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

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СКАЧАТЬ my soul!” exclaimed the agonised Mr. Pickwick, “there’s the other horse running away!”

      It was but too true. The animal was startled by the noise, and the reins were on his back. The result may be guessed. He tore off with the four-wheeled chaise behind him, and Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass in the four-wheeled chaise. The heat was a short one. Mr. Tupman threw himself into the hedge, Mr. Snodgrass followed his example, the horse dashed the four-wheeled chaise against a wooden bridge, separated the wheels from the body, and the bin from the perch; and finally stood stock still to gaze upon the ruin he had made.

      The first care of the two unspilt friends was to extricate their unfortunate companions from their bed of quickset – a process which gave them the unspeakable satisfaction of discovering that they had sustained no injury, beyond sundry rents in their garments, and various lacerations from the brambles. The next thing to be done was, to unharness the horse. This complicated process having been effected, the party walked slowly forward, leading the horse among them, and abandoning the chaise to its fate.

      An hour’s walking brought the travellers to a little road-side public-house, with two elm trees, a horse trough, and a sign-post, in front; one or two deformed hay-ricks behind, a kitchen garden at the side, and rotten sheds and mouldering out-houses jumbled in strange confusion all about it. A red-headed man was working in the garden; and to him Mr. Pickwick called lustily – “Hallo there!”

      The red-headed man raised his body, shaded his eyes with his hand, and stared, long and coolly, at Mr. Pickwick and his companions.

      “Hallo there!” repeated Mr. Pickwick.

      “Hallo!” was the red-headed man’s reply.

      “How far is it to Dingley Dell?”

      “Better er seven mile.”

      “Is it a good road?”

      “No, ’tan’t.” Having uttered this brief reply, and apparently satisfied himself with another scrutiny, the red-headed man resumed his work.

      “We want to put this horse up here,” said Mr. Pickwick; “I suppose we can, can’t we?”

      “Want to put that ere horse up, do ee?” repeated the red-headed man, leaning on his spade.

      “Of course,” replied Mr. Pickwick, who had by this time advanced, horse in hand, to the garden rails.

      “Missus” – roared the man with the red head, emerging from the garden, and looking very hard at the horse – “Missus!”

      A tall bony woman – straight all the way down – in a coarse blue pelisse, with the waist an inch or two below her armpits, responded to the call.

      “Can we put this horse up here, my good woman?” said Mr. Tupman, advancing, and speaking in his most seductive tones. The woman looked very hard at the whole party, and the red-headed man whispered something in her ear.

      “No,” replied the woman, after a little consideration, “I’m afeered on it.”

      “Afraid!” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, “what’s the woman afraid of?”

      “It got us into trouble last time,” said the woman, turning into the house; “I woant have nothin’ to say to ’un.”

      “Most extraordinary thing I ever met with in my life,” said the astonished Mr. Pickwick.

      “I – I – really believe,” whispered Mr. Winkle, as his friends gathered round him, “that they think we have come by this horse in some dishonest manner.”

      “What!” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, in a storm of indignation. Mr. Winkle modestly repeated his suggestion.

      “Hallo, you fellow!” said the angry Mr. Pickwick, “do you think we stole this horse?”

      “I’m sure ye did,” replied the red-headed man, with a grin which agitated his countenance from one auricular organ to the other. Saying which he turned into the house, and banged the door after him.

      “It’s like a dream,” ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, “a hideous dream. The idea of a man’s walking about, all day, with a dreadful horse that he can’t get rid of!” The depressed Pickwickians turned moodily away, with a tall quadruped, for which they all felt the most unmitigated disgust, following slowly at their heels.

      It was late in the afternoon when the four friends and their four-footed companion turned into the lane leading to Manor Farm: and even when they were so near their place of destination, the pleasure they would have otherwise experienced was materially damped as they reflected on the singularity of their appearance, and the absurdity of their situation. Torn clothes, lacerated faces, dusty shoes, exhausted looks, and, above all, the horse. Oh, how Mr. Pickwick cursed that horse: he had eyed the noble animal from time to time with looks expressive of hatred and revenge; more than once he had calculated the probable amount of the expense he would incur by cutting his throat; and now the temptation to destroy him, or to cast him loose upon the world, rushed upon his mind with tenfold force. He was roused from a meditation on these dire imaginings, by the sudden appearance of two figures at a turn of the lane. It was Mr. Wardle, and his faithful attendant, the fat boy.

      “Why, where have you been?” said the hospitable old gentleman; “I’ve been waiting for you all day. Well, you do look tired. What! Scratches! Not hurt, I hope – eh? Well, I am glad to hear that – very. So you’ve been spilt, eh? Never mind. Common accident in these parts. Joe – he’s asleep again! – Joe, take that horse from the gentleman, and lead it into the stable.”

      The fat boy sauntered heavily behind them with the animal; and the old gentleman, condoling with his guests in homely phrase on so much of the day’s adventures as they thought proper to communicate, led the way to the kitchen.

      “We’ll have you put to rights here,” said the old gentleman, “and then I’ll introduce you to the people in the parlour. Emma, bring out the cherry brandy; now, Jane, a needle and thread here; towels and water, Mary. Come, girls, bustle about.”

      Three or four buxom girls speedily dispersed in search of the different articles in requisition, while a couple of large-headed, circular-visaged males rose from their seats in the chimney-corner (for although it was a May evening, their attachment to the wood fire appeared as cordial as if it were Christmas), and dived into some obscure recesses, from which they speedily produced a bottle of blacking, and some half-dozen brushes.

      “Bustle!” said the old gentleman again, but the admonition was quite unnecessary, for one of the girls poured out the cherry brandy, and another brought in the towels, and one of the men suddenly seizing Mr. Pickwick by the leg, at imminent hazard of throwing him off his balance, brushed away at his foot, till his corns were red-hot; while the other shampoo’d Mr. Winkle with a heavy clothes-brush, indulging, during the operation, in that hissing sound which hostlers are wont to produce when engaged in rubbing down a horse.

      Mr. Snodgrass, having concluded his ablutions, took a survey of the room, while standing with his back to the fire, sipping his cherry brandy with heartfelt satisfaction. He describes it as a large apartment, with a red brick floor and a capacious chimney; the ceiling garnished with hams, sides of bacon, and ropes of onions. The walls were decorated with several hunting-whips, two or three bridles, a saddle, and an old rusty blunderbuss, with an inscription below it, intimating that it was “Loaded” – as it had been, on the same authority, for half a century at least. An old eight-day clock, of solemn and sedate demeanour, ticked gravely in one corner; СКАЧАТЬ