Dickens has considerable composure. The pursuit of one's own hat is one of those rare trials, funny and sad at the same time, that evokes little sympathy
A question about a fragment from the work of the English writer Charles Dickens evened the score in the game show with a team of experts.
Elena Yakimova from the city of Mikhailovsk, Stavropol Territory original question equalized the score in the fourth game of the spring series “What? Where? When?". The compatriot’s question sounded as follows: “Considerable composure and a considerable dose of prudence are required when capturing her. You should not rush, otherwise you will overtake her; you should not go to the other extreme, otherwise you will completely lose her. The best way- run lightly, keeping up with the object of pursuit, wait for an opportunity, quickly grab it and smile benevolently all the time, as if it amuses you no less than everyone else. What object of persecution did Charles Dickens write about?
The team captain, Alena Povysheva, decided to answer. After listening to the question twice, the expert suggested that Dickens wrote about a butterfly, but answered that we're talking about about luck.
However, neither the answer nor the assumptions made by other team members during the discussion turned out to be correct. It turned out that it was about a hat. Photographer Elena Yakimova won 90 thousand rubles. The Stavropol player's question evened the score - 5:5. Next came the Super Blitz, which was lost by Alexey Samulev. The game ended with a score of 6:5 in favor of television viewers.
Residents of Stavropol region willingly take part in intellectual game. So, a resident of Georgievsk received 90 thousand rubles per winter game"What? Where? When?".
News on Notepad-Stavropol
Charles John Huffam Dickens - English writer, novelist, essayist
February 7 marks the 205th anniversary of the writer’s birth.
Charles Dickens
(1812-1870)
“A person cannot truly improve unless he helps others improve.”
Charles Dickens was born in 1812 in Landport. His parents were John and Elizabeth Dickens. Charles was the second child of eight children in the family. His father worked at a Royal Navy naval base, but was not a worker, but an official.
Little Dickens inherited from his father a rich imagination and ease of speech, apparently adding to this some seriousness in life inherited from his mother, on whose shoulders all the everyday worries of preserving the family’s well-being fell.
The boy’s rich abilities delighted his parents, and the artistically inclined father literally tormented his son, forcing him to act out different scenes, tell his impressions, improvise, read poetry, etc. Dickens turned into a little actor, full of narcissism and vanity.
However, Dickens's family was suddenly completely ruined. The father was abandoned long years to debtor's prison, the mother had to fight poverty. Pampered, fragile in health, full of imagination, the boy in love with himself ended up in difficult conditions operation at the blacking factory.
In his subsequent life, Dickens considered this ruin of his family and this wax of his to be the greatest insult to himself, an undeserved and humiliating blow. He did not like to talk about it, he even hid these facts, but here, from the bottom of poverty, Dickens drew his ardent love for the offended, for the needy, his understanding of their suffering, understanding of the cruelty that they meet from above, deep knowledge of the life of poverty and such horrifying social institutions, like the then schools for poor children and orphanages, like the exploitation of child labor in factories, like debtor's prisons, where he visited his father, etc.
Dickens also brought out from his adolescence a great, dark hatred of the rich, of the ruling classes. Colossal ambition possessed young Dickens. The dream of rising back into the ranks of the wealthy, the dream of outgrowing his original social place, of winning wealth, pleasure, freedom - that was what excited this teenager with a shock of brown hair over a deathly pale face, with huge eyes burning with a healthy fire.
After his father's release from prison, Charles remained in his service at the insistence of his mother. He also began attending Wellington Academy, from which he graduated in 1827. In May of the same year, Charles Dickens got a job as a junior clerk in a law firm, and a year and a half later, having thoroughly mastered shorthand, he began working as a freelance reporter. In 1830 he was invited to the Morning Chronicle.
The public immediately accepted the aspiring reporter. His notes attracted the attention of many. In 1836 the first literary experiments writer - morally descriptive "Essays of Boz". He mainly wrote about the petty bourgeoisie, its interests and state of affairs, and drew literary portraits Londoners and psychological sketches. I must say that Charles Dickens, short biography which does not allow him to cover all the details of his life, and began publishing his novels in newspapers in separate chapters.
