Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit

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'It's a proof of the kindness of human nature,' said Tom,
characteristically putting himself quite out of sight in the matter,
'that everybody who comes here, as you have done, is more considerate
and affectionate to me than I should have any right to hope, if I were
the most sanguine creature in the world; or should have any power to
express, if I were the most eloquent. It really overpowers me. But trust
me,' said Tom, 'that I am not ungrateful--that I never forget--and that
if I can ever prove the truth of my words to you, I will.'

'That's all right,' observed Martin, leaning back in his chair with a
hand in each pocket, and yawning drearily. 'Very fine talking, Tom;
but I'm at Pecksniff's, I remember, and perhaps a mile or so out of the
high-road to fortune just at this minute. So you've heard again this
morning from what's his name, eh?'

'Who may that be?' asked Tom, seeming to enter a mild protest on behalf
of the dignity of an absent person.

'YOU know. What is it? Northkey.'

'Westlock,' rejoined Tom, in rather a louder tone than usual.

'Ah! to be sure,' said Martin, 'Westlock. I knew it was something
connected with a point of the compass and a door. Well! and what says
Westlock?'

'Oh! he has come into his property,' answered Tom, nodding his head, and
smiling.

'He's a lucky dog,' said Martin. 'I wish it were mine instead. Is that
all the mystery you were to tell me?'

'No,' said Tom; 'not all.'

'What's the rest?' asked Martin.

'For the matter of that,' said Tom, 'it's no mystery, and you won't
think much of it; but it's very pleasant to me. John always used to say
when he was here, "Mark my words, Pinch. When my father's executors cash
up"--he used strange expressions now and then, but that was his way.'

'Cash-up's a very good expression,' observed Martin, 'when other people
don't apply it to you. Well!--What a slow fellow you are, Pinch!'

'Yes, I am I know,' said Tom; 'but you'll make me nervous if you tell me
so. I'm afraid you have put me out a little now, for I forget what I was
going to say.'

'When John's father's executors cashed up,' said Martin impatiently.

'Oh yes, to be sure,' cried Tom; 'yes. "Then," says John, "I'll give you
a dinner, Pinch, and come down to Salisbury on purpose." Now, when John
wrote the other day--the morning Pecksniff left, you know--he said his
business was on the point of being immediately settled, and as he was to
receive his money directly, when could I meet him at Salisbury? I wrote
and said, any day this week; and I told him besides, that there was a
new pupil here, and what a fine fellow you were, and what friends we
had become. Upon which John writes back this letter'--Tom produced
it--'fixes to-morrow; sends his compliments to you; and begs that we
three may have the pleasure of dining together; not at the house where
you and I were, either; but at the very first hotel in the town. Read
what he says.'

'Very well,' said Martin, glancing over it with his customary coolness;
'much obliged to him. I'm agreeable.'

Tom could have wished him to be a little more astonished, a little more
pleased, or in some form or other a little more interested in such a
great event. But he was perfectly self-possessed; and falling into his
favourite solace of whistling, took another turn at the grammar-school,
as if nothing at all had happened.

Mr Pecksniff's horse being regarded in the light of a sacred animal,
only to be driven by him, the chief priest of that temple, or by some
person distinctly nominated for the time being to that high office by
himself, the two young men agreed to walk to Salisbury; and so, when the
time came, they set off on foot; which was, after all, a better mode of
travelling than in the gig, as the weather was very cold and very dry.

Better! A rare strong, hearty, healthy walk--four statute miles an
hour--preferable to that rumbling, tumbling, jolting, shaking, scraping,
creaking, villanous old gig? Why, the two things will not admit of
comparison. It is an insult to the walk, to set them side by side. Where
is an instance of a gig having ever circulated a man's blood, unless
when, putting him in danger of his neck, it awakened in his veins and in
his ears, and all along his spine, a tingling heat, much more peculiar
than agreeable? When did a gig ever sharpen anybody's wits and energies,
unless it was when the horse bolted, and, crashing madly down a steep
hill with a stone wall at the bottom, his desperate circumstances
suggested to the only gentleman left inside, some novel and unheard-of
mode of dropping out behind? Better than the gig!

