Hello,Welcome!Log In to My AccountorCreate Account

Mr. Pickwick had felt some apprehensions in consequence of the unusualabsence of his two friends, which their mysterious behaviour during thewhole morning had by no means tended to diminish. It was, therefore,with more than ordinary pleasure that he rose to greet them when theyagain entered; and with more than ordinary interest that he inquiredwhat had occurred to detain them from his society. In reply to hisquestions on this point, Mr. Snodgrass was about to offer an historicalaccount of the circumstances just now detailed, when he was suddenlychecked by observing that there were present, not only Mr. Tupman andtheir stage-coach companion of the preceding day, but another strangerof equally singular appearance. It was a careworn-looking man, whosesallow face, and deeply-sunken eyes, were rendered still more strikingthan Nature had made them, by the straight black hair which hung inmatted disorder half-way down his face. His eyes were almost unnaturallybright and piercing; his cheek-bones were high and prominent; and hisjaws were so long and lank, that an observer would have supposed that hewas drawing the flesh of his face in, for a moment, by some contractionof the muscles, if his half-opened mouth and immovable expression hadnot announced that it was his ordinary appearance. Round his neck hewore a green shawl, with the large ends straggling over his chest, andmaking their appearance occasionally beneath the worn button-holes ofhis old waistcoat. His upper garment was a long black surtout; and belowit he wore wide drab trousers, and large boots, running rapidly to seed.

It was on this uncouth-looking person that Mr. Winkle's eye rested, andit was towards him that Mr. Pickwick extended his hand when he said, 'Afriend of our friend's here. We discovered this morning that our friendwas connected with the theatre in this place, though he is not desirousto have it generally known, and this gentleman is a member of the sameprofession. He was about to favour us with a little anecdote connectedwith it, when you entered.'

'Lots of anecdote,' said the green-coated stranger of the day before,advancing to Mr. Winkle and speaking in a low and confidential tone.'Rum fellow--does the heavy business--no actor--strange man--all sortsof miseries--Dismal Jemmy, we call him on the circuit.' Mr. Winkle andMr. Snodgrass politely welcomed the gentleman, elegantly designated as'Dismal Jemmy'; and calling for brandy-and-water, in imitation of theremainder of the company, seated themselves at the table. 'Now sir,'said Mr. Pickwick, 'will you oblige us by proceeding with what you weregoing to relate?'

The dismal individual took a dirty roll of paper from his pocket, andturning to Mr. Snodgrass, who had just taken out his note-book, said ina hollow voice, perfectly in keeping with his outward man--'Are you thepoet?'

'I--I do a little in that way,' replied Mr. Snodgrass, rather takenaback by the abruptness of the question. 'Ah! poetry makes life whatlight and music do the stage--strip the one of the false embellishments,and the other of its illusions, and what is there real in either to liveor care for?'

'Very true, Sir,' replied Mr. Snodgrass.

'To be before the footlights,' continued the dismal man, 'is likesitting at a grand court show, and admiring the silken dresses ofthe gaudy throng; to be behind them is to be the people who make thatfinery, uncared for and unknown, and left to sink or swim, to starve orlive, as fortune wills it.'

'Certainly,' said Mr. Snodgrass: for the sunken eye of the dismal manrested on him, and he felt it necessary to say something.

'Go on, Jemmy,' said the Spanish traveller, 'like black-eyed Susan--allin the Downs--no croaking--speak out--look lively.' 'Will you makeanother glass before you begin, Sir?' said Mr. Pickwick.

The dismal man took the hint, and having mixed a glass ofbrandy-and-water, and slowly swallowed half of it, opened the roll ofpaper and proceeded, partly to read, and partly to relate, the followingincident, which we find recorded on the Transactions of the Club as 'TheStroller's Tale.'

THE STROLLER'S TALE

'There is nothing of the marvellous in what I am going to relate,' saidthe dismal man; 'there is nothing even uncommon in it. Want and sicknessare too common in many stations of life to deserve more notice than isusually bestowed on the most ordinary vicissitudes of human nature. Ihave thrown these few notes together, because the subject of them waswell known to me for many years. I traced his progress downwards, stepby step, until at last he reached that excess of destitution from whichhe never rose again.

