Martin Chuzzlewit
to yourself, and that nobody can run any risk by the transaction except
the office, which, in its great liberality is pretty sure to lose. And
this, David Crimple, Esquire, submits to you (and the odds are heavy you
believe him), is the best guarantee that can reasonably be suggested by
the Board of Management for its permanence and stability.
This gentleman’s name, by the way, had been originally Crimp; but as
the word was susceptible of an awkward construction and might be
misrepresented, he had altered it to Crimple.
Lest with all these proofs and confirmations, any man should be
suspicious of the Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance
company; should doubt in tiger, cab, or person, Tigg Montague, Esquire,
(of Pall Mall and Bengal), or any other name in the imaginative List of
Directors; there was a porter on the premises--a wonderful creature,
in a vast red waistcoat and a short-tailed pepper-and-salt coat--who
carried more conviction to the minds of sceptics than the whole
establishment without him. No confidences existed between him and the
Directorship; nobody knew where he had served last; no character or
explanation had been given or required. No questions had been asked on
either side. This mysterious being, relying solely on his figure, had
applied for the situation, and had been instantly engaged on his own
terms. They were high; but he knew, doubtless, that no man could carry
such an extent of waistcoat as himself, and felt the full value of his
capacity to such an institution. When he sat upon a seat erected for him
in a corner of the office, with his glazed hat hanging on a peg over his
head, it was impossible to doubt the respectability of the concern.
It went on doubling itself with every square inch of his red waistcoat
until, like the problem of the nails in the horse’s shoes, the total
became enormous. People had been known to apply to effect an insurance
on their lives for a thousand pounds, and looking at him, to beg, before
the form of proposal was filled up, that it might be made two. And yet
he was not a giant. His coat was rather small than otherwise. The whole
charm was in his waistcoat. Respectability, competence, property in
Bengal or anywhere else, responsibility to any amount on the part of the
company that employed him, were all expressed in that one garment.
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 Anglo-Bengalee. 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 easy-chairs 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