Rival offices had endeavoured to lure him away; Lombard Street itself had beckoned to him; rich companies had whispered “Be a Beadle!” but he still continued faithful to the Anglo-Bengalee. Whether he was a deep rogue, or a stately simpleton, it was impossible to make out, but he appeared to believe in the AngloBengalee. He was grave with imaginary cares of office; and having nothing whatever to do, and something less to take care of, would look as if the pressure of his numerous duties, and a sense of the treasure in the company's strong-room, made him a solemn and a thoughtful man.
As the cabriolet drove up to the door, this officer appeared bare-headed on the pavement, crying aloud “Room for the chairman, room for the chairman, if you please!” much to the admiration of the bystanders, who, it is needless to say, had their attention directed to the Anglo-Bengalee Company thenceforth, by that means. Mr Tigg leaped gracefully out, followed by the Managing Director (who was by this time very distant and respectful), and ascended the stairs, still preceded by the porter, who cried as he went, “By your leave there! by your leave! The Chairman of the Board, Gentle—MEN! In like manner, but in a still more stentorian voice, he ushered the chairman through the public office, where some humble clients were transacting business, into an awful chamber, labelled Board-room; the door of which sanctuary immediately closed, and screened the great capitalist from vulgar eyes.
The board-room had a Turkey carpet in it, a sideboard, a portrait of Tigg Montague, Esquire, as chairman; a very imposing chair of office, garnished with an ivory hammer and a little hand-bell; and a long table, set out at intervals with sheets of blotting-paper, foolscap, clean pens, and inkstands. The chairman having taken his seat with great solemnity, the secretary supported him on his right hand, and the porter stood bolt upright behind them, forming a warm background of waistcoat. This was the board: everything else being a light-hearted little fiction.
“Bullamy!” said Mr Tigg.
“Sir!” replied the porter.
“Let the Medical Officer know, with my compliments, that I wish to see him.”
Bullamy cleared his throat, and bustled out into the office, crying “The Chairman of the Board wishes to see the Medical Officer. By your leave there! By your leave!” He soon returned with the gentleman in question; and at both openings of the board-room door— at his coming in and at his going out—simple clients were seen to stretch their necks and stand upon their toes, thirsting to catch the slightest glimpse of that mysterious chamber.
“Jobling, my dear friend!” said Mr Tigg, “how are you? Bullamy, wait outside. Crimple, don't leave us. Jobling, my good fellow, I am glad to see you.”
“And how are you, Mr Montague, eh?” said the Medical Officer, throwing himself luxuriously into an easy-chair (they were all easychairs in the board-room), and taking a handsome gold snuff-box from the pocket of his black satin waistcoat. “How are you? A little worn with business, eh? If so, rest. A little feverish from wine, humph? If so, water. Nothing at all the matter, and quite comfortable? Then take some lunch. A very wholesome thing at this time of day to strengthen the gastric juices with lunch, Mr Montague.”
The Medical Officer (he was the same medical officer who had followed poor old Anthony Chuzzlewit to the grave, and who had attended Mrs Gamp's patient at the Bull) smiled in saying these words; and casually added, as he brushed some grains of snuff from his shirt-frill, “I always take it myself about this time of day, do you know!”
“Bullamy!” said the Chairman, ringing the little bell.
“Sir!”
“Lunch.”
“Not on my account, I hope?” said the doctor. “You are very good. Thank you. I'm quite ashamed. Ha, ha! if I had been a sharp practitioner, Mr Montague, I shouldn't have mentioned it without a fee; for you may depend upon it, my dear sir, that if you don't make a point of taking lunch, you'll very soon come under my hands. Allow me to illustrate this. In Mr Crimple's leg—”
The resident Director gave an involuntary start, for the doctor, in the heat of his demonstration, caught it up and laid it across his own, as if he were going to take it off, then and there.
“In Mr Crimple's leg, you'll observe,” pursued the doctor, turning back his cuffs and spanning the limb with both hands, “where Mr Crimple's knee fits into the socket, here, there is—that is to say, between the bone and the socket—a certain quantity of animal oil.”
