When he woke up, the sun was throwing bright rays into his room. It was late morning. The melancholy that oppressed him at night dissipated along with the dark shadows that enveloped the landscape, and thoughts and feelings were bright and joyful, like morning. After a hearty breakfast, four gentlemen, accompanied by a man who carried a stone in a pine box, set out on foot for Gravesend. In this city they arrived at one o'clock in the afternoon (they ordered the luggage to be sent from Rochester directly to the City), here they were fortunate enough to get outside places in a passenger carriage, and on the same day they arrived in good health and good spirits in London.
The next three or four days were devoted to preparations for the trip to Ethansville. Since everything that pertains to this important undertaking requires a special chapter, we can devote the few lines that remain to us for the completion of this chapter summary history of antique finds.
From the minutes of the club we learn that on the evening of the following day, upon Mr. Pickwick's arrival at general meeting club read a report on the discovery made and expressed many witty and scientific speculative guesses about the meaning of the inscription. From the same source we learn that a skillful artist painstakingly copied the curious characters engraved on the stone and presented the design to the Royal Antiquarian Society and other learned corporations; that the controversy which sharpened the pen on this subject had engendered envy and ill will, and that Mr. Pickwick himself had written a pamphlet containing ninety-six pages of fine print and twenty-seven various interpretations inscriptions; that three aged gentlemen disinherited their eldest sons who dared to doubt the antiquity of the inscription, and that one enthusiast prematurely ended all accounts with his life, despairing of comprehending the meaning of these letters; that Mr. Pickwick, for his discovery, had been elected an honorary member of seventeen domestic and foreign societies, that none of the seventeen societies could understand anything in the inscription, but that all seventeen agreed in recognizing it as very remarkable.
It is true, Mr. Blotton—and that name will be branded with the eternal contempt of those who revere all that is mysterious and sublime—Mr. Blotton, we say, in the distrust and captiousness of base minds, allowed himself to regard the discovery from a point of view both humiliating and absurd. Mr. Blotton, impelled by a contemptible desire to denigrate the immortal name of Pickwick, personally went to Cobham, and on his return remarked sarcastically in a speech made in a club that he had seen the man from whom the stone was bought, that this man considered the stone ancient, but emphatically denied the antiquity inscriptions, for, according to him, he himself somehow carved it in his hours of idleness, and the letters make up only the following phrase: "Bill Stumps, his hand"; that Mr. Stumps, who was not literate, and who used to be guided more by the sound side of words than by the strict rules of spelling, omitted the "l" in his name.
The Pickwick Club (as was to be expected from such an enlightened institution) accepted this statement with deserved contempt, expelled the presumptuous and obstinate Blotton from the membership, and decided to present Mr. Pickwick with gold-rimmed spectacles, as a token of their confidence and respect; in response to which Mr. Pickwick ordered to paint his portrait oil paints and had it hung in the meeting room of the club, which portrait, by the way, he did not want to destroy when he became a few years older.
Mr. Blotton was driven out, but not defeated. He also wrote a pamphlet addressed to seventeen learned societies, domestic and foreign, in which he reiterated his statement and hinted very transparently that the seventeen named learned societies were "charlatan institutions." Since this act caused the moral indignation of seventeen learned societies, domestic and foreign, new pamphlets appeared; foreign learned societies began correspondence with domestic learned societies; domestic learned societies translated brochures of foreign learned societies into English; foreign learned societies translated the pamphlets of domestic learned societies into every possible language; and thus arose the notorious scientific discussion, well known to the whole world under the name of the "Pickwick controversy."
But this low attempt to disgrace Mr. Pickwick fell upon the head of the slanderer. Seventeen learned societies unanimously recognized the arrogant Blotton as an ignorant nitpick and began to publish treatises with even greater zeal. And the stone remains to this day ... an unsolved monument to the greatness of Mr. Pickwick and an eternal trophy, testifying to the insignificance of his enemies.
telling of a very important act of Mr. Pickwick: an event in his life is no less important than in this story
The room occupied by Mr. Pickwick in Goswell Street, though modest, was not only very neat and comfortable, but also specially adapted for the residence of a man of his gifts and powers of observation. His reception room was on the second floor, facing the street; the bedroom is in the third and also overlooked the street; therefore, whether he was sitting at his writing table in his living room, or standing in front of a mirror in his bedchamber, he could equally observe human nature in all its diverse manifestations on this street that is as populated as it is beloved by the population. His landlady, Mrs. Bardle, the widow and sole executor of a customs official, was a good-looking woman, of busy manners and good looks, with a natural ability for cooking, which, by study and long practice, had developed into an exceptional talent. There were no children, no servants, no poultry. The only inhabitants, other than Mrs. Bardle, were a grown man and a little boy; the first is the tenant, the second is the offspring of Mrs. Bardle. A grown man always came home at exactly ten o'clock in the evening and immediately went to bed in a miniature bed located in the back room; arena of children's games and gymnastic exercises young Bardle's was limited to nearby sidewalks and gutters. Purity and peace reigned throughout the house; and Mr. Pickwick's will was law in him.
