The Pickwick Papers
perfectly collected, and quite calm under his searching glance, he
gradually relaxed, and reverted to the subject of the ball.
‘I was about to observe, Sir,’ he said, ‘that though my apparel would be
too large, a suit of my friend Mr. Winkle’s would, perhaps, fit you
better.’
The stranger took Mr. Winkle’s measure with his eye, and that feature
glistened with satisfaction as he said, ‘Just the thing.’
Mr. Tupman looked round him. The wine, which had exerted its somniferous
influence over Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle, had stolen upon the senses
of Mr. Pickwick. That gentleman had gradually passed through the various
stages which precede the lethargy produced by dinner, and its
consequences. He had undergone the ordinary transitions from the height
of conviviality to the depth of misery, and from the depth of misery to
the height of conviviality. Like a gas-lamp in the street, with the wind
in the pipe, he had exhibited for a moment an unnatural brilliancy, then
sank so low as to be scarcely discernible; after a short interval, he
had burst out again, to enlighten for a moment; then flickered with an
uncertain, staggering sort of light, and then gone out altogether. His
head was sunk upon his bosom, and perpetual snoring, with a partial
choke occasionally, were the only audible indications of the great man’s
presence.
The temptation to be present at the ball, and to form his first
impressions of the beauty of the Kentish ladies, was strong upon Mr.
Tupman. The temptation to take the stranger with him was equally great.
He was wholly unacquainted with the place and its inhabitants, and the
stranger seemed to possess as great a knowledge of both as if he had
lived there from his infancy. Mr. Winkle was asleep, and Mr. Tupman had
had sufficient experience in such matters to know that the moment he
awoke he would, in the ordinary course of nature, roll heavily to bed.
He was undecided. ‘Fill your glass, and pass the wine,’ said the
indefatigable visitor.
Mr. Tupman did as he was requested; and the additional stimulus of the
last glass settled his determination.
‘Winkle’s bedroom is inside mine,’ said Mr. Tupman; ‘I couldn’t make him
understand what I wanted, if I woke him now, but I know he has a dress-
suit in a carpet bag; and supposing you wore it to the ball, and took it
off when we returned, I could replace it without troubling him at all
about the matter.’
‘Capital,’ said the stranger, ‘famous plan--damned odd situation--
fourteen coats in the packing-cases, and obliged to wear another man’s--
very good notion, that--very.’
‘We must purchase our tickets,’ said Mr. Tupman.
‘Not worth while splitting a guinea,’ said the stranger, ‘toss who shall
pay for both--I call; you spin--first time--woman--woman--bewitching
woman,’ and down came the sovereign with the dragon (called by courtesy
a woman) uppermost.
Mr. Tupman rang the bell, purchased the tickets, and ordered chamber
candlesticks. In another quarter of an hour the stranger was completely
arrayed in a full suit of Mr. Nathaniel Winkle’s.
‘It’s a new coat,’ said Mr. Tupman, as the stranger surveyed himself
with great complacency in a cheval glass; ‘the first that’s been made
with our club button,’ and he called his companions’ attention to the
large gilt button which displayed a bust of Mr. Pickwick in the centre,
and the letters ‘P. C.’ on either side.
‘“P. C.”’ said the stranger--‘queer set out--old fellow’s likeness, and
“P. C.”--What does “P. C.” stand for--Peculiar Coat, eh?’ Mr. Tupman,
with rising indignation and great importance, explained the mystic
device.
‘Rather short in the waist, ain’t it?’ said the stranger, screwing
himself round to catch a glimpse in the glass of the waist buttons,
which were half-way up his back. ‘Like a general postman’s coat--queer
coats those--made by contract--no measuring--mysterious dispensations of
Providence--all the short men get long coats--all the long men short
ones.’ Running on in this way, Mr. Tupman’s new companion adjusted his
dress, or rather the dress of Mr. Winkle; and, accompanied by Mr.
Tupman, ascended the staircase leading to the ballroom.
‘What names, sir?’ said the man at the door. Mr. Tracy Tupman was
stepping forward to announce his own titles, when the stranger prevented
him.
‘No names at all;’ and then he whispered Mr. Tupman, ‘names won’t do--
not known--very good names in their way, but not great ones--capital
names for a small party, but won’t make an impression in public
assemblies--incog. the thing--gentlemen from London--distinguished
foreigners--anything.’ The door was thrown open, and Mr. Tracy Tupman
and the stranger entered the ballroom.
It was a long room, with crimson-covered benches, and wax candles in
glass chandeliers. The musicians were securely confined in an elevated
den, and quadrilles were being systematically got through by two or
three sets of dancers. Two card-tables were made up in the adjoining
card-room, and two pair of old ladies, and a corresponding number of
stout gentlemen, were executing whist therein.
The finale concluded, the dancers promenaded the room, and Mr. Tupman
and his companion stationed themselves in a corner to observe the
company.
‘Charming women,’ said Mr. Tupman.
‘Wait a minute,’ said the stranger, ‘fun presently--nobs not come yet--
queer place--dockyard people of upper rank don’t know dockyard people of
lower rank--dockyard people of lower rank don’t know small gentry--small
gentry don’t know tradespeople--commissioner don’t know anybody.’
‘Who’s that little boy with the light hair and pink eyes, in a fancy
dress?’ inquired Mr. Tupman.
‘Hush, pray--pink eyes--fancy dress--little boy--nonsense--ensign 97th--
Honourable Wilmot Snipe--great family--Snipes--very.’
