Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit

by Charles Dickens

  “Certainly,” said Martin, stretching out his legs, and holding his wine between his eye and the light. “Mr Pecksniff knows that too. So do his daughters. Eh?”

  John Westlock smiled, but made no answer.

  “By the bye,” said Martin, “that reminds me. What's your opinion of Pecksniff? How did he use you? What do you think of him now?— Coolly, you know, when it's all over?”

  “Ask Pinch,” returned the old pupil. “He knows what my sentiments used to be upon the subject. They are not changed, I assure you.”

  “No, no,” said Martin, “I'd rather have them from you.”

  “But Pinch says they are unjust,” urged John with a smile.

  “Oh! well! Then I know what course they take beforehand,” said Martin; “and, therefore, you can have no delicacy in speaking plainly. Don't mind me, I beg. I don't like him I tell you frankly. I am with him because it happens from particular circumstances to suit my convenience. I have some ability, I believe, in that way; and the obligation, if any, will most likely be on his side and not mine. At the lowest mark, the balance will be even, and there'll be no obligation at all. So you may talk to me, as if I had no connection with him.”

  “If you press me to give my opinion—” returned John Westlock.

  “Yes, I do,” said Martin. “You'll oblige me.”

  “—I should say,” resumed the other, “that he is the most consummate scoundrel on the face of the earth.”

  “Oh!” said Martin, as coolly as ever. “That's rather strong.”

  “Not stronger than he deserves,” said John; “and if he called upon me to express my opinion of him to his face, I would do so in the very same terms, without the least qualification. His treatment of Pinch is in itself enough to justify them; but when I look back upon the five years I passed in that house, and remember the hyprocrisy, the knavery, the meannesses, the false pretences, the lip service of that fellow, and his trading in saintly semblances for the very worst realities; when I remember how often I was the witness of all this and how often I was made a kind of party to it, by the fact of being there, with him for my teacher; I swear to you that I almost despise myself.”

  Martin drained his glass, and looked at the fire.

  “I don't mean to say that is a right feeling,” pursued John Westlock “because it was no fault of mine; and I can quite understand—you for instance, fully appreciating him, and yet being forced by circumstances to remain there. I tell you simply what my feeling is; and even now, when, as you say, it's all over; and when I have the satisfaction of knowing that he always hated me, and we always quarrelled, and I always told him my mind; even now, I feel sorry that I didn't yield to an impulse I often had, as a boy, of running away from him and going abroad.”

  “Why abroad?” asked Martin, turning his eyes upon the speaker.

  “In search,” replied John Westlock, shrugging his shoulders, “of the livelihood I couldn't have earned at home. There would have been something spirited in that. But, come! Fill your glass, and let us forget him.”

  “As soon as you please,” said Martin. “In reference to myself and my connection with him, I have only to repeat what I said before. I have taken my own way with him so far, and shall continue to do so, even more than ever; for the fact is, to tell you the truth, that I believe he looks to me to supply his defects, and couldn't afford to lose me. I had a notion of that in first going there. Your health!”

  “Thank you,” returned young Westlock. “Yours. And may the new pupil turn out as well as you can desire!”

  “What new pupil?”

  “The fortunate youth, born under an auspicious star,” returned John Westlock, laughing; “whose parents, or guardians, are destined to be hooked by the advertisement. What! Don't you know that he has advertised again?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, yes. I read it just before dinner in the old newspaper. I know it to be his; having some reason to remember the style. Hush! Here's Pinch. Strange, is it not, that the more he likes Pecksniff (if he can like him better than he does), the greater reason one has to like HIM? Not a word more, or we shall spoil his whole enjoyment.”

  Tom entered as the words were spoken, with a radiant smile upon his face; and rubbing his hands, more from a sense of delight than because he was cold (for he had been running fast), sat down in his warm corner again, and was as happy as only Tom Pinch could be. There is no other simile that will express his state of mind.

  “And so,” he said, when he had gazed at his friend for some time in silent pleasure, “so you really are a gentleman at last, John. Well, to be sure!”

  “Trying to be, Tom; trying to be,” he rejoined good-humouredly. “There is no saying what I may turn out, in time.”

  “I suppose you wouldn't carry your own box to the mail now?” said Tom Pinch, smiling; “although you lost it altogether by not taking it.”

