Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit

by Charles Dickens

  John Westlock laughed at the idea, and they went out together. So many years had passed since Tom was last in London, and he had known so little of it then, that his interest in all he saw was very great. He was particularly anxious, among other notorious localities, to have those streets pointed out to him which were appropriated to the slaughter of countrymen; and was quite disappointed to find, after half-an-hour's walking, that he hadn't had his pocket picked. But on John Westlock's inventing a pickpocket for his gratification, and pointing out a highly respectable stranger as one of that fraternity, he was much delighted.

  His friend accompanied him to within a short distance of Camberwell and having put him beyond the possibility of mistaking the wealthy brass-and-copper founder's, left him to make his visit. Arriving before the great bell-handle, Tom gave it a gentle pull. The porter appeared.

  “Pray does Miss Pinch live here?” said Tom.

  “Miss Pinch is governess here,” replied the porter.

  At the same time he looked at Tom from head to foot, as if he would have said, “You are a nice man, YOU are; where did YOU come from?”

  “It's the same young lady,” said Tom. “It's quite right. Is she at home?”

  “I don't know, I'm sure,” rejoined the porter.

  “Do you think you could have the goodness to ascertain?” said Tom. He had quite a delicacy in offering the suggestion, for the possibility of such a step did not appear to present itself to the porter's mind at all.

  The fact was that the porter in answering the gate-bell had, according to usage, rung the house-bell (for it is as well to do these things in the Baronial style while you are about it), and that there the functions of his office had ceased. Being hired to open and shut the gate, and not to explain himself to strangers, he left this little incident to be developed by the footman with the tags, who, at this juncture, called out from the door steps:

  “Hollo, there! wot are you up to? This way, young man!”

  “Oh!” said Tom, hurrying towards him. “I didn't observe that there was anybody else. Pray is Miss Pinch at home?”

  “She's IN,” replied the footman. As much as to say to Tom: “But if you think she has anything to do with the proprietorship of this place you had better abandon that idea.”

  “I wish to see her, if you please,” said Tom.

  The footman, being a lively young man, happened to have his attention caught at that moment by the flight of a pigeon, in which he took so warm an interest that his gaze was rivetted on the bird until it was quite out of sight. He then invited Tom to come in, and showed him into a parlour.

  “Hany neem?” said the young man, pausing languidly at the door.

  It was a good thought; because without providing the stranger, in case he should happen to be of a warm temper, with a sufficient excuse for knocking him down, it implied this young man's estimate of his quality, and relieved his breast of the oppressive burden of rating him in secret as a nameless and obscure individual.

  “Say her brother, if you please,” said Tom.

  “Mother?” drawled the footman.

  “Brother,” repeated Tom, slightly raising his voice. “And if you will say, in the first instance, a gentleman, and then say her brother, I shall be obliged to you, as she does not expect me or know I am in London, and I do not wish to startle her.”

  The young man's interest in Tom's observations had ceased long before this time, but he kindly waited until now; when, shutting the door, he withdrew.

  “Dear me!” said Tom. “This is very disrespectful and uncivil behaviour. I hope these are new servants here, and that Ruth is very differently treated.”

  His cogitations were interrupted by the sound of voices in the adjoining room. They seemed to be engaged in high dispute, or in indignant reprimand of some offender; and gathering strength occasionally, broke out into a perfect whirlwind. It was in one of these gusts, as it appeared to Tom, that the footman announced him; for an abrupt and unnatural calm took place, and then a dead silence. He was standing before the window, wondering what domestic quarrel might have caused these sounds, and hoping Ruth had nothing to do with it, when the door opened, and his sister ran into his arms.

  “Why, bless my soul!” said Tom, looking at her with great pride, when they had tenderly embraced each other, “how altered you are Ruth! I should scarcely have known you, my love, if I had seen you anywhere else, I declare! You are so improved,” said Tom, with inexpressible delight; “you are so womanly; you are so—positively, you know, you are so handsome!”

  “If YOU think so Tom—”

  “Oh, but everybody must think so, you know,” said Tom, gently smoothing down her hair. “It's matter of fact; not opinion. But what's the matter?” said Tom, looking at her more intently, “how flushed you are! and you have been crying.”

  “No, I have not, Tom.”

  “Nonsense,” said her brother stoutly. “That's a story. Don't tell me! I know better. What is it, dear? I'm not with Mr Pecksniff now. I am going to try and settle myself in London; and if you are not happy here (as I very much fear you are not, for I begin to think you have been deceiving me with the kindest and most affectionate intention) you shall not remain here.”

  Oh! Tom's blood was rising; mind that! Perhaps the Boar's Head had something to do with it, but certainly the footman had. So had the sight of his pretty sister—a great deal to do with it. Tom could bear a good deal himself, but he was proud of her, and pride is a sensitive thing. He began to think, “there are more Pecksniffs than one, perhaps,” and by all the pins and needles that run up and down in angry veins, Tom was in a most unusual tingle all at once!

  “We will talk about it, Tom,” said Ruth, giving him another kiss to pacify him. “I am afraid I cannot stay here.”