“What do you pick MY leg out for?” said Mr Crimple, looking with something of an anxious expression at his limb. “It's the same with other legs, ain't it?”
“Never you mind, my good sir,” returned the doctor, shaking his head, “whether it is the same with other legs, or not the same.”
“But I do mind,” said David.
“I take a particular case, Mr Montague,” returned the doctor, “as illustrating my remark, you observe. In this portion of Mr Crimple's leg, sir, there is a certain amount of animal oil. In every one of Mr Crimple's joints, sir, there is more or less of the same deposit. Very good. If Mr Crimple neglects his meals, or fails to take his proper quantity of rest, that oil wanes, and becomes exhausted. What is the consequence? Mr Crimple's bones sink down into their sockets, sir, and Mr Crimple becomes a weazen, puny, stunted, miserable man!”
The doctor let Mr Crimple's leg fall suddenly, as if he were already in that agreeable condition; turned down his wristbands again, and looked triumphantly at the chairman.
“We know a few secrets of nature in our profession, sir,” said the doctor. “Of course we do. We study for that; we pass the Hall and the College for that; and we take our station in society BY that. It's extraordinary how little is known on these subjects generally. Where do you suppose, now'—the doctor closed one eye, as he leaned back smilingly in his chair, and formed a triangle with his hands, of which his two thumbs composed the base—'where do you suppose Mr Crimple's stomach is?”
Mr Crimple, more agitated than before, clapped his hand immediately below his waistcoat.
“Not at all,” cried the doctor; “not at all. Quite a popular mistake! My good sir, you're altogether deceived.”
“I feel it there, when it's out of order; that's all I know,” said Crimple.
“You think you do,” replied the doctor; “but science knows better. There was a patient of mine once,” touching one of the many mourning rings upon his fingers, and slightly bowing his head, “a gentleman who did me the honour to make a very handsome mention of me in his will—”in testimony,” as he was pleased to say, “of the unremitting zeal, talent, and attention of my friend and medical attendant, John Jobling, Esquire, M. R. C. S.,”—who was so overcome by the idea of having all his life laboured under an erroneous view of the locality of this important organ, that when I assured him on my professional reputation, he was mistaken, he burst into tears, put out his hand, and said, “Jobling, God bless you!” Immediately afterwards he became speechless, and was ultimately buried at Brixton.”
“By your leave there!” cried Bullamy, without. “By your leave! Refreshment for the Board-room!”
“Ha!” said the doctor, jocularly, as he rubbed his hands, and drew his chair nearer to the table. “The true Life Assurance, Mr Montague. The best Policy in the world, my dear sir. We should be provident, and eat and drink whenever we can. Eh, Mr Crimple?”
The resident Director acquiesced rather sulkily, as if the gratification of replenishing his stomach had been impaired by the unsettlement of his preconceived opinions in reference to its situation. But the appearance of the porter and under-porter with a tray covered with a snow-white cloth, which, being thrown back, displayed a pair of cold roast fowls, flanked by some potted meats and a cool salad, quickly restored his good humour. It was enhanced still further by the arrival of a bottle of excellent madeira, and another of champagne; and he soon attacked the repast with an appetite scarcely inferior to that of the medical officer.
The lunch was handsomely served, with a profusion of rich glass plate, and china; which seemed to denote that eating
and drinking on a showy scale formed no unimportant item in the business of the Anglo-Bengalee Directorship. As it proceeded, the Medical Officer grew more and more joyous and red-faced, insomuch that every mouthful he ate, and every drop of wine he swallowed, seemed to impart new lustre to his eyes, and to light up new sparks in his nose and forehead.
