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

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СКАЧАТЬ you are a nice gal and nothin’ but it.’”

      “That’s a wery pretty sentiment,” said the elder Mr. Weller, removing his pipe to make way for the remark.

      “Yes, I think it is rayther good,” observed Sam, highly flattered.

      “Wot I like in that ’ere style of writin’,” said the elder Mr. Weller, “is that there ain’t no callin’ names in it – no Wenuses, nor nothin’ o’ that kind. Wot’s the good o’ callin’ a young ’ooman a Wenus or a angel, Sammy?”

      “Ah! what, indeed?” replied Sam.

      “You might jist as well call her a griffin, or a unicorn, or a king’s arms at once, which is wery well known to be a col-lection o’ fabulous animals,” added Mr. Weller.

      “Just as well,” replied Sam.

      “Drive on, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller.

      Sam complied with the request, and proceeded as follows: his father continuing to smoke, with a mixed expression of wisdom and complacency, which was particularly edifying,

      “‘Afore I see you, I thought all women was alike.’”

      “So they are,” observed the elder Mr. Weller, parenthetically.

      “‘But now,’ continued Sam, ‘now I find what a reg’lar soft-headed, inkred’lous turnip I must ha’ been; for there ain’t nobody like you, though I like you better than nothin’ at all.’ I thought it best to make that rayther strong,” said Sam, looking up.

      Mr. Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam resumed.

      “‘So I take the privilidge of the day, Mary my dear – as the gen’l’m’n in difficulties did, ven he walked out of a Sunday – to tell you that the first and only time I see you, your likeness was took on my hart in much quicker time and brighter colours than ever a likeness was took by the profeel macheen (vich p’raps you may have heerd on Mary my dear) altho it does finish a portrait and put the frame and glass on complete, with a hook at the end to hang it up by, and all in two minutes and a quarter.’”

      “I am afeerd that werges on the poetical, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, dubiously.

      “No it don’t,” replied Sam, reading on very quickly, to avoid contesting the point.

      “‘Except of me Mary my dear as your walentine and think over what I’ve said. – My dear Mary I will now conclude.’ That’s all,” said Sam.

      “That’s rather a sudden pull up, ain’t it, Sammy?” inquired Mr. Weller.

      “Not a bit on it,” said Sam; “she’ll vish there wos more, and that’s the great art o’ letter writin’.”

      “Well,” said Mr. Weller, “there’s somethin’ in that; and I wish your mother-in-law ’ud only conduct her conwersation on the same gen-teel principle. Ain’t you a goin’ to sign it?”

      “That’s the difficulty,” said Sam; “I don’t know what to sign it.”

      “Sign it, Veller,” said the oldest surviving proprietor of that name.

      “Won’t do,” said Sam. “Never sign a walentine with your own name.”

      “Sign it ‘Pickvick,’ then,” said Mr. Weller; “it’s a wery good name and an easy one to spell.”

      “The wery thing,” said Sam. “I could end with a werse; what do you think?”

      “I don’t like it, Sam,” rejoined Mr. Weller. “I never know’d a respectable coachman as wrote poetry, ’cept one, as made an affectin’ copy o’ werses the night afore he wos hung for a highway robbery; and he wos only a Cambervell man, so even that’s no rule.”

      But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical idea that had occurred to him, so he signed the letter,

      “Your love-sick

      Pickwick.”

      And having folded it in a very intricate manner, squeezed a down-hill direction in one corner: “To Mary, Housemaid, at Mr. Nupkins’s Mayor’s, Ipswich, Suffolk;” and put it into his pocket, wafered, and ready for the general post. This important business having been transacted, Mr. Weller the elder proceeded to open that on which he had summoned his son.

      “The first matter relates to your governor, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller. “He’s a goin’ to be tried to-morrow, ain’t he?”

      “The trial’s a comin’ on,” replied Sam.

      “Vell,” said Mr. Weller, “now I s’pose he’ll want to call some witnesses to speak to his character, or p’raps to prove a alleybi. I’ve been a turnin’ the business over in my mind, and he may make his-self easy, Sammy. I’ve got some friends as’ll do either for him, but my adwice ’ud be this here – never mind the character, and stick to the alleybi. Nothing like a alleybi, Sammy, nothing.” Mr. Weller looked very profound as he delivered this legal opinion; and burying his nose in his tumbler, winked over the top thereof, at his astonished son.

      “Why, what do you mean?” said Sam; “you don’t think he’s a goin’ to be tried at the Old Bailey, do you?”

      “That ain’t no part of the present con-sideration, Sammy,” replied Mr. Weller. “Verever he’s a goin’ to be tried, my boy, a alleybi’s the thing to get him off. Ve got Tom Vildspark off that ’ere manslaughter, with a alleybi, ven all the big vigs to a man said as nothin’ couldn’t save him. And my ’pinion is, Sammy, that if your governor don’t prove a alleybi, he’ll be what the Italians call reg’larly flummoxed, and that’s all about it.”

      As the elder Mr. Weller entertained a firm and unalterable conviction that the Old Bailey was the supreme court of judicature in this country, and that its rules and forms of proceeding regulated and controlled the practice of all other courts of justice whatsoever, he totally disregarded the assurances and arguments of his son, tending to show that the alibi was inadmissible; and vehemently protested that Mr. Pickwick was being “wictimised.” Finding that it was of no use to discuss the matter further, Sam changed the subject, and inquired what the second topic was, on which his revered parent wished to consult him.

      “That’s a pint o’ domestic policy, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller. “This here Stiggins – ”

      “Red-nosed man?” inquired Sam.

      “The wery same,” replied Mr. Weller. “This here red-nosed man, Sammy, wisits your mother-in-law vith a kindness and constancy as I never see equalled. He’s sitch a friend o’ the family, Sammy, that ven he’s avay from us, he can’t be comfortable unless he has somethin’ to remember us by.”

      “And I’d give him somethin’ as ’ud turpentine and bees’-vax his memory for the next ten year or so, if I wos you,” interposed Sam.

      “Stop a minute,” said Mr. Weller; “I wos a going to say, he always brings now, a flat bottle as holds about a pint and a half and fills it vith the pine-apple rum afore he goes avay.”

      “And empties it afore he comes back, I s’pose?” said Sam.

      “Clean!” replied Mr. Weller; СКАЧАТЬ