  “Cannot!” replied Tom. “Why then, you shall not, my love. Heyday! You are not an object of charity! Upon my word!”

  Tom was stopped in these exclamations by the footman, who brought a message from his master, importing that he wished to speak with him before he went, and with Miss Pinch also.

  “Show the way,” said Tom. “I'll wait upon him at once.”

  Accordingly they entered the adjoining room from which the noise of altercation had proceeded; and there they found a middle-aged gentleman, with a pompous voice and manner, and a middle-aged lady, with what may be termed an excisable face, or one in which starch and vinegar were decidedly employed. There was likewise present that eldest pupil of Miss Pinch, whom Mrs Todgers, on a previous occasion, had called a syrup, and who was now weeping and sobbing spitefully.

  “My brother, sir,” said Ruth Pinch, timidly presenting Tom.

  “Oh!” cried the gentleman, surveying Tom attentively. “You really are Miss Pinch's brother, I presume? You will excuse my asking. I don't observe any resemblance.”

  “Miss Pinch has a brother, I know,” observed the lady.

  “Miss Pinch is always talking about her brother, when she ought to be engaged upon my education,” sobbed the pupil.

  “Sophia! Hold your tongue!” observed the gentleman. “Sit down, if you please,” addressing Tom.

  Tom sat down, looking from one face to another, in mute surprise.

  “Remain here, if you please, Miss Pinch,” pursued the gentleman, looking slightly over his shoulder.

  Tom interrupted him here, by rising to place a chair for his sister. Having done which he sat down again.

  “I am glad you chance to have called to see your sister to-day, sir,” resumed the brass-and-copper founder. “For although I do not approve, as a principle, of any young person engaged in my family in the capacity of a governess, receiving visitors, it happens in this case to be well timed. I am sorry to inform you that we are not at all satisfied with your sister.”

  “We are very much DISsatisfied with her,” observed the lady.

  “I'd never say another lesson to Miss Pinch if I was to be beat to death for it!” sobbed the pupil.

  “Sophia!” cried her
father. “Hold your tongue!”

  “Will you allow me to inquire what your ground of dissatisfaction is?” asked Tom.

  “Yes,” said the gentleman, “I will. I don't recognize it as a right; but I will. Your sister has not the slightest innate power of commanding respect. It has been a constant source of difference between us. Although she has been in this family for some time, and although the young lady who is now present has almost, as it were, grown up under her tuition, that young lady has no respect for her. Miss Pinch has been perfectly unable to command my daughter's respect, or to win my daughter's confidence. Now,” said the gentleman, allowing the palm of his hand to fall gravely down upon the table: “I maintain that there is something radically wrong in that! You, as her brother, may be disposed to deny it—”

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” said Tom. “I am not at all disposed to deny it. I am sure that there is something radically wrong; radically monstrous, in that.”

  “Good Heavens!” cried the gentleman, looking round the room with dignity, “what do I find to be the case! what results obtrude themselves upon me as flowing from this weakness of character on the part of Miss Pinch! What are my feelings as a father, when, after my desire (repeatedly expressed to Miss Pinch, as I think she will not venture to deny) that my daughter should be choice in her expressions, genteel in her deportment, as becomes her station in life, and politely distant to her inferiors in society, I find her, only this very morning, addressing Miss Pinch herself as a beggar!”

  “A beggarly thing,” observed the lady, in correction.

  “Which is worse,” said the gentleman, triumphantly; “which is worse. A beggarly thing. A low, coarse, despicable expression!”

  “Most despicable,” cried Tom. “I am glad to find that there is a just appreciation of it here.”

  “So just, sir,” said the gentleman, lowering his voice to be the more impressive. “So just, that, but for my knowing Miss Pinch to be an unprotected young person, an orphan, and without friends, I would, as I assured Miss Pinch, upon my veracity and personal character, a few minutes ago, I would have severed the connection between us at that moment and from that time.”

  “Bless my soul, sir!” cried Tom, rising from his seat; for he was now unable to contain himself any longer; “don't allow such considerations as those to influence you, pray. They don't exist, sir. She is not unprotected. She is ready to depart this instant. Ruth, my dear, get your bonnet on!”

  “Oh, a pretty family!” cried the lady. “Oh, he's her brother! There's no doubt about that!”

  “As little doubt, madam,” said Tom, “as that the young lady yonder is the child of your teaching, and not my sister's. Ruth, my dear, get your bonnet on!”

  “When you say, young man,” interposed the brass-and-copper founder, haughtily, “with that impertinence which is natural to you, and which I therefore do not condescend to notice further, that the young lady, my eldest daughter, has been educated by any one but Miss Pinch, you—I needn't proceed. You comprehend me fully. I have no doubt you are used to it.”

  “Sir!” cried Tom, after regarding him in silence for some little time. “If you do not understand what I mean, I will tell you. If you do understand what I mean, I beg you not to repeat that mode of expressing yourself in answer to it. My meaning is, that no man can expect his children to respect what he degrades.”

  “Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the gentleman. “Cant! cant! The common cant!”