In certain quarters of the City and its neighbourhood, Mr Jobling was, as we have already seen in some measure, a very popular character. He had a portentously sagacious chin, and a pompous voice, with a rich huskiness in some of its tones that went directly to the heart, like a ray of light shining through the ruddy medium of choice old burgundy. His neckerchief and shirt-frill were ever of the whitest, his clothes of the blackest and sleekest, his gold watch-chain of the heaviest, and his seals of the largest. His boots, which were always of the brightest, creaked as he walked. Perhaps he could shake his head, rub his hands, or warm himself before a fire, better than any man alive; and he had a peculiar way of smacking his lips and saying, “Ah!” at intervals while patients detailed their symptoms, which inspired great confidence. It seemed to express, “I know what you're going to say better than you do; but go on, go on.”As he talked on all occasions whether he had anything to say or not, it was unanimously observed of him that he was “full of anecdote;” and his experience and profit from it were considered, for the same reason, to be something much too extensive for description. His female patients could never praise him too highly; and the coldest of his male admirers would always say this for him to their friends, “that whatever Jobling's professional skill might be (and it could not be denied that he had a very high reputation), he was one of the most comfortable fellows you ever saw in your life!”
Jobling was for many reasons, and not last in the list because his connection lay principally among tradesmen and their families, exactly the sort of person whom the Anglo-Bengalee Company wanted for a medical officer. But Jobling was far too knowing to connect himself with the company in any closer ties than as a paid (and well paid) functionary, or to allow his connection to be misunderstood abroad, if he could help it. Hence he always stated the case to an inquiring patient, after this manner:
“Why, my dear sir, with regard to the Anglo-Bengalee, my information, you see, is limited; very limited. I am the medical officer, in consideration of a certain monthly payment. The labourer is worthy of his hire; BIS DAT QUI CITO DAT'—('classical scholar, Jobling!” thinks the patient, “well-read man!')—'and I receive it regularly. Therefore I am bound, so far as my own knowledge goes, to speak well of the establishment.”('Nothing can be fairer than Jobling's conduct,” thinks the patient, who has just paid Jobling's bill himself.) “If you put any question to me, my dear friend,” says the doctor, “touching the responsibility or capital of the company, there I am at fault; for I have no head for figures, and not being a shareholder, am delicate of showing any curiosity whatever on the subject. Delicacy—your amiable lady will agree with me I am sure—should be one of the first characteristics of a medical man.”('Nothing can be finer or more gentlemanly than Jobling's feeling,” thinks the patient.) “Very good, my dear sir, so the matter stands. You don't know Mr Montague? I'm sorry for it. A remarkably handsome man, and quite the gentleman in every respect. Property, I am told, in India. House and everything belonging to him, beautiful. Costly furniture on the most elegant and lavish scale. And pictures, which, even in an anatomical point of view, are per-fection. In case you should ever think of doing anything with the company, I'll pass you, you may depend upon it. I can conscientiously report you a healthy subject. If I understand any man's constitution, it is yours; and this little indisposition has done him more good, ma'am,” says the doctor, turning to the patient's wife, “than if he had swallowed the contents of half the nonsensical bottles in my surgery. For they ARE nonsense—to tell the honest truth, one half of them are nonsense—compared with such a constitution as his!” ('Jobling is the most friendly creature I ever met with in my life,” thinks the patient; “and upon my word and honour, I'll consider of it!')
“Commission to you, doctor, on four new policies, and a loan this morning, eh?” said Crimple, looking, when they had finished lunch, over some papers brought in by the porter. “Well done!”
“Jobling, my dear friend,” said Tigg, “long life to you.”
“No, no. Nonsense. Upon my word I've no right to draw the commission,” said the doctor, “I haven't really. It's picking your pocket. I don't recommend anybody here. I only say what I know. My patients ask me what I know, and I tell “em what I know. Nothing else. Caution is my weak side, that's the truth; and always was from a boy. That is,” said the doctor, filling his glass, “caution in behalf of other people. Whether I would repose confidence in this company myself, if I had not been paying money elsewhere for many years—that's quite another question.”
He tried to look as if there were no doubt about it; but feeling that he did it but indifferently, changed the theme and praised the wine.
“Talking of wine,” said the doctor, “reminds me of one of the finest glasses of light old port I ever drank in my life; and that was at a funeral. You have not seen anything of—of THAT party, Mr Montague, have you?” handing him a card.
“He is not buried, I hope?” said Tigg, as he took it. “The honour of his company is not requested if he is.”
“Ha, ha!” laughed the doctor. “No; not quite. He was honourably connected with that very occasion though.”
“Oh!” said Tigg, smoothing his moustache, as he cast his eyes upon the name. “I recollect. No. He has not been here.”
