TREATS OF DIVERS1 LITTLE MATTERS WHICHOCCURRED IN THE FLEET, AND OF Mr.
WINKLE’S MYSTERIOUS BEHAVIOUR; ANDSHOWS HOW THE POOR CHANCERYPRISONER OBTAINED HIS RELEASE AT LASTr. Pickwick felt a great deal too much touched by thewarmth of Sam’s attachment2, to be able to exhibit anymanifestation of anger or displeasure at the precipitatecourse he had adopted, in voluntarily consigning3 himself to adebtor’s prison for an indefinite period. The only point on whichhe persevered4 in demanding an explanation, was, the name ofSam’s detaining creditor5; but this Mr. Weller as perseveringlywithheld.
‘It ain’t o’ no use, sir,’ said Sam, again and again; ‘he’s a ma-licious, bad-disposed, vorldly-minded, spiteful, windictive creetur,with a hard heart as there ain’t no soft’nin’, as the wirtuousclergyman remarked of the old gen’l’m’n with the dropsy, ven hesaid, that upon the whole he thought he’d rayther leave hisproperty to his vife than build a chapel6 vith it.’
‘But consider, Sam,’ Mr. Pickwick remonstrated7, ‘the sum is sosmall that it can very easily be paid; and having made up My mindthat you shall stop with me, you should recollect8 how much moreuseful you would be, if you could go outside the walls.’
‘Wery much obliged to you, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller gravely; ‘butI’d rayther not.’
‘Rather not do what, Sam?’
‘Wy, I’d rayther not let myself down to ask a favour o’ this hereunremorseful enemy.’
‘But it is no favour asking him to take his money, Sam,’
reasoned Mr. Pickwick.
‘Beg your pardon, sir,’ rejoined Sam, ‘but it ’ud be a wery greatfavour to pay it, and he don’t deserve none; that’s where it is, sir.’
Here Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his nose with an air of somevexation, Mr. Weller thought it prudent9 to change the theme of thediscourse.
‘I takes my determination on principle, sir,’ remarked Sam,‘and you takes yours on the same ground; wich puts me in mind o’
the man as killed his-self on principle, wich o’ course you’ve heerdon, sir.’ Mr. Weller paused when he arrived at this point, and casta comical look at his master out of the corners of his eyes.
‘There is no “of course” in the case, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick,gradually breaking into a smile, in spite of the uneasiness whichSam’s obstinacy11 had given him. ‘The fame of the gentleman inquestion, never reached my ears.’
‘No, sir!’ exclaimed Mr. Weller. ‘You astonish me, sir; he wos aclerk in a gov’ment office, sir.’
‘Was he?’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Yes, he wos, sir,’ rejoined Mr. Weller; ‘and a wery pleasantgen’l’m’n too―one o’ the precise and tidy sort, as puts their feet inlittle India-rubber fire-buckets wen it’s wet weather, and neverhas no other bosom12 friends but hare-skins; he saved up his moneyon principle, wore a clean shirt ev’ry day on principle; never spoketo none of his relations on principle, ‘fear they shou’d want toborrow money of him; and wos altogether, in fact, an uncommonagreeable character. He had his hair cut on principle vunce afortnight, and contracted for his clothes on the economicprinciple―three suits a year, and send back the old uns. Being awery reg’lar gen’l’m’n, he din’d ev’ry day at the same place, whereit was one-and-nine to cut off the joint15, and a wery good one-and-nine’s worth he used to cut, as the landlord often said, with thetears a-tricklin’ down his face, let alone the way he used to pokethe fire in the vinter time, which wos a dead loss o’ four-penceha’penny a day, to say nothin’ at all o’ the aggrawation o’ seein’
him do it. So uncommon14 grand with it too! “POST arter the nextgen’l’m’n,” he sings out ev’ry day ven he comes in. “See arter theTimes, Thomas; let me look at the Mornin’ Herald16, when it’s out o’
hand; don’t forget to bespeak17 the Chronicle; and just bring the’Tizer, vill you:” and then he’d set vith his eyes fixed18 on the clock,and rush out, just a quarter of a minit ’fore the time to waylay19 theboy as wos a-comin’ in with the evenin’ paper, which he’d readwith sich intense interest and persewerance as worked the othercustomers up to the wery confines o’ desperation and insanity,’specially one i-rascible old gen’l’m’n as the vaiter wos alwaysobliged to keep a sharp eye on, at sich times, fear he should betempted to commit some rash act with the carving-knife. Vell, sir,here he’d stop, occupyin’ the best place for three hours, and nevertakin’ nothin’ arter his dinner, but sleep, and then he’d go away toa coffee-house a few streets off, and have a small pot o’ coffee andfour crumpets, arter wich he’d walk home to Kensington and go tobed. One night he wos took very ill; sends for a doctor; doctorcomes in a green fly, with a kind o’ Robinson Crusoe set o’ steps,as he could let down wen he got out, and pull up arter him wen hegot in, to perwent the necessity o’ the coachman’s gettin’ down,and thereby20 undeceivin’ the public by lettin’ ’em see that it wosonly a livery coat as he’d got on, and not the trousers to match.
