Martin Chuzzlewit
Chuzzlewit in the way, Jane?’
‘Yes, sir. He’s in the parlour, reading.’
‘He’s in the parlour, reading, is he, Jane?’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Very
well. Then I think I’ll go and see him, Jane.’
Never had Mr Pecksniff been beheld in a more pleasant humour!
But when he walked into the parlour where the old man was engaged as
Jane had said; with pen and ink and paper on a table close at hand (for
Mr Pecksniff was always very particular to have him well supplied with
writing materials), he became less cheerful. He was not angry, he was
not vindictive, he was not cross, he was not moody, but he was grieved;
he was sorely grieved. As he sat down by the old man’s side, two
tears--not tears like those with which recording angels blot their
entries out, but drops so precious that they use them for their
ink--stole down his meritorious cheeks.
‘What is the matter?’ asked old Martin. ‘Pecksniff, what ails you, man?’
‘I am sorry to interrupt you, my dear sir, and I am still more sorry for
the cause. My good, my worthy friend, I am deceived.’
‘You are deceived!’
‘Ah!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, in an agony, ‘deceived in the tenderest
point. Cruelly deceived in that quarter, sir, in which I placed the most
unbounded confidence. Deceived, Mr Chuzzlewit, by Thomas Pinch.’
‘Oh! bad, bad, bad!’ said Martin, laying down his book. ‘Very bad! I
hope not. Are you certain?’
‘Certain, my good sir! My eyes and ears are witnesses. I wouldn’t have
believed it otherwise. I wouldn’t have believed it, Mr Chuzzlewit, if a
Fiery Serpent had proclaimed it from the top of Salisbury Cathedral. I
would have said,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, ‘that the Serpent lied. Such was
my faith in Thomas Pinch, that I would have cast the falsehood back into
the Serpent’s teeth, and would have taken Thomas to my heart. But I am
not a Serpent, sir, myself, I grieve to say, and no excuse or hope is
left me.’
Martin was greatly disturbed to see him so much agitated, and to hear
such unexpected news. He begged him to compose himself, and asked upon
what subject Mr Pinch’s treachery had been developed.
‘That is almost the worst of all, sir,’ Mr Pecksniff answered, ‘on a
subject nearly concerning YOU. Oh! is it not enough,’ said Mr Pecksniff,
looking upward, ‘that these blows must fall on me, but must they also
hit my friends!’
‘You alarm me,’ cried the old man, changing colour. ‘I am not so strong
as I was. You terrify me, Pecksniff!’
‘Cheer up, my noble sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, taking courage, ‘and we
will do what is required of us. You shall know all, sir, and shall
be righted. But first excuse me, sir, excuse me. I have a duty to
discharge, which I owe to society.’
He rang the bell, and Jane appeared. ‘Send Mr Pinch here, if you please,
Jane.’
Tom came. Constrained and altered in his manner, downcast and dejected,
visibly confused; not liking to look Pecksniff in the face.
The honest man bestowed a glance on Mr Chuzzlewit, as who should say
‘You see!’ and addressed himself to Tom in these terms:
‘Mr Pinch, I have left the vestry-window unfastened. Will you do me the
favour to go and secure it; then bring the keys of the sacred edifice to
me!’
‘The vestry-window, sir?’ cried Tom.
‘You understand me, Mr Pinch, I think,’ returned his patron. ‘Yes, Mr
Pinch, the vestry-window. I grieve to say that sleeping in the church
after a fatiguing ramble, I overheard just now some fragments,’ he
emphasised that word, ‘of a dialogue between two parties; and one of
them locking the church when he went out, I was obliged to leave
it myself by the vestry-window. Do me the favour to secure that
vestry-window, Mr Pinch, and then come back to me.’
No physiognomist that ever dwelt on earth could have construed Tom’s
face when he heard these words. Wonder was in it, and a mild look of
reproach, but certainly no fear or guilt, although a host of strong
emotions struggled to display themselves. He bowed, and without saying
one word, good or bad, withdrew.
‘Pecksniff,’ cried Martin, in a tremble, ‘what does all this mean? You
are not going to do anything in haste, you may regret!’
‘No, my good sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, firmly, ‘No. But I have a duty to
discharge which I owe to society; and it shall be discharged, my friend,
at any cost!’
Oh, late-remembered, much-forgotten, mouthing, braggart duty, always
owed, and seldom paid in any other coin than punishment and wrath, when
will mankind begin to know thee! When will men acknowledge thee in thy
neglected cradle, and thy stunted youth, and not begin their recognition
in thy sinful manhood and thy desolate old age! Oh, ermined Judge whose
duty to society is, now, to doom the ragged criminal to punishment and
death, hadst thou never, Man, a duty to discharge in barring up the
hundred open gates that wooed him to the felon’s dock, and throwing but
ajar the portals to a decent life! Oh, prelate, prelate, whose duty to
society it is to mourn in melancholy phrase the sad degeneracy of these
bad times in which thy lot of honours has been cast, did nothing go
before thy elevation to the lofty seat, from which thou dealest out thy
homilies to other tarriers for dead men’s shoes, whose duty to society
has not begun! Oh! magistrate, so rare a country gentleman and brave a
squire, had you no duty to society, before the ricks were blazing and
the mob were mad; or did it spring up, armed and booted from the earth,
a corps of yeomanry full-grown!
Mr Pecksniff’s duty to society could not be paid till Tom came back. The
interval which preceded the return of that young man, he occupied in a
close conference with his friend; so that when Tom did arrive, he found
the two quite ready to receive him. Mary was in her own room above,
whither Mr Pecksniff, always considerate, had besought old Martin to
entreat her to remain some half-hour longer, that her feelings might be
spared.
