Bardell v. Pickwick

‘Most extraordinary female this,’ thought Mr. Pickwick, popping in again. ‘Ha – hum.’

These last sounds, so like those in which, as legends inform us, the ferocious giant Blunderbore was in the habit of expressing his opinion that it was time to lay the cloth, were too distinctly audible, to be again mistaken for the workings of fancy.

‘Gracious Heaven!’ said the middle-aged lady, ‘what’s that!’

‘It’s – it’s – only a gentleman, Ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick from behind the curtains.

‘A gentleman!’ said the lady with a terrific scream.

‘It’s all over,’ thought Mr. Pickwick.

‘A strange man,’ shrieked the lady. Another instant and the house would be alarmed. Her garments rustled as she rushed towards the door.

‘Ma’am,’ – said Mr. Pickwick, thrusting out his head, in the extremity of desperation, ‘Ma’am.’

Now although Mr. Pickwick was not actuated by any definite object in putting out his head, it was instantaneously productive of a good effect. The lady, as we have alreaded stated, was near the door. She must pass it, to reach the staircase, and she would most undoubtedly have done so by this time, had not the sudden apparition of Mr. Pickwick’s nightcap driven her back, into the remotest corner of the apartment, where she stood, staring wildly at Mr. Pickwick, while Mr. Pickwick, in his turn, stared wildly at her.

‘Wretch,’ – said the lady, covering her eyes with her hands, ‘what do you want here.’

‘Nothing, Ma’am – nothing whatever, Ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick, earnestly.

‘Nothing!’ said the lady, looking up.

‘Nothing, Ma’am, upon my honour,’ said Mr. Pickwick, nodding his head so energetically, that the tassel of his nightcap danced again. ‘I am almost ready to sink, Ma’am, beneath the confusion of addressing a lady in my nightcap (here the lady hastily snatched off her’s), but I can’t get it off, Ma’am (here Mr. Pickwick gave it a tremendous tug in proof of the statment). It is evident to me, Ma’am, now, that I have mistaken this bedroom for my own. I had not been here five minutes, Ma’am, when you suddenly entered it.’

‘If this improbable story be really true, Sir,’ – said the lady, sobbing violently, ‘you will leave it instantly.’

‘I will, Ma’am, with the greatest pleasure,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Instantly, Sir,’ said the lady.

‘Certainly, Ma’am,’ interposed Mr. Pickwick very quickly. ‘Certainly, Ma’am. I – I – am very sorry, Ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick, making his appearance at the bottom of the bed, ‘to have been the innocent occasion of this alarm and emotion; deeply sorry Ma’am.’

The lady pointed to the door. One excellent quality of Mr. Pickwick’s character was beautifully displayed at this moment, under the most trying circumstances. Although he had hastily put on his hat over his night cap, after the manner of the old patrol; although he carried his shoes and gaiters in his hand, and his coat and waistcoat over his arm, nothing could subdue his native politeness.

‘I am exceedingly sorry, Ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick, bowing very low.

‘If you are, Sir, you will at once leave the room,’ said the lady.

‘Immediately, Ma’am; this instant, Ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick, opening the door, and dropping both his shoes with a loud crash in so doing.

‘I trust Ma’am,’ resumed Mr. Pickwick, gathering up his shoes, and turning round to bow again, ‘I trust, Ma’am, that my unblemished character, and the devoted respect I entertain for your sex, will plead as some slight excuse for this’ – But before Mr. Pickwick could conclude the sentence, the lady had thrust him into the passage, and locked and bolted the door behind him.

Whatever grounds of self-congratulation Mr. Pickwick might have, for having escaped so quietly from his late awkward situation, his present position was by no means enviable. He was alone, in an open passage, in a strange house, in the middle of the night, half dressed; it was not to be supposed that he could find his way in perfect darkness to a room which he had been wholly unable to discover with a light, and if he made the slightest noise in his fruitless attempts to do so, he stood every chance of being shot at, and perhaps killed, by some wakeful traveller. He had no resource but to remain where he was, until daylight appeared. So after groping his way a few paces down the passage, and to his infinite alarm, stumbling over several pairs of boots in so doing, Mr. Pickwick crouched into a little recess in the wall, to wait for morning, as philosophically as he might.

He was not destined, however, to undergo this additional trial of patience: for he had not been long ensconced in his present concealment when, to his unspeakable horror, a man, bearing a light, appeared at the end of the passage. His horror was suddenly converted into joy, however, when he recognized the form of his faithful attendant. It was indeed Mr. Samuel Weller, who after sitting up thus late, in conversation with the Boots, who was sitting up for the mail, was now about to retire to rest.