“Wot’s the matter?” says the doctor. “Wery ill,” says the patient.
“Wot have you been a-eatin’ on?” says the doctor. “Roast weal,”
says the patient. “Wot’s the last thing you dewoured?” says thedoctor. “Crumpets,” says the patient. “That’s it!” says the doctor.
“I’ll send you a box of pills directly, and don’t you never take nomore of ’em,” he says. “No more o’ wot?” says the patient―“pills?” “No; crumpets,” says the doctor. “Wy?” says the patient,starting up in bed; “I’ve eat four crumpets, ev’ry night for fifteenyear, on principle.” “Well, then, you’d better leave ’em off, onprinciple,” says the doctor. “Crumpets is not wholesome21, sir,” saysthe doctor, wery fierce. “But they’re so cheap,” says the patient,comin’ down a little, “and so wery fillin’ at the price.” “They’d bedear to you, at any price; dear if you wos paid to eat ’em,” says thedoctor. “Four crumpets a night,” he says, “vill do your business insix months!” The patient looks him full in the face, and turns itover in his mind for a long time, and at last he says, “Are you sureo’ that ’ere, sir?” “I’ll stake my professional reputation on it,” saysthe doctor. “How many crumpets, at a sittin’, do you think ’ud killme off at once?” says the patient. “I don’t know,” says the doctor.
“Do you think half-a-crown’s wurth ’ud do it?” says the patient. “Ithink it might,” says the doctor. “Three shillins’ wurth ’ud be sureto do it, I s’pose?” says the patient. “Certainly,” says the doctor.
“Wery good,” says the patient; “good-night.” Next mornin’ he getsup, has a fire lit, orders in three shillins’ wurth o’ crumpets, toasts’em all, eats ’em all, and blows his brains out.’
‘What did he do that for?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick abruptly23; forhe was considerably24 startled by this tragical25 termination of thenarrative.
‘Wot did he do it for, sir?’ reiterated26 Sam. ‘Wy, in support of hisgreat principle that crumpets wos wholesome, and to show that hewouldn’t be put out of his way for nobody!’ With such like shiftingsand changings of the discourse10, did Mr. Weller meet his master’squestioning on the night of his taking up his residence in theFleet. Finding all gentle remonstrance27 useless, Mr. Pickwick atlength yielded a reluctant consent to his taking lodgings28 by theweek, of a bald-headed cobbler, who rented a small slip room inone of the upper galleries. To this humble29 apartment Mr. Wellermoved a mattress30 and bedding, which he hired of Mr. Roker; and,by the time he lay down upon it at night, was as much at home asif he had been bred in the prison, and his whole family hadvegetated therein for three generations.
‘Do you always smoke arter you goes to bed, old cock?’ inquiredMr. Weller of his landlord, when they had both retired31 for thenight.
‘Yes, I does, young bantam,’ replied the cobbler.
‘Will you allow me to in-quire wy you make up your bed underthat ’ere deal table?’ said Sam.
‘’Cause I was always used to a four-poster afore I came here,and I find the legs of the table answer just as well,’ replied thecobbler.
‘You’re a character, sir,’ said Sam.
‘I haven’t got anything of the kind belonging to me,’ rejoinedthe cobbler, shaking his head; ‘and if you want to meet with a goodone, I’m afraid you’ll find some difficulty in suiting yourself at thisregister office.’
The above short dialogue took place as Mr. Weller lay extendedon his mattress at one end of the room, and the cobbler on his, atthe other; the apartment being illumined by the light of a rush-candle, and the cobbler’s pipe, which was glowing below the table,like a red-hot coal. The conversation, brief as it was, predisposedMr. Weller strongly in his landlord’s favour; and, raising himselfon his elbow, he took a more lengthened32 survey of his appearancethan he had yet had either time or inclination33 to make.
