The Pickwick Papers
to get into the good graces of the buxom widow, Tom Smart at last
arrived at the satisfactory conclusion that he was a very ill-used and
persecuted individual, and had better go to bed.
‘Up a wide and ancient staircase the smart girl preceded Tom, shading
the chamber candle with her hand, to protect it from the currents of air
which in such a rambling old place might have found plenty of room to
disport themselves in, without blowing the candle out, but which did
blow it out nevertheless--thus affording Tom’s enemies an opportunity of
asserting that it was he, and not the wind, who extinguished the candle,
and that while he pretended to be blowing it alight again, he was in
fact kissing the girl. Be this as it may, another light was obtained,
and Tom was conducted through a maze of rooms, and a labyrinth of
passages, to the apartment which had been prepared for his reception,
where the girl bade him good-night and left him alone.
‘It was a good large room with big closets, and a bed which might have
served for a whole boarding-school, to say nothing of a couple of oaken
presses that would have held the baggage of a small army; but what
struck Tom’s fancy most was a strange, grim-looking, high backed chair,
carved in the most fantastic manner, with a flowered damask cushion, and
the round knobs at the bottom of the legs carefully tied up in red
cloth, as if it had got the gout in its toes. Of any other queer chair,
Tom would only have thought it was a queer chair, and there would have
been an end of the matter; but there was something about this particular
chair, and yet he couldn’t tell what it was, so odd and so unlike any
other piece of furniture he had ever seen, that it seemed to fascinate
him. He sat down before the fire, and stared at the old chair for half
an hour.--Damn the chair, it was such a strange old thing, he couldn’t
take his eyes off it.
‘“Well,” said Tom, slowly undressing himself, and staring at the old
chair all the while, which stood with a mysterious aspect by the
bedside, “I never saw such a rum concern as that in my days. Very odd,”
said Tom, who had got rather sage with the hot punch--“very odd.” Tom
shook his head with an air of profound wisdom, and looked at the chair
again. He couldn’t make anything of it though, so he got into bed,
covered himself up warm, and fell asleep.
‘In about half an hour, Tom woke up with a start, from a confused dream
of tall men and tumblers of punch; and the first object that presented
itself to his waking imagination was the queer chair.
‘“I won’t look at it any more,” said Tom to himself, and he squeezed his
eyelids together, and tried to persuade himself he was going to sleep
again. No use; nothing but queer chairs danced before his eyes, kicking
up their legs, jumping over each other’s backs, and playing all kinds of
antics.
“‘I may as well see one real chair, as two or three complete sets of
false ones,” said Tom, bringing out his head from under the bedclothes.
There it was, plainly discernible by the light of the fire, looking as
provoking as ever.
‘Tom gazed at the chair; and, suddenly as he looked at it, a most
extraordinary change seemed to come over it. The carving of the back
gradually assumed the lineaments and expression of an old, shrivelled
human face; the damask cushion became an antique, flapped waistcoat; the
round knobs grew into a couple of feet, encased in red cloth slippers;
and the whole chair looked like a very ugly old man, of the previous
century, with his arms akimbo. Tom sat up in bed, and rubbed his eyes to
dispel the illusion. No. The chair was an ugly old gentleman; and what
was more, he was winking at Tom Smart.
‘Tom was naturally a headlong, careless sort of dog, and he had had five
tumblers of hot punch into the bargain; so, although he was a little
startled at first, he began to grow rather indignant when he saw the old
gentleman winking and leering at him with such an impudent air. At
length he resolved that he wouldn’t stand it; and as the old face still
kept winking away as fast as ever, Tom said, in a very angry tone--
‘“What the devil are you winking at me for?”
‘“Because I like it, Tom Smart,” said the chair; or the old gentleman,
whichever you like to call him. He stopped winking though, when Tom
spoke, and began grinning like a superannuated monkey.
‘“How do you know my name, old nut-cracker face?” inquired Tom Smart,
rather staggered; though he pretended to carry it off so well.
‘“Come, come, Tom,” said the old gentleman, “that’s not the way to
address solid Spanish mahogany. Damme, you couldn’t treat me with less
respect if I was veneered.” When the old gentleman said this, he looked
so fierce that Tom began to grow frightened.
‘“I didn’t mean to treat you with any disrespect, Sir,” said Tom, in a
much humbler tone than he had spoken in at first.
‘“Well, well,” said the old fellow, “perhaps not--perhaps not. Tom--”
‘“Sir--”
‘“I know everything about you, Tom; everything. You’re very poor, Tom.”
‘“I certainly am,” said Tom Smart. “But how came you to know that?”
‘“Never mind that,” said the old gentleman; “you’re much too fond of
punch, Tom.”
‘Tom Smart was just on the point of protesting that he hadn’t tasted a
drop since his last birthday, but when his eye encountered that of the
old gentleman he looked so knowing that Tom blushed, and was silent.
‘“Tom,” said the old gentleman, “the widow’s a fine woman--remarkably
fine woman--eh, Tom?” Here the old fellow screwed up his eyes, cocked up
one of his wasted little legs, and looked altogether so unpleasantly
amorous, that Tom was quite disgusted with the levity of his behaviour--
at his time of life, too!
‘“I am her guardian, Tom,” said the old gentleman.
‘“Are you?” inquired Tom Smart.
‘“I knew her mother, Tom,” said the old fellow: “and her grandmother.
She was very fond of me--made me this waistcoat, Tom.”
‘“Did she?” said Tom Smart.
