Martin Chuzzlewit
shall be able to produce such a combination of wit and beauty as has
graced that board that day, and shall be able to serve up (all things
considered) such a dinner as that of which they have just partaken, he
will be happy to talk to it. Until then, gentlemen, he will stick to
Todgers’s.
More punch, more enthusiasm, more speeches. Everybody’s health is drunk,
saving the youngest gentleman’s in company. He sits apart, with his
elbow on the back of a vacant chair, and glares disdainfully at Jinkins.
Gander, in a convulsing speech, gives them the health of Bailey junior;
hiccups are heard; and a glass is broken. Mr Jinkins feels that it is
time to join the ladies. He proposes, as a final sentiment, Mrs Todgers.
She is worthy to be remembered separately. Hear, hear. So she is; no
doubt of it. They all find fault with her at other times; but every man
feels now, that he could die in her defence.
They go upstairs, where they are not expected so soon; for Mrs Todgers
is asleep, Miss Charity is adjusting her hair, and Mercy, who has made
a sofa of one of the window-seats is in a gracefully recumbent attitude.
She is rising hastily, when Mr Jinkins implores her, for all their
sakes, not to stir; she looks too graceful and too lovely, he remarks,
to be disturbed. She laughs, and yields, and fans herself, and drops
her fan, and there is a rush to pick it up. Being now installed, by one
consent, as the beauty of the party, she is cruel and capricious, and
sends gentlemen on messages to other gentlemen, and forgets all about
them before they can return with the answer, and invents a thousand
tortures, rending their hearts to pieces. Bailey brings up the tea and
coffee. There is a small cluster of admirers round Charity; but they
are only those who cannot get near her sister. The youngest gentleman
in company is pale, but collected, and still sits apart; for his spirit
loves to hold communion with itself, and his soul recoils from noisy
revellers. She has a consciousness of his presence and adoration.
He sees it flashing sometimes in the corner of her eye. Have a care,
Jinkins, ere you provoke a desperate man to frenzy!
Mr Pecksniff had followed his younger friends upstairs, and taken a
chair at the side of Mrs Todgers. He had also spilt a cup of coffee over
his legs without appearing to be aware of the circumstance; nor did he
seem to know that there was muffin on his knee.
‘And how have they used you downstairs, sir?’ asked the hostess.
‘Their conduct has been such, my dear madam,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘as I
can never think of without emotion, or remember without a tear. Oh, Mrs
Todgers!’
‘My goodness!’ exclaimed that lady. ‘How low you are in your spirits,
sir!’
‘I am a man, my dear madam,’ said Mr Pecksniff, shedding tears and
speaking with an imperfect articulation, ‘but I am also a father. I
am also a widower. My feelings, Mrs Todgers, will not consent to be
entirely smothered, like the young children in the Tower. They are grown
up, and the more I press the bolster on them, the more they look round
the corner of it.’
He suddenly became conscious of the bit of muffin, and stared at it
intently; shaking his head the while, in a forlorn and imbecile manner,
as if he regarded it as his evil genius, and mildly reproached it.
‘She was beautiful, Mrs Todgers,’ he said, turning his glazed eye
again upon her, without the least preliminary notice. ‘She had a small
property.’
‘So I have heard,’ cried Mrs Todgers with great sympathy.
‘Those are her daughters,’ said Mr Pecksniff, pointing out the young
ladies, with increased emotion.
Mrs Todgers had no doubt about it.
‘Mercy and Charity,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘Charity and Mercy. Not unholy
names, I hope?’
‘Mr Pecksniff!’ cried Mrs Todgers. ‘What a ghastly smile! Are you ill,
sir?’
He pressed his hand upon her arm, and answered in a solemn manner, and a
faint voice, ‘Chronic.’
‘Cholic?’ cried the frightened Mrs Todgers.
‘Chron-ic,’ he repeated with some difficulty. ‘Chron-ic. A chronic
disorder. I have been its victim from childhood. It is carrying me to my
grave.’
‘Heaven forbid!’ cried Mrs Todgers.
‘Yes, it is,’ said Mr Pecksniff, reckless with despair. ‘I am rather
glad of it, upon the whole. You are like her, Mrs Todgers.’
‘Don’t squeeze me so tight, pray, Mr Pecksniff. If any of the gentlemen
should notice us.’
‘For her sake,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Permit me--in honour of her memory.
For the sake of a voice from the tomb. You are VERY like her Mrs
Todgers! What a world this is!’
‘Ah! Indeed you may say that!’ cried Mrs Todgers.
‘I’m afraid it is a vain and thoughtless world,’ said Mr Pecksniff,
overflowing with despondency. ‘These young people about us. Oh! what
sense have they of their responsibilities? None. Give me your other
hand, Mrs Todgers.’
The lady hesitated, and said ‘she didn’t like.’
‘Has a voice from the grave no influence?’ said Mr Pecksniff, with,
dismal tenderness. ‘This is irreligious! My dear creature.’
‘Hush!’ urged Mrs Todgers. ‘Really you mustn’t.’
‘It’s not me,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Don’t suppose it’s me; it’s the
voice; it’s her voice.’
Mrs Pecksniff deceased, must have had an unusually thick and husky voice
for a lady, and rather a stuttering voice, and to say the truth somewhat
of a drunken voice, if it had ever borne much resemblance to that in
which Mr Pecksniff spoke just then. But perhaps this was delusion on his
part.
‘It has been a day of enjoyment, Mrs Todgers, but still it has been a
day of torture. It has reminded me of my loneliness. What am I in the
world?’
‘An excellent gentleman, Mr Pecksniff,’ said Mrs Todgers.
‘There is consolation in that too,’ cried Mr Pecksniff. ‘Am I?’