  “The common story, sir!” said Tom; “the story of a common mind. Your governess cannot win the confidence and respect of your children, forsooth! Let her begin by winning yours, and see what happens then.”

  “Miss Pinch is getting her bonnet on, I trust, my dear?” said the gentleman.

  “I trust she is,” said Tom, forestalling the reply. “I have no doubt she is. In the meantime I address myself to you, sir. You made your statement to me, sir; you required to see me for that purpose; and I have a right to answer it. I am not loud or turbulent,” said Tom, which was quite true, “though I can scarcely say as much for you, in your manner of addressing yourself to me. And I wish, on my sister's behalf, to state the simple truth.”

  “You may state anything you like, young man,” returned the gentleman, affecting to yawn. “My dear, Miss Pinch's money.”

  “When you tell me,” resumed Tom, who was not the less indignant for keeping himself quiet, “that my sister has no innate power of commanding the respect of your children, I must tell you it is not so; and that she has. She is as well bred, as well taught, as well qualified by nature to command respect, as any hirer of a governess you know. But when you place her at a disadvantage in reference to every servant in your house, how can you suppose, if you have the gift of common sense, that she is not in a tenfold worse position in reference to your daughters?”

  “Pretty well! Upon my word,” exclaimed the gentleman, “this is pretty well!”

  “It is very ill, sir,” said Tom. “It is very bad and mean, and wrong and cruel. Respect! I believe young people are quick enough to observe and imitate; and why or how should they respect whom no one else respects, and everybody slights? And very partial they must grow—oh, very partial!—to their studies, when they see to what a pass proficiency in those same tasks has brought their governess! Respect! Put anything the most deserving of respect before your daughters in the light in which you place her, and you will bring it down as low, no matter what it is!”

  “You speak with extreme impertinence, young man,” observed the gentleman.

  “I speak without passion, but with extreme indignation and contempt for such a course of treatment, and for all who practice it,” said Tom. “Why, how can you, as an honest gentleman, profess displeasure or surprise at your daughter telling my sister she is something beggarly and humble, when you are for ever telling her the same thing yourself in fifty plain, outspeaking ways, though not in words; and when your very porter and footman make the same delicate announcement to all comers? As to your suspicion and distrust of her; even of her word; if she is not above their reach, you have no right to employ her.”

  “No right!” cried the brass-and-copper founder.

  “Distinctly not,” Tom answered. “If you imagine that the payment of an annual sum of money gives it to you, you immensely exaggerate its power and value. Your money is the least part of your bargain in such a case. You may be punctual in that to half a second on the clock, and yet be Bankrupt. I have nothing more to say,” said Tom, much flushed and flustered, now that it was over, “except to crave permission to stand in your garden until my sister is ready.”

  Not waiting to obtain it, Tom walked out.

  Before he had well begun to cool, his sister joined him. She was crying; and Tom could not bear that any one about the house should see her doing that.

  “They will think you are sorry to go,” said Tom. “You are not sorry to go?”

  “No, Tom, no. I have been anxious to go for a very long time.”

  “Very well, then! Don't cry!” said Tom.

  “I am so sorry for YOU, dear,” sobbed Tom's sister.

  “But you ought to be glad on my account,” said Tom. “I shall be twice as happy with you for a companion. Hold up your head. There! Now we go out as we ought. Not blustering, you know, but firm and confident in ourselves.”

  The idea of Tom and his sister blustering, under any circumstances, was a splendid absurdity. But Tom was very far from feeling it to be so, in his excitement; and passed out at the gate with such severe determination written in his face that the porter hardly knew him again.

  It was not until they had walked some short distance, and Tom found himself getting cooler and more collected, that he was quite restored to himself by an inquiry from his sister, who said in her pleasant little voice:

  “Where are we going, Tom?”

  “Dear me!” said Tom, stopping, “I don't know.”

  “Don't you—don't you live anywhere, dear?” asked Tom's sister looking wist
fully in his face.

  “No,” said Tom. “Not at present. Not exactly. I only arrived this morning. We must have some lodgings.”

  He didn't tell her that he had been going to stay with his friend John, and could on no account think of billeting two inmates upon him, of whom one was a young lady; for he knew that would make her uncomfortable, and would cause her to regard herself as being an inconvenience to him. Neither did he like to leave her anywhere while he called on John, and told him of this change in his arrangements; for he was delicate of seeming to encroach upon the generous and hospitable nature of his friend. Therefore he said again, “We must have some lodgings, of course;” and said it as stoutly as if he had been a perfect Directory and Guide-Book to all the lodgings in London.

  “Where shall we go and look for “em?” said Tom. “What do you think?”

  Tom's sister was not much wiser on such a topic than he was. So she squeezed her little purse into his coat-pocket, and folding the little hand with which she did so on the other little hand with which she clasped his arm, said nothing.

  “It ought to be a cheap neighbourhood,” said Tom, “and not too far from London. Let me see. Should you think Islington a good place?”

  “I should think it was an excellent place, Tom.”

  “It used to be called Merry Islington, once upon a time,” said Tom. “Perhaps it's merry now; if so, it's all the better. Eh?”