Martin Chuzzlewit
‘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 health!’
‘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