"Posthumous notes Pickwick Club". The novel began to be published in 1836. The novel created an incredible sensation. Dogs immediately began to be named after the characters, given nicknames, and wore hats and umbrellas like Pickwick's.
Charles Dickens, whose biography is known to every resident of Foggy Albion, made the whole of England laugh. But this helped him to solve more serious problems. His next work was the novel The Life and Adventures of Oliver Twist. It is difficult now to imagine a person who does not know the story of the orphan Oliver from the London slums. Charles Dickens portrayed the wide social picture in his novel, touching on the problem of workhouses and showing, in contrast, the life of the rich bourgeoisie.
Dickens's fame grew rapidly. Both liberals saw him as their ally, because he defended freedom, and conservatives, because he pointed out the cruelty of new social relationships.
In 1843, A Christmas Carol was published, which became one of the most popular and readable stories about this magical holiday.
In 1848, the novel “Dombey and Son” was published, called the best in the writer’s work. His next work is "David Copperfield". To some extent, the novel is autobiographical. Dickens brings into the work a spirit of protest against capitalist England and the old principles of morality.
The novel “Our Mutual Friend” attracts with its versatility; in it the writer takes a break from social topics. And this is where his writing style changes. She continues to transform into the following works The author, unfortunately, is not finished.
In the 1850s. Dickens reached the zenith of his fame. He was the darling of fate - a famous writer, master of thoughts and a rich man - in a word, a person for whom fate did not skimp on gifts.
But Dickens's needs were broader than his income. His disorderly, purely bohemian nature did not allow him to bring any kind of order into his affairs. He not only tormented his rich and fertile brain by over-working it creatively, but being an extraordinarily brilliant reader, he endeavored to earn enormous fees by lecturing and reading excerpts from his novels. The impression from this purely acting reading was always colossal. Apparently Dickens was one of the greatest virtuosos reading. But on his trips he fell into the hands of some entrepreneurs and, while earning a lot, at the same time time brought himself to the point of exhaustion.
His family life it turned out hard. Disagreements with his wife, some complex and dark relationships with her entire family, fear for sick children made Dickens from his family rather a source of constant worries and torment.
June 9, 1870, fifty-eight-year-old Dickens, not old for years, but exhausted by colossal work, a rather chaotic life and a lot of all sorts of troubles, he dies in Gadeshill from a stroke.
Do you know that
∙ Charles Dickens always slept with his head facing north. Also, when I wrote my works, I sat facing this direction.
∙ One of Charles Dickens' favorite pastimes was going to the Paris morgue, where he could spend whole days captivated by the sight of unidentified remains.
∙ From the very beginning of the relationship, Charles Dickens told Catherine Hogarth, his future wife that her main purpose is to give birth to children and do what he tells her. Over the years life together she gave birth to ten children, and all this time she unquestioningly followed any instructions from her husband. However, over the years, he simply began to despise her.
∙ Dickens was very superstitious person: he touched everything three times - for good luck, considered Friday his lucky day, and on the day the last part of the next novel was published he certainly left London.
∙ Dickens assured that he sees and hears the characters in his works. They, in turn, constantly get in the way and do not want the writer to do anything other than them.
∙ Charles very often fell into a trance, which his comrades noticed more than once. He was constantly haunted by a feeling of déjà vu.