'The man of whom I speak was a low pantomime actor; and, like manypeople of his class, an habitual drunkard. In his better days, beforehe had become enfeebled by dissipation and emaciated by disease, he hadbeen in the receipt of a good salary, which, if he had been careful andprudent, he might have continued to receive for some years--not many;because these men either die early, or by unnaturally taxing theirbodily energies, lose, prematurely, those physical powers on which alonethey can depend for subsistence. His besetting sin gained so fastupon him, however, that it was found impossible to employ him inthe situations in which he really was useful to the theatre. Thepublic-house had a fascination for him which he could not resist.Neglected disease and hopeless poverty were as certain to be hisportion as death itself, if he persevered in the same course; yet he didpersevere, and the result may be guessed. He could obtain no engagement,and he wanted bread. 'Everybody who is at all acquainted with theatricalmatters knows what a host of shabby, poverty-stricken men hang about thestage of a large establishment--not regularly engaged actors, but balletpeople, procession men, tumblers, and so forth, who are taken on duringthe run of a pantomime, or an Easter piece, and are then discharged,until the production of some heavy spectacle occasions a new demand fortheir services. To this mode of life the man was compelled to resort;and taking the chair every night, at some low theatrical house, at onceput him in possession of a few more shillings weekly, and enabled him togratify his old propensity. Even this resource shortly failed him;his irregularities were too great to admit of his earning the wretchedpittance he might thus have procured, and he was actually reduced to astate bordering on starvation, only procuring a trifle occasionally byborrowing it of some old companion, or by obtaining an appearance at oneor other of the commonest of the minor theatres; and when he did earnanything it was spent in the old way.

'About this time, and when he had been existing for upwards of a yearno one knew how, I had a short engagement at one of the theatres on theSurrey side of the water, and here I saw this man, whom I had lost sightof for some time; for I had been travelling in the provinces, and he hadbeen skulking in the lanes and alleys of London. I was dressed to leavethe house, and was crossing the stage on my way out, when he tapped meon the shoulder. Never shall I forget the repulsive sight that met myeye when I turned round. He was dressed for the pantomimes in all theabsurdity of a clown's costume. The spectral figures in the Dance ofDeath, the most frightful shapes that the ablest painter ever portrayedon canvas, never presented an appearance half so ghastly. His bloatedbody and shrunken legs--their deformity enhanced a hundredfold by thefantastic dress--the glassy eyes, contrasting fearfully with thethick white paint with which the face was besmeared; thegrotesquely-ornamented head, trembling with paralysis, and the longskinny hands, rubbed with white chalk--all gave him a hideous andunnatural appearance, of which no description could convey an adequateidea, and which, to this day, I shudder to think of. His voice washollow and tremulous as he took me aside, and in broken words recounteda long catalogue of sickness and privations, terminating as usual withan urgent request for the loan of a trifling sum of money. I put a fewshillings in his hand, and as I turned away I heard the roar of laughterwhich followed his first tumble on the stage. 'A few nights afterwards,a boy put a dirty scrap of paper in my hand, on which were scrawled afew words in pencil, intimating that the man was dangerously ill, andbegging me, after the performance, to see him at his lodgings in somestreet--I forget the name of it now--at no great distance from thetheatre. I promised to comply, as soon as I could get away; and afterthe curtain fell, sallied forth on my melancholy errand.

'It was late, for I had been playing in the last piece; and, as it wasa benefit night, the performances had been protracted to an unusuallength. It was a dark, cold night, with a chill, damp wind, which blewthe rain heavily against the windows and house-fronts. Pools of waterhad collected in the narrow and little-frequented streets, and as manyof the thinly-scattered oil-lamps had been blown out by the violence ofthe wind, the walk was not only a comfortless, but most uncertain one. Ihad fortunately taken the right course, however, and succeeded, after alittle difficulty, in finding the house to which I had been directed--acoal-shed, with one Storey above it, in the back room of which lay theobject of my search.

'A wretched-looking woman, the man's wife, met me on the stairs, and,telling me that he had just fallen into a kind of doze, led me softlyin, and placed a chair for me at the bedside. The sick man was lyingwith his face turned towards the wall; and as he took no heed of mypresence, I had leisure to observe the place in which I found myself.