Anyone who was familiar with these house rules, and who was well aware of Mr. Pickwick's amazing poise, his appearance and behavior on the morning before the day appointed for departure to Ethansville, should have appeared in the highest degree mysterious and inexplicable. He paced anxiously up and down the room, leaned out of the window almost every three minutes, kept looking at his watch, and showed many other signs of impatience, by no means characteristic of him. It was clear that some event of great importance was expected, but what kind of event it was - Mrs. Bardle herself had no way to guess.
- Mrs. Bardle! said Mr. Pickwick at last, when the fine woman had finished her long cleaning of the rooms.
- Sir? said Mrs. Bardle.
“Your boy hasn’t returned for a very long time.
"Why, it's a long way to Borough, sir," said Mrs. Bardle.
“Yes, quite right,” said Mr. Pickwick, far away.
Mr. Pickwick lapsed into silence, and Mrs. Bardle resumed her dusting.
"Mrs. Bardle," Mr. Pickwick said after a few minutes.
- Sir? said Mrs. Bardle again.
- Do you think the cost of maintaining two people is much higher than the cost of one?
“Ah, Mr. Pickwick! said Mrs. Bardle, blushing to the very frill of her cap, for she thought she saw something like a matrimonial spark in the tenant's eyes. “Ah, Mr. Pickwick, why this question?
“Well, anyway, what do you think?” Mr. Pickwick insisted.
“It depends,” began Mrs. Bardle, pushing the dusty rag close to Mr. Pickwick's elbow, which was resting on the table, “you see, Mr. Pickwick, a lot depends on the person; if it's a thrifty and prudent person, sir...
CHAPTER XXIX The story of how the underground spirits kidnapped the sexton "In one old monastic city, here in our area, many, many years ago - so much that this story must be true, because our great-grandfathers believed it blindly, - took the place sexton and gravedigger in a cemetery, a certain Gabriel Grub.If a person is a gravedigger and is constantly surrounded by emblems of death, it by no means follows that he should be a gloomy and melancholic person; our gravediggers are the most funny people in the world; and once I had the honor of making friends with a torch-bearer, who, in his spare time, was the most amusing and joking fellow of all who ever sang outrageous songs, forgetting everything in the world, or drained a glass of good strong wine in one breath. But, despite these examples, which prove the opposite, Gabriel Grub was a grumpy, intractable, gloomy man - gloomy and withdrawn, who did not communicate with anyone except himself and an old wicker flask that fit in a large, deep pocket of his vest, and threw every merry face he met on the way was given such a vicious and angry look that it was hard not to feel bad when meeting him. One Christmas Eve, shortly before dusk, Gabriel Grub slung a shovel over his shoulder, lit a lantern and walked towards the old cemetery, for he had to finish the grave by morning, and, being in a depressed state of mind, he thought that, perhaps he would be merry if he immediately set to work. Passing along the old street, he saw through the old windows a bright fire burning in the fireplaces, and heard loud laughter and joyful exclamations of those who gathered near them; he noticed the fussy preparations for tomorrow's feast and smelled many appetizing smells that escaped with a cloud of steam from the kitchen windows. All this was gall and wormwood for the heart of Gabriel Grab; and when the children flew out of the houses in flocks, ran across the road, and, before they had time to knock on the door of the house opposite, met with half a dozen of the same curly little naughty people who crowded around them as they climbed the stairs to spend the evening in Christmas games, Gabriel Grub viciously grinned and tightened his grip on the handle of his shovel, thinking about measles, scarlet fever, thrush, whooping cough and many other sources of comfort. In such a pleasant mood, Gabriel continued on his way, responding with curt grunts to the good-natured greetings of his neighbors, who occasionally met him, until he turned into a dark alley that led to the cemetery. And Gabriel dreamed of reaching a dark alley, because that alley was generally a nice, gloomy, dreary place where the townspeople did not much like to look, except in broad daylight and in the sunlight; and therefore he was most indignant when he heard the young urchin sing some festive song about a merry Christmas in this very sanctuary, which was called Coffin Lane in the days of the old abbey, and from the days of monks with shaved tops. As Gabriel moved on and the voice sounded closer, he became convinced that this voice belonged to a boy who was in a hurry to join one of the flocks in the old street, and in order to keep himself company, and also to prepare for the festival, he sang in all the strength of your lungs. Gabriel waited until the boy was abreast of him, then cornered him and hit him on the head with the lantern five or six times to teach him to lower his voice. When the boy ran away, holding his head with his hand and singing a completely different song, Gabriel Grab laughed heartily and, having come to the cemetery, locked the gate behind him. He took off his jacket, put the lantern on the ground and, jumping into the unfinished grave, worked for about an hour with great zeal. But the ground was frozen, and it was not a very easy thing to break it up and shovel it out of the pit; and although the moon was shining, it was very young and shed little light on the grave, which was in the shadow of the church. At any other time, these obstacles would have brought Gabriel Grub into a very gloomy and woeful frame of mind, but, having put an end to the singing of a little boy, he was so pleased that he paid little attention to the insignificant results, and, having finished his work that night, looked in into the grave with cruel satisfaction and sighed almost audibly, collecting his things: Glorious houses, glorious houses, Damp earth and total darkness. A stone at the head, a stone at the feet: A greasy dish beneath them in worms. Weed grass and clay