Internet resources:
Dickens Charles. All books by the same author [Electronic resource] / C. Dickens / / RoyalLib.Com: digital library. – Access mode: http://royallib.com/author/dikkens_charlz.html
Dickens Charles. All books by the author[Electronic resource] / Charles Dickens / / Read books online: electronic library. – Access mode: http://www.bookol.ru/author.php?author=%D0%A7%D0%B0%D1%80%D0%BB%D1%8C%D0%B7%20%D0%94 %D0%B8%D0%BA%D0%BA%D0%B5%D0%BD%D1%81
Charles Dickens. Collected works[Electronic resource] / Charles Dickens // Lib.Ru: Maxim Moshkov’s library. – Access mode: http://lib.ru/INPROZ/DIKKENS/
Charles Dickens: biography[Electronic resource] // Litra.ru. – Access mode: http://www.litra.ru/biography/get/wrid/00286561224697217406/
Charles Dickens. Articles. Speeches. Letters[Electronic resource] // Librarian. Ru.: electronic library non-fiction. - Access mode: http://www.bibliotekar.ru/dikkens/
Aphorisms and quotes:
Our world is a world of disappointments, and often disappointments in those hopes that we most cherish, and in hopes that do great honor to our nature.
Tears cleanse the lungs, wash the face, strengthen vision and calm the nerves - so cry well!
There are books where the best thing is the spine and cover.
Women know how to explain everything in a nutshell, unless they start to fume.
I decided that if my world cannot be yours, I will make your world mine.
There is no repentance more cruel than useless repentance.
In this world, anyone who lightens the burden of another person benefits.
What occupies a high position is not always high. And what occupies a low position is not always low.
Printing is the greatest discovery in the world of art, culture and all technical inventions.
Why was life given to us? So that we defend her bravely until our last breath.
Perseverance will reach the top of any hill.
What is braver than the truth?
The key to your prosperity is hard work.
By helping others learn and develop, we improve ourselves.
Children feel injustice more keenly and more subtly than adults.
A dead person is not as scary as a living but mindless person.
A lie is always a lie, whether you say it or hide it.
Tears are rain that washes away the earthly dust that covers our hardened hearts.
Any wonderful goal can be achieved by honest means. And if you can’t, then this goal is bad.
CHAPTER IV Field maneuvers and bivouac; still new friends and an invitation to go out of town Many writers display not only an unreasonable, but also a truly shameful reluctance to give credit to the sources from which they draw valuable material. Such reluctance is alien to us. We only strive to honestly discharge the responsible responsibility arising from our publishing functions; and however much ambition may in other circumstances prompt us to claim authorship of these adventures, respect for the truth forbids us to pretend to anything more than careful arrangement and impartial presentation of them. The Pickwick Papers are our New River Reservoir, and we might be compared to the New River Company. Through the work of others, a huge reservoir of essential facts has been created for us. We only serve them and let them flow in a clean and light stream with the help of these issues (Initially, the novel was published monthly in separate issues.) - for the benefit of people thirsty for Pickwickian wisdom. Acting in this spirit, and firmly based on our decision to do justice to those sources to which we have consulted, we openly declare that to the notebook of Mr. Snodgrass we are indebted for the facts recorded in this and the following chapter - facts which, having now cleared our conscience, we proceed without further comment. The next morning the inhabitants of Rochester and its adjoining towns rose early from their beds in a state of extreme excitement and excitement. A large military review was to take place on the fortification line. The eagle eye of the commander of the troops will observe the maneuvers of half a dozen regiments; Temporary fortifications were erected, the fortress was besieged and taken, and a mine was detonated. Mr. Pickwick was an enthusiastic admirer of the army, as our readers may have guessed from the brief extracts we have given from his description of Chatham. Nothing could bring him into such admiration, nothing could be so in harmony with the feelings of each of his companions, as the upcoming spectacle. That is why they soon set off and headed to the scene of action, where crowds of people were already flocking from all sides. The appearance of the parade ground indicated that the upcoming ceremony would be very majestic and solemn. There were sentries posted to guard the bridgehead, and servants in the batteries