'He was lying on an old bedstead, which turned up during the day. Thetattered remains of a checked curtain were drawn round the bed's head,to exclude the wind, which, however, made its way into the comfortlessroom through the numerous chinks in the door, and blew it to and froevery instant. There was a low cinder fire in a rusty, unfixed grate;and an old three-cornered stained table, with some medicine bottles, abroken glass, and a few other domestic articles, was drawn out beforeit. A little child was sleeping on a temporary bed which had been madefor it on the floor, and the woman sat on a chair by its side. Therewere a couple of shelves, with a few plates and cups and saucers; anda pair of stage shoes and a couple of foils hung beneath them. With theexception of little heaps of rags and bundles which had been carelesslythrown into the corners of the room, these were the only things in theapartment.

'I had had time to note these little particulars, and to mark the heavybreathing and feverish startings of the sick man, before he was aware ofmy presence. In the restless attempts to procure some easy resting-placefor his head, he tossed his hand out of the bed, and it fell on mine. Hestarted up, and stared eagerly in my face.

'"Mr. Hutley, John," said his wife; "Mr. Hutley, that you sent forto-night, you know."

'"Ah!" said the invalid, passing his hand across his forehead;"Hutley--Hutley--let me see." He seemed endeavouring to collect histhoughts for a few seconds, and then grasping me tightly by the wristsaid, "Don't leave me--don't leave me, old fellow. She'll murder me; Iknow she will."

'"Has he been long so?" said I, addressing his weeping wife.

'"Since yesterday night," she replied. "John, John, don't you know me?"'"Don't let her come near me," said the man, with a shudder, as shestooped over him. "Drive her away; I can't bear her near me." He staredwildly at her, with a look of deadly apprehension, and then whispered inmy ear, "I beat her, Jem; I beat her yesterday, and many times before.I have starved her and the boy too; and now I am weak and helpless, Jem,she'll murder me for it; I know she will. If you'd seen her cry, as Ihave, you'd know it too. Keep her off." He relaxed his grasp, and sankback exhausted on the pillow. 'I knew but too well what all this meant.If I could have entertained any doubt of it, for an instant, oneglance at the woman's pale face and wasted form would have sufficientlyexplained the real state of the case. "You had better stand aside,"said I to the poor creature. "You can do him no good. Perhaps he will becalmer, if he does not see you." She retired out of the man's sight. Heopened his eyes after a few seconds, and looked anxiously round.

'"Is she gone?" he eagerly inquired.

'"Yes--yes," said I; "she shall not hurt you."

'"I'll tell you what, Jem," said the man, in a low voice, "she doeshurt me. There's something in her eyes wakes such a dreadful fear in myheart, that it drives me mad. All last night, her large, staring eyesand pale face were close to mine; wherever I turned, they turned; andwhenever I started up from my sleep, she was at the bedside looking atme." He drew me closer to him, as he said in a deep alarmed whisper,"Jem, she must be an evil spirit--a devil! Hush! I know she is. If shehad been a woman she would have died long ago. No woman could have bornewhat she has."

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

'I sat there for upwards of two hours, during which time he tossedabout, murmuring exclamations of pain or impatience, restlessly throwinghis arms here and there, and turning constantly from side to side. Atlength he fell into that state of partial unconsciousness, in whichthe mind wanders uneasily from scene to scene, and from place to place,without the control of reason, but still without being able to divestitself of an indescribable sense of present suffering. Finding from hisincoherent wanderings that this was the case, and knowing that in allprobability 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 afrightful alteration. The eyes, though deeply sunk and heavy, shone witha lustre frightful to behold. The lips were parched, and cracked in manyplaces; the hard, dry skin glowed with a burning heat; and there was analmost unearthly air of wild anxiety in the man's face, indicating evenmore 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 forhours, listening to sounds which must strike deep to the heart of themost callous among human beings--the awful ravings of a dying man. Fromwhat I had heard of the medical attendant's opinion, I knew there wasno hope for him: I was sitting by his death-bed. I saw the wastedlimbs--which a few hours before had been distorted for the amusement ofa boisterous gallery, writhing under the tortures of a burning fever--Iheard the clown's shrill laugh, blending with the low murmurings of thedying man.