Imagine this story told by Miss Witherfield in open court, with all its details, the lady’s narrative being coloured by the recollection that she had lost a suitable husband owing to her adventure. Mr. Peter Magnus would have deposed to Mr. Pickwick’s extraordinary interest in the matter of the proposal, and have added his suspicions on recalling Mr. Pickwick’s ambiguous declaration that he had come down to expose a certain person – even one of his own sympathetic friends, who had witnessed the scene with Mrs. Bardell, and recalled the Boarding House incident, might murmur, “How odd that he is ever thus in pursuit of the fair under suspicious circumstances? could it be that after all? – What if he had some previous knowledge of the lady, and secretly admired her, and stung to fury at the notion of Mr. Peter Magnus marrying, had taken this strange mode of declaring his passion?” Even the sagacious Sam, devoted as he was to his master, was taken aback on meeting him in his midnight wanderings.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, suddenly appearing before him, ‘Where’s my bedroom?’

Mr. Weller stared at his master with the most emphatic surprise; and it was not until the question had been repeated three several times, that he turned round, and led the way to the long-sought apartment.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as he got into bed, ‘I have made one of the most extraordinary mistakes to-night, that ever were heard of.’

‘Werry likely, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, drily.

‘But of this I am determined, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘that if I were to stop in this house for six months, I would never trust myself about it alone, again.’

‘That’s the wery prudentest resolution as you could come to, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘You rayther want somebody to look arter you, Sir, ven your judgment goes out a wisitin’.’

‘What do you mean by that, Sam?’ said Mr. Pickwick. He raised himself in bed, and extended his hand, as if he were about to say something more; but suddenly checking himself, turned round, and bade his valet ‘Good night.’

‘Good night, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller. He paused when he got outside the door – shook his head – walked on – stopped – snuffed the candle – shook his head again – and finally proceeded slowly to his chamber, apparently buried in the profoundest meditation.

It will be seen that Sam went near to being disrespectful in his sceptical view of his master’s story.

When Mrs. Sanders was examined, “the Court” put a few questions to her, as to the customs of love-making among persons of her position. She had “received love letters, like other ladies. In the course of their correspondence Mr. Sanders had often called her a ‘duck’ but never ‘chops’ or ‘tomato sauce.’ He was particularly fond of ducks. Perhaps if he had been as fond of chops and tomato sauce, he might have called her that, as a term of affection.”

Mrs. Sanders was clearly one of the same class as Mrs. Cluppins, and chiefly deposed to the general impression in the neighbourhood that Mr. Pickwick had “offered” for Mrs. Bardell. Tupman, Snodgrass and Sam were also examined. Being friends of the defendant, they were from the outset assumed to be “hostile” and treated accordingly. It may be doubted, however, whether it is permissible to treat “your own witnesses” in this rough fashion, until at least they have shown some overt signs of their hostility, either by reserve, or an obvious determination to let as little as possible be extracted from them. In such case, it is usual to apply to the court for its sanction to deal with them by the severity of cross examination.

When Sam entered the witness box, the Serjeant addressed him: “I believe you are in the service of Mr. Pickwick, the Defendant in this case. Speak up, if you please, Mr. Weller.” Sam had not had time to say anything, so the admonition might seem superfluous. But this is a well-known device. Sam had been “briefed” to the Serjeant as a rather dangerous witness – somewhat too wide awake. It was necessary therefore to be short and summary with him. He thus conveyed to the jury that this Sam was one whom he could address in this curt way, and who by his low, uncertain accents might try to hide the truth. Sam, however, disconcerted the plan by his prompt, ready answer, “I mean to speak up, sir.” Sam, as we know, clearly brought out the Dodson and Fogg’s damaging assurance to Mrs. Bardell, that no costs should be charged to her personally.

When the Plaintiff’s case was closed, things did not look particularly bright for Mr. Pickwick. It had been shown on the evidence of his own friends that he had been surprised with his landlady in his arms; (2) That he had been corresponding with her on most familiar terms – at least Serjeant Buzfuz had made it appear so; (3) Language that almost amounted to a proposal had been overheard; (4) And finally, it had been revealed that the Defendant had been “caught” in a lady’s bedroom, at an Inn, at midnight! To answer which a “strong” case was absolutely essential. This, we grieve to say, was not forthcoming.

THE DEFENDANT’S CASE

When we listen to the defence set up for Mr. Pickwick we have to lament that that worthy gentleman was not better served by his legal advisers.

