having hold of my arm, and bowing in every direction with the most
elastic politeness, and an expression of face whose sprightly
cheerfulness and good-humour knew no bounds. The difference between us
must have been more striking yet, as we advanced towards the table, and
the amiable gentleman, adapting his jocund step to my poor tread, had his
attention divided between treating my infirmities with the utmost
consideration, and affecting to be wholly unconscious that I required
any.
I made him personally known to each of my friends in turn. First, to the
deaf gentleman, whom he regarded with much interest, and accosted with
great frankness and cordiality. He had evidently some vague idea, at the
moment, that my friend being deaf must be dumb also; for when the latter
opened his lips to express the pleasure it afforded him to know a
gentleman of whom he had heard so much, Mr. Pickwick was so extremely
disconcerted, that I was obliged to step in to his relief.
His meeting with Jack Redburn was quite a treat to see. Mr. Pickwick
smiled, and shook hands, and looked at him through his spectacles, and
under them, and over them, and nodded his head approvingly, and then
nodded to me, as much as to say, ‘This is just the man; you were quite
right;’ and then turned to Jack and said a few hearty words, and then did
and said everything over again with unimpaired vivacity. As to Jack
himself, he was quite as much delighted with Mr. Pickwick as Mr. Pickwick
could possibly be with him. Two people never can have met together since
the world began, who exchanged a warmer or more enthusiastic greeting.
It was amusing to observe the difference between this encounter and that
which succeeded, between Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Miles. It was clear that
the latter gentleman viewed our new member as a kind of rival in the
affections of Jack Redburn, and besides this, he had more than once
hinted to me, in secret, that although he had no doubt Mr. Pickwick was a
very worthy man, still he did consider that some of his exploits were
unbecoming a gentleman of his years and gravity. Over and above these
grounds of distrust, it is one of his fixed opinions, that the law never
can by possibility do anything wrong; he therefore looks upon Mr.
Pickwick as one who has justly suffered in purse and peace for a breach
of his plighted faith to an unprotected female, and holds that he is
called upon to regard him with some suspicion on that account. These
causes led to a rather cold and formal reception; which Mr. Pickwick
acknowledged with the same stateliness and intense politeness as was
displayed on the other side. Indeed, he assumed an air of such majestic
defiance, that I was fearful he might break out into some solemn protest
or declaration, and therefore inducted him into his chair without a
moment’s delay.
This piece of generalship was perfectly successful. The instant he took
his seat, Mr. Pickwick surveyed us all with a most benevolent aspect, and
was taken with a fit of smiling full five minutes long. His interest in
our ceremonies was immense. They are not very numerous or complicated,
and a description of them may be comprised in very few words. As our
transactions have already been, and must necessarily continue to be, more
or less anticipated by being presented in these pages at different times,
and under various forms, they do not require a detailed account.
Our first proceeding when we are assembled is to shake hands all round,
and greet each other with cheerful and pleasant looks. Remembering that
we assemble not only for the promotion of our happiness, but with the
view of adding something to the common stock, an air of languor or
indifference in any member of our body would be regarded by the others as
a kind of treason. We have never had an offender in this respect; but if
we had, there is no doubt that he would be taken to task pretty severely.
Our salutation over, the venerable piece of antiquity from which we take
our name is wound up in silence. The ceremony is always performed by
Master Humphrey himself (in treating of the club, I may be permitted to
assume the historical style, and speak of myself in the third person),
who mounts upon a chair for the purpose, armed with a large key. While
it is in progress, Jack Redburn is required to keep at the farther end of
the room under the guardianship of Mr. Miles, for he is known to
entertain certain aspiring and unhallowed thoughts connected with the
clock, and has even gone so far as to state that if he might take the
works out for a day or two, he thinks he could improve them. We pardon
him his presumption in consideration of his good intentions, and his
keeping this respectful distance, which last penalty is insisted on, lest
by secretly wounding the object of our regard in some tender part, in the
ardour of his zeal for its improvement, he should fill us with dismay and
consternation.
This regulation afforded Mr. Pickwick the highest delight, and seemed, if
possible, to exalt Jack in his good opinion.
The next ceremony is the opening of the clock-case (of which Master
Humphrey has likewise the key), the taking from it as many papers as will
furnish forth our evening’s entertainment, and arranging in the recess
such new contributions as have been provided since our last meeting.
This is always done with peculiar solemnity. The deaf gentleman then
fills and lights his pipe, and we once more take our seats round the
table before mentioned, Master Humphrey acting as president,—if we can be
said to have any president, where all are on the same social footing,—and
our friend Jack as secretary. Our preliminaries being now concluded, we
fall into any train of conversation that happens to suggest itself, or
proceed immediately to one of our readings. In the latter case, the
paper selected is consigned to Master Humphrey, who flattens it carefully
on the table and makes dog’s ears in the corner of every page, ready for
turning over easily; Jack Redburn trims the lamp with a small machine of
his own invention which usually puts it out; Mr. Miles looks on with
great approval notwithstanding; the deaf gentleman draws in his chair, so
that he can follow the words on the paper or on Master Humphrey’s lips as
he pleases; and Master Humphrey himself, looking round with mighty
gratification, and glancing up at his old clock, begins to read aloud.