The words were on his lips, when Bullamy entered, and presented a card to the Medical Officer.
“Talk of the what's his name—” observed the doctor rising.
“And he's sure to appear, eh?” said Tigg.
“Why, no, Mr Montague, no,” returned the doctor. “We will not say that in the present case, for this gentleman is very far from it.”
“So much the better,” retorted Tigg. “So much the more adaptable to the Anglo-Bengalee. Bullamy, clear the table and take the things out by the other door. Mr Crimple, business.”
“Shall I introduce him?” asked Jobling.
“I shall be eternally delighted,” answered Tigg, kissing his hand and smiling sweetly.
The doctor disappeared into the outer office, and immediately returned with Jonas Chuzzlewit.
“Mr Montague,” said Jobling. “Allow me. My friend Mr Chuzzlewit. My dear friend—our chairman. Now do you know,” he added checking himself with infinite policy, and looking round with a smile; “that's a very singular instance of the force of example. It really is a very remarkable instance of the force of example. I say OUR chairman. Why do I say our chairman? Because he is not MY chairman, you know. I have no connection with the company, farther than giving them, for a certain fee and reward, my poor opinion as a medical man, precisely as I may give it any day to Jack Noakes or Tom Styles. Then why do I say our chairman? Simply because I hear the phrase constantly repeated about me. Such is the involuntary operation of the mental faculty in the imitative biped man. Mr Crimple, I believe you never take snuff? Injudicious. You should.”
Pending these remarks on the part of the doctor, and the lengthened and sonorous pinch with which he followed them up, Jonas took a seat at the board; as ungainly a man as ever he has been within the reader's knowledge. It is too common with all of us, but it is especially in the nature of a mean mind, to be overawed by fine clothes and fine furniture. They had a very decided influence on Jonas.
“Now you two gentlemen have business to discuss, I know,” said the doctor, “and your time is precious. So is mine; for several lives are waiting for me in the next room, and I have a round of visits to make after—after I have taken “em. Having had the happiness to introduce you to each other, I may go about my business. Good-bye. But allow me, Mr Montague, before I go, to say this of my friend who sits beside you: That gentleman has done more, sir,” rapping his s
nuff-box solemnly, “to reconcile me to human nature, than any man alive or dead. Good-bye!”
With these words Jobling bolted abruptly out of the room, and proceeded in his own official department, to impress the lives in waiting with a sense of his keen conscientiousness in the discharge of his duty, and the great difficulty of getting into the AngloBengalee; by feeling their pulses, looking at their tongues, listening at their ribs, poking them in the chest, and so forth; though, if he didn't well know beforehand that whatever kind of lives they were, the Anglo-Bengalee would accept them readily, he was far from being the Jobling that his friend considered him; and was not the original Jobling, but a spurious imitation.
Mr Crimple also departed on the business of the morning; and Jonas Chuzzlewit and Tigg were left alone.
“I learn from our friend,” said Tigg, drawing his chair towards Jonas with a winning ease of manner, “that you have been thinking—”
“Oh! Ecod then he'd no right to say so,” cried Jonas, interrupting. “I didn't tell HIM my thoughts. If he took it into his head that I was coming here for such or such a purpose, why, that's his lookout. I don't stand committed by that.”
Jonas said this offensively enough; for over and above the habitual distrust of his character, it was in his nature to seek to revenge himself on the fine clothes and the fine furniture, in exact proportion as he had been unable to withstand their influence.
“If I come here to ask a question or two, and get a document or two to consider of, I don't bind myself to anything. Let's understand that, you know,” said Jonas.
“My dear fellow!” cried Tigg, clapping him on the shoulder, “I applaud your frankness. If men like you and I speak openly at first, all possible misunderstanding is avoided. Why should I disguise what you know so well, but what the crowd never dream of? We companies are all birds of prey; mere birds of prey. The only question is, whether in serving our own turn, we can serve yours too; whether in double-lining our own nest, we can put a single living into yours. Oh, you're in our secret. You're behind the scenes. We'll make a merit of dealing plainly with you, when we know we can't help it.”
Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit Page 54