When Tom came back, he found old Martin sitting by the window, and Mr
Pecksniff in an imposing attitude at the table. On one side of him was
his pocket-handkerchief; and on the other a little heap (a very little
heap) of gold and silver, and odd pence. Tom saw, at a glance, that it
was his own salary for the current quarter.
‘Have you fastened the vestry-window, Mr Pinch?’ said Pecksniff.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Thank you. Put down the keys if you please, Mr Pinch.’
Tom placed them on the table. He held the bunch by the key of the
organ-loft (though it was one of the smallest), and looked hard at it
as he laid it down. It had been an old, old friend of Tom’s; a kind
companion to him, many and many a day.
‘Mr Pinch,’ said Pecksniff, shaking his head; ‘oh, Mr Pinch! I wonder
you can look me in the face!’
Tom did it though; and notwithstanding that he has been described as
stooping generally, he stood as upright then as man could stand.
‘Mr Pinch,’ said Pecksniff, taking up his handkerchief, as if he felt
that he should want it soon, ‘I will not dwell upon the past. I will
spare you, and I will spare myself, that pain at least.’
Tom’s was not a very bright eye, but it was a very expressive one when
he looked at Mr Pecksniff, and said:
‘Thank you, sir. I am very glad you will not refer to the past.’
‘The present is enough,’ said Mr Pecksniff, dropping a penny, ‘and
the sooner THAT is past, the better. Mr Pinch, I will not dismiss
you without a word of explanation. Even such a course would be quite
justifiable under the circumstances; but it might wear an appearance of
hurry, and I will not do it; for I am,’ said Mr Pecksniff, knocking down
another penny, ‘perfectly self-possessed. Therefore I will say to you,
what I have already said to Mr Chuzzlewit.’
Tom glanced at the old gentleman, who nodded now and then as approving
of Mr Pecksniff’s sentences and sentiments, but interposed between them
in no other way.
‘From fragments of a conversation which I overheard in the church, just
now, Mr Pinch,’ said Pecksniff, ‘between yourself and Miss Graham--I say
fragments, because I was slumbering at a considerable distance from you,
when I was roused by your voices--and from what I saw, I ascertained (I
would have given a great deal not to have ascertained, Mr Pinch) that
you, forgetful of all ties of duty and of honour, sir; regardless of the
sacred laws of hospitality, to which you were pledged as an inmate
of this house; have presumed to address Miss Graham with unreturned
professions of attachment and proposals of love.’
Tom looked at him steadily.
‘Do you deny it, sir?’ asked Mr Pecksniff, dropping one pound two and
fourpence, and making a great business of picking it up again.
‘No, sir,’ replied Tom. ‘I do not.’
‘You do not,’ said Mr Pecksniff, glancing at the old gentleman. ‘Oblige
me by counting this money, Mr Pinch, and putting your name to this
receipt. You do not?’
No, Tom did not. He scorned to deny it. He saw that Mr Pecksniff having
overheard his own disgrace, cared not a jot for sinking lower yet in his
contempt. He saw that he had devised this fiction as the readiest means
of getting rid of him at once, but that it must end in that any way. He
saw that Mr Pecksniff reckoned on his not denying it, because his doing
so and explaining would incense the old man more than ever against
Martin and against Mary; while Pecksniff himself would only have been
mistaken in his ‘fragments.’ Deny it! No.
‘You find the amount correct, do you, Mr Pinch?’ said Pecksniff.
‘Quite correct, sir,’ answered Tom.
‘A person is waiting in the kitchen,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘to carry
your luggage wherever you please. We part, Mr Pinch, at once, and are
strangers from this time.’
Something without a name; compassion, sorrow, old tenderness, mistaken
gratitude, habit; none of these, and yet all of them; smote upon Tom’s
gentle heart at parting. There was no such soul as Pecksniff’s in
that carcase; and yet, though his speaking out had not involved the
compromise of one he loved, he couldn’t have denounced the very shape
and figure of the man. Not even then.
‘I will not say,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, shedding tears, ‘what a blow this
is. I will not say how much it tries me; how it works upon my nature;
how it grates upon my feelings. I do not care for that. I can endure as
well as another man. But what I have to hope, and what you have to hope,
Mr Pinch (otherwise a great responsibility rests upon you), is, that
this deception may not alter my ideas of humanity; that it may not
impair my freshness, or contract, if I may use the expression, my
Pinions. I hope it will not; I don’t think it will. It may be a comfort
to you, if not now, at some future time, to know that I shall endeavour
not to think the worse of my fellow-creatures in general, for what has
passed between us. Farewell!’
Tom had meant to spare him one little puncturation with a lancet, which
he had it in his power to administer, but he changed his mind on hearing
this, and said:
‘I think you left something in the church, sir.’
‘Thank you, Mr Pinch,’ said Pecksniff. ‘I am not aware that I did.’
‘This is your double eye-glass, I believe?’ said Tom.
‘Oh!’ cried Pecksniff, with some degree of confusion. ‘I am obliged to
you. Put it down, if you please.’
‘I found it,’ said Tom, slowly--‘when I went to bolt the
vestry-window--in the pew.’
So he had. Mr Pecksniff had taken it off when he was bobbing up and
down, lest it should strike against the panelling; and had forgotten it.
Going back to the church with his mind full of having been watched, and
wondering very much from what part, Tom’s attention was caught by the
door of the state pew standing open. Looking into it he found the glass.
And thus he knew, and by returning it gave Mr Pecksniff the information
that he knew, where the listener had been; and that instead of