to guard the ladies' places, and sergeants were running in all directions with leather-bound books under their arms, and Colonel Balder, in full dress uniform, galloped from place to place, and reined in his horse, crashing into the crowd, and making them prance and jump, and shouted very menacingly, and brought himself to the point that he became very hoarse and very flushed for no apparent reason or reason. The officers ran back and forth, first talking with Colonel Balder, then giving orders to the sergeants, and finally disappearing; and even the soldiers peered out from behind their patent leather collars with an air of mysterious solemnity, which clearly indicated the exceptional nature of the event. Mr. Pickwick and his three companions placed themselves in the front row of the crowd and waited patiently for the ceremony to begin. The crowd grew by the second; and for the next two hours their attention was absorbed in the efforts they had to make to maintain the position they had won. Sometimes the crowd suddenly pressed in from behind, and then Mr. Pickwick was thrown several yards forward with a speed and elasticity that did not at all correspond to his sedate importance; sometimes the order to “step back” was heard, and the butt of the gun was either lowered thumb on Mr. Pickwick's leg, reminding him of the order given, or rested on his chest, thereby ensuring immediate execution of the order. Some cheerful gentlemen on the left, pressing forward in a crowd and crushing Mr. Snodgrass, who was undergoing inhuman torment, wanted to know “where he was going,” and when Mr. Winkle expressed his extreme indignation at the sight of this unprovoked onslaught, one of those standing behind pressed his hat over his eyes and asked if he would deign to hide his head in his pocket. All these witty jokes, as well as the incomprehensible absence of Mr. Tupman (who had suddenly disappeared and reappeared unknown where), created for the Pickwickians a situation on the whole that was more unenviable than pleasant or desirable. Finally, that multi-voiced roar that usually heralds the onset of an expected event ran through the crowd. All eyes turned to the fort - to the gate for the sortie. A few seconds of tense anticipation - and banners fluttered merrily in the air, weapons flashed brightly in the sun: column after column came out onto the plain. The troops stopped and lined up; the team ran along the line, guns clanked, and the troops took guard; the commander, accompanied by Colonel Balder and a retinue of officers, galloped towards the front. All the military bands began to play; the horses reared up, galloped back and, waving their tails, rushed in all directions; the dogs barked, the crowd screamed, the soldiers took their guns to their feet, and in all the space that the eye could cover nothing was visible except red uniforms and white trousers, frozen in motion. Mr. Pickwick, getting entangled in the horses' feet and miraculously getting out from under them, was so absorbed in this that he had no leisure to contemplate the scene until it had reached the stage just described. When he finally got the opportunity to establish himself on his feet, his joy and delight were boundless. - Could there be anything more delightful? - he asked Mr. Winkle. “No, he can’t,” answered this gentleman, who had just freed himself from the short man who had been standing on his feet for a quarter of an hour. “This is a truly noble and dazzling spectacle,” said Mr. Snodgrass, in whose breast the spark of poetry was quickly kindling: “the valiant defenders of the country arrayed in battle order before its peaceful citizens; their faces express not warlike cruelty, but civilized meekness; in their eyes flashes not the evil fire of robbery and revenge, but the soft light of humanity and reason! Mr. Pickwick fully appreciated the spirit of this laudatory speech, but could not fully agree with it, for the soft light of reason burned faintly in the eyes of the soldiers, since after the command “at attention!” the viewer saw only several thousand pairs of eyes, staring straight ahead and devoid of any expression. “We are now in an excellent position,” said Mr. Pickwick, looking around. The crowd around them gradually dispersed, and there was almost no one nearby. - Excellent! - confirmed both Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle. - What are they doing now? - inquired Pickwick, adjusting his glasses. “I—I am inclined to think,” said Mr. Winkle, his countenance changing, “I am inclined to think that they are going to shoot.” - Nonsense! - said Mr. Pickwick hastily. “I... I really think they want to shoot,” insisted Mr. Snodgrass, slightly alarmed. “It