Martin Chuzzlewit
Tom, a kind of old-fashioned boy at school, though well liked by the
noisy fellow too. As good luck would have it (Tom always said he had
great good luck) the assistant chanced that very afternoon to be on duty
by himself, with no one in the dusty organ loft but Tom; so while he
played, Tom helped him with the stops; and finally, the service being
just over, Tom took the organ himself. It was then turning dark, and the
yellow light that streamed in through the ancient windows in the choir
was mingled with a murky red. As the grand tones resounded through
the church, they seemed, to Tom, to find an echo in the depth of every
ancient tomb, no less than in the deep mystery of his own heart. Great
thoughts and hopes came crowding on his mind as the rich music rolled
upon the air and yet among them--something more grave and solemn in
their purpose, but the same--were all the images of that day, down to
its very lightest recollection of childhood. The feeling that the sounds
awakened, in the moment of their existence, seemed to include his whole
life and being; and as the surrounding realities of stone and wood
and glass grew dimmer in the darkness, these visions grew so much the
brighter that Tom might have forgotten the new pupil and the expectant
master, and have sat there pouring out his grateful heart till midnight,
but for a very earthy old verger insisting on locking up the cathedral
forthwith. So he took leave of his friend, with many thanks, groped his
way out, as well as he could, into the now lamp-lighted streets, and
hurried off to get his dinner.
All the farmers being by this time jogging homewards, there was nobody
in the sanded parlour of the tavern where he had left the horse; so he
had his little table drawn out close before the fire, and fell to
work upon a well-cooked steak and smoking hot potatoes, with a strong
appreciation of their excellence, and a very keen sense of enjoyment.
Beside him, too, there stood a jug of most stupendous Wiltshire beer;
and the effect of the whole was so transcendent, that he was obliged
every now and then to lay down his knife and fork, rub his hands, and
think about it. By the time the cheese and celery came, Mr Pinch had
taken a book out of his pocket, and could afford to trifle with the
viands; now eating a little, now drinking a little, now reading a
little, and now stopping to wonder what sort of a young man the new
pupil would turn out to be. He had passed from this latter theme and was
deep in his book again, when the door opened, and another guest came in,
bringing with him such a quantity of cold air, that he positively seemed
at first to put the fire out.
‘Very hard frost to-night, sir,’ said the newcomer, courteously
acknowledging Mr Pinch’s withdrawal of the little table, that he might
have place: ‘Don’t disturb yourself, I beg.’
Though he said this with a vast amount of consideration for Mr Pinch’s
comfort, he dragged one of the great leather-bottomed chairs to the
very centre of the hearth, notwithstanding; and sat down in front of the
fire, with a foot on each hob.
‘My feet are quite numbed. Ah! Bitter cold to be sure.’
‘You have been in the air some considerable time, I dare say?’ said Mr
Pinch.
‘All day. Outside a coach, too.’
‘That accounts for his making the room so cool,’ thought Mr Pinch. ‘Poor
fellow! How thoroughly chilled he must be!’
The stranger became thoughtful likewise, and sat for five or ten minutes
looking at the fire in silence. At length he rose and divested himself
of his shawl and great-coat, which (far different from Mr Pinch’s) was
a very warm and thick one; but he was not a whit more conversational out
of his great-coat than in it, for he sat down again in the same place
and attitude, and leaning back in his chair, began to bite his nails. He
was young--one-and-twenty, perhaps--and handsome; with a keen dark eye,
and a quickness of look and manner which made Tom sensible of a great
contrast in his own bearing, and caused him to feel even more shy than
usual.
There was a clock in the room, which the stranger often turned to
look at. Tom made frequent reference to it also; partly from a nervous
sympathy with its taciturn companion; and partly because the new pupil
was to inquire for him at half after six, and the hands were getting
on towards that hour. Whenever the stranger caught him looking at this
clock, a kind of confusion came upon Tom as if he had been found out in
something; and it was a perception of his uneasiness which caused the
younger man to say, perhaps, with a smile:
‘We both appear to be rather particular about the time. The fact is, I
have an engagement to meet a gentleman here.’
‘So have I,’ said Mr Pinch.
‘At half-past six,’ said the stranger.
‘At half-past six,’ said Tom in the very same breath; whereupon the
other looked at him with some surprise.
‘The young gentleman, I expect,’ remarked Tom, timidly, ‘was to inquire
at that time for a person by the name of Pinch.’
‘Dear me!’ cried the other, jumping up. ‘And I have been keeping the
fire from you all this while! I had no idea you were Mr Pinch. I am the
Mr Martin for whom you were to inquire. Pray excuse me. How do you do?
Oh, do draw nearer, pray!’
‘Thank you,’ said Tom, ‘thank you. I am not at all cold, and you are;
and we have a cold ride before us. Well, if you wish it, I will. I--I am
very glad,’ said Tom, smiling with an embarrassed frankness peculiarly
his, and which was as plainly a confession of his own imperfections, and
an appeal to the kindness of the person he addressed, as if he had drawn
one up in simple language and committed it to paper: ‘I am very glad
indeed that you turn out to be the party I expected. I was thinking, but
a minute ago, that I could wish him to be like you.’
‘I am very glad to hear it,’ returned Martin, shaking hands with him
again; ‘for I assure you, I was thinking there could be no such luck as
Mr Pinch’s turning out like you.’