‘Sir Thomas Clubber, Lady Clubber, and the Misses Clubber!’ shouted the
man at the door in a stentorian voice. A great sensation was created
throughout the room by the entrance of a tall gentleman in a blue coat
and bright buttons, a large lady in blue satin, and two young ladies, on
a similar scale, in fashionably-made dresses of the same hue.
‘Commissioner--head of the yard--great man--remarkably great man,’
whispered the stranger in Mr. Tupman’s ear, as the charitable committee
ushered Sir Thomas Clubber and family to the top of the room. The
Honourable Wilmot Snipe, and other distinguished gentlemen crowded to
render homage to the Misses Clubber; and Sir Thomas Clubber stood bolt
upright, and looked majestically over his black kerchief at the
assembled company.
‘Mr. Smithie, Mrs. Smithie, and the Misses Smithie,’ was the next
announcement.
‘What’s Mr. Smithie?’ inquired Mr. Tracy Tupman.
‘Something in the yard,’ replied the stranger. Mr. Smithie bowed
deferentially to Sir Thomas Clubber; and Sir Thomas Clubber acknowledged
the salute with conscious condescension. Lady Clubber took a telescopic
view of Mrs. Smithie and family through her eye-glass and Mrs. Smithie
stared in her turn at Mrs. Somebody-else, whose husband was not in the
dockyard at all.
‘Colonel Bulder, Mrs. Colonel Bulder, and Miss Bulder,’ were the next
arrivals.
‘Head of the garrison,’ said the stranger, in reply to Mr. Tupman’s
inquiring look.
Miss Bulder was warmly welcomed by the Misses Clubber; the greeting
between Mrs. Colonel Bulder and Lady Clubber was of the most
affectionate description; Colonel Bulder and Sir Thomas Clubber
exchanged snuff-boxes, and looked very much like a pair of Alexander
Selkirks--‘Monarchs of all they surveyed.’
While the aristocracy of the place--the Bulders, and Clubbers, and
Snipes--were thus preserving their dignity at the upper end of the room,
the other classes of society were imitating their example in other parts
of it. The less aristocratic officers of the 97th devoted themselves to
the families of the less important functionaries from the dockyard. The
solicitors’ wives, and the wine-merchant’s wife, headed another grade
(the brewer’s wife visited the Bulders); and Mrs. Tomlinson, the post-
office keeper, seemed by mutual consent to have been chosen the leader
of the trade party.
One of the most popular personages, in his own circle, present, was a
little fat man, with a ring of upright black hair round his head, and an
extensive bald plain on the top of it--Doctor Slammer, surgeon to the
97th. The doctor took snuff with everybody, chatted with everybody,
laughed, danced, made jokes, played whist, did everything, and was
everywhere. To these pursuits, multifarious as they were, the little
doctor added a more important one than any--he was indefatigable in
paying the most unremitting and devoted attention to a little old widow,
whose rich dress and profusion of ornament bespoke her a most desirable
addition to a limited income.
Upon the doctor, and the widow, the eyes of both Mr. Tupman and his
companion had been fixed for some time, when the stranger broke silence.
‘Lots of money--old girl--pompous doctor--not a bad idea--good fun,’
were the intelligible sentences which issued from his lips. Mr. Tupman
looked inquisitively in his face.
‘I’ll dance with the widow,’ said the stranger.
‘Who is she?’ inquired Mr. Tupman.
‘Don’t know--never saw her in all my life--cut out the doctor--here
goes.’ And the stranger forthwith crossed the room; and, leaning against
a mantel-piece, commenced gazing with an air of respectful and
melancholy admiration on the fat countenance of the little old lady. Mr.
Tupman looked on, in mute astonishment. The stranger progressed rapidly;
the little doctor danced with another lady; the widow dropped her fan;
the stranger picked it up, and presented it--a smile--a bow--a curtsey--
a few words of conversation. The stranger walked boldly up to, and
returned with, the master of the ceremonies; a little introductory
pantomime; and the stranger and Mrs. Budger took their places in a
quadrille.
The surprise of Mr. Tupman at this summary proceeding, great as it was,
was immeasurably exceeded by the astonishment of the doctor. The
stranger was young, and the widow was flattered. The doctor’s attentions
were unheeded by the widow; and the doctor’s indignation was wholly lost
on his imperturbable rival. Doctor Slammer was paralysed. He, Doctor
Slammer, of the 97th, to be extinguished in a moment, by a man whom
nobody had ever seen before, and whom nobody knew even now! Doctor
Slammer--Doctor Slammer of the 97th rejected! Impossible! It could not
be! Yes, it was; there they were. What! introducing his friend! Could he
believe his eyes! He looked again, and was under the painful necessity
of admitting the veracity of his optics; Mrs. Budger was dancing with
Mr. Tracy Tupman; there was no mistaking the fact. There was the widow
before him, bouncing bodily here and there, with unwonted vigour; and
Mr. Tracy Tupman hopping about, with a face expressive of the most
intense solemnity, dancing (as a good many people do) as if a quadrille
were not a thing to be laughed at, but a severe trial to the feelings,
which it requires inflexible resolution to encounter.
Silently and patiently did the doctor bear all this, and all the
handings of negus, and watching for glasses, and darting for biscuits,
and coquetting, that ensued; but, a few seconds after the stranger had
disappeared to lead Mrs. Budger to her carriage, he darted swiftly from
the room with every particle of his hitherto-bottled-up indignation
effervescing, from all parts of his countenance, in a perspiration of
passion.
The stranger was returning, and Mr. Tupman was beside him. He spoke in a
low tone, and laughed. The little doctor thirsted for his life. He was
exulting. He had triumphed.
‘Sir!’ said the doctor, in an awful voice, producing a card, and