Thus attired, the Master of the Ceremonies, in strict discharge of the important duties of his all–important office, planted himself in the room to receive the company.
Bath being full, the company, and the sixpences for tea, poured in, in shoals. In the ballroom, the long card–room, the octagonal card–room, the staircases, and the passages, the hum of many voices, and the sound of many feet, were perfectly bewildering. Dresses rustled, feathers waved, lights shone, and jewels sparkled. There was the music—not of the quadrille band, for it had not yet commenced; but the music of soft, tiny footsteps, with now and then a clear, merry laugh—low and gentle, but very pleasant to hear in a female voice, whether in Bath or elsewhere. Brilliant eyes, lighted up with pleasurable expectation, gleamed from every side; and, look where you would, some exquisite form glided gracefully through the throng, and was no sooner lost, than it was replaced by another as dainty and bewitching.
In the tea–room, and hovering round the card–tables, were a vast number of queer old ladies, and decrepit old gentlemen, discussing all the small talk and scandal of the day, with a relish and gusto which sufficiently bespoke the intensity of the pleasure they derived from the occupation. Mingled with these groups, were three or four match–making mammas, appearing to be wholly absorbed by the conversation in which they were taking part, but failing not from time to time to cast an anxious sidelong glance upon their daughters, who, remembering the maternal injunction to make the best use of their youth, had already commenced incipient flirtations in the mislaying scarves, putting on gloves, setting down cups, and so forth; slight matters apparently, but which may be turned to surprisingly good account by expert practitioners.
Lounging near the doors, and in remote corners, were various knots of silly young men, displaying various varieties of puppyism and stupidity; amusing all sensible people near them with their folly and conceit; and happily thinking themselves the objects of general admiration—a wise and merciful dispensation which no good man will quarrel with.
And lastly, seated on some of the back benches, where they had already taken up their positions for the evening, were divers unmarried ladies past their grand climacteric, who, not dancing because there were no partners for them, and not playing cards lest they should be set down as irretrievably single, were in the favourable situation of being able to abuse everybody without reflecting on themselves. In short, they could abuse everybody, because everybody was there. It was a scene of gaiety, glitter, and show; of richly–dressed people, handsome mirrors, chalked floors, girandoles and wax–candles; and in all parts of the scene, gliding from spot to spot in silent softness, bowing obsequiously to this party, nodding familiarly to that, and smiling complacently on all, was the sprucely–attired person of Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esquire, the Master of the Ceremonies.
‘Stop in the tea–room. Take your sixpenn’orth. Then lay on hot water, and call it tea. Drink it,’ said Mr. Dowler, in a loud voice, directing Mr. Pickwick, who advanced at the head of the little party, with Mrs. Dowler on his arm. Into the tea–room Mr. Pickwick turned; and catching sight of him, Mr. Bantam corkscrewed his way through the crowd and welcomed him with ecstasy.
‘My dear Sir, I am highly honoured. Ba–ath is favoured. Mrs. Dowler, you embellish the rooms. I congratulate you on your feathers. Re–markable!’
‘Anybody here?’ inquired Dowler suspiciously.
‘Anybody! The elite of Ba–ath. Mr. Pickwick, do you see the old lady in the gauze turban?’
‘The fat old lady?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick innocently.
‘Hush, my dear sir—nobody’s fat or old in Ba–ath. That’s the Dowager Lady Snuphanuph.’
‘Is it, indeed?’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘No less a person, I assure you,’ said the Master of the Ceremonies. ‘Hush. Draw a little nearer, Mr. Pickwick. You see the splendidly–dressed young man coming this way?’
‘The one with the long hair, and the particularly small forehead?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘The same. The richest young man in Ba–ath at this moment. Young Lord Mutanhed.’
‘You don’t say so?’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Yes. You’ll hear his voice in a moment, Mr. Pickwick. He’ll speak to me. The other gentleman with him, in the red under–waistcoat and dark moustache, is the Honourable Mr. Crushton, his bosom friend. How do you do, my Lord?’
‘Veway hot, Bantam,’ said his Lordship.
‘It is very warm, my Lord,’ replied the M.C.
‘Confounded,’ assented the Honourable Mr. Crushton.
‘Have you seen his Lordship’s mail–cart, Bantam?’ inquired the Honourable Mr. Crushton, after a short pause, during which young Lord Mutanhed had been endeavouring to stare Mr. Pickwick out of countenance, and Mr. Crushton had been reflecting what subject his Lordship could talk about best.
‘Dear me, no,’ replied the M.C.‘A mail–cart! What an excellent idea. Re–markable!’
‘Gwacious heavens!’ said his Lordship, ‘I thought evewebody had seen the new mail–cart; it’s the neatest, pwettiest, gwacefullest thing that ever wan upon wheels. Painted wed, with a cweam piebald.’
‘With a real box for the letters, and all complete,’ said the Honourable Mr. Crushton.
‘And a little seat in fwont, with an iwon wail, for the dwiver,’ added his Lordship. ‘I dwove it over to Bwistol the other morning, in a cwimson coat, with two servants widing a quarter of a mile behind; and confound me if the people didn’t wush out of their cottages, and awest my pwogwess, to know if I wasn’t the post. Glorwious—glorwious!’
At this anecdote his Lordship laughed very heartily, as did the listeners, of course. Then, drawing his arm through that of the obsequious Mr. Crushton, Lord Mutanhed walked away.
‘Delightful young man, his Lordship,’ said the Master of the Ceremonies.
‘So I should think,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick drily.
The dancing having commenced, the necessary introductions having been made, and all preliminaries arranged, Angelo Bantam rejoined Mr. Pickwick, and led him into the card–room.
Just at the very moment of their entrance, the Dowager Lady Snuphanuph and two other ladies of an ancient and whist–like appearance, were hovering over an unoccupied card–table; and they no sooner set eyes upon Mr. Pickwick under the convoy of Angelo Bantam, than they exchanged glances with each other, seeing that he was precisely the very person they wanted, to make up the rubber.
‘My dear Bantam,’ said the Dowager Lady Snuphanuph coaxingly, ‘find us some nice creature to make up this table; there’s a good soul.’ Mr. Pickwick happened to be looking another way at the moment, so her Ladyship nodded her head towards him, and frowned expressively.
‘My friend Mr. Pickwick, my Lady, will be most happy, I am sure, remarkably so,’ said the M.C., taking the hint. ‘Mr. Pickwick, Lady Snuphanuph—Mrs. Colonel Wugsby—Miss Bolo.’
Mr. Pickwick bowed to each of the ladies, and, finding escape impossible, cut. Mr. Pickwick and Miss Bolo against Lady Snuphanuph and Mrs. Colonel Wugsby. As the trump card was turned up, at the commencement of the second deal, two young ladies hurried into the room, and took their stations on either side of Mrs. Colonel Wugsby’s chair, where they waited patiently until the hand was over.
‘Now, Jane,’ said Mrs. Colonel Wugsby, turning to one of the girls, ‘what is it?’ ‘I came to ask, ma, whether I might dance with the youngest Mr. Crawley,’ whispered the prettier and younger of the two.
‘Good God, Jane, how can you think of such things?’ replied the mamma indignantly. ‘Haven’t you repeatedly heard that his father has eight hundred a year, which dies with him? I am ashamed of you. Not on any account.’
‘Ma,’ whispered