all around, In the consecrated ground great house! - Ho-ho! Gabriel Grub laughed as he sat down on the flat gravestone that was his favorite resting place and pulled out a wicker flask. - A coffin for Christmas! Holiday gift. Ho-ho-ho! - Ho-ho-ho! repeated a voice behind him. Gabriel froze in fright at the very moment when he raised the wicker flask to his lips, and looked around. The most ancient grave was no more quiet and silent than a cemetery with a pale moonlight. Cold hoarfrost glistened on the gravestones and sparkled like gems, On The Carving Of An Old Church. The snow, hard and crisp, lay on the ground and spread over the earthen mounds crowded together, such a white and smooth cover that it seemed as if corpses were lying here, shrouded only in their shrouds. Not a single rustle broke into the deep silence of this solemn picture. The sounds themselves seemed to freeze, everything was so cold and motionless. "It was an echo," Gabriel Grub said, bringing the bottle to his lips again. "It wasn't an echo," a deep voice said. Gabriel jumped up and froze, as if nailed to the spot, in horror and amazement, for his eyes rested on the creature, at the sight of which the blood froze in his veins. On an upright tombstone, very close to him, sat a strange, supernatural being who, Gabriel sensed at once, did not belong to this world. His long legs - he could have reached the ground with them - were bent and absurdly crossed; sinewy arms were bare, and the hands rested on their knees. His short, round torso was covered with a narrow jacket, decorated with small slits; a short cloak dangled behind his back; the collar was with some kind of bizarre teeth, replacing the underground spirit with a breeches or a tie, and the shoes ended in long, curved toes. On his head was a wide-brimmed cone-shaped hat adorned with a single feather. Frost covered the hat. And he looked like he was sitting on this very tombstone, without changing his position, for two or three centuries. He sat perfectly still, his tongue sticking out as if in mockery, and making such a grimace at Gabriel Grub as only an underground spirit could conjure up. - It was not an echo, - said the underground spirit. Gabriel Grub was numb and could not answer. What are you doing here on Christmas Eve? - severely asked the underground spirit. "I've come to dig a grave, sir," stammered Gabriel Grub. - Who wanders among the graves in the cemetery on such a night? - shouted the underground spirit. - Gabriel Grab! Gabriel Grab! shrieked a wild chorus of voices that seemed to fill the graveyard. Gabriel looked around timidly - there was nothing to be seen. - What do you have in this bottle? - asked the underground Spirit. “Gene, sir,” the sexton replied, trembling even more, for he had bought it from smugglers, and it occurred to him that the creature interrogating him was in the excise department of underground spirits. "Who drinks gin alone in a graveyard on a night like this?" - asked the underground spirit. - Gabriel Grab! Gabriel Grab! the wild voices rang out again. The underground spirit squinted angrily at the terrified sexton, and then, raising his voice, exclaimed: - And who, then, is our lawful prey? To this question the invisible choir answered in a singsong voice, like a chorus of singers singing to the powerful accompaniment of an organ in an old church - these sounds seemed to have reached the sexton's ear along with a wild gust of wind and died away when he was carried away into the distance; but the meaning of the answer was still the same: - Gabriel Grab, Gabriel Grab! The underground spirit stretched its mouth even wider and said: - Well, Gabriel, what do you say to that? The sexton gasped for air. - What do you think about it, Gabriel? asked the underground spirit, lifting up his legs on either side of the tombstone and looking at the turned-up socks with such pleasure, as if contemplating the most fashionable pair of boots bought in Bond Street. "It's... it's... very curious, sir," replied the sexton, half dead with fear. "Very curious and very nice, but I think I'll go and finish my work, sir, if you please." - A job? repeated the underground spirit. - What kind of job? “A grave, sir, digging a grave,” muttered the sexton. - Oh, the grave, yes! - said the underground spirit. - Who digs graves at a time when all other people are having fun and rejoicing? Mysterious voices were heard again: - Gebriel Grub! Gabriel Grab! - I'm afraid that my friends demand you, Gabriel, - said the underground spirit, licking his cheek with his tongue - he had a wonderful tongue. - I'm afraid that my friends demand you, Gabriel, - said the underground spirit. “Don’t be angry, sir,” answered the horrified sexton, “I don’t think it could be so, sir, they don’t know me, sir; I don't think these gentlemen will ever see me, sir! - No, they saw it. - objected the underground spirit. - We know a man with a gloomy face and a gloomy mine, who walked down the street tonight, throwing vicious glances at the children and tightly clutching his grave shovel. We know a man with an envious and unkind heart who hit a boy because the boy could have fun, but he - Gabriel - could not. We know him, we know him! Then the underground spirit burst into a loud, piercing laugh, which the echo repeated twenty times louder, and, throwing its legs up, stood on its head, or rather, on the very tip of its cone-shaped hat, stood on the narrow edge of the tombstone, from where it tumbled with amazing agility right at the feet of the sexton, where he sat down in the position in which tailors usually sit at their tables. "I'm afraid... I'm afraid I must leave you, sir," said the sexton, making an effort to move. - Leave us! - exclaimed the underground spirit. - Gabriel Grub wants to leave us. Ho-ho-ho! When the underground spirit laughed, the sexton saw for one second a dazzling light in the windows of the church, as if the whole building was illuminated. The lights died down, the organ played a merry melody, and whole crowds of underground spirits, an exact copy of the first, poured into the cemetery and began to jump over the