He was a sallow man―all cobblers are; and had a strong bristlybeard―all cobblers have. His face was a queer, good-tempered,crooked-featured piece of workmanship, ornamented34 with acouple of eyes that must have worn a very joyous35 expression atone36 time, for they sparkled yet. The man was sixty, by years, andHeaven knows how old by imprisonment37, so that his having anylook approaching to mirth or contentment, was singular enough.
He was a little man, and, being half doubled up as he lay in bed,looked about as long as he ought to have been without his legs. Hehad a great red pipe in his mouth, and was smoking, and staring atthe rush-light, in a state of enviable placidity38.
‘Have you been here long?’ inquired Sam, breaking the silencewhich had lasted for some time.
‘Twelve year,’ replied the cobbler, biting the end of his pipe ashe spoke13.
‘Contempt?’ inquired Sam. The cobbler nodded.
‘Well, then,’ said Sam, with some sternness, ‘wot do youpersevere in bein’ obstinit for, vastin’ your precious life away, inthis here magnified pound? Wy don’t you give in, and tell theChancellorship that you’re wery sorry for makin’ his courtcontemptible, and you won’t do so no more?’
The cobbler put his pipe in the corner of his mouth, while hesmiled, and then brought it back to its old place again; but saidnothing.
‘Wy don’t you?’ said Sam, urging his question strenuously39.
‘Ah,’ said the cobbler, ‘you don’t quite understand thesematters. What do you suppose ruined me, now?’
‘Wy,’ said Sam, trimming the rush-light, ‘I s’pose the beginnin’
wos, that you got into debt, eh?’
‘Never owed a farden,’ said the cobbler; ‘try again.’
‘Well, perhaps,’ said Sam, ‘you bought houses, wich is delicateEnglish for goin’ mad; or took to buildin’, wich is a medical termfor bein’ incurable40.’
The cobbler shook his head and said, ‘Try again.’
‘You didn’t go to law, I hope?’ said Sam suspiciously. ‘Never inmy life,’ replied the cobbler. ‘The fact is, I was ruined by havingmoney left me.’
‘Come, come,’ said Sam, ‘that von’t do. I wish some rich enemy’ud try to vork my destruction in that ’ere vay. I’d let him.’
‘Oh, I dare say you don’t believe it,’ said the cobbler, quietlysmoking his pipe. ‘I wouldn’t if I was you; but it’s true for all that.’
‘How wos it?’ inquired Sam, half induced to believe the factalready, by the look the cobbler gave him.
‘Just this,’ replied the cobbler; ‘an old gentleman that I workedfor, down in the country, and a humble relation of whose Imarried―she’s dead, God bless her, and thank Him for it!―wasseized with a fit and went off.’
‘Where?’ inquired Sam, who was growing sleepy after thenumerous events of the day.
‘How should I know where he went?’ said the cobbler, speakingthrough his nose in an intense enjoyment42 of his pipe. ‘He went offdead.’
‘Oh, that indeed,’ said Sam. ‘Well?’
‘Well,’ said the cobbler, ‘he left five thousand pound behindhim.’
‘And wery gen-teel in him so to do,’ said Sam.
‘One of which,’ continued the cobbler, ‘he left to me, ‘cause Imarried his relation, you see.’
‘Wery good,’ murmured Sam.
‘And being surrounded by a great number of nieces and nevys,as was always quarrelling and fighting among themselves for theproperty, he makes me his executor, and leaves the rest to me intrust, to divide it among ’em as the will prowided.’
‘Wot do you mean by leavin’ it on trust?’ inquired Sam, wakingup a little. ‘If it ain’t ready-money, were’s the use on it?’
‘It’s a law term, that’s all,’ said the cobbler.
‘I don’t think that,’ said Sam, shaking his head. ‘There’s werylittle trust at that shop. Hows’ever, go on.’
‘Well,’ said the cobbler, ‘when I was going to take out a probateof the will, the nieces and nevys, who was desperatelydisappointed at not getting all the money, enters a caveat43 againstit.’
‘What’s that?’ inquired Sam.
‘A legal instrument, which is as much as to say, it’s no go,’
replied the cobbler.