On the other side the shrewd Dodson and Fogg had done admirably for their client. They were sharp clever attornies, having a thundering, overpowering leader, and a smart, exceedingly smart junior, one of those “wide-awake” brisk fellows who really conduct the case, and will “take silk” in a few years. This gentleman could cross-examine in capital style and address the jury in a language of his own, by glances, shrugs, and remarks addressed to a witness, but intended for the jury, as they knew perfectly well. His style, bearing, and speeches form an admirable epitome of the arts and devices of a smart counsel. There are “common” forms and Skimpin had them at his fingers’ ends. As we listen, we feel how admirably directed they were to work on the jury.

Perker’s plan of campaign as announced to Mr. Pickwick, was a poor one enough, and showed how desperate he thought the case was. “We have only one (course) to adopt, my dear sir,” he said, “cross-examine the witnesses: trust to Snubbin’s eloquence, throw dust in the eyes of the judge, and ourselves on the jury.” Brave words, but nothing of the programme was carried out. The cross-examination of the witnesses was but tamely attempted. Snubbin’s eloquence was not displayed beyond mildly praising his client’s good character. As for “throwing dust in the eyes of judge,” we have seen Mr. Justice Stareleigh was much too wide awake for that; while the throwing themselves on the jury was disastrous. There were several other lines of defence which a more up-to-date solicitor would not have overlooked. A less scrupulous man would have made searching enquiries into Mrs. Bardell’s history and character; but his client, perhaps, would not have sanctioned this course.

Perker is even absurd enough to talk of a casa, as though it were some Italian word.

A ca sa was short for a writ of Capias ad Satisfaciendum, which gave a warrant to the officers to seize the goods. There were various kinds of this machinery, but what affected Mr. Pickwick was a Capias ad Satisfaciendum, to enforce attendance at the Court. The ca sa also came after judgment, giving authority to imprison the defendant till the claim was satisfied.

The appearance of such great guns as the two Serjeants is accounted for by a curious rule that Serjeants only were permitted to lead in cases read in the Court of Common Pleas. [2 - Seven years after the Trial this monopoly was taken away from the Serjeants – namely in 1834: then capriciously given back to them, and finally abolished in 1840.] This strange monopoly recalls that other one, in the Court of Arches, where the advocates and judges used to exchange places and decide on cases in which perhaps they had been advocates. These illiberal and unaccountable restrictions have been swept away, with the Courts themselves.

Very unusual indeed at this time was the appearance of a lawyer of Serjeant Snubbin’s class in court, and there is a well-known story how, when Charles Butler made his appearance on a special occasion, all the Bar crowded in to hear him, and he had, I think, to get a gown for the occasion.

One is sorry to think that there are no Serjeants now, though at the Irish Bar there is one solitary survivor – Serjeant Hemphill. Gone too, are their “coifs” and other paraphernalia. With the abolition of the separate courts they were found superfluous. We like to hear of Serjeant Parry, Serjeant Ballantine, Serjeants Warren and Talford, all four literary men. [3 - I have heard from the daughter of Mr. Chapman, the original publisher of Pickwick, that Talfourd revised and directed the “Trial.” On one occasion Boz was dining with him when the proof was brought in, with some legal mistakes noted by Talfourd. Boz left the table and put it right.]

Having made this initial blunder, Perker did not even instruct a good, smart and ready junior, but chose instead the incapable Phunky who really brought out that fatal piece of evidence from Winkle, which “did for” his case altogether. He had no business, as Boz tells us.

This junior, we are told, had been just called, that is to say, he had been only eight years at the Bar. Snubbin had never heard of him. The little judge, in court, also said “that he never had the pleasure of hearing the gentleman’s name before,” a sneer he would not have ventured on to a counsel in good practice. Snubbin’s remark is amusing and sarcastic; but now-a-days any barrister who had been at the Bar eight years would not be considered as just called, for if he has been passed over for that time, he is likely never to make a figure. The rude and unbecoming sneers, both of Snubbin and the little Judge, seem amazing in our present code of legal manners. Everything at that time, however, was much more “in the rough” and coarser. This was his first case; and the poor creature is thus described:

Although an infant barrister, he was a full-grown man. He had a very nervous manner, and a painful hesitation in his speech; it did not appear to be a natural defect, but seemed rather the result of timidity, arising from the consciousness of being “kept down” by want of means, or interest, or connection, or impudence, as the case might be. He was overawed by the Serjeant, and profoundly courteous to the attorney.