tombstones, not stopping for a second to rest, and jumped one after another over the highest monuments with amazing agility. The first underground spirit was the most amazing jumper, and no one else could compete with him; in spite of his extreme fright, the sexton involuntarily noticed that while the others were content with jumping over ordinary-sized tombstones, the first jumped over the family crypts with their iron fence jumped over with such ease, as if they were street bollards. The game was in full swing; the organ played faster and faster, and the spirits jumped faster and faster, coiling, tumbling on the ground and flying like soccer balls over tombstones. The sexton's head was spinning at the mere sight of these quick movements, and his legs gave way as the ghosts flew before his eyes, when suddenly the king of spirits, rushing towards him, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and fell through the ground with him. When Gabriel Grub caught his breath, interrupted for a second by the rapid descent, he was convinced that he was, apparently, in a large cave filled with crowds of underground spirits, ugly and gloomy. In the middle of the cave, on a dais, sat his cemetery friend, and next to him stood Gabriel Grab himself, who was unable to move. “Cold night,” said the king of the underground spirits, “very cold!” Bring a cup of something warm. On hearing such an order, half a dozen of the ever-smiling underground spirits, whom Gabriel Grub considered by this sign to be courtiers, instantly disappeared and quickly returned with a goblet of liquid fire, which was served to the king. - So! exclaimed the underground spirit, whose cheeks and throat became translucent as he swallowed the flame. - The bot is really at least someone warm. Give the same goblet to Mr Grub. In vain the ill-fated sexton assured that he was not in the habit of drinking hot things at night; one of the spirits held him, and the other poured a flaming liquid down his throat; the whole assembly laughed shrillly as, after swallowing the fiery drink, he coughed, choked, and wiped the tears from his eyes. “And now,” said the king, jokingly poking the sexton in the eye with the point of his cone-shaped hat and causing excruciating pain, “now show the man of despondency and sorrow some pictures from our own great treasury. When the underground spirit uttered these words, the thick cloud that obscured the far end of the cave gradually dissipated, and there appeared, as if at a great distance, a small and sparsely furnished, but cozy and clean room. A group of children gathered near a bright fire, clinging to their mother's dress and jumping around her chair. Mother occasionally got up and pulled back the curtain on the window, as if she were waiting for someone. A modest dinner was already served on the table, and an armchair was drawn up to the fireplace. There was a knock at the door; the mother opened it, and the children crowded around and clapped their hands happily when their father entered. He was wet and tired and brushing the snow off his clothes. The children spun around him and, grabbing his cloak, hat, stick and gloves, instantly carried them out of the room. Then, when he sat down to dine near the hearth, the children climbed on his knees, his mother sat beside him, and it seemed that everyone here was happy and contented. But almost imperceptibly there was a change. The stage turned into a small bedroom where the youngest and most beautiful child; the roses withered on his cheeks, and the light died out in his eyes; and at that moment, when the sexton looked at him with such interest as he had never felt or knew before, he died. His young brothers and sisters crowded around the crib and grabbed his tiny hand, so cold and heavy; but they recoiled when they touched it, and looked with horror at the child's face, for although it was calm and serene and lovely baby seemed to be sleeping peacefully and quietly, they realized that he was dead, and knew that he had become an angel, looking down on them and blessing them from a clear and happy heaven. Again a light cloud passed in front of the picture, and again it changed. Now father and mother were old and helpless, and the number of their loved ones had been reduced by more than half; but calmness and serenity were reflected in all the faces and shone in the eyes when everyone gathered around the hearth and told or listened to old stories about past days. Quietly and peacefully, the father descended into the grave, and soon the one who shared all his worries and hardships followed him to the abode of peace. The few that survived them knelt beside their grave and watered the green turf that covered it with their tears; then they got up and walked away sadly and mournfully, but without bitter cries and desperate complaints, for they knew that someday they would meet again; then they returned to their everyday life, and peace and serenity reigned among them again. The cloud enveloped the picture and hid it from the sexton. - What do you think about it? - asked the underground spirit, turning his broad face to Gabriel Grub. Gabriel muttered that it was very sweet, but he looked ashamed when the underground spirit turned a fiery gaze on him. - You are a miserable person! said the underground spirit in a tone of deep contempt. - You ... He, apparently, intended to add something else, but indignation made him cut off the phrase; so he lifted his lithe leg, and waving it over his head to take good aim, gave Gabriel Grub a healthy kick; immediately after this, all the spirits around him crowded around the ill-fated sacristan and began to kick him mercilessly, following the established and unchanging custom of all courtiers on earth who kick the one whom the king kicks and embrace the one whom the king hugs. - Show him more! - said the king of underground spirits. At these words, the cloud dispersed, and a bright and beautiful landscape was revealed, the same one that can be seen to this day at a distance of half a mile from the old monastery city. The sun shone in a clear blue sky, the water sparkled in its rays, and