Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit Page 13

  “Is he indeed?” cried Tom.

  “In those two respects,” returned the other, “there never was such a man. I have often heard from those who know, that they have been, time out of mind, the failings of our family; and I believe there's some truth in it. But I can't say of my own knowledge. All I have to do, you know, is to be very thankful that they haven't descended to me, and, to be very careful that I don't contract “em.”

  “To be sure,” said Mr Pinch. “Very proper.”

  “Well, sir,” resumed Martin, stirring the fire once more, and drawing his chair still closer to it, “his selfishness makes him exacting, you see; and his obstinacy makes him resolute in his exactions. The consequence is that he has always exacted a great deal from me in the way of respect, and submission, and self-denial when his wishes were in question, and so forth. I have borne a great deal from him, because I have been under obligations to him (if one can ever be said to be under obligations to one's own grandfather), and because I have been really attached to him; but we have had a great many quarrels for all that, for I could not accommodate myself to his ways very often—not out of the least reference to myself, you understand, but because—” he stammered here, and was rather at a loss.

  Mr Pinch being about the worst man in the world to help anybody out of a difficulty of this sort, said nothing.

  “Well! as you understand me,” resumed Martin, quickly, “I needn't hunt for the precise expression I want. Now I come to the cream of my story, and the occasion of my being here. I am in love, Pinch.”

  Mr Pinch looked up into his face with increased interest.

  “I say I am in love. I am in love with one of the most beautiful girls the sun ever shone upon. But she is wholly and entirely dependent upon the pleasure of my grandfather; and if he were to know that she favoured my passion, she would lose her home and everything she possesses in the world. There is nothing very selfish in THAT love, I think?”

  “Selfish!” cried Tom. “You have acted nobly. To love her as I am sure you do, and yet in consideration for her state of dependence, not even to disclose—”

  “What are you talking about, Pinch?” said Martin pettishly: “don't make yourself ridiculous, my good fellow! What do you mean by not disclosing?”

  “I beg your pardon,” answered Tom. “I thought you meant that, or I wouldn't have said it.”

  “If I didn't tell her I loved her, where would be the use of my being in love?” said Martin: “unless to keep myself in a perpetual state of worry and vexation?”

  “That's true,” Tom answered. “Well! I can guess what SHE said when you told her,” he added, glancing at Martin's handsome face.

  “Why, not exactly, Pinch,” he rejoined, with a slight frown; “because she has some girlish notions about duty and gratitude, and all the rest of it, which are rather hard to fathom; but in the main you are right. Her heart was mine, I found.”

  “Just what I supposed,” said Tom. “Quite natural!” and, in his great satisfaction, he took a long sip out of his wine-glass.

  “Although I had conducted myself from the first with the utmost circumspection,” pursued Martin, “I had not managed matters so well but that my grandfather, who is full of jealousy and distrust, suspected me of loving her. He said nothing to her, but straightway attacked me in private, and charged me with designing to corrupt the fidelity to himself (there you observe his selfishness), of a young creature whom he had trained and educated to be his only disinterested and faithful companion, when he should have disposed of me in marriage to his heart's content. Upon that, I took fire immediately, and told him that with his good leave I would dispose of myself in marriage, and would rather not be knocked down by him or any other auctioneer to any bidder whomsoever.”

  Mr Pinch opened his eyes wider, and looked at the fire harder than he had done yet.

  “You may be sure,” said Martin, “that this nettled him, and that he began to be the very reverse of complimentary to myself. Interview succeeded interview; words engendered words, as they always do; and the upshot of it was, that I was to renounce her, or be renounced by him. Now you must bear in mind, Pinch, that I am not only desperately fond of her (for though she is poor, her beauty and intellect would reflect great credit on anybody, I don't care of what pretensions who might become her husband), but that a chief ingredient in my composition is a most determined—”

  “Obstinacy,” suggested Tom in perfect good faith. But the suggestion was not so well received as he had expected; for the young man immediately rejoined, with some irritation,

  “What a fellow you are, Pinch!”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Tom, “I thought you wanted a word.”