can’t be,” said Mr. Pickwick. Scarcely had he uttered these words, when all six regiments took aim with their muskets, as if they all had one common target - and that target was the Pickwickians - and a volley rang out, the most terrifying and deafening that ever shook the earth to its very center or the old gentleman to the depths of his being. Under such difficult circumstances, Mr. Pickwick, under a hail of empty volleys, and under the threat of an attack from troops who began to form on the opposite side, showed that complete composure and self-control which are the essential attributes of a great spirit. He seized Mr. Winkle by the arm, and, placing himself between that gentleman and Mr. Snodgrass, earnestly entreated them to remember that they were in no immediate danger from the shooting, barring the possibility of being deafened by the noise. - And... what if one of the soldiers mistakenly loaded the gun with a bullet? - Mr. Winkle objected, turning pale at the thought of such a possibility, which he himself had invented. “I just heard something whistling into the air, and very loudly: right under my ear.” - Should we throw ourselves face down on the ground? - suggested Mr. Snodgrass. “No, no... it’s all over,” said Mr. Pickwick. Perhaps his lips trembled and his cheeks turned pale. but not a single word indicating fear or excitement escaped the lips of this great man. Mr. Pickwick was right: the shooting stopped. But he had hardly had time to congratulate himself on the fact that his guess was correct, when the whole line began to move: the command rushed hoarsely, and, before any of the Pickwickians guessed the meaning of this new maneuver, all six regiments with fixed bayonets went on the offensive, rushing quickly to the very place where Mr. Pickwick and his friends were located. Man is mortal, and there is a limit beyond which human courage cannot extend. Mr. Pickwick glanced through his glasses at the approaching avalanche, and then resolutely turned his back to it - let's not say - ran: firstly, this expression is vulgar; secondly, Mr. Pickwick's figure was by no means adapted to this type of retreat. He set off at a trot, developing as fast as his legs could carry him, such a speed that he could fully appreciate the predicament of his situation when it was already too late. The enemy troops, whose appearance had disconcerted Mr. Pickwick a few moments before, formed up to repel the mock attack of the troops besieging the fortress; and as a result, Mr. Pickwick and his friends suddenly found themselves between two very long ranks, one of which was approaching at a rapid pace, and the other was waiting in battle order for a collision. - Hey! - shouted the officers of the approaching line. - Get out of my way! - the officers of the motionless line shouted. -Where should we go? - screamed the alarmed Pickwickians. - Hey Hey hey! - was the only answer. A second of confusion, a heavy stamping of feet, a violent shaking, a muffled laugh... Half a dozen regiments had already retired fifty yards, and Mr. Pickwick's soles continued to flash in the air. Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle made forced courbettes with remarkable agility, and the first thing that the latter saw, sitting on the ground and wiping with a yellow silk handkerchief the life-giving stream that flowed from his nose, was his highly respected mentor, chasing his own hat, which, bouncing playfully , carried away into the distance. The pursuit of one's own hat is one of those rare trials, funny and sad at the same time, that evokes little sympathy. Considerable composure and a healthy dose of prudence are required when catching a hat. You should not rush, otherwise you will overtake it; You should not go to the other extreme - otherwise you will completely lose it. The best way is to run lightly, keeping up with the object of pursuit, be careful and cautious, wait for an opportunity, gradually overtaking the hat, then quickly dive, grab it by the crown, pull it on your head and smile benevolently all the time, as if it amuses you no less than everyone else. A pleasant breeze was blowing, and Mr. Pickwick's hat was rolling merrily into the distance. The wind puffed, and Mr. Pickwick puffed, and the hat rolled and rolled briskly, like an agile dolphin on the waves of the surf, and it would have rolled far from Mr. Pickwick if, by the will of Providence, an obstacle had not appeared in its path just at the moment when this the gentleman was ready to leave her to the mercy of fate. Mr. Pickwick was completely exhausted and was about to give up the chase when a gust of wind carried his hat to the wheel of one of the carriages standing in the very