MR. PICKWICK AT THE PLAY
“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, lookedknowing, 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 toThe 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, theyset 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, “thatis 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, “whatcanthat 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.