‘I see,’ said Sam, ‘a sort of brother-in-law o’ the have-his-carcass. Well.’
‘But,’ continued the cobbler, ‘finding that they couldn’t agreeamong themselves, and consequently couldn’t get up a caseagainst the will, they withdrew the caveat, and I paid all thelegacies. I’d hardly done it, when one nevy brings an action to setthe will aside. The case comes on, some months afterwards, aforea deaf old gentleman, in a back room somewhere down by Paul’sChurchyard; and arter four counsels had taken a day a-piece tobother him regularly, he takes a week or two to consider, and readthe evidence in six volumes, and then gives his judgment45 that howthe testator was not quite right in his head, and I must pay all themoney back again, and all the costs. I appealed; the case come onbefore three or four very sleepy gentlemen, who had heard it allbefore in the other court, where they’re lawyers without work; theonly difference being, that, there, they’re called doctors, and in theother place delegates, if you understand that; and they verydutifully confirmed the decision of the old gentleman below. Afterthat, we went into Chancery, where we are still, and where I shallalways be. My lawyers have had all my thousand pound long ago;and what between the estate, as they call it, and the costs, I’m herefor ten thousand, and shall stop here, till I die, mending shoes.
Some gentlemen have talked of bringing it before Parliament, andI dare say would have done it, only they hadn’t time to come to me,and I hadn’t power to go to them, and they got tired of my longletters, and dropped the business. And this is God’s truth, withoutone word of suppression or exaggeration, as fifty people, both inthis place and out of it, very well know.’
The cobbler paused to ascertain46 what effect his story hadproduced on Sam; but finding that he had dropped asleep,knocked the ashes out of his pipe, sighed, put it down, drew thebed-clothes over his head, and went to sleep, too.
Mr. Pickwick was sitting at breakfast, alone, next morning (Sambeing busily engaged in the cobbler’s room, polishing his master’sshoes and brushing the black gaiters) when there came a knock atthe door, which, before Mr. Pickwick could cry ‘Come in!’ wasfollowed by the appearance of a head of hair and a cotton-velvetcap, both of which articles of dress he had no difficulty inrecognising as the personal property of Mr. Smangle.
‘How are you?’ said that worthy47, accompanying the inquirywith a score or two of nods; ‘I say―do you expect anybody thismorning? Three men―devilish gentlemanly fellows―have beenasking after you downstairs, and knocking at every door on thehall flight; for which they’ve been most infernally blown up by thecollegians that had the trouble of opening ’em.’
‘Dear me! How very foolish of them,’ said Mr. Pickwick, rising.
‘Yes; I have no doubt they are some friends whom I ratherexpected to see, yesterday.’
‘Friends of yours!’ exclaimed Smangle, seizing Mr. Pickwick bythe hand. ‘Say no more. Curse me, they’re friends of mine fromthis minute, and friends of Mivins’s, too. Infernal pleasant,gentlemanly dog, Mivins, isn’t he?’ said Smangle, with greatfeeling.
‘I know so little of the gentleman,’ said Mr. Pickwick, hesitating,‘that I―’
‘I know you do,’ interrupted Smangle, clasping Mr. Pickwick bythe shoulder. ‘You shall know him better. You’ll be delighted withhim. That man, sir,’ said Smangle, with a solemn countenance,‘has comic powers that would do honour to Drury Lane Theatre.’
‘Has he indeed?’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Ah, by Jove he has!’ replied Smangle. ‘Hear him come the fourcats in the wheel-barrow―four distinct cats, sir, I pledge you myhonour. Now you know that’s infernal clever! Damme, you can’thelp liking49 a man, when you see these traits about him. He’s onlyone fault―that little failing I mentioned to you, you know.’ As Mr.
Smangle shook his head in a confidential50 and sympathisingmanner at this juncture51, Mr. Pickwick felt that he was expected tosay something, so he said, ‘Ah!’ and looked restlessly at the door.
‘Ah!’ echoed Mr. Smangle, with a long-drawn sigh. ‘He’sdelightful company, that man is, sir. I don’t know better companyanywhere; but he has that one drawback. If the ghost of hisgrandfather, sir, was to rise before him this minute, he’d ask himfor the loan of his acceptance on an eightpenny stamp.’
‘Dear me!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
‘Yes,’ added Mr. Smangle; ‘and if he’d the power of raising himagain, he would, in two months and three days from this time, torenew the bill!’