place to which he was rushing. Mr. Pickwick, appreciating the favorable moment, quickly rushed forward, took possession of his property, placed it on his head, and paused to take breath. In less than half a minute he heard a voice impatiently calling his name, and he immediately recognized the voice of Mr. Tupman, and, raising his head, saw a sight that filled him with surprise and joy. In a four-seater carriage, from which, due to the cramped conditions, the horses were unharnessed, stood a portly elderly gentleman in a blue frock coat with shiny buttons, corduroy trousers and high boots with cuffs, then two young ladies in scarves and feathers, a young gentleman, apparently in love one of the young ladies in scarves and feathers, a lady of indeterminate age, apparently the aunt of the ladies in question, and Mr. Tupman, who behaved as casually and casually as if he had been a member of this family from the first days of infancy. Attached to the back of the carriage was a basket of impressive size—one of those baskets that always awaken in the contemplative mind thoughts of cold birds, tongues, and bottles of wine—and on the box sat a fat, red-faced fellow, deep in a slumber. Every thoughtful observer could at first glance determine that it was his duty to distribute the contents of the said basket when the moment was right for its consumption. Mr. Pickwick glanced hastily at these interesting details , when his faithful student called out to him again. - Pickwick! Pickwick! - exclaimed Mr. Tupman. Get in here! Hurry up! “You are welcome, sir, you are welcome,” said the portly gentleman. - Joe! Obnoxious boy... He fell asleep again... Joe, put down the step. The fat guy slowly rolled off the box, lowered the step and held the carriage door welcomingly open. At that moment Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle approached. “There’s plenty of room for everyone, gentlemen,” said the portly gentleman. - Two in the carriage, one on the box. Joe, make room on the box for one of these gentlemen. Well, sir, you're welcome! - And the gentleman of the road put out his hand and pulled first Mr. Pickwick and then Mr. Snodgrass into the carriage. Mr. Winkle climbed onto the box, the fat guy waddled onto the same perch and instantly fell asleep. “Very glad to see you, gentlemen,” said the portly gentleman. “I know you very well, although you may not remember me.” Last winter I spent several evenings at your club... Met my friend Mr. Tupman here this morning and was very pleased with him. How are you doing, sir? You look blooming. Mr. Pickwick thanked him for the compliment and gave a friendly shake to the portly gentleman in boots with cuffs. - Well, how are you feeling, sir? - continued the portly gentleman, addressing Mr. Snodgrass with fatherly solicitude. - Great, right? Well, that's great, that's great. What about you, sir? (Addressing Mr. Winkle.) I am very glad that you are feeling well, very, very glad. Gentlemen, these girls are my daughters, and this is my sister, Miss Rachel Wardle. She is a miss, although she does not understand her mission that way... What, sir, how? - And the portly gentleman playfully nudged Mr. Pickwick in the side and laughed heartily. - Oh, brother! - Miss Wardle exclaimed with a reproachful smile. “But I’m telling the truth,” the portly gentleman objected, “no one can deny it.” Excuse me, gentlemen, this is my friend Mr. Trundle. Well, now that everyone knows each other, I propose to sit down without any hesitation, and let’s see what’s going on there. Here's my advice. With these words the portly gentleman put on his glasses, Mr. Pickwick took up the telescope, and everyone in the carriage stood up and began to contemplate the military evolutions over the heads of the spectators. These were amazing evolutions: one line fired over the heads of another line, after which it ran away, then this other line fired over the heads of the next and in turn ran away; the troops lined up in a square, and the officers were placed in the center; then they went down the stairs into the ditch and climbed out of it using the same stairs; knocked down the basket barricades and showed the greatest valor. Tools resembling giant mops were used to hammer shells into the cannons; and there were so many preparations for the firing and the volley thundered so deafeningly that the air was filled with women’s screams. The young Miss Wardles were so frightened that Mr. Trundle was literally forced to support one of them in the carriage, while Mr. Snodgrass supported the other, and Mr. Wardle's sister's nervous excitement reached such terrible proportions that Mr. Tupman found it absolutely necessary to put his arm around her waist