  “Wouldn't I?” retorted John. “That's all you know about it, Pinch. It must be a very heavy box that I wouldn't carry to get away from Pecksniff's, Tom.”

  “There!” cried Pinch, turning to Martin, “I told you so. The great fault in his character is his injustice to Pecksniff. You mustn't mind a word he says on that subject. His prejudice is most extraordinary.”

  “The absence of anything like prejudice on Tom's part, you know,” said John Westlock, laughing heartily, as he laid his hand on Mr Pinch's shoulder, “is perfectly wonderful. If one man ever had a profound knowledge of another, and saw him in a true light, and in his own proper colours, Tom has that knowledge of Mr Pecksniff.”

  “Why, of course I have,” cried Tom. “That's exactly what I have so often said to you. If you knew him as well as I do—John, I'd give almost any money to bring that about—you'd admire, respect, and reverence him. You couldn't help it. Oh, how you wounded his feelings when you went away!”

  “If I had known whereabout his feelings lay,” retorted young Westlock, “I'd have done my best, Tom, with that end in view, you may depend upon it. But as I couldn't wound him in what he has not, and in what he knows nothing of, except in his ability to probe them to the quick in other people, I am afraid I can lay no claim to your compliment.”

  Mr Pinch, being unwilling to protract a discussion which might possibly corrupt Martin, forbore to say anything in reply to this speech; but John Westlock, whom nothing short of an iron gag would have silenced when Mr Pecksniff's merits were once in question, continued notwithstanding.

  “HIS feelings! Oh, he's a tender-hearted man. HIS feelings! Oh, he's a considerate, conscientious, self-examining, moral vagabond, he is! HIS feelings! Oh!—what's the matter, Tom?”

  Mr Pinch was by this time erect upon the hearth-rug, buttoning his coat with great energy.

  “I can't bear it,” said Tom, shaking his head. “No. I really cannot. You must excuse me, John. I have a great esteem and friendship for you; I love you very much; and have been perfectly charmed and overjoyed to-day, to find you just the same as ever; but I cannot listen to this.”

  “Why, it's my old way, Tom; and you say yourself that you are glad to find me unchanged.”

  “Not in this respect,” said Tom Pinch. “You must excuse me, John. I cannot, really; I will not. It's very wrong; you should be more guarded in your expressions. It was bad enough when you and I used to be alone together, but under existing circumstances, I can't endure it, really. No. I cannot, indeed.”

  “You are quite right!” exclaimed the other, exchanging looks with Martin. “and I am quite wrong, Tom. I don't know how the deuce we fell on this unlucky theme. I beg your pardon with all my heart.”

  “You have a free and manly temper, I know,” said Pinch; “and therefore, your being so ungenerous in this one solitary instance, only grieves me the more. It's not my pardon you have to ask, John. You have done ME nothing but kindnesses.”

  “Well! Pecksniff's pardon then,” said young Westlock. “Anything Tom, or anybody. Pecksniff's pardon—will that do? Here! let us drink Pecksniff's healt
h!”

  “Thank you,” cried Tom, shaking hands with him eagerly, and filling a bumper. “Thank you; I'll drink it with all my heart, John. Mr Pecksniff's health, and prosperity to him!”

  John Westlock echoed the sentiment, or nearly so; for he drank Mr Pecksniff's health, and Something to him—but what, was not quite audible. The general unanimity being then completely restored, they drew their chairs closer round the fire, and conversed in perfect harmony and enjoyment until bed-time.

  No slight circumstance, perhaps, could have better illustrated the difference of character between John Westlock and Martin Chuzzlewit, than the manner in which each of the young men contemplated Tom Pinch, after the little rupture just described. There was a certain amount of jocularity in the looks of both, no doubt, but there all resemblance ceased. The old pupil could not do enough to show Tom how cordially he felt towards him, and his friendly regard seemed of a graver and more thoughtful kind than before. The new one, on the other hand, had no impulse but to laugh at the recollection of Tom's extreme absurdity; and mingled with his amusement there was something slighting and contemptuous, indicative, as it appeared, of his opinion that Mr Pinch was much too far gone in simplicity to be admitted as the friend, on serious and equal terms, of any rational man.