the trees seemed greener and the flowers more colorful thanks to it. beneficial influence. The water flowed with a pleasant murmur, the trees rustled under the light wind rustling in the foliage; the birds sang on the branches, and the lark above sang a hymn to the morning. Yes, it was morning, a bright, fragrant summer morning. In the smallest leaf, in the smallest blade of grass, life trembled. The ant crawled to work during the day, the butterfly fluttered and basked in the warm rays of the sun, myriads of insects spread their transparent wings and reveled in their short, but happy life. The man walked, fascinated by this scene, and everything around was dazzling and beautiful. - You are a miserable person! The Underground Spirit King said even more contemptuously than before. And again the king of underground spirits waved his leg, again she sank on the shoulders of the sacristan, and again the approaching spirits began to imitate their master. Many times the cloud moved and dissipated, it taught Gabriel Grub much, and he, although his shoulders ached from the frequent kicks inflicted by the spirits, watched with unflagging interest. He saw that people who worked hard and earned their meager bread by hard work were carefree and happy, and that for the most ignorant the meek face of nature was an unfailing source of merriment and joy. He saw that those who were carefully cherished and educated with tenderness endured hardships without care and conquered suffering that would crush many people of a cruder disposition, for the former kept in their breasts a source of joy, contentment and peace. He saw that women - these most tender and most fragile creatures of God - most often triumphed over grief, adversity and despair, because they keep in their hearts an inexhaustible source of love and devotion. And the most important thing he saw: people like himself - spiteful against cheerful, rejoicing people - disgusting tares on beautiful land, and weighing all the good in the world and all the evil, he came to the conclusion that in the end it is a completely decent and well-ordered world. As soon as he drew this conclusion, the cloud that descended on last picture, as if enveloped his mind and lulled him. One by one, the underground spirits disappeared from view, and when the last of them disappeared, he fell into a dream. It was already broad daylight when Gabriel Grub awoke to find himself lying at full length on a flat tombstone. An empty wicker flask lay beside him, and his coat, shovel, and lantern, completely white from the night's hoarfrost, lay on the ground. The stone where he saw the spirit sitting was sticking out in front of him, and the grave he dug last night was nearby. At first he doubted the reality of his adventures, but when he tried to get up, sharp pain in her shoulders convinced him that the kicks of the underground spirits were very real. He hesitated again, finding no footprints in the snow where the spirits jumped over the tombstones, but quickly explained this to himself, remembering that they, being spirits, leave no visible footprints. Then Gabriel Grub somehow got up, feeling a pain in his back, and brushing the frost off his jacket, put it on and headed into the city. But he became a different person, and it was unbearable for him to return to a place where his repentance would be mocked and his correction would not be believed. He hesitated for a few seconds, and then wandered off wherever his eyes looked to earn his living in other parts. A lantern, a shovel and a wicker flask were found that day in the cemetery. At first, many guesses were made about the fate of the sexton, but it was soon decided that he was dragged away by underground spirits; there was no lack of reliable witnesses who clearly saw him flying through the air on a bay horse, crooked in one eye, with a lion's croup and a bear's tail. In the end, all this was blindly believed, and the new sexton showed the curious, for an insignificant bribe, a decent piece of a church weather vane, which was accidentally knocked down by the hoof of the aforementioned horse during its air flight and picked up in the cemetery two years later. Unfortunately, these stories were somewhat damaged by the unexpected return - ten years later - of Gabriel Grab himself, dressed in rags, a good-natured old man suffering from rheumatism. He told his story to the priest as well as the mayor, and over time it began to be treated as a historical fact, which it remains to this day. The followers of the weather vane story, once deceived in their confidence, did not so easily agree to believe anything, so they tried to put on a thoughtful look, shrugged their shoulders, tapped their foreheads and talked about the fact that Gabriel Grub had drunk all the gin and then fell asleep on the tombstone; and they tried to explain everything they supposedly saw in the cave underground spirit, the fact that he saw the world and grew wiser. But this opinion, which was never very popular, was rejected in time; be that as it may, but in view of the fact that Gabriel Grab suffered from rheumatism until the end of his life, in this story there is at least, for lack of anything better, one moral teaching, namely: if a person is angry and drinks all alone at Christmas time, he he can be sure that he will not get well from this, even if he did not see any spirits, even such as Gabriel Grab saw in an underground cave.In the preface to the first edition of The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club, it was stated that their purpose was to show entertaining characters and entertaining adventures; that at that time the author did not even try to develop an intricate plot and did not even consider it feasible, since the Notes were to be published in separate issues, and that as the work progressed, he gradually abandoned the very plot of the Club, because it was an obstacle. As regards one of these points, later experience and work taught me something, and now, perhaps, I would prefer that these chapters be connected to each other by a stronger thread, but they are what they were intended.