so that she doesn't fall. Everyone was excited except the fat guy; he slept in a sweet sleep, as if the roar of guns had replaced his lullaby since childhood. - Joe! Joe! - shouted the portly gentleman, when the fortress was taken, and the besiegers and besieged sat down to dinner. - Obnoxious boy, he fell asleep again! Be so kind as to pinch him, sir... please, on his leg, otherwise you won't wake him up... thank you very much. Untie the basket, Joe! The fat guy who Mr. Winkle successfully woke up by pinching him with a big and index fingers piece of thigh, rolled off the box again and began to untie the basket, showing more efficiency than one would have expected from him, judging by his passivity up to that moment. “Now we’ll have to make room a little,” said the portly gentleman. There were jokes about how the ladies' sleeves would get wrinkled in the cramped quarters, there were playful suggestions that brought a bright blush to the lady's cheeks to sit them on the gentlemen's laps, and finally everyone settled into the carriage. The portly gentleman began to hand over various things to the carriage, which he took from the hands of a fat guy who had climbed to the back of the carriage for this purpose. - Knives and forks, Joe! Knives and forks were served; the ladies and gentlemen in the carriage and Mr. Winkle on the box were provided with these useful utensils. _Plates, Joe, plates! The same procedure was repeated as when distributing knives and forks. - Now the bird, Joe. The obnoxious boy - he fell asleep again! Joe! Joe! (A few blows to the head with the cane, and the fat guy woke up from his lethargy with some difficulty.) Live, serve the snack! In that last word there was something that made the fat guy perk up. He jumped up; his pewter eyes, sparkling from behind his swollen cheeks, greedily dug into the food supplies as he began to remove them from the basket. “Come on, move,” said Mr. Wardle, for the fat fellow was bending lovingly over the capon and seemed unable to part with it. The guy took a deep breath and, casting a fiery glance at the delicious bird, reluctantly handed it over to his owner. - That's right... keep your eyes open. Give me your tongue... pigeon pate. Be careful not to drop the veal and ham... Don't forget the lobster... Take the salad out of the napkin... Give me the sauce. These orders came from Mr. Wardle's lips as he handed over the said dishes, pushing the plates into everyone's hands and laps. - Wonderful, isn't it? - inquired this cheerful gentleman, when the process of destroying food began. - Wonderful! - confirmed Mr. Winkle, sitting on the box and cutting the bird. - A glass of wine? - With the greatest pleasure. - Take the bottle to your box. - You are very kind. - Joe! - What do you want, sir? (This time he was not sleeping, because he had just managed to steal a veal pie.) - A bottle of wine for the gentleman on the trestle. I'm very glad to meet you, sir. - Thank you. - Mr. Winkle drained the glass and placed the bottle next to him on the trestle. - May I, sir, drink to your health? - Mr. Trundle turned to Mr. Winkle. “Very nice,” replied Mr. Winkle, and both gentlemen drank. Then everyone drank a glass, except for the lady. - How our dear Emily flirted with a strange gentleman! - the aunt, the old maid, whispered to her brother, Mr. Wardle, with all the envy that an aunt and an old maid is capable of. - Well, so what? - responded the cheerful elderly gentleman. - It seems to me that this is very natural... nothing surprising. Mr. Pickwick, would you like some wine, sir? Mr. Pickwick, who had thoughtfully examined the filling of the pate, readily agreed. “Emily, my dear,” said the maiden aunt patronizingly, “don’t talk so loudly, my dear.” - Oh, aunt! “Auntie and this old gentleman allow themselves everything, and nothing for others,” whispered Miss Isabella Wardle to her sister Emily. The young ladies laughed merrily, and the old lady tried to put on an amiable face, but she failed. “Young girls are so lively,” Miss Wardle said to Mr. Tupman in such a sympathetic tone, as if the liveliness was contraband, and the person who did not hide it was committing a great crime and sin. - Oh yeah! - responded Mr. Tupman, not understanding what answer was expected from him. - It's charming. “Hm...” Miss Wardle said incredulously. - Will you allow me? - said Mr. Tupman in the most sugary tone, touching the fingers of the charming Rachel with one hand, and lifting the bottle with the other. Will you allow me? - Oh, sir! Mr. Tupman looked very impressive, and Rachel expressed fear that the shooting might resume, for in that case she would have to once again resort to his support. - Do you think my