  John Westlock, who did nothing by halves, if he could help it, had provided beds for his two guests in the hotel; and after a very happy evening, they retired. Mr Pinch was sitting on the side of his bed with his cravat and shoes off, ruminating on the manifold good qualities of his old friend, when he was interrupted by a knock at his chamber door, and the voice of John himself.

  “You're not asleep yet, are you, Tom?”

  “Bless you, no! not I. I was thinking of you,” replied Tom, opening the door. “Come in.”

  “I am not going to detail you,” said John; “but I have forgotten all the evening a little commission I took upon myself; and I am afraid I may forget it again, if I fail to discharge it at once. You know a Mr Tigg, Tom, I believe?”

  “Tigg!” cried Tom. “Tigg! The gentleman who borrowed some money of me?”

  “Exactly,” said John Westlock. “He begged me to present his compliments, and to return it with many thanks. Here it is. I suppose it's a good one, but he is rather a doubtful kind of customer, Tom.”

  Mr Pinch received the little piece of gold with a face whose brightness might have shamed the metal; and said he had no fear about that. He was glad, he added, to find Mr Tigg so prompt and honourable in his dealings; very glad.

  “Why, to tell you the truth, Tom,” replied his friend, “he is not always so. If you'll take my advice, you'll avoid him as much as you can, in the event of your encountering him again. And by no means, Tom—pray bear this in mind, for I am very serious—by no means lend him money any more.”

  “Aye, aye!” said Tom, with his eyes wide open.

  “He is very far from being a reputable acquaintance,” returned young Westlock; “and the more you let him know you think so, the better for you, Tom.”

  “I say, John,” quoth Mr Pinch, as his countenance fell, and he shook his head in a dejected manner. “I hope you are not getting into bad company.”

  “No, no,” he replied laughing. “Don't be uneasy on that score.”

  “Oh, but I AM uneasy,” said Tom Pinch; “I can't help it, when I hear you talking in that way. If Mr Tigg is what you describe him to be, you have no business to know him, John. You may laugh, but I don't consider it by any means a laughing matter, I assure you.”

  “No, no,” returned his friend, composing his features. “Quite right. It is not, certainly.”

  “You know, John,” said Mr Pinch, “your very good nature and kindness of heart make you thoughtless, and you can't be too careful on such a point as this. Upon my word, if I thought you were falling among bad companions, I should be quite wretched, for I know how difficult you would find it to shake them off. I would much rather have lost this money, John, than I would have had it back again on such terms.”

  “I tell you, my dear good old fellow,” cried his friend, shaking him to and fro with both hands, and smiling at him with a cheerful, open countenance, that would have carried conviction to a mind much more suspicious than Tom's; “I tell you there is no danger.”

  “Well!” cried Tom, “I am glad to hear it; I am overjoyed to hear it. I am sure there is not, when you say so in that manner. You won't take it ill, John, that I said what I did just now!”

  “ Ill!” said the other, giving his hand a hearty squeeze; “why what do you think I am made of? Mr Tigg and I are not on such an intimate footing that you need be at all uneasy, I give you my solemn assurance of that, Tom. You are quite comfortable now?”

  “Quite,” said Tom.

  “Then once more, good night!”

  “Good night!” cried Tom; “and such pleasant dreams to you as should attend the sleep of the best fellow in the world!”

  “—Except Pecksniff,” said his friend, stopping at the door for a moment, and looking gayly back.

  “Except Pecksniff,” answered Tom, with great gravity; “of course.”

  And thus they parted for the night; John Westlock full of lightheartedness and good humour, and poor Tom Pinch quite satisfied; though still, as he turned over on his side in bed, he muttered to himself, “I really do wish, for all that, though, that he wasn't acquainted with Mr Tigg.”

  They breakfasted together very early next morning, for the two young men desired to get back again in good season; and John Westlock was to return to London by the coach that day. As he had some hours to spare, he bore them company for three or four miles on their walk, and only parted from them at last in sheer necessity. The parting was an unusually hearty one, not only as between him and Tom Pinch, but on the side of Martin also, who had found in the old pupil a very different sort of person from the milksop he had prepared himself to expect.