The air was cold, Tom; so it was, there was no denying it; but would
it have been more genial in the gig? The blacksmith's fire burned very
bright, and leaped up high, as though it wanted men to warm; but would
it have been less tempting, looked at from the clammy cushions of a gig?
The wind blew keenly, nipping the features of the hardy wight who fought
his way along; blinding him with his own hair if he had enough to it,
and wintry dust if he hadn't; stopping his breath as though he had been
soused in a cold bath; tearing aside his wrappings-up, and whistling in
the very marrow of his bones; but it would have done all this a hundred
times more fiercely to a man in a gig, wouldn't it? A fig for gigs!

Better than the gig! When were travellers by wheels and hoofs seen with
such red-hot cheeks as those? when were they so good-humouredly and
merrily bloused? when did their laughter ring upon the air, as they
turned them round, what time the stronger gusts came sweeping up; and,
facing round again as they passed by, dashed on, in such a glow of
ruddy health as nothing could keep pace with, but the high spirits it
engendered? Better than the gig! Why, here is a man in a gig coming
the same way now. Look at him as he passes his whip into his left hand,
chafes his numbed right fingers on his granite leg, and beats those
marble toes of his upon the foot-board. Ha, ha, ha! Who would exchange
this rapid hurry of the blood for yonder stagnant misery, though its
pace were twenty miles for one?

Better than the gig! No man in a gig could have such interest in the
milestones. No man in a gig could see, or feel, or think, like merry
users of their legs. How, as the wind sweeps on, upon these breezy
downs, it tracks its flight in darkening ripples on the grass, and
smoothest shadows on the hills! Look round and round upon this bare
bleak plain, and see even here, upon a winter's day, how beautiful
the shadows are! Alas! it is the nature of their kind to be so. The
loveliest things in life, Tom, are but shadows; and they come and go,
and change and fade away, as rapidly as these!

Another mile, and then begins a fall of snow, making the crow, who skims
away so close above the ground to shirk the wind, a blot of ink upon the
landscape. But though it drives and drifts against them as they walk,
stiffening on their skirts, and freezing in the lashes of their eyes,
they wouldn't have it fall more sparingly, no, not so much as by a
single flake, although they had to go a score of miles. And, lo! the
towers of the Old Cathedral rise before them, even now! and by-and-bye
they come into the sheltered streets, made strangely silent by their
white carpet; and so to the Inn for which they are bound; where they
present such flushed and burning faces to the cold waiter, and are so
brimful of vigour, that he almost feels assaulted by their presence;
and, having nothing to oppose to the attack (being fresh, or rather
stale, from the blazing fire in the coffee-room), is quite put out of
his pale countenance.

A famous Inn! the hall a very grove of dead game, and dangling joints
of mutton; and in one corner an illustrious larder, with glass doors,
developing cold fowls and noble joints, and tarts wherein the raspberry
jam coyly withdrew itself, as such a precious creature should, behind a
lattice work of pastry. And behold, on the first floor, at the court-end
of the house, in a room with all the window-curtains drawn, a fire piled
half-way up the chimney, plates warming before it, wax candles gleaming
everywhere, and a table spread for three, with silver and glass enough
for thirty--John Westlock; not the old John of Pecksniff's, but a proper
gentleman; looking another and a grander person, with the consciousness
of being his own master and having money in the bank; and yet in some
respects the old John too, for he seized Tom Pinch by both his hands the
instant he appeared, and fairly hugged him, in his cordial welcome.

'And this,' said John, 'is Mr Chuzzlewit. I am very glad to see
him!'--John had an off-hand manner of his own; so they shook hands
warmly, and were friends in no time.

'Stand off a moment, Tom,' cried the old pupil, laying one hand on each
of Mr Pinch's shoulders, and holding him out at arm's length. 'Let me
look at you! Just the same! Not a bit changed!'

'Why, it's not so very long ago, you know,' said Tom Pinch, 'after all.'

'It seems an age to me,' cried John, 'and so it ought to seem to you,
you dog.' And then he pushed Tom down into the easiest chair, and
clapped him on the back so heartily, and so like his old self in their
old bedroom at old Pecksniff's that it was a toss-up with Tom Pinch
whether he should laugh or cry. Laughter won it; and they all three
laughed together.

'I have ordered everything for dinner, that we used to say we'd have,
Tom,' observed John Westlock.

'No!' said Tom Pinch. 'Have you?'

'Everything. Don't laugh, if you can help it, before the waiters. I
couldn't when I was ordering it. It's like a dream.'