dear nieces can be called pretty? the loving aunt asked Mr. Tupman in a whisper. “Perhaps if their aunt weren’t here,” answered the resourceful Pickwickian, accompanying his words with a passionate look. - Oh, naughty... but seriously... If their complexion were a little better, they might seem pretty... in the evening light? “Yes, perhaps,” said Mr. Tupman in an indifferent tone. - Oh, what a mocker you are... I know perfectly well what you wanted to say. - What? - inquired Mr. Tupman, who wanted to say absolutely nothing. - You thought that Isabella was hunched over... yes, yes, you thought! You men are so observant! Yes, she is hunched over, this cannot be denied, and, of course, nothing disfigures young girls more than this habit of hunching over. I often tell her that a few years will pass and she will be scary to look at. And you are a mocker! Mr. Tupman had nothing against such a reputation, acquired at such a cheap price, he drew himself up and smiled mysteriously. - What a sarcastic smile! - Rachel said with admiration. - Really, I'm afraid of you. -Are you afraid of me? - Oh, you won’t hide anything from me, I know perfectly well what that smile means. - What? - asked Mr. Tupman, who did not know it himself. “You want to say,” the pretty aunt continued, lowering her voice, you wanted to say that Isabella’s stoop is not such a big misfortune compared to Emily’s swagger. And Emily is very cheeky! You can't imagine how much this upsets me sometimes! I cry for hours and my brother is so kind, so trusting, he doesn't notice anything, I'm quite sure it would break his heart. Perhaps it’s just the way I behave that’s to blame. I’d like to think like that... I console myself with this hope... (Here the loving aunt let out a deep sigh and sadly shook her head.) “I guarantee that my aunt is talking about us,” whispered Miss Emily Wardle to her sister - I'm sure of it, she has such a feisty face. - You think? - Isabella responded. - Hm... Dear aunt! - What, honey? - Auntie, I’m so afraid that you’ll catch a cold... please put on a scarf, wrap up your dear old head... really, you need to take care of yourself in your years! Although the retribution was made in the same coin and according to deserts, it was hardly possible to imagine a more cruel revenge. It is not known in what form the aunt would have expressed her indignation if Mr. Wardle had not intervened, who, suspecting nothing, changed the subject of the conversation by energetically calling out to Joe. “Insufferable boy,” said the elderly gentleman, “he fell asleep again!” - Amazing boy! - said Mr. Pickwick. - Does he always sleep like this? - He's sleeping! - confirmed the old gentleman. - He always sleeps. In his sleep he follows orders and snores while serving at the table. - IN highest degree Weird! - said Mr. Pickwick. “Yes, very strange,” agreed the old gentleman. - I'm proud of this guy... I wouldn't part with him for anything in the world. This is a miracle of nature! Hey, Joe, Joe, put away the dishes and open another bottle, do you hear? The fat guy stood up, opened his eyes, swallowed a huge piece of pie, which he was chewing at the moment he fell asleep, and slowly fulfilled his master’s order: he collected the plates and put them in the basket, devouring the remains of the feast with his eyes. Another bottle was served and drunk; the basket was tied again, the fat guy took his place on the box, the glasses and telescope were again taken out. Meanwhile, the maneuvers resumed. Whistling, shooting, frightening the lady, and then, to everyone’s delight, the mine was detonated. As the smoke from the explosion cleared, the troops and spectators followed suit and also dispersed. Don’t forget,” said the elderly gentleman, shaking Mr. Pickwick’s hand and ending the conversation begun during the final stage of the maneuvers, “you are our guest tomorrow.” “Certainly,” replied Mr. Pickwick. - Do you have an address? “Menor Farm, Dingley Dell,” said Mr. Pickwick, looking at his notebook. “That’s right,” confirmed the old gentleman. - And remember, I will let you go no earlier than in a week and will make sure that you see everything worthy of attention. If you are interested country life, come to me, and I will give it to you in abundance. Joe! - Obnoxious boy: he fell asleep again! Joe, help Tom pawn the horses! The horses were harnessed, the coachman climbed onto the box, the fat guy sat next to him, they said goodbye, and the carriage drove off. When the Pickwickians looked back for the last time, the setting sun cast a bright reflection on the faces of those sitting in the carriage and illuminated the figure of the fat guy. His head hung on his chest, he slept in a sweet sleep.