'It is a touching thing to hear the mind reverting to the ordinaryoccupations and pursuits of health, when the body lies before you weakand helpless; but when those occupations are of a character the moststrongly opposed to anything we associate with grave and solemn ideas,the impression produced is infinitely more powerful. The theatre and thepublic-house were the chief themes of the wretched man's wanderings. Itwas 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 preventhis going?--he should lose the money--he must go. No! they would not lethim. He hid his face in his burning hands, and feebly bemoaned his ownweakness, and the cruelty of his persecutors. A short pause, and heshouted out a few doggerel rhymes--the last he had ever learned. Herose in bed, drew up his withered limbs, and rolled about in uncouthpositions; 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 oldhouse at last--how hot the room was. He had been ill, very ill, but hewas well now, and happy. Fill up his glass. Who was that, that dashed itfrom his lips? It was the same persecutor that had followed him before.He fell back upon his pillow and moaned aloud. A short period ofoblivion, and he was wandering through a tedious maze of low-archedrooms--so low, sometimes, that he must creep upon his hands and knees tomake his way along; it was close and dark, and every way he turned, someobstacle impeded his progress. There were insects, too, hideous crawlingthings, with eyes that stared upon him, and filled the very air around,glistening horribly amidst the thick darkness of the place. The wallsand ceiling were alive with reptiles--the vault expanded to an enormoussize--frightful figures flitted to and fro--and the faces of men heknew, rendered hideous by gibing and mouthing, peered out from amongthem; they were searing him with heated irons, and binding his head withcords till the blood started; and he struggled madly for life.

'At the close of one of these paroxysms, when I had with greatdifficulty held him down in his bed, he sank into what appeared to bea slumber. Overpowered with watching and exertion, I had closed my eyesfor a few minutes, when I felt a violent clutch on my shoulder. I awokeinstantly. He had raised himself up, so as to seat himself in bed--adreadful change had come over his face, but consciousness had returned,for he evidently knew me. The child, who had been long since disturbedby his ravings, rose from its little bed, and ran towards its father,screaming with fright--the mother hastily caught it in her arms, lest heshould injure it in the violence of his insanity; but, terrified by thealteration of his features, stood transfixed by the bedside. He graspedmy shoulder convulsively, and, striking his breast with the other hand,made a desperate attempt to articulate. It was unavailing; he extendedhis arm towards them, and made another violent effort. There was arattling noise in the throat--a glare of the eye--a short stifledgroan--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 thatwe should have been enabled to present it to our readers, but for a mostunfortunate occurrence.

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

'Some gentlemen, Sir.'

It has been conjectured that Mr. Pickwick was on the point of deliveringsome remarks which would have enlightened the world, if not the Thames,when he was thus interrupted; for he gazed sternly on the waiter'scountenance, and then looked round on the company generally, as ifseeking 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 hadretired--'officers of the 97th, whose acquaintance I made rather oddlythis morning. You will like them very much.'

Mr. Pickwick's equanimity was at once restored. The waiter returned, andushered three gentlemen into the room.

'Lieutenant Tappleton,' said Mr. Winkle, 'Lieutenant Tappleton, Mr.Pickwick--Doctor Payne, Mr. Pickwick--Mr. Snodgrass you have seenbefore, my friend Mr. Tupman, Doctor Payne--Doctor Slammer, Mr.Pickwick--Mr. Tupman, Doctor Slam--'

Here Mr. Winkle suddenly paused; for strong emotion was visible on thecountenance both of Mr. Tupman and the doctor.

'I have met THIS gentleman before,' said the Doctor, with markedemphasis.

'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 Igave that person a very pressing invitation last night, which he thoughtproper to decline.' Saying which the doctor scowled magnanimously on thestranger, and whispered his friend Lieutenant Tappleton.

'You don't say so,' said that gentleman, at the conclusion of thewhisper.

'I do, indeed,' replied Doctor Slammer.

'You are bound to kick him on the spot,' murmured the owner of thecamp-stool, with great importance.

'Do be quiet, Payne,' interposed the lieutenant. 'Will you allow me toask you, sir,' he said, addressing Mr. Pickwick, who was considerablymystified 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 lieutenantinquiringly.

'Certainly not,' responded Mr. Pickwick.

'And never wears your club-button?' said the lieutenant.

'No--never!' replied the astonished Mr. Pickwick.

Lieutenant Tappleton turned round to his friend Doctor Slammer, with ascarcely perceptible shrug of the shoulder, as if implying some doubt ofthe accuracy of his recollection. The little doctor looked wrathful, butconfounded; and Mr. Payne gazed with a ferocious aspect on the beamingcountenance of the unconscious Pickwick.