‘“And these shoes,” said the old fellow, lifting up one of the red cloth
mufflers; “but don’t mention it, Tom. I shouldn’t like to have it known
that she was so much attached to me. It might occasion some
unpleasantness in the family.” When the old rascal said this, he looked
so extremely impertinent, that, as Tom Smart afterwards declared, he
could have sat upon him without remorse.
‘“I have been a great favourite among the women in my time, Tom,” said
the profligate old debauchee; “hundreds of fine women have sat in my lap
for hours together. What do you think of that, you dog, eh!” The old
gentleman was proceeding to recount some other exploits of his youth,
when he was seized with such a violent fit of creaking that he was
unable to proceed.
‘“Just serves you right, old boy,” thought Tom Smart; but he didn’t say
anything.
‘“Ah!” said the old fellow, “I am a good deal troubled with this now. I
am getting old, Tom, and have lost nearly all my nails. I have had an
operation performed, too--a small piece let into my back--and I found it
a severe trial, Tom.”
‘“I dare say you did, Sir,” said Tom Smart.
‘“However,” said the old gentleman, “that’s not the point. Tom! I want
you to marry the widow.”
‘“Me, Sir!” said Tom.
‘“You,” said the old gentleman.
‘“Bless your reverend locks,” said Tom (he had a few scattered horse-
hairs left)--“bless your reverend locks, she wouldn’t have me.” And Tom
sighed involuntarily, as he thought of the bar.
‘“Wouldn’t she?” said the old gentleman firmly.
‘“No, no,” said Tom; “there’s somebody else in the wind. A tall man--a
confoundedly tall man--with black whiskers.”
‘“Tom,” said the old gentleman; “she will never have him.”
‘“Won’t she?” said Tom. “If you stood in the bar, old gentleman, you’d
tell another story.”
‘“Pooh, pooh,” said the old gentleman. “I know all about that.”
‘“About what?” said Tom.
‘“The kissing behind the door, and all that sort of thing, Tom,” said
the old gentleman. And here he gave another impudent look, which made
Tom very wroth, because as you all know, gentlemen, to hear an old
fellow, who ought to know better, talking about these things, is very
unpleasant--nothing more so.
‘“I know all about that, Tom,” said the old gentleman. “I have seen it
done very often in my time, Tom, between more people than I should like
to mention to you; but it never came to anything after all.”
‘“You must have seen some queer things,” said Tom, with an inquisitive
look.
‘“You may say that, Tom,” replied the old fellow, with a very
complicated wink. “I am the last of my family, Tom,” said the old
gentleman, with a melancholy sigh.
‘“Was it a large one?” inquired Tom Smart.
‘“There were twelve of us, Tom,” said the old gentleman; “fine,
straight-backed, handsome fellows as you’d wish to see. None of your
modern abortions--all with arms, and with a degree of polish, though I
say it that should not, which it would have done your heart good to
behold.”
‘“And what’s become of the others, Sir?” asked Tom Smart--
‘The old gentleman applied his elbow to his eye as he replied, “Gone,
Tom, gone. We had hard service, Tom, and they hadn’t all my
constitution. They got rheumatic about the legs and arms, and went into
kitchens and other hospitals; and one of ‘em, with long service and hard
usage, positively lost his senses--he got so crazy that he was obliged
to be burnt. Shocking thing that, Tom.”
‘“Dreadful!” said Tom Smart.
‘The old fellow paused for a few minutes, apparently struggling with his
feelings of emotion, and then said--
‘“However, Tom, I am wandering from the point. This tall man, Tom, is a
rascally adventurer. The moment he married the widow, he would sell off
all the furniture, and run away. What would be the consequence? She
would be deserted and reduced to ruin, and I should catch my death of
cold in some broker’s shop.”
‘“Yes, but--”
‘“Don’t interrupt me,” said the old gentleman. “Of you, Tom, I entertain
a very different opinion; for I well know that if you once settled
yourself in a public-house, you would never leave it, as long as there
was anything to drink within its walls.”
‘“I am very much obliged to you for your good opinion, Sir,” said Tom
Smart.
‘“Therefore,” resumed the old gentleman, in a dictatorial tone, “you
shall have her, and he shall not.”
‘“What is to prevent it?” said Tom Smart eagerly.
‘“This disclosure,” replied the old gentleman; “he is already married.”
‘“How can I prove it?” said Tom, starting half out of bed.
‘The old gentleman untucked his arm from his side, and having pointed to
one of the oaken presses, immediately replaced it, in its old position.
‘“He little thinks,” said the old gentleman, “that in the right-hand
pocket of a pair of trousers in that press, he has left a letter,
entreating him to return to his disconsolate wife, with six--mark me,
Tom--six babes, and all of them small ones.”
‘As the old gentleman solemnly uttered these words, his features grew
less and less distinct, and his figure more shadowy. A film came over
Tom Smart’s eyes. The old man seemed gradually blending into the chair,
the damask waistcoat to resolve into a cushion, the red slippers to
shrink into little red cloth bags. The light faded gently away, and Tom
Smart fell back on his pillow, and dropped asleep.
‘Morning aroused Tom from the lethargic slumber, into which he had
fallen on the disappearance of the old man. He sat up in bed, and for
some minutes vainly endeavoured to recall the events of the preceding
night. Suddenly they rushed upon him. He looked at the chair; it was a
fantastic and grim-looking piece of furniture, certainly, but it must
have been a remarkably ingenious and lively imagination, that could have
discovered any resemblance between it and an old man.