I know various versions of the origin of these Pickwick Papers, and for me, at least, they were charming, complete surprise. The appearance from time to time of such conjectures has given me the opportunity to conclude that my readers are interested in this issue, and therefore I want to tell how these Notes were born.
I was young—I was twenty-two, twenty-three years old—when Mrs. Chapman and Hall, drawing attention to some of the writings that I then published in the Morning Chronicle or wrote for the Old Monsley Megesin (later published a series of them in two volumes with illustrations by Mr. George Kruktenk) came to me with an offer to write some work that could be published in separate editions at a price of a shilling - at that time I, and probably others, knew about such issues only from vague memories of some endless novels published in this form and distributed by itinerant merchants throughout the country - I remember, over some of them, I shed tears during my years of apprenticeship in the school of Life.
When I opened my door at Farnivel Inn to my companion, the representative of the firm, I recognized in him the same man—I had never seen him before or since—from whose hands I had bought the first issue of Megesin two or three years ago, in which my first inspirational work from the Essays, under the title "Mr. Minns and his Cousin," was printed with all the splendor; One evening, creeping and trembling, I fearfully dropped it into a dark letter-box in a dark office at the end of a dark courtyard in Fleet Street. On this occasion, I went to Westminster Hall and stayed there for half an hour, for my eyes were so clouded with happiness and pride that they could not bear the sight of the street, and it was impossible to appear on it in such a state. I told my visitor about this coincidence, which seemed to both of us a happy omen, after which we got down to business.
The suggestion made to me was that I should write something monthly that would be the link for the prints that Mr. in the best possible way for the supply of these engravings, the "Nimrod Club" will appear, whose members must hunt, fish and always get into a quandary due to lack of skill. After thinking, I objected that although I was born and grew up in the provinces, I was by no means inclined to pretend to be a great athlete, except for the field of movement in all forms, that this idea was by no means new and had already been used more than once; that it would be much better if the engravings arose naturally from the text, and that I would like to go my own way with more freedom to choose people and scenes from English life, and I fear that in the end I will do so, no matter what path I choose for myself when I get down to business. My opinion was agreed, I conceived Mr. Pickwick and wrote the text for the first issue, and Mr. Seymour, using proofs, drew a meeting of the Club and a successful portrait of its founder - this last was created according to the instructions of Mr. Edward Chapman, who described the costume and appearance real person well known to him. Mindful of original intention, I connected Mr. Pickwick with the Club, and Mr. Winkle brought in specifically for Mr. Seymour. We started with twenty-four pages instead of thirty-two and four illustrations instead of two. The sudden, shocking death of Mr. Seymour, before the publication of the second issue, led to an immediate solution of a question already brewing: the issue was published in thirty-two pages with only two illustrations, and this order was preserved to the very end.
It is with great reluctance that I have to touch upon the vague and incoherent allegations, supposedly made for the benefit of Mr. Seymour, that he had some part in the design of this book, or parts of it, which is not indicated with proper certainty in the foregoing lines. Out of respect for the memory of the artist brother and out of respect for myself, I will confine myself here to listing the following facts:
Mr. Seymour did not create or suggest any of the scenes, phrases or words found in this book. Mr. Seymour died when only twenty-four pages of this book had been published, and the next forty-eight had not yet been written. Never have I seen Mr. Seymour's handwriting. And only once in my life I saw Mr. Seymour himself, and that was the day before his death, and then he did not make any proposals. I saw him in the presence of two people, now alive, who are well aware of all these facts, and their written evidence is with me. Finally, Mr. Edward Chapman (a surviving associate of the firm of Chapman and Hall) has put down in writing, as a precaution, what he personally knows of the origin and production of this book, the enormity of the unsubstantiated allegations referred to, and the sheer impossibility (examined in detail) ) whatever their plausibility. In keeping with my decision to be lenient, I will not quote from Mr. Edward Chapman's account of the attitude of his companion, now deceased, to the said claims.
"Boz", my pseudonym in the Morning Chronicle and in the Old Monsley Megesin, which also appeared on the cover of the monthly editions of this book and subsequently remained with me for a long time, is the nickname of my beloved younger brother, whom I christened "Moses" after the Weckfield priest; this name was jokingly pronounced through the nose, it turned into Bozes and diminutively into Boz. It was a household word, well known to me long before I became a writer, and that is why I chose it for myself.
It was said of Mr. Pickwick that, as events unfolded, a decisive change took place in his character, and that he became kinder and wiser. In my opinion, such a change will not seem far-fetched or unnatural to my readers if they remember that in real life the peculiarities and oddities of a person in whom there is something eccentric usually impress us at first, and only after getting to know him better, we begin to see beyond these superficial features and recognize the best side of him.
