The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club. Volume 1 of 2. Чарльз Диккенс

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СКАЧАТЬ sickened at the thought of the long course of cruelty and neglect which must have occurred to produce such an impression on such a man. I could say nothing in reply; for who could offer hope, or consolation, to the abject being before me?

      “I sat there for upwards of two hours, during which he tossed about, murmuring exclamations of pain or impatience, restlessly throwing his arms here and there, and turning constantly from side to side. At length he fell into that state of partial unconsciousness, in which the mind wanders uneasily from scene to scene, and from place to place, without the control of reason, but still without being able to divest itself of an indescribable sense of present suffering. Finding from his incoherent wanderings that this was the case, and knowing that in all probability the fever would not grow immediately worse, I left him, promising his miserable wife that I would repeat my visit next evening, and, if necessary, sit up with the patient during the night.

      “I kept my promise. The last four-and-twenty hours had produced a frightful alteration. The eyes, though deeply sunk and heavy, shone with a lustre frightful to behold. The lips were parched, and cracked in many places: the hard dry skin glowed with a burning heat, and there was an almost unearthly air of wild anxiety in the man’s face, indicating even more strongly the ravages of the disease. The fever was at its height.

      “I took the seat I had occupied the night before, and there I sat for hours, listening to sounds which must strike deep to the heart of the most callous among human beings – the awful ravings of a dying man. From what I had heard of the medical attendant’s opinion, I knew there was no hope for him: I was sitting by his death-bed. I saw the wasted limbs, which a few hours before had been distorted for the amusement of a boisterous gallery, writhing under the tortures of a burning fever – I heard the clown’s shrill laugh, blending with the low murmurings of the dying man.

      “It is a touching thing to hear the mind reverting to the ordinary occupations and pursuits of health, when the body lies before you weak and helpless; but when those occupations are of a character the most strongly opposed to anything we associate with grave and solemn ideas, the impression produced is infinitely more powerful. The theatre and the public-house were the chief themes of the wretched man’s wanderings. It was evening, he fancied; he had a part to play that night; it was late, and he must leave home instantly. Why did they hold him, and prevent his going? – he should lose the money – he must go. No! they would not let him. He hid his face in his burning hands, and feebly bemoaned his own weakness, and the cruelty of his persecutors. A short pause, and he shouted out a few doggrel rhymes – the last he had ever learnt. He rose in bed, drew up his withered limbs, and rolled about in uncouth positions; he was acting – he was at the theatre. A minute’s silence, and he murmured the burden of some roaring song. He had reached the old house at last: how hot the room was. He had been ill, very ill, but he was well now, and happy. Fill up his glass. Who was that, that dashed it from his lips? It was the same persecutor that had followed him before. He fell back upon his pillow and moaned aloud. A short period of oblivion, and he was wandering through a tedious maze of low-arched rooms – so low sometimes, that he must creep upon his hands and knees to make his way along; it was so close and dark, and every way he turned, some obstacle impeded his progress. There were insects too, hideous crawling things with eyes that stared upon him, and filled the very air around; glistening horribly amidst the thick darkness of the place. The walls and ceiling were alive with reptiles – the vault expanded to an enormous size – frightful figures flitted to and fro – and the faces of men he knew, rendered hideous by gibing and mouthing, peered out from among them; they were searing him with heated irons, and binding his head with cords till the blood started; and he struggled madly for life.

      “At the close of one of these paroxysms, when I had with great difficulty held him down in his bed, he sank into what appeared to be a slumber. Overpowered with watching and exertion, I had closed my eyes for a few minutes, when I felt a violent clutch on my shoulder. I awoke instantly. He had raised himself up, so as to seat himself in bed – a dreadful change had come over his face, but consciousness had returned, for he evidently knew me. The child who had been long since disturbed by his ravings, rose from its little bed, and ran towards its father, screaming with fright – the mother hastily caught it in her arms, lest he should injure it in the violence of his insanity; but terrified by the alteration of his features, stood transfixed by the bedside. He grasped my shoulder convulsively, and striking his breast with the other hand, made a desperate attempt to articulate. It was unavailing – he extended his arm towards them, and made another violent effort. There was a rattling noise in the throat – a glare of the eye – a short stifled groan – and he fell back – dead!”

      It would afford us the highest gratification to be enabled to record Mr. Pickwick’s opinion of the foregoing anecdote. We have little doubt that we should have been enabled to present it to our readers, but for a most unfortunate occurrence.

      Mr. Pickwick had replaced on the table the glass which, during the last few sentences of the tale, he had retained in his hand; and had just made up his mind to speak – indeed, we have the authority of Mr. Snodgrass’s note-book for stating, that he had actually opened his mouth – when the waiter entered the room, and said —

      “Some gentlemen, sir.”

      It has been conjectured that Mr. Pickwick was on the point of delivering some remarks which would have enlightened the world, if not the Thames, when he was thus interrupted; for he gazed sternly on the waiter’s countenance, and then looked round on the company generally, as if seeking for information relative to the new comers.

      “Oh!” said Mr. Winkle, rising, “some friends of mine – show them in. Very pleasant fellows,” added Mr. Winkle, after the waiter had retired – “Officers of the 97th, whose acquaintance I made rather oddly this morning. You will like them very much.”

      Mr. Pickwick’s equanimity was at once restored. The waiter returned, and ushered three gentlemen into the room.

      “Lieutenant Tappleton,” said Mr. Winkle, “Lieutenant Tappleton, Mr. Pickwick – Doctor Payne, Mr. Pickwick – Mr. Snodgrass, you have seen before; my friend Mr. Tupman, Doctor Payne – Dr. Slammer, Mr. Pickwick – Mr. Tupman, Doctor Slam – ”

      Here Mr. Winkle suddenly paused; for strong emotion was visible on the countenance of Mr. Tupman and the Doctor.

      “I have met this gentleman before,” said the Doctor, with marked emphasis.

      “Indeed!” said Mr. Winkle.

      “And – and that person too, if I am not mistaken,” said the Doctor, bestowing a scrutinising glance on the green-coated stranger. “I think I gave that person a very pressing invitation last night, which he thought proper to decline.” Saying which the Doctor scowled magnanimously on the stranger, and whispered his friend Lieutenant Tappleton.

      “You don’t say so,” said that gentleman, at the conclusion of the whisper.

      “I do, indeed,” replied Dr. Slammer.

      “You are bound to kick him on the spot,” murmured the owner of the camp-stool with great importance.

      “Do be quiet, Payne,” interposed the Lieutenant. “Will you allow me to ask you, sir,” he said, addressing Mr. Pickwick, who was considerably mystified by this very unpolite by-play, “will you allow me to ask you, sir, whether that person belongs to your party?”

      “No, sir,” replied Mr. Pickwick, “he is a guest of ours.”

      “He is a member of your club, or I am mistaken?” said the Lieutenant, inquiringly.

      “Certainly not,” responded Mr. Pickwick.

      “And never wears your club-button?” said the СКАЧАТЬ