‘Those are very remarkable52 traits,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘but I’mafraid that while we are talking here, my friends may be in a stateof great perplexity at not finding me.’
‘I’ll show ’em the way,’ said Smangle, making for the door.
‘Good-day. I won’t disturb you while they’re here, you know. Bythe bye―’
As Smangle pronounced the last three words, he stoppedsuddenly, reclosed the door which he had opened, and, walkingsoftly back to Mr. Pickwick, stepped close up to him on tiptoe, andsaid, in a very soft whisper―‘You couldn’t make it convenient to lend me half-a-crown tillthe latter end of next week, could you?’
Mr. Pickwick could scarcely forbear smiling, but managing topreserve his gravity, he drew forth53 the coin, and placed it in Mr.
Smangle’s palm; upon which, that gentleman, with many nods andwinks, implying profound mystery, disappeared in quest of thethree strangers, with whom he presently returned; and havingcoughed thrice, and nodded as many times, as an assurance to Mr.
Pickwick that he would not forget to pay, he shook hands allround, in an engaging manner, and at length took himself off.
‘My dear friends,’ said Mr. Pickwick, shaking hands alternatelywith Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass, who were thethree visitors in question, ‘I am delighted to see you.’
The triumvirate were much affected54. Mr. Tupman shook hishead deploringly55, Mr. Snodgrass drew forth his handkerchief, withundisguised emotion; and Mr. Winkle retired to the window, andsniffed aloud.
‘Mornin’, gen’l’m’n,’ said Sam, entering at the moment with theshoes and gaiters. ‘Avay vith melincholly, as the little boy said venhis schoolmissus died. Velcome to the college, gen’l’m’n.’
‘This foolish fellow,’ said Mr. Pickwick, tapping Sam on thehead as he knelt down to button up his master’s gaiters―‘thisfoolish fellow has got himself arrested, in order to be near me.’
‘What!’ exclaimed the three friends.
‘Yes, gen’l’m’n,’ said Sam, ‘I’m a―stand steady, sir, if youplease―I’m a prisoner, gen’l’m’n. Con-fined, as the lady said.’
‘A prisoner!’ exclaimed Mr. Winkle, with unaccountablevehemence.
‘Hollo, sir!’ responded Sam, looking up. ‘Wot’s the matter, sir?’
‘I had hoped, Sam, that―Nothing, nothing,’ said Mr. Winkleprecipitately.
There was something so very abrupt22 and unsettled in Mr.
Winkle’s manner, that Mr. Pickwick involuntarily looked at histwo friends for an explanation.
‘We don’t know,’ said Mr. Tupman, answering this mute appealaloud. ‘He has been much excited for two days past, and his wholedemeanour very unlike what it usually is. We feared there must besomething the matter, but he resolutely56 denies it.’
‘No, no,’ said Mr. Winkle, colouring beneath Mr. Pickwick’sgaze; ‘there is really nothing. I assure you there is nothing, mydear sir. It will be necessary for me to leave town, for a short time,on private business, and I had hoped to have prevailed upon youto allow Sam to accompany me.’
Mr. Pickwick looked more astonished than before.
‘I think,’ faltered57 Mr. Winkle, ‘that Sam would have had noobjection to do so; but, of course, his being a prisoner here,renders it impossible. So I must go alone.’
As Mr. Winkle said these words, Mr. Pickwick felt, with someastonishment, that Sam’s fingers were trembling at the gaiters, asif he were rather surprised or startled. Sam looked up at Mr.
Winkle, too, when he had finished speaking; and though theglance they exchanged was instantaneous, they seemed tounderstand each other.
‘Do you know anything of this, Sam?’ said Mr. Pickwicksharply.
‘No, I don’t, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, beginning to button withextraordinary assiduity.
‘Are you sure, Sam?’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Wy, sir,’ responded Mr. Weller; ‘I’m sure so far, that I’ve neverheerd anythin’ on the subject afore this moment. If I makes anyguess about it,’ added Sam, looking at Mr. Winkle, ‘I haven’t gotany right to say what ‘It is, fear it should be a wrong ‘un.’
‘I have no right to make any further inquiry48 into the privateaffairs of a friend, however intimate a friend,’ said Mr. Pickwick,after a short silence; ‘at present let me merely say, that I do notunderstand this at all. There. We have had quite enough of thesubject.’