  “I didn't want that word,” he rejoined. “I told you obstinacy was no part of my character, did I not? I was going to say, if you had given me leave, that a chief ingredient in my composition is a most determined firmness.”

  “Oh!” cried Tom, screwing up his mouth, and nodding. “Yes, yes; I see!”

  “And being firm,” pursued Martin, “of course I was not going to yield to him, or give way by so much as the thousandth part of an inch.”

  “No, no,” said Tom.

  “On the contrary, the more he urged, the more I was determined to oppose him.”

  “To be sure!” said Tom.

  “Very well,” rejoined Martin, throwing himself back in his chair, with a careless wave of both hands, as if the subject were quite settled, and nothing more could be said about it—'There is an end of the matter, and here am I!”

  Mr Pinch sat staring at the fire for some minutes with a puzzled look, such as he might have assumed if some uncommonly difficult conundrum had been proposed, which he found it impossible to guess. At length he said:

  “Pecksniff, of course, you had known before?”

  “Only by name. No, I had never seen him, for my grandfather kept not only himself but me, aloof from all his relations. But our separation took place in a town in the adjoining country. From that place I came to Salisbury, and there I saw Pecksniff's advertisement, which I answered, having always had some natural taste, I believe, in the matters to which it referred, and thinking it might suit me. As soon as I found it to be his, I was doubly bent on coming to him if possible, on account of his being—”

  “Such an excellent man,” interposed Tom, rubbing his hands: “so he is. You were quite right.”

  “Why, not so much on that account, if the truth must be spoken,” returned Martin, “as because my grandfather has an inveterate dislike to him, and after the old man's arbitrary treatment of me, I had a natural desire to run as directly counter to all his opinions as I could. Well! As I said before, here I am. My engagement with the young lady I have been telling you about is likely to be a tolerably long one; for neither her prospects nor mine are very bright; and of course I shall not think of marrying until I am well able to do so. It would never do, you know, for me to be plunging myself into poverty and shabbiness and love in one room up three pair of stairs, and all that sort of thing.”

  “To say nothing of her,” remarked Tom Pinch, in a low voice.

  “Exactly so,” rejoined Martin, rising to warm his back, and leaning against the chimney-piece. “To say nothing of her. At the same time, of course it's not very hard upon her to be obliged to yield to the necessity of the case; first, because she loves me very much; and secondly, because I have sacrificed a great deal on her account, and might have done much better, you know.”

  It was a very long time before Tom said “Certainly;” so long, that he might have taken a nap in the interval, but he did say it at last.

  “Now, there is one odd coincidence connected with this love-story,” said Martin, “which brings it to an end. You remember what you told me last night as we were coming here, about your pretty visitor in the church?”

  “Surely I do,” said Tom, rising from his stool, and seating himself in the chair from which the other had lately risen, that he might see his face. “Undoub
tedly.”

  “That was she.”

  “I knew what you were going to say,” cried Tom, looking fixedly at him, and speaking very softly. “You don't tell me so?”

  “That was she,” repeated the young man. “After what I have heard from Pecksniff, I have no doubt that she came and went with my grandfather. —Don't you drink too much of that sour wine, or you'll have a fit of some sort, Pinch, I see.”

  “It is not very wholesome, I am afraid,” said Tom, setting down the empty glass he had for some time held. “So that was she, was it?”

  Martin nodded assent; and adding, with a restless impatience, that if he had been a few days earlier he would have seen her; and that now she might be, for anything he knew, hundreds of miles away; threw himself, after a few turns across the room, into a chair, and chafed like a spoilt child.

  Tom Pinch's heart was very tender, and he could not bear to see the most indifferent person in distress; still less one who had awakened an interest in him, and who regarded him (either in fact, or as he supposed) with kindness, and in a spirit of lenient construction. Whatever his own thoughts had been a few moments before—and to judge from his face they must have been pretty serious—he dismissed them instantly, and gave his young friend the best counsel and comfort that occurred to him.