'Sir,' said the doctor, suddenly addressing Mr. Tupman, in a tone whichmade that gentleman start as perceptibly as if a pin had been cunninglyinserted in the calf of his leg, 'you were at the ball here last night!'

Mr. Tupman gasped a faint affirmative, looking very hard at Mr. Pickwickall the while.

'That person was your companion,' said the doctor, pointing to the stillunmoved stranger.

Mr. Tupman admitted the fact.

'Now, sir,' said the doctor to the stranger, 'I ask you once again,in the presence of these gentlemen, whether you choose to give me yourcard, and to receive the treatment of a gentleman; or whether you imposeupon me the necessity of personally chastising you on the spot?'

'Stay, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'I really cannot allow this matter togo any further without some explanation. Tupman, recount thecircumstances.'

Mr. Tupman, thus solemnly adjured, stated the case in a few words;touched slightly on the borrowing of the coat; expatiated largely on itshaving been done 'after dinner'; wound up with a little penitence on hisown account; and left the stranger to clear himself as best he could.

He was apparently about to proceed to do so, when Lieutenant Tappleton,who had been eyeing him with great curiosity, said with considerablescorn, 'Haven't I seen you at the theatre, Sir?'

'Certainly,' replied the unabashed stranger.

'He is a strolling actor!' said the lieutenant contemptuously, turningto Doctor Slammer.--'He acts in the piece that the officers of the 52ndget up at the Rochester Theatre to-morrow night. You cannot proceed inthis affair, Slammer--impossible!'

'Quite!' said the dignified Payne.

'Sorry to have placed you in this disagreeable situation,' saidLieutenant Tappleton, addressing Mr. Pickwick; 'allow me to suggest,that the best way of avoiding a recurrence of such scenes in future willbe to be more select in the choice of your companions. Good-evening,Sir!' and the lieutenant bounced out of the room.

'And allow me to say, Sir,' said the irascible Doctor Payne, 'that if Ihad been Tappleton, or if I had been Slammer, I would have pulledyour nose, Sir, and the nose of every man in this company. I would,sir--every man. Payne is my name, sir--Doctor Payne of the 43rd.Good-evening, Sir.' Having concluded this speech, and uttered the lastthree words in a loud key, he stalked majestically after his friend,closely followed by Doctor Slammer, who said nothing, but contentedhimself by withering the company with a look. Rising rage and extremebewilderment had swelled the noble breast of Mr. Pickwick, almost to thebursting of his waistcoat, during the delivery of the above defiance. Hestood transfixed to the spot, gazing on vacancy. The closing of the doorrecalled him to himself. He rushed forward with fury in his looks, andfire in his eye. His hand was upon the lock of the door; in anotherinstant it would have been on the throat of Doctor Payne of the 43rd,had not Mr. Snodgrass seized his revered leader by the coat tail, anddragged him backwards.

'Restrain him,' cried Mr. Snodgrass; 'Winkle, Tupman--he must not perilhis distinguished life in such a cause as this.'

'Let me go,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Hold him tight,' shouted Mr. Snodgrass; and by the united efforts ofthe whole company, Mr. Pickwick was forced into an arm-chair. 'Leavehim alone,' said the green-coated stranger; 'brandy-and-water--jollyold gentleman--lots of pluck--swallow this--ah!--capital stuff.' Havingpreviously tested the virtues of a bumper, which had been mixed by thedismal man, the stranger applied the glass to Mr. Pickwick's mouth; andthe remainder of its contents rapidly disappeared.

There was a short pause; the brandy-and-water had done its work; theamiable countenance of Mr. Pickwick was fast recovering its customaryexpression.

'They are not worth your notice,' said the dismal man.

'You are right, sir,' replied Mr. Pickwick, 'they are not. I am ashamedto have been betrayed into this warmth of feeling. Draw your chair up tothe table, Sir.'

The dismal man readily complied; a circle was again formed round thetable, and harmony once more prevailed. Some lingering irritabilityappeared to find a resting-place in Mr. Winkle's bosom, occasionedpossibly by the temporary abstraction of his coat--though it is scarcelyreasonable to suppose that so slight a circumstance can have excitedeven a passing feeling of anger in a Pickwickian's breast. With thisexception, their good-humour was completely restored; and the eveningconcluded with the conviviality with which it had begun.