The Pickwick Papers

‘This letter, Sir, is from your son. You will see, by its contents, that on your favourable and fatherly consideration of it, depend his future happiness and welfare. Will you oblige me by giving it the calmest and coolest perusal, and by discussing the subject afterwards with me, in the tone and spirit in which alone it ought to be discussed? You may judge of the importance of your decision to your son, and his intense anxiety upon the subject, by my waiting upon you, without any previous warning, at so late an hour; and,’ added Mr. Pickwick, glancing slightly at his two companions—‘and under such unfavourable circumstances.’

With this prelude, Mr. Pickwick placed four closely–written sides of extra superfine wire–wove penitence in the hands of the astounded Mr. Winkle, senior. Then reseating himself in his chair, he watched his looks and manner: anxiously, it is true, but with the open front of a gentleman who feels he has taken no part which he need excuse or palliate. The old wharfinger turned the letter over, looked at the front, back, and sides, made a microscopic examination of the fat little boy on the seal, raised his eyes to Mr. Pickwick’s face, and then, seating himself on the high stool, and drawing the lamp closer to him, broke the wax, unfolded the epistle, and lifting it to the light, prepared to read. Just at this moment, Mr. Bob Sawyer, whose wit had lain dormant for some minutes, placed his hands on his knees, and made a face after the portraits of the late Mr. Grimaldi, as clown. It so happened that Mr. Winkle, senior, instead of being deeply engaged in reading the letter, as Mr. Bob Sawyer thought, chanced to be looking over the top of it at no less a person than Mr. Bob Sawyer himself; rightly conjecturing that the face aforesaid was made in ridicule and derision of his own person, he fixed his eyes on Bob with such expressive sternness, that the late Mr. Grimaldi’s lineaments gradually resolved themselves into a very fine expression of humility and confusion.

‘Did you speak, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Winkle, senior, after an awful silence.

‘No, sir,’ replied Bob, With no remains of the clown about him, save and except the extreme redness of his cheeks.

‘You are sure you did not, sir?’ said Mr. Winkle, senior.

‘Oh dear, yes, sir, quite,’ replied Bob.

‘I thought you did, Sir,’ replied the old gentleman, with indignant emphasis. ‘Perhaps you looked at me, sir?’

‘Oh, no! sir, not at all,’ replied Bob, with extreme civility.

‘I am very glad to hear it, sir,’ said Mr. Winkle, senior. Having frowned upon the abashed Bob with great magnificence, the old gentleman again brought the letter to the light, and began to read it seriously.

Mr. Pickwick eyed him intently as he turned from the bottom line of the first page to the top line of the second, and from the bottom of the second to the top of the third, and from the bottom of the third to the top of the fourth; but not the slightest alteration of countenance afforded a clue to the feelings with which he received the announcement of his son’s marriage, which Mr. Pickwick knew was in the very first half–dozen lines.

He read the letter to the last word, folded it again with all the carefulness and precision of a man of business, and, just when Mr. Pickwick expected some great outbreak of feeling, dipped a pen in the ink–stand, and said, as quietly as if he were speaking on the most ordinary counting–house topic—

‘What is Nathaniel’s address, Mr. Pickwick?’

‘The George and Vulture, at present,’ replied that gentleman.

‘George and Vulture. Where is that?’

‘George Yard, Lombard Street.’

‘In the city?’

‘Yes.’

The old gentleman methodically indorsed the address on the back of the letter; and then, placing it in the desk, which he locked, said, as he got off the stool and put the bunch of keys in his pocket—

‘I suppose there is nothing else which need detain us, Mr. Pickwick?’

‘Nothing else, my dear Sir!’ observed that warm–hearted person in indignant amazement. ‘Nothing else! Have you no opinion to express on this momentous event in our young friend’s life? No assurance to convey to him, through me, of the continuance of your affection and protection? Nothing to say which will cheer and sustain him, and the anxious girl who looks to him for comfort and support? My dear Sir, consider.’

‘I will consider,’ replied the old gentleman. ‘I have nothing to say just now. I am a man of business, Mr. Pickwick. I never commit myself hastily in any affair, and from what I see of this, I by no means like the appearance of it. A thousand pounds is not much, Mr. Pickwick.’

‘You’re very right, Sir,’ interposed Ben Allen, just awake enough to know that he had spent his thousand pounds without the smallest difficulty. ‘You’re an intelligent man. Bob, he’s a very knowing fellow this.’