  “All will be well in time,” said Tom, “I have no doubt; and some trial and adversity just now will only serve to make you more attached to each other in better days. I have always read that the truth is so, and I have a feeling within me, which tells me how natural and right it is that it should be. That never ran smooth yet,” said Tom, with a smile which, despite the homeliness of his face, was pleasanter to see than many a proud beauty's brightest glance; “what never ran smooth yet, can hardly be expected to change its character for us; so we must take it as we find it, and fashion it into the very best shape we can, by patience and good-humour. I have no power at all; I needn't tell you that; but I have an excellent will; and if I could ever be of use to you, in any way whatever, how very glad I should be!”

  “Thank you,” said Martin, shaking his hand. “You're a good fellow, upon my word, and speak very kindly. Of course you know,” he added, after a moment's pause, as he drew his chair towards the fire again, “I should not hesitate to avail myself of your services if you could help me at all; but mercy on us!'—Here he rumpled his hair impatiently with his hand, and looked at Tom as if he took it rather ill that he was not somebody else—'you might as well be a toastingfork or a frying-pan, Pinch, for any help you can render me.”

  “Except in the inclination,” said Tom, gently.

  “Oh! to be sure. I meant that, of course. If inclination went for anything, I shouldn't want help. I tell you what you may do, though, if you will, and at the present moment too.”

  “What is that?” demanded Tom.

  “Read to me.”

  “I shall be delighted,” cried Tom, catching up the candle with enthusiasm. “Excuse my leaving you in the dark a moment, and I'll fetch a book directly. What will you like? Shakespeare?”

  “Aye!” replied his friend, yawning and stretching himself. “He'll do. I am tired with the bustle of to-day, and the novelty of everything about me; and in such a case, there's no greater luxury in the world, I think, than being read to sleep. You won't mind my going to sleep, if I can?”

  “Not at all!” cried Tom.

  “Then begin as soon as you like. You needn't leave off when you see me getting drowsy (unless you feel tired), for it's pleasant to wake gradually to the sounds again. Did you ever try that?”

  “No, I never tried that,” said Tom

  “Well! You can, you know, one of these days when we're both in the right humour. Don't mind leaving me in the dark. Look sharp!”

  Mr Pinch lost no time in moving away; and in a minute or two returned with one of the precious volumes from the shelf beside his bed. Martin had in the meantime made himself as comfortable as circumstances would permit, by constructing before the fire a temporary sofa of three chairs with Mercy's stool for a pillow, and lying down at full-length upon it.

  “Don't be too loud, please,” he said to Pinch.

  “No, no,” said Tom.

  “You're sure you're not cold”

  “Not at all!” cried Tom.

  “I am quite ready, then.”

  Mr Pinch accordingly, after turning over the leaves of his book with as much care as if they were living and highly cherished creatures, made his own selection, and began to read. Before he had completed fifty lines his friend was snoring.

  “Poor fellow!” said Tom, softly, as he stretched out his head to peep at him over the backs of the chairs. “He is very young to have so much trouble. How trustful and generous in him to bestow all this confidence in me. And that was she, was it?”

  But suddenly remembering their compact, he took up the poem at the place where he had left off, and went on reading; always forgetting to snuff the candle, until its wick looked like a mushroom. He gradually became so much interested, that he quite forgot to replenish the fire; and was only reminded of his neglect by Martin Chuzzlewit starting up after the lapse of an hour or so, and crying with a shiver.