Thus expressing himself, Mr. Pickwick led the conversation todifferent topics, and Mr. Winkle gradually appeared more at ease,though still very far from being completely so. They had all somuch to converse59 about, that the morning very quickly passedaway; and when, at three o’clock, Mr. Weller produced upon thelittle dining-table, a roast leg of mutton and an enormous meat-pie, with sundry60 dishes of vegetables, and pots of porter, whichstood upon the chairs or the sofa bedstead, or where they could,everybody felt disposed to do justice to the meal, notwithstandingthat the meat had been purchased, and dressed, and the pie made,and baked, at the prison cookery hard by.
To these succeeded a bottle or two of very good wine, for whicha messenger was despatched by Mr. Pickwick to the Horn Coffee-house, in Doctors’ Commons. The bottle or two, indeed, might bemore properly described as a bottle or six, for by the time it wasdrunk, and tea over, the bell began to ring for strangers towithdraw.
But, if Mr. Winkle’s behaviour had been unaccountable in themorning, it became perfectly61 unearthly and solemn when, underthe influence of his feelings, and his share of the bottle or six, heprepared to take leave of his friend. He lingered behind, until Mr.
Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass had disappeared, and then ferventlyclenched Mr. Pickwick’s hand, with an expression of face in whichdeep and mighty62 resolve was fearfully blended with the veryconcentrated essence of gloom.
‘Good-night, my dear sir!’ said Mr. Winkle between his setteeth.
‘Bless you, my dear fellow!’ replied the warm-hearted Mr.
Pickwick, as he returned the pressure of his young friend’s hand.
‘Now then!’ cried Mr. Tupman from the gallery.
‘Yes, yes, directly,’ replied Mr. Winkle. ‘Good-night!’
‘Good-night,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
There was another good-night, and another, and half a dozenmore after that, and still Mr. Winkle had fast hold of his friend’shand, and was looking into his face with the same strangeexpression.
‘Is anything the matter?’ said Mr. Pickwick at last, when hisarm was quite sore with shaking. ‘Nothing,’ said Mr. Winkle.
‘Well then, good-night,’ said Mr. Pickwick, attempting todisengage his hand.
‘My friend, my benefactor63, my honoured companion,’
murmured Mr. Winkle, catching64 at his wrist. ‘Do not judge meharshly; do not, when you hear that, driven to extremity65 byhopeless obstacles, I―’
‘Now then,’ said Mr. Tupman, reappearing at the door. ‘Are youcoming, or are we to be locked in?’
‘Yes, yes, I am ready,’ replied Mr. Winkle. And with a violenteffort he tore himself away.
As Mr. Pickwick was gazing down the passage after them insilent astonishment58, Sam Weller appeared at the stair-head, andwhispered for one moment in Mr. Winkle’s ear.
‘Oh, certainly, depend upon me,’ said that gentleman aloud.
‘Thank’ee, sir. You won’t forget, sir?’ said Sam. ‘Of course not,’
replied Mr. Winkle.
‘Wish you luck, sir,’ said Sam, touching66 his hat. ‘I should verymuch liked to ha’ joined you, sir; but the gov’nor, o’ course, isparamount.’
‘It is very much to your credit that you remain here,’ said Mr.
Winkle. With these words they disappeared down the stairs.
‘Very extraordinary,’ said Mr. Pickwick, going back into hisroom, and seating himself at the table in a musing67 attitude. ‘Whatcan that young man be going to do?’
He had sat ruminating68 about the matter for some time, whenthe voice of Roker, the turnkey, demanded whether he mightcome in.
‘By all means,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘I’ve brought you a softer pillow, sir,’ said Mr. Roker, ‘instead ofthe temporary one you had last night.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Will you take a glass of wine?’
‘You’re wery good, sir,’ replied Mr. Roker, accepting theproffered glass. ‘Yours, sir.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘I’m sorry to say that your landlord’s wery bad to-night, sir,’
said Roker, setting down the glass, and inspecting the lining69 of hishat preparatory to putting it on again.
‘What! The Chancery prisoner!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
‘He won’t be a Chancery prisoner wery long, sir,’ replied Roker,turning his hat round, so as to get the maker’s name right sideupwards, as he looked into it.
‘You make my blood run cold,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘What do youmean?’
‘He’s been consumptive for a long time past,’ said Mr. Roker,‘and he’s taken wery bad in the breath to-night. The doctor said,six months ago, that nothing but change of air could save him.’
