‘It is observable that, to this day, large numbers of elderly ladies and gentlemen who have been disappointed in procuring partners, and almost as many young ones who are anxious to obtain them, repair annually to Bath to drink the waters, from which they derive much strength and comfort. This is most complimentary to the virtue of Prince Bladud’s tears, and strongly corroborative of the veracity of this legend.’
Mr. Pickwick yawned several times when he had arrived at the end of this little manuscript, carefully refolded, and replaced it in the inkstand drawer, and then, with a countenance expressive of the utmost weariness, lighted his chamber candle, and went upstairs to bed. He stopped at Mr. Dowler’s door, according to custom, and knocked to say good–night.
‘Ah!’ said Dowler, ‘going to bed? I wish I was. Dismal night. Windy; isn’t it?’
‘Very,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Good–night.’
‘Good–night.’
Mr. Pickwick went to his bedchamber, and Mr. Dowler resumed his seat before the fire, in fulfilment of his rash promise to sit up till his wife came home.
There are few things more worrying than sitting up for somebody, especially if that somebody be at a party. You cannot help thinking how quickly the time passes with them, which drags so heavily with you; and the more you think of this, the more your hopes of their speedy arrival decline. Clocks tick so loud, too, when you are sitting up alone, and you seem as if you had an under–garment of cobwebs on. First, something tickles your right knee, and then the same sensation irritates your left. You have no sooner changed your position, than it comes again in the arms; when you have fidgeted your limbs into all sorts of queer shapes, you have a sudden relapse in the nose, which you rub as if to rub it off—as there is no doubt you would, if you could. Eyes, too, are mere personal inconveniences; and the wick of one candle gets an inch and a half long, while you are snuffing the other. These, and various other little nervous annoyances, render sitting up for a length of time after everybody else has gone to bed, anything but a cheerful amusement.
This was just Mr. Dowler’s opinion, as he sat before the fire, and felt honestly indignant with all the inhuman people at the party who were keeping him up. He was not put into better humour either, by the reflection that he had taken it into his head, early in the evening, to think he had got an ache there, and so stopped at home. At length, after several droppings asleep, and fallings forward towards the bars, and catchings backward soon enough to prevent being branded in the face, Mr. Dowler made up his mind that he would throw himself on the bed in the back room and think—not sleep, of course.
‘I’m a heavy sleeper,’ said Mr. Dowler, as he flung himself on the bed. ‘I must keep awake. I suppose I shall hear a knock here. Yes. I thought so. I can hear the watchman. There he goes. Fainter now, though. A little fainter. He’s turning the corner. Ah!’ When Mr. Dowler arrived at this point, he turned the corner at which he had been long hesitating, and fell fast asleep.
Just as the clock struck three, there was blown into the crescent a sedan–chair with Mrs. Dowler inside, borne by one short, fat chairman, and one long, thin one, who had had much ado to keep their bodies perpendicular: to say nothing of the chair. But on that high ground, and in the crescent, which the wind swept round and round as if it were going to tear the paving stones up, its fury was tremendous. They were very glad to set the chair down, and give a good round loud double–knock at the street door.
They waited some time, but nobody came.
‘Servants is in the arms o’ Porpus, I think,’ said the short chairman, warming his hands at the attendant link–boy’s torch.
‘I wish he’d give ’em a squeeze and wake ’em,’ observed the long one.
‘Knock again, will you, if you please,’ cried Mrs. Dowler from the chair. ‘Knock two or three times, if you please.’
The short man was quite willing to get the job over, as soon as possible; so he stood on the step, and gave four or five most startling double–knocks, of eight or ten knocks a–piece, while the long man went into the road, and looked up at the windows for a light.
Nobody came. It was all as silent and dark as ever.
‘Dear me!’ said Mrs. Dowler. ‘You must knock again, if you please.’ ‘There ain’t a bell, is there, ma’am?’ said the short chairman.
‘Yes, there is,’ interposed the link–boy, ‘I’ve been a–ringing at it ever so long.’
‘It’s only a handle,’ said Mrs. Dowler, ‘the wire’s broken.’
‘I wish the servants’ heads wos,’ growled the long man.
‘I must trouble you to knock again, if you please,’ said Mrs. Dowler, with the utmost politeness.
The short man did knock again several times, without producing the smallest effect. The tall man, growing very impatient, then relieved him, and kept on perpetually knocking double–knocks of two loud knocks each, like an insane postman.
At length Mr. Winkle began to dream that he was at a club, and that the members being very refractory, the chairman was obliged to hammer the table a good deal to preserve order; then he had a confused notion of an auction room where there were no bidders, and the auctioneer was buying everything in; and ultimately he began to think it just within the bounds of possibility that somebody might be knocking at the street door. To make quite certain, however, he remained quiet in bed for ten minutes or so, and listened; and when he had counted two or three–and–thirty knocks, he felt quite satisfied, and gave himself a great deal of credit for being so wakeful.
‘Rap rap–rap rap–rap rap–ra, ra, ra, ra, ra, rap!’ went the knocker.
Mr. Winkle jumped out of bed, wondering very much what could possibly be the matter, and hastily putting on his stockings and slippers, folded his dressing–gown round him, lighted a flat candle from the rush–light that was burning in the fireplace, and hurried downstairs.
‘Here’s somebody comin’ at last, ma’am,’ said the short chairman.
‘I wish I wos behind him vith a bradawl,’ muttered the long one.
‘Who’s there?’ cried Mr. Winkle, undoing the chain.
‘Don’t stop to ask questions, cast–iron head,’ replied the long man, with great disgust, taking it for granted that the inquirer was a footman; ‘but open the door.’
‘Come, look sharp, timber eyelids,’ added the other encouragingly.
Mr. Winkle, being half asleep, obeyed the command mechanically, opened the door a little, and peeped out. The first thing he saw, was the red glare of the link–boy’s torch. Startled by the sudden fear that the house might be on fire, he hastily threw the door wide open, and holding the candle above his head, stared eagerly before him, not quite certain whether what he saw was a sedan–chair or a fire–engine. At this instant there came a violent gust of wind; the light was blown out; Mr. Winkle felt himself irresistibly impelled on to the steps; and the door blew to, with a loud crash.
‘Well, young man, now you have done it!’ said the short chairman.
Mr. Winkle, catching sight of a lady’s face at the window of the sedan, turned hastily round, plied the knocker with all his might and main, and called frantically upon the chairman to take the chair away again.
‘Take it away, take it away,’ cried Mr. Winkle. ‘Here’s somebody coming out of another house; put me into the chair. Hide me! Do something with me!’
All this time he was shivering with cold; and every time he raised his hand to the knocker, the wind took the dressing–gown in a most unpleasant manner.
‘The people are coming down the crescent now. There are ladies with ’em; cover me up with something. Stand before me!’ roared Mr. Winkle. But the chairmen were too much exhausted with laughing to afford him the slightest assistance, and the