  “Why, it's nearly out, I declare! No wonder I dreamed of being frozen. Do call for some coals. What a fellow you are, Pinch!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  IN WHICH MR CHEVY SLYME ASSERTS THE INDEPENDENCE OF HIS SPIRIT, AND THE BLUE DRAGON LOSES A LIMB

  Martin began to work at the grammar-school next morning, with so much vigour and expedition, that Mr Pinch had new reason to do homage to the natural endowments of that young gentleman, and to acknowledge his infinite superiority to himself. The new pupil received Tom's compliments very graciously; and having by this time conceived a real regard for him, in his own peculiar way, predicted that they would always be the very best of friends, and that neither of them, he was certain (but particularly Tom), would ever have reason to regret the day on which they became acquainted. Mr Pinch was delighted to hear him say this, and felt so much flattered by his kind assurances of friendship and protection, that he was at a loss how to express the pleasure they afforded him. And indeed it may be observed of this friendship, such as it was, that it had within it more likely materials of endurance than many a sworn brotherhood that has been rich in promise; for so long as the one party found a pleasure in patronizing, and the other in being patronised (which was in the very essence of their respective characters), it was of all possible events among the least probable, that the twin demons, Envy and Pride, would ever arise between them. So in very many cases of friendship, or what passes for it, the old axiom is reversed, and like clings to unlike more than to like.

  They were both very busy on the afternoon succeeding the family's departure—Martin with the grammar-school, and Tom in balancing certain receipts of rents, and deducting Mr Pecksniff's commission from the same; in which abstruse employment he was much distracted by a habit his new friend had of whistling aloud while he was drawing—when they were not a little startled by the unexpected obtrusion into that sanctuary of genius, of a human head which, although a shaggy and somewhat alarming head in appearance, smiled affably upon them from the doorway, in a manner that was at once waggish, conciliatory, and expressive of approbation.

  “I am not industrious myself, gents both,” said the head, “but I know how to appreciate that quality in others. I wish I may turn grey and ugly, if it isn't in my opinion, next to genius, one of the very charmingest qualities of the human mind. Upon my soul, I am grateful to my friend Pecksniff for helping me to the contemplation of such a delicious picture as you present. You remind me of Whittington, afterwards thrice Lord Mayor of London. I give you my unsullied word of honour, that you very strongly remind me of that historical character. You are a pair of Whittingtons, gents, without the cat; which is a most agreeable and blessed exception to me, for I am not attached to the feline species. My name is Tigg; how do you do?”

  Martin looked to Mr Pinch
for an explanation; and Tom, who had never in his life set eyes on Mr Tigg before, looked to that gentleman himself.

  “Chevy Slyme?” said Mr Tigg, interrogatively, and kissing his left hand in token of friendship. “You will understand me when I say that I am the accredited agent of Chevy Slyme; that I am the ambassador from the court of Chiv? Ha ha!”

  “Heyday!” asked Martin, starting at the mention of a name he knew. “Pray, what does he want with me?”

  “If your name is Pinch'—Mr Tigg began.

  “It is not” said Martin, checking himself. “That is Mr Pinch.”

  “If that is Mr Pinch,” cried Tigg, kissing his hand again, and beginning to follow his head into the room, “he will permit me to say that I greatly esteem and respect his character, which has been most highly commended to me by my friend Pecksniff; and that I deeply appreciate his talent for the organ, notwithstanding that I do not, if I may use the expression, grind myself. If that is Mr Pinch, I will venture to express a hope that I see him well, and that he is suffering no inconvenience from the easterly wind?”

  “Thank you,” said Tom. “I am very well.”

  “That is a comfort,” Mr Tigg rejoined. “Then,” he added, shielding his lips with the palm of his hand, and applying them close to Mr Pinch's ear, “I have come for the letter.”

  “For the letter,” said Tom, aloud. “What letter?”

  “The letter,” whispered Tigg in the same cautious manner as before, “which my friend Pecksniff addressed to Chevy Slyme, Esquire, and left with you.”

  “He didn't leave any letter with me,” said Tom.

  “Hush!” cried the other. “It's all the same thing, though not so delicately done by my friend Pecksniff as I could have wished. The money.”

  “The money!” cried Tom quite scared.