John was wrong there, because nobody ever dreamed such soup as was put
upon the table directly afterwards; or such fish; or such side-dishes;
or such a top and bottom; or such a course of birds and sweets; or
in short anything approaching the reality of that entertainment at
ten-and-sixpence a head, exclusive of wines. As to THEM, the man who can
dream such iced champagne, such claret, port, or sherry, had better go
to bed and stop there.

But perhaps the finest feature of the banquet was, that nobody was half
so much amazed by everything as John himself, who in his high delight
was constantly bursting into fits of laughter, and then endeavouring
to appear preternaturally solemn, lest the waiters should conceive he
wasn't used to it. Some of the things they brought him to carve, were
such outrageous practical jokes, though, that it was impossible to stand
it; and when Tom Pinch insisted, in spite of the deferential advice of
an attendant, not only on breaking down the outer wall of a raised pie
with a tablespoon, but on trying to eat it afterwards, John lost all
dignity, and sat behind the gorgeous dish-cover at the head of the
table, roaring to that extent that he was audible in the kitchen. Nor
had he the least objection to laugh at himself, as he demonstrated when
they had all three gathered round the fire and the dessert was on
the table; at which period the head waiter inquired with respectful
solicitude whether that port, being a light and tawny wine, was suited
to his taste, or whether he would wish to try a fruity port with greater
body. To this John gravely answered that he was well satisfied with what
he had, which he esteemed, as one might say, a pretty tidy vintage;
for which the waiter thanked him and withdrew. And then John told his
friends, with a broad grin, that he supposed it was all right, but he
didn't know; and went off into a perfect shout.

They were very merry and full of enjoyment the whole time, but not the
least pleasant part of the festival was when they all three sat about
the fire, cracking nuts, drinking wine and talking cheerfully. It
happened that Tom Pinch had a word to say to his friend the organist's
assistant, and so deserted his warm corner for a few minutes at this
season, lest it should grow too late; leaving the other two young men
together.

They drank his health in his absence, of course; and John Westlock took
that opportunity of saying, that he had never had even a peevish word
with Tom during the whole term of their residence in Mr Pecksniff's
house. This naturally led him to dwell upon Tom's character, and to hint
that Mr Pecksniff understood it pretty well. He only hinted this, and
very distantly; knowing that it pained Tom Pinch to have that gentleman
disparaged, and thinking it would be as well to leave the new pupil to
his own discoveries.

'Yes,' said Martin. 'It's impossible to like Pinch better than I do,
or to do greater justice to his good qualities. He is the most willing
fellow I ever saw.'

'He's rather too willing,' observed John, who was quick in observation.
'It's quite a fault in him.'

'So it is,' said Martin. 'Very true. There was a fellow only a week or
so ago--a Mr Tigg--who borrowed all the money he had, on a promise to
repay it in a few days. It was but half a sovereign, to be sure; but
it's well it was no more, for he'll never see it again.'

'Poor fellow!' said John, who had been very attentive to these few
words. 'Perhaps you have not had an opportunity of observing that, in
his own pecuniary transactions, Tom's proud.'

'You don't say so! No, I haven't. What do you mean? Won't he borrow?'

John Westlock shook his head.

'That's very odd,' said Martin, setting down his empty glass. 'He's a
strange compound, to be sure.'

'As to receiving money as a gift,' resumed John Westlock; 'I think he'd
die first.'

'He's made up of simplicity,' said Martin. 'Help yourself.'

'You, however,' pursued John, filling his own glass, and looking at his
companion with some curiosity, 'who are older than the majority of Mr
Pecksniff's assistants, and have evidently had much more experience,
understand him, I have no doubt, and see how liable he is to be imposed
upon.'

'Certainly,' said Martin, stretching out his legs, and holding his wine
between his eye and the light. 'Mr Pecksniff knows that too. So do his
daughters. Eh?'

John Westlock smiled, but made no answer.

'By the bye,' said Martin, 'that reminds me. What's your opinion of
Pecksniff? How did he use you? What do you think of him now?--Coolly,
you know, when it's all over?'

'Ask Pinch,' returned the old pupil. 'He knows what my sentiments used
to be upon the subject. They are not changed, I assure you.'

'No, no,' said Martin, 'I'd rather have them from you.'

'But Pinch says they are unjust,' urged John with a smile.

'Oh! well! Then I know what course they take beforehand,' said Martin;
'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.'