[Picture: Proceedings of the Club]
Mr. Pickwick’s face, while his tale was being read, would have attracted
the attention of the dullest man alive. The complacent motion of his
head and forefinger as he gently beat time, and corrected the air with
imaginary punctuation, the smile that mantled on his features at every
jocose passage, and the sly look he stole around to observe its effect,
the calm manner in which he shut his eyes and listened when there was
some little piece of description, the changing expression with which he
acted the dialogue to himself, his agony that the deaf gentleman should
know what it was all about, and his extraordinary anxiety to correct the
reader when he hesitated at a word in the manuscript, or substituted a
wrong one, were alike worthy of remark. And when at last, endeavouring
to communicate with the deaf gentleman by means of the finger alphabet,
with which he constructed such words as are unknown in any civilised or
savage language, he took up a slate and wrote in large text, one word in
a line, the question, ‘How—do—you—like—it?’—when he did this, and handing
it over the table awaited the reply, with a countenance only brightened
and improved by his great excitement, even Mr. Miles relaxed, and could
not forbear looking at him for the moment with interest and favour.
‘It has occurred to me,’ said the deaf gentleman, who had watched Mr.
Pickwick and everybody else with silent satisfaction—‘it has occurred to
me,’ said the deaf gentleman, taking his pipe from his lips, ‘that now is
our time for filling our only empty chair.’
As our conversation had naturally turned upon the vacant seat, we lent a
willing ear to this remark, and looked at our friend inquiringly.
‘I feel sure,’ said he, ‘that Mr. Pickwick must be acquainted with
somebody who would be an acquisition to us; that he must know the man we
want. Pray let us not lose any time, but set this question at rest. Is
it so, Mr. Pickwick?’
The gentleman addressed was about to return a verbal reply, but
remembering our friend’s infirmity, he substituted for this kind of
answer some fifty nods. Then taking up the slate and printing on it a
gigantic ‘Yes,’ he handed it across the table, and rubbing his hands as
he looked round upon our faces, protested that he and the deaf gentleman
quite understood each other, already.
‘The person I have in my mind,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘and whom I should not
have presumed to mention to you until some time hence, but for the
opportunity you have given me, is a very strange old man. His name is
Bamber.’
‘Bamber!’ said Jack. ‘I have certainly heard the name before.’
‘I have no doubt, then,’ returned Mr. Pickwick, ‘that you remember him in
those adventures of mine (the Posthumous Papers of our old club, I mean),
although he is only incidentally mentioned; and, if I remember right,
appears but once.’
‘That’s it,’ said Jack. ‘Let me see. He is the person who has a grave
interest in old mouldy chambers and the Inns of Court, and who relates
some anecdotes having reference to his favourite theme,—and an odd ghost
story,—is that the man?’
‘The very same. Now,’ said Mr. Pickwick, lowering his voice to a
mysterious and confidential tone, ‘he is a very extraordinary and
remarkable person; living, and talking, and looking, like some strange
spirit, whose delight is to haunt old buildings; and absorbed in that one
subject which you have just mentioned, to an extent which is quite
wonderful. When I retired into private life, I sought him out, and I do
assure you that the more I see of him, the more strongly I am impressed
with the strange and dreamy character of his mind.’
‘Where does he live?’ I inquired.
‘He lives,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘in one of those dull, lonely old places
with which his thoughts and stories are all connected; quite alone, and
often shut up close for several weeks together. In this dusty solitude
he broods upon the fancies he has so long indulged, and when he goes into
the world, or anybody from the world without goes to see him, they are
still present to his mind and still his favourite topic. I may say, I
believe, that he has brought himself to entertain a regard for me, and an
interest in my visits; feelings which I am certain he would extend to
Master Humphrey’s Clock if he were once tempted to join us. All I wish
you to understand is, that he is a strange, secluded visionary, in the
world but not of it; and as unlike anybody here as he is unlike anybody
elsewhere that I have ever met or known.’
Mr. Miles received this account of our proposed companion with rather a
wry face, and after murmuring that perhaps he was a little mad, inquired
if he were rich.
‘I never asked him,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘You might know, sir, for all that,’ retorted Mr. Miles, sharply.
‘Perhaps so, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, no less sharply than the other,
‘but I do not. Indeed,’ he added, relapsing into his usual mildness, ‘I
have no means of judging. He lives poorly, but that would seem to be in
keeping with his character. I never heard him allude to his
circumstances, and never fell into the society of any man who had the
slightest acquaintance with them. I have really told you all I know
about him, and it rests with you to say whether you wish to know more, or
know quite enough already.’