Dickens created a novel about a club traveling through England and observing "human nature". This idea allowed the writer to depict in his work the customs of old England and the diversity (of temperaments) in the tradition of Ben Jonson.
The image of the cheeky young man, who waits at the hotel and makes such jokes, has already appeared in one of Boz's essays - "The Duel at Great Winglebury": this is a talkative bellboy who also had a habit of referring to someone who supposedly uttered the words he repeated, for example:.
“It’s really quite warm here, as the boy who fell into the fireplace said.”Introducing Sam Weller into the circle of characters, Dickens at first only varied one of the images he had created before, but then he brilliantly used the possibilities inherent in it, and from minor character Sam Weller has become one of the main characters.
The strong friendship that is established between Sam and Pickwick is quite understandable. They are brought together by honesty and unwillingness to submit to injustice. And when Sam voluntarily shares imprisonment with Pickwick, he does not because of a desire to please the owner, but because he understands the owner and sympathizes with him.
In the last chapter, we learn that Sam married Mary, who became Mr. Pickwick's housekeeper. “Judging by the fact that two fat boys are constantly spinning at the gate of the garden, it can be assumed that Sam started a family,” writes Dickens.
The so-called "Wellerisms" - Sam Weller's humorous sayings "just in case", mostly invented by him, but usually cited with reference to some anecdotal "source", have gained wide popularity. Some sayings are examples of black humor.
In the fifty-third chapter, Dickens tells us that Pickwick ransomed both Jingle and his servant from the Fleet prison and provided them with funds for emigration to the West Indies.
Judging by the letters of Dickens, he knew from the very beginning that he was writing an outstanding work. he wrote to his publishers the day before the end of the first chapter.
“At last I set about Pickwick, who is destined to appear before the readers in all the grandeur and brilliance of his glory”The history of the creation of the novel begins on February 10, 1836: on this day, the publisher William Hall came to Charles Dickens with a job offer. The idea was simple: Dickens had to lead a story about the adventures of funny gentlemen depicted in the pictures of Robert Seymour; at the same time, the difficulty was in the need to follow the artist, to reckon with his plan. Charles' friends - writers William Ainsworth, Edward Bulwer-Lytton, Douglas Jerrold - dissuaded Dickens from this work, arguing that it would not only not help him move forward, but would also throw him back, below the level that he had already reached as a journalist. Yes, and Dickens himself, starting to write the text, did not clearly represent the final results of his fellowship with Seymour.
In the preface to the 1847 edition, Dickens wrote the following about the beginning of work on the Notes:
The suggestion made to me was that I should write something monthly that would be the link for the prints that Mr. Seymour would create, and either this excellent humorist or my visitor had the idea that of these engravings will appear the “Nimrod Club”, whose members must hunt, fish and always get into a quandary due to lack of skill. After thinking, I objected that although I was born and grew up in the provinces, I was by no means inclined to pretend to be a great athlete, except for the field of movement in all forms, that this idea was by no means new and had already been used more than once; that it would be much better if the engravings arose naturally from the text, and that I would like to go my own way with more freedom to choose people and scenes from English life, and I am afraid that in the end I will do so, regardless which way I will choose for myself, getting down to business. They agreed with my opinion, I conceived Mr. Pickwick and wrote the text for the first issue, and Mr. Seymour, using galleys, drew a meeting of the Club and a successful portrait of its founder - this last was created according to the instructions of Mr. Edward Chapman, who described the costume and appearance of a real person, well known to him. With the original idea in mind, I connected Mr. Pickwick with the Club, and introduced Mr. Winkle especially for Mr. Seymour.
(R. Seymour made only seven prints, two prints by R. W. Bass, which were not republished, the rest by H. N. "Phiz" Brown. (Translator's note.))The format of the publication changed in connection with the suicide of the artist, Dickens writes about this:
We started with twenty-four pages instead of thirty-two and four illustrations instead of two. The sudden, astonishing death of Mr. Seymour, before the publication of the second issue, led to an immediate solution of a question already ripening: the issue was published in thirty-two pages with only two illustrations, and this order was preserved to the very end.
After Seymour's suicide, the writer himself began to negotiate with several artists about illustrating the Pickwick Club, including William Thackeray, the future author of Vanity Fair. But Dickens did not like his drawings. The choice fell on the youngest applicant - Hablot Brown, who, since that time, for more than twenty years, under the pseudonym "Phys", illustrated many of Dickens' novels. The roles have changed: now the artist followed the writer in everything, perfectly conveying the general atmosphere of the comic epic arising under Dickens' pen and the originality of the characters he created. But the fourth issue, which was illustrated by Fiz, did not enjoy the interest of readers as well as the first three.