‘No, really!’ said Tom, with great pleasure. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Upon my word I am,’ replied his new acquaintance. ‘You and I will get
on excellently well, I know; which it’s no small relief to me to feel,
for to tell you the truth, I am not at all the sort of fellow who could
get on with everybody, and that’s the point on which I had the greatest
doubts. But they’re quite relieved now.--Do me the favour to ring the
bell, will you?’
Mr Pinch rose, and complied with great alacrity--the handle hung just
over Martin’s head, as he warmed himself--and listened with a smiling
face to what his friend went on to say. It was:
‘If you like punch, you’ll allow me to order a glass apiece, as hot
as it can be made, that we may usher in our friendship in a becoming
manner. To let you into a secret, Mr Pinch, I never was so much in want
of something warm and cheering in my life; but I didn’t like to run the
chance of being found drinking it, without knowing what kind of person
you were; for first impressions, you know, often go a long way, and last
a long time.’
Mr Pinch assented, and the punch was ordered. In due course it came; hot
and strong. After drinking to each other in the steaming mixture, they
became quite confidential.
‘I’m a sort of relation of Pecksniff’s, you know,’ said the young man.
‘Indeed!’ cried Mr Pinch.
‘Yes. My grandfather is his cousin, so he’s kith and kin to me, somehow,
if you can make that out. I can’t.’
‘Then Martin is your Christian name?’ said Mr Pinch, thoughtfully. ‘Oh!’
‘Of course it is,’ returned his friend: ‘I wish it was my surname for
my own is not a very pretty one, and it takes a long time to sign.
Chuzzlewit is my name.’
‘Dear me!’ cried Mr Pinch, with an involuntary start.
‘You’re not surprised at my having two names, I suppose?’ returned the
other, setting his glass to his lips. ‘Most people have.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Mr Pinch, ‘not at all. Oh dear no! Well!’ And then
remembering that Mr Pecksniff had privately cautioned him to say nothing
in reference to the old gentleman of the same name who had lodged at
the Dragon, but to reserve all mention of that person for him, he had
no better means of hiding his confusion than by raising his own glass
to his mouth. They looked at each other out of their respective tumblers
for a few seconds, and then put them down empty.
‘I told them in the stable to be ready for us ten minutes ago,’ said Mr
Pinch, glancing at the clock again. ‘Shall we go?’
‘If you please,’ returned the other.
‘Would you like to drive?’ said Mr Pinch; his whole face beaming with a
consciousness of the splendour of his offer. ‘You shall, if you wish.’
‘Why, that depends, Mr Pinch,’ said Martin, laughing, ‘upon what sort
of a horse you have. Because if he’s a bad one, I would rather keep my
hands warm by holding them comfortably in my greatcoat pockets.’
He appeared to think this such a good joke, that Mr Pinch was quite sure
it must be a capital one. Accordingly, he laughed too, and was fully
persuaded that he enjoyed it very much. Then he settled his bill, and Mr
Chuzzlewit paid for the punch; and having wrapped themselves up, to the
extent of their respective means, they went out together to the front
door, where Mr Pecksniff’s property stopped the way.
‘I won’t drive, thank you, Mr Pinch,’ said Martin, getting into the
sitter’s place. ‘By the bye, there’s a box of mine. Can we manage to
take it?’
‘Oh, certainly,’ said Tom. ‘Put it in, Dick, anywhere!’
It was not precisely of that convenient size which would admit of its
being squeezed into any odd corner, but Dick the hostler got it in
somehow, and Mr Chuzzlewit helped him. It was all on Mr Pinch’s side,
and Mr Chuzzlewit said he was very much afraid it would encumber him; to
which Tom said, ‘Not at all;’ though it forced him into such an awkward
position, that he had much ado to see anything but his own knees. But it
is an ill wind that blows nobody any good; and the wisdom of the saying
was verified in this instance; for the cold air came from Mr Pinch’s
side of the carriage, and by interposing a perfect wall of box and
man between it and the new pupil, he shielded that young gentleman
effectually; which was a great comfort.
It was a clear evening, with a bright moon. The whole landscape was
silvered by its light and by the hoar-frost; and everything looked
exquisitely beautiful. At first, the great serenity and peace through
which they travelled, disposed them both to silence; but in a very short
time the punch within them and the healthful air without, made them
loquacious, and they talked incessantly. When they were halfway home,
and stopped to give the horse some water, Martin (who was very generous
with his money) ordered another glass of punch, which they drank between
them, and which had not the effect of making them less conversational
than before. Their principal topic of discourse was naturally Mr
Pecksniff and his family; of whom, and of the great obligations they had
heaped upon him, Tom Pinch, with the tears standing in his eyes, drew
such a picture as would have inclined any one of common feeling
almost to revere them; and of which Mr Pecksniff had not the slightest
foresight or preconceived idea, or he certainly (being very humble)
would not have sent Tom Pinch to bring the pupil home.
In this way they went on, and on, and on--in the language of the
story-books--until at last the village lights appeared before them, and
the church spire cast a long reflection on the graveyard grass; as if
it were a dial (alas, the truest in the world!) marking, whatever light
shone out of Heaven, the flight of days and weeks and years, by some new
shadow on that solemn ground.
‘A pretty church!’ said Martin, observing that his companion slackened
the slack pace of the horse, as they approached.