We were unanimously of opinion that we would seek to know more; and as a
sort of compromise with Mr. Miles (who, although he said ‘Yes—O
certainly—he should like to know more about the gentleman—he had no right
to put himself in opposition to the general wish,’ and so forth, shook
his head doubtfully and hemmed several times with peculiar gravity), it
was arranged that Mr. Pickwick should carry me with him on an evening
visit to the subject of our discussion, for which purpose an early
appointment between that gentleman and myself was immediately agreed
upon; it being understood that I was to act upon my own responsibility,
and to invite him to join us or not, as I might think proper. This
solemn question determined, we returned to the clock-case (where we have
been forestalled by the reader), and between its contents, and the
conversation they occasioned, the remainder of our time passed very
quickly.
When we broke up, Mr. Pickwick took me aside to tell me that he had spent
a most charming and delightful evening. Having made this communication
with an air of the strictest secrecy, he took Jack Redburn into another
corner to tell him the same, and then retired into another corner with
the deaf gentleman and the slate, to repeat the assurance. It was
amusing to observe the contest in his mind whether he should extend his
confidence to Mr. Miles, or treat him with dignified reserve. Half a
dozen times he stepped up behind him with a friendly air, and as often
stepped back again without saying a word; at last, when he was close at
that gentleman’s ear and upon the very point of whispering something
conciliating and agreeable, Mr. Miles happened suddenly to turn his head,
upon which Mr. Pickwick skipped away, and said with some fierceness,
‘Good night, sir—I was about to say good night, sir,—nothing more;’ and
so made a bow and left him.
‘Now, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, when he had got down-stairs.
‘All right, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Hold hard, sir. Right arm
fust—now the left—now one strong conwulsion, and the great-coat’s on,
sir.’
Mr. Pickwick acted upon these directions, and being further assisted by
Sam, who pulled at one side of the collar, and Mr. Weller, who pulled
hard at the other, was speedily enrobed. Mr. Weller, senior, then
produced a full-sized stable lantern, which he had carefully deposited in
a remote corner, on his arrival, and inquired whether Mr. Pickwick would
have ‘the lamps alight.’
‘I think not to-night,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Then if this here lady vill per-mit,’ rejoined Mr. Weller, ‘we’ll leave
it here, ready for next journey. This here lantern, mum,’ said Mr.
Weller, handing it to the housekeeper, ‘vunce belonged to the celebrated
Bill Blinder as is now at grass, as all on us vill be in our turns.
Bill, mum, wos the hostler as had charge o’ them two vell-known piebald
leaders that run in the Bristol fast coach, and vould never go to no
other tune but a sutherly vind and a cloudy sky, which wos consekvently
played incessant, by the guard, wenever they wos on duty. He wos took
wery bad one arternoon, arter having been off his feed, and wery shaky on
his legs for some veeks; and he says to his mate, “Matey,” he says, “I
think I’m a-goin’ the wrong side o’ the post, and that my foot’s wery
near the bucket. Don’t say I an’t,” he says, “for I know I am, and don’t
let me be interrupted,” he says, “for I’ve saved a little money, and I’m
a-goin’ into the stable to make my last vill and testymint.” “I’ll take
care as nobody interrupts,” says his mate, “but you on’y hold up your
head, and shake your ears a bit, and you’re good for twenty years to
come.” Bill Blinder makes him no answer, but he goes avay into the
stable, and there he soon artervards lays himself down a’tween the two
piebalds, and dies,—previously a writin’ outside the corn-chest, “This is
the last vill and testymint of Villiam Blinder.” They wos nat’rally wery
much amazed at this, and arter looking among the litter, and up in the
loft, and vere not, they opens the corn-chest, and finds that he’d been
and chalked his vill inside the lid; so the lid was obligated to be took
off the hinges, and sent up to Doctor Commons to be proved, and under
that ’ere wery instrument this here lantern was passed to Tony Veller;
vich circumstarnce, mum, gives it a wally in my eyes, and makes me
rekvest, if you vill be so kind, as to take partickler care on it.’
The housekeeper graciously promised to keep the object of Mr. Weller’s
regard in the safest possible custody, and Mr. Pickwick, with a laughing
face, took his leave. The bodyguard followed, side by side; old Mr.
Weller buttoned and wrapped up from his boots to his chin; and Sam with
his hands in his pockets and his hat half off his head, remonstrating
with his father, as he went, on his extreme loquacity.
I was not a little surprised, on turning to go up-stairs, to encounter
the barber in the passage at that late hour; for his attendance is
usually confined to some half-hour in the morning. But Jack Redburn, who
finds out (by instinct, I think) everything that happens in the house,
informed me with great glee, that a society in imitation of our own had
been that night formed in the kitchen, under the title of ‘Mr. Weller’s
Watch,’ of which the barber was a member; and that he could pledge
himself to find means of making me acquainted with the whole of its
future proceedings, which I begged him, both on my own account and that
of my readers, by no means to neglect doing. {292}
[Picture: The Last Will and Testament of William Blinder]
V