In the second chapter, talking about how, through the fault of Jingle, Mr. Winkle was drawn into a duel, Dickens, in a slightly modified form, repeats the motives of the story "The Duel at Great Winglebury" included in the "Essays of Boz". The third chapter includes "The Traveling Actor's Tale". In the sixth chapter of the Notes, he includes the story "The Return of the Convict", which directly echoes the story he wrote earlier "The Black Veil". In both cases we are talking O selfless love mother to a son who becomes a criminal. The poem "Green Ivy" written by Dickens earlier was included in the same chapter. These inserted elements have no organic connection with all other episodes, but they do not contradict the principle of fragmentation that underlies the initial chapters of the Pickwick Papers. In a number of cases, Dickens used the materials he already had due to lack of time: the deadlines for the end of the next series were approaching with inevitable speed.
In July 1836, the fifth issue of the Notes appeared, containing chapters 12-14, in which the resourceful servant Sam Weller appears and the city of Ethansville with its stormy political life. This issue made Dickens famous and popularized the Pickwick Papers. The success of the fifth issue is usually explained by the fact that Sam Weller appeared in it. Indeed, in his person Don Quixote - Pickwick found his Sancho.
Literary history knows nothing like the furor caused by Pickwick. Those who did not like him too much called the general enthusiasm "bozomania". Pickwick hats, coats, canes, cigars appeared. Dogs and cats were called "Sam", "Jingle", "Bardle", "Trotter"; people were nicknamed "Tupman", "Winkle", "Snodgrass" and "Stiggins". "Fat guy" entered the dictionary in English.
Researchers of Dickens's work drew attention to the journalistic nature of the "Notes", their connection with the current events of "today", which is also manifested in the fact that Dickens timed the incidents he described and the activities of the Pickwickists to certain times of the year, to the calendar dates: the June issue contains a description of the game of cricket, the October issue is about hunting, the February issue Winkle demonstrates his “mastery” of skating, and the January one tells about the celebration of Christmas. Opening the issue in September, the reader will find out what happened to the heroes in August, and in March - about what they did in February. This created a special atmosphere of communication with readers: the writer, as it were, lived a common life with them, answered their requests and confidentially acquainted him with what had only recently happened to the heroes, whose fate he knew, and he was in a hurry to introduce them to his readers.
By creating the Pickwick Papers, Dickens shaped and won the readership.
The novel has been out for almost a year and a half. 19 issues were released, with three chapters usually printed in one issue. Latest release was double and cost two shillings. In May 1837, Dickens was in mourning over the death of his sister-in-law Mary Hogarth, so the issue was not published that month.
The first Russian translation was published in 1840 in the Reading Library under the title Papers of the Former Pickwick Club.
In 1850, the Glazunov printing house published the book in a translation by Irinarkh Vvedensky under the title Grave Notes of the Pickwick Club. In his book “High Art”, K. I. Chukovsky spoke of him as follows: “Although there are a lot of gag and blunders in his translation, his translation is still much more accurate than Lannov’s, because it conveys the most important thing: humor. Vvedensky was himself a comedian ... "Pickwick" by Irinarkh Vvedensky all sounds echoes of Gogol.
Since 1933, with the single exception mentioned above, all editions of the Pickwick Papers have been translated by Krivtsova and Lann. Shpet was listed as a co-translator in the editions of 1933, 1934 and 1935; but after Shpet was arrested in 1935 on charges of counter-revolutionary activity, he was no longer mentioned as a participant in the translation.
The general meaning of the "Notes" is not limited to the description fun adventures pickwickists; The novel also has social motives. Talking about the elections in Ethansuil, Dickens ridicules and criticizes the current procedures for nominating candidates for members of parliament, using fraud, bribery, blackmail, opposes corrupt legal proceedings, creates memorable portraits of judicial officials and bribe-takers. Sharp in their social sounding pages dedicated to the stay of Mr. Pickwick in prison.
And yet, in The Pickwick Papers, Dickens does not detain his attention to the dark sides of reality, does not deepen social criticism. Concluding the novel, he wrote:
There are dark shadows on the ground, but the brighter the light seems to be. Some people, like bats or owls, see better in the dark than in the light. We, who are not endowed with such an organ of sight, prefer to take a last farewell glance at the ghostly companions of many hours of loneliness at the moment when bright sunlight falls on them.
There are dark shadows on the earth, but its lights are stronger in the contrast. Some men, like bats or owls, have better eyes for the darkness than for the light. We, who have no such optical powers, are better pleased to take our last parting look at the visionary companions of many solitary hours, when the brief sunshine of the world is blazing upon them.
The writer consciously directs his attention to everything joyful and bright, seeks to affirm his ideal, linking it with the idea of people's goodwill towards each other. In the Notes, the romantic beginning inherent in Dickens's work was manifested - in a utopian picture of a happy existence small group people who are alien to prudence and the pursuit of money. Dickens creates the idyll of Dingli Dell, safely arranges the fate of his heroes, gives them happiness, fun and joy. The spirit of festive pantomime comes to life at the end of the novel.
The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club was ranked one hundred and sixth in the 2003 BBC Top 200 Books list.
The novel was also included in the rating of 100 novels published on January 31, 2008, which, according to the editorial staff of NG-Ex libris, shocked literary world and influenced the whole culture.
The first films about Pickwick's adventures were released in 1913: "", director (UK, USA), and "The Adventures of the Shooting Club", director (UK, USA).