‘There is no better man living,’ said Mrs Todgers, ‘I am sure.’
Mr Pecksniff smiled through his tears, and slightly shook his head. ‘You
are very good,’ he said, ‘thank you. It is a great happiness to me, Mrs
Todgers, to make young people happy. The happiness of my pupils is my
chief object. I dote upon ‘em. They dote upon me too--sometimes.’
‘Always,’ said Mrs Todgers.
‘When they say they haven’t improved, ma’am,’ whispered Mr Pecksniff,
looking at her with profound mystery, and motioning to her to advance
her ear a little closer to his mouth. ‘When they say they haven’t
improved, ma’am, and the premium was too high, they lie! I shouldn’t
wish it to be mentioned; you will understand me; but I say to you as to
an old friend, they lie.’
‘Base wretches they must be!’ said Mrs Todgers.
‘Madam,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘you are right. I respect you for that
observation. A word in your ear. To Parents and Guardians. This is in
confidence, Mrs Todgers?’
‘The strictest, of course!’ cried that lady.
‘To Parents and Guardians,’ repeated Mr Pecksniff. ‘An eligible
opportunity now offers, which unites the advantages of the best
practical architectural education with the comforts of a home, and the
constant association with some, who, however humble their sphere and
limited their capacity--observe!--are not unmindful of their moral
responsibilities.’
Mrs Todgers looked a little puzzled to know what this might mean, as
well she might; for it was, as the reader may perchance remember, Mr
Pecksniff’s usual form of advertisement when he wanted a pupil; and
seemed to have no particular reference, at present, to anything. But Mr
Pecksniff held up his finger as a caution to her not to interrupt him.
‘Do you know any parent or guardian, Mrs Todgers,’ said Mr Pecksniff,
‘who desires to avail himself of such an opportunity for a young
gentleman? An orphan would be preferred. Do you know of any orphan with
three or four hundred pound?’
Mrs Todgers reflected, and shook her head.
‘When you hear of an orphan with three or four hundred pound,’ said Mr
Pecksniff, ‘let that dear orphan’s friends apply, by letter post-paid,
to S. P., Post Office, Salisbury. I don’t know who he is exactly. Don’t
be alarmed, Mrs Todgers,’ said Mr Pecksniff, falling heavily against
her; ‘Chronic--chronic! Let’s have a little drop of something to drink.’
‘Bless my life, Miss Pecksniffs!’ cried Mrs Todgers, aloud, ‘your dear
pa’s took very poorly!’
Mr Pecksniff straightened himself by a surprising effort, as every
one turned hastily towards him; and standing on his feet, regarded the
assembly with a look of ineffable wisdom. Gradually it gave place to
a smile; a feeble, helpless, melancholy smile; bland, almost to
sickliness. ‘Do not repine, my friends,’ said Mr Pecksniff, tenderly.
‘Do not weep for me. It is chronic.’ And with these words, after making
a futile attempt to pull off his shoes, he fell into the fireplace.
The youngest gentleman in company had him out in a second. Yes, before a
hair upon his head was singed, he had him on the hearth-rug--her father!
She was almost beside herself. So was her sister. Jinkins consoled them
both. They all consoled them. Everybody had something to say, except the
youngest gentleman in company, who with a noble self-devotion did the
heavy work, and held up Mr Pecksniff’s head without being taken notice
of by anybody. At last they gathered round, and agreed to carry him
upstairs to bed. The youngest gentleman in company was rebuked by
Jinkins for tearing Mr Pecksniff’s coat! Ha, ha! But no matter.
They carried him upstairs, and crushed the youngest gentleman at every
step. His bedroom was at the top of the house, and it was a long way;
but they got him there in course of time. He asked them frequently
on the road for a little drop of something to drink. It seemed an
idiosyncrasy. The youngest gentleman in company proposed a draught of
water. Mr Pecksniff called him opprobious names for the suggestion.
Jinkins and Gander took the rest upon themselves, and made him as
comfortable as they could, on the outside of his bed; and when he seemed
disposed to sleep, they left him. But before they had all gained the
bottom of the staircase, a vision of Mr Pecksniff, strangely attired,
was seen to flutter on the top landing. He desired to collect their
sentiments, it seemed, upon the nature of human life.
‘My friends,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, looking over the banisters, ‘let us
improve our minds by mutual inquiry and discussion. Let us be moral. Let
us contemplate existence. Where is Jinkins?’
‘Here,’ cried that gentleman. ‘Go to bed again’
‘To bed!’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Bed! ‘Tis the voice of the sluggard, I
hear him complain, you have woke me too soon, I must slumber again. If
any young orphan will repeat the remainder of that simple piece from
Doctor Watts’s collection, an eligible opportunity now offers.’
Nobody volunteered.
‘This is very soothing,’ said Mr Pecksniff, after a pause. ‘Extremely
so. Cool and refreshing; particularly to the legs! The legs of the
human subject, my friends, are a beautiful production. Compare them with
wooden legs, and observe the difference between the anatomy of nature
and the anatomy of art. Do you know,’ said Mr Pecksniff, leaning over
the banisters, with an odd recollection of his familiar manner among
new pupils at home, ‘that I should very much like to see Mrs Todgers’s
notion of a wooden leg, if perfectly agreeable to herself!’
As it appeared impossible to entertain any reasonable hopes of him after
this speech, Mr Jinkins and Mr Gander went upstairs again, and once more
got him into bed. But they had not descended to the second floor before
he was out again; nor, when they had repeated the process, had they
descended the first flight, before he was out again. In a word, as often
as he was shut up in his own room, he darted out afresh, charged
with some new moral sentiment, which he continually repeated over the
banisters, with extraordinary relish, and an irrepressible desire for