  Young Westlock stopped upon a rising ground, when he had gone a little distance, and looked back. They were walking at a brisk pace, and Tom appeared to be talking earnestly. Martin had taken off his greatcoat, the wind being now behind them, and carried it upon his arm. As he looked, he saw Tom relieve him of it, after a faint resistance, and, throwing it upon his own, encumber himself with the weight of both. This trivial incident impressed the old pupil mightily, for he stood there, gazing after them, until they were hidden from his view; when he shook his head, as if he were troubled by some uneasy reflection, and thoughtfully retraced his steps to Salisbury.

  In the meantime, Martin and Tom pursued their way, until they halted, safe and sound, at Mr Pecksniff's house, where a brief epistle from that good gentleman to Mr Pinch announced the family's return by that night's coach. As it would pass the corner of the lane at about six o'clock in the morning, Mr Pecksniff requested that the gig might be in waiting at the finger-post about that time, together with a cart for the luggage. And to the end that he might be received with the greater honour, the young men agreed to rise early, and be upon the spot themselves.

  It was the least cheerful day they had yet passed together. Martin was out of spirits and out of humour, and took every opportunity of comparing his condition and prospects with those of young Westlock; much to his own disadvantage always. This mood of his depressed Tom; and neither that morning's parting, nor yesterday's dinner, helped to mend the matter. So the hours dragged on heavily enough; and they were glad to go to bed early.

  They were not quite so glad to get up again at half-past four o'clock, in all the shivering discomfort of a dark winter's morning; but they turned out punctually, and were at the finger-post full half-an-hour before the appointed time. It was not by any means a lively morning, for the sky was black and cloudy, and it rained hard; but Martin said there was some satisfaction in seeing that brute of a horse (by this, he meant Mr Pecksniff's Arab steed) getting very wet; and that he rejoiced, on his account, that it rained so fast. From this it may be inferred that Martin's spirits had not improved, as in
deed they had not; for while he and Mr Pinch stood waiting under a hedge, looking at the rain, the gig, the cart, and its reeking driver, he did nothing but grumble; and, but that it is indispensable to any dispute that there should be two parties to it, he would certainly have picked a quarrel with Tom.

  At length the noise of wheels was faintly audible in the distance and presently the coach came splashing through the mud and mire with one miserable outside passenger crouching down among wet straw, under a saturated umbrella; and the coachman, guard, and horses, in a fellowship of dripping wretchedness. Immediately on its stopping, Mr Pecksniff let down the window-glass and hailed Tom Pinch.

  “Dear me, Mr Pinch! Is it possible that you are out upon this very inclement morning?”

  “Yes, sir,” cried Tom, advancing eagerly, “Mr Chuzzlewit and I, sir.”

  “Oh!” said Mr Pecksniff, looking not so much at Martin as at the spot on which he stood. “Oh! Indeed. Do me the favour to see to the trunks, if you please, Mr Pinch.”

  Then Mr Pecksniff descended, and helped his daughters to alight; but neighter he nor the young ladies took the slightest notice of Martin, who had advanced to offer his assistance, but was repulsed by Mr Pecksniff's standing immediately before his person, with his back towards him. In the same manner, and in profound silence, Mr Pecksniff handed his daughters into the gig; and following himself and taking the reins, drove off home.

  Lost in astonishment, Martin stood staring at the coach, and when the coach had driven away, at Mr Pinch, and the luggage, until the cart moved off too; when he said to Tom:

  “Now will you have the goodness to tell me what THIS portends?”

  “What?” asked Tom.

  “This fellow's behaviour. Mr Pecksniff's, I mean. You saw it?”

  “No. Indeed I did not,” cried Tom. “I was busy with the trunks.”

  “It is no matter,” said Martin. “Come! Let us make haste back!” And without another word started off at such a pace, that Tom had some difficulty in keeping up with him.

  He had no care where he went, but walked through little heaps of mud and little pools of water with the utmost indifference; looking straight before him, and sometimes laughing in a strange manner within himself. Tom felt that anything he could say would only render him the more obstinate, and therefore trusted to Mr Pecksniff's manner when they reached the house, to remove the mistaken impression under which he felt convinced so great a favourite as the new pupil must unquestionably be labouring. But he was not a little amazed himself, when they did reach it, and entered the parlour where Mr Pecksniff was sitting alone before the fire, drinking some hot tea, to find that instead of taking favourable notice of his relative and keeping him, Mr Pinch, in the background, he did exactly the reverse, and was so lavish in his attentions to Tom, that Tom was thoroughly confounded.