‘Great Heaven!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick; ‘has this man beenslowly murdered by the law for six months?’
‘I don’t know about that,’ replied Roker, weighing the hat bythe brim in both hands. ‘I suppose he’d have been took the same,wherever he was. He went into the infirmary, this morning; thedoctor says his strength is to be kept up as much as possible; andthe warden’s sent him wine and broth44 and that, from his ownhouse. It’s not the warden’s fault, you know, sir.’
‘Of course not,’ replied Mr. Pickwick hastily. ‘I’m afraid,however,’ said Roker, shaking his head, ‘that it’s all up with him. Ioffered Neddy two six-penn’orths to one upon it just now, but hewouldn’t take it, and quite right. Thank’ee, sir. Good-night, sir.’
‘Stay,’ said Mr. Pickwick earnestly. ‘Where is this infirmary?’
‘Just over where you slept, sir,’ replied Roker. ‘I’ll show you, ifyou like to come.’ Mr. Pickwick snatched up his hat withoutspeaking, and followed at once.
The turnkey led the way in silence; and gently raising the latchof the room door, motioned Mr. Pickwick to enter. It was a large,bare, desolate70 room, with a number of stump71 bedsteads made ofiron, on one of which lay stretched the shadow of a man―wan,pale, and ghastly. His breathing was hard and thick, and hemoaned painfully as it came and went. At the bedside sat a shortold man in a cobbler’s apron72, who, by the aid of a pair of hornspectacles, was reading from the Bible aloud. It was the fortunatelegatee.
The sick man laid his hand upon his attendant’s arm, andmotioned him to stop. He closed the book, and laid it on the bed.
‘Open the window,’ said the sick man.
He did so. The noise of carriages and carts, the rattle73 of wheels, the cries of men and boys, all the busy sounds of a mightymultitude instinct with life and occupation, blended into one deepmurmur, floated into the room. Above the hoarse74 loud hum, arose,from time to time, a boisterous75 laugh; or a scrap76 of some jinglingsong, shouted forth, by one of the giddy crowd, would strike uponthe ear, for an instant, and then be lost amidst the roar of voicesand the tramp of footsteps; the breaking of the billows of therestless sea of life, that rolled heavily on, without. These aremelancholy sounds to a quiet listener at any time; but howmelancholy to the watcher by the bed of death!
‘There is no air here,’ said the man faintly. ‘The place pollutesit. It was fresh round about, when I walked there, years ago; but itgrows hot and heavy in passing these walls. I cannot breathe it.’
‘We have breathed it together, for a long time,’ said the oldman. ‘Come, come.’
There was a short silence, during which the two spectatorsapproached the bed. The sick man drew a hand of his old fellow-prisoner towards him, and pressing it affectionately between bothhis own, retained it in his grasp.
‘I hope,’ he gasped77 after a while, so faintly that they bent78 theirears close over the bed to catch the half-formed sounds his palelips gave vent41 to―‘I hope my merciful Judge will bear in mind myheavy punishment on earth. Twenty years, my friend, twentyyears in this hideous79 grave! My heart broke when my child died,and I could not even kiss him in his little coffin80. My lonelinesssince then, in all this noise and riot, has been very dreadful. MayGod forgive me! He has seen my solitary81, lingering death.’
He folded his hands, and murmuring something more theycould not hear, fell into a sleep―only a sleep at first, for they sawhim smile.
They whispered together for a little time, and the turnkey,stooping over the pillow, drew hastily back. ‘He has got hisdischarge, by G―!’ said the man.
He had. But he had grown so like death in life, that they knewnot when he died.
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1
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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consigning
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的现在分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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creditor
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| n.债仅人，债主，贷方 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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13
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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bespeak
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| v.预定；预先请求 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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waylay
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| v.埋伏，伏击 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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strenuously
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| adv.奋发地，费力地 | |
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incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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41
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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42
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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caveat
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| n.警告； 防止误解的说明 | |
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44
broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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46
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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48
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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49
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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50
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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51
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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52
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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53
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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54
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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55
deploringly
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| 探索性的 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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57
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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58
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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59
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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60
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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61
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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63
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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64
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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65
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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66
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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67
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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68
ruminating
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| v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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70
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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71
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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72
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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73
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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74
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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75
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